#thin wrist recordings

[jdsoundbite]

Listening to.2: While Whirling by Frantz Loriot

The viola is a beautiful instrument but not often a surprising one. Not so here. I know very little about this record, but I do know that it explores the viola in ways that are unusual but aesthetically successful and fully developed. It reminds me of textures from electronic music, which it may be influenced by, but it sounds thoroughly acoustic. I wouldn’t want to say it’s experimental because…

[mildmayfoxe]

end of an era…. goodbye FUCK YOU you will be missed….. originally made sometime in 2014, recovered & restrung directly on my wrist sometime in 2020, three years of daily memories….. taken down at last by the soft sleeve of a sweatshirt i was turning inside out to wash…. now my wrist is a barren wasteland without u 💔

[alatusprinz]

when you call him good boy .

characters: wanderer/scaramouche, kaedehara kazuha, albedo, xiao

genre: smut, (warning of explicit words choice)

-

Scaramouche/Wanderer sneers at you mockingly when the words fall from your mouth. His grip on your hips tightened as he snapped his hips into your behind roughly, deliberately thrusting in so deep so your back arches with your face buried into the pillow. He hated when your needy moans were silenced when it wasn’t on his accord, making him reach out to grip onto your hair roughly to pull your body up while holding onto your neck with his other hand, forcing you to find balance in an awkward position with your knees on the mattress and back against his chest. His hips never halted one bit, still thrusting in relentlessly into your drenched walls as your mind blanked out from the dizzying stimulation. Tightening his grip on your neck, he leans into your ear, almost purring in a sickeningly sweet voice. 

"Fuck, you like that don't you? Like being used like a little dolly for me?" You whimpered weakly as your scalp slightly burned from his tight grip, your body moving to meet his slams involuntarily from the force of his each thrust. It always felt like this, almost too good, too overwhelming from the borderline ruthless way he fucked you. As your broken moans persisted and he wanted to see you break down more, let go of your hair with a satisfied smirk and instead held onto both your wrists to pull your body back to meet his hips, manhandling you and taking you as he pleased.

His grip on your wrists tightened as pulled them back to slam your ass to his hips over and over, your cunt almost sore and aching from how he used you like a toy for his pleasure.

“Yeah? Fuck, call me that again, let me know how much of a good boy I am being.” 

-

Kazuha’s gaze was always starstruck and almost drunk in love when he was staring at you as he slipped into your snug walls over and over. He was so hypnotized by you, completely allured more every second you two spent together. And he never knew he could fall even deeper until you looked at him with that sultry gaze, mouth open and making the prettiest sounds for him, and called him your good boy. Your good boy. An infatuated smile blossoming on his face, his cock pressed in deep, then he moved in a grinding motion slightly as you squirmed and mewled in pleasure. He was looking at you with heart in his eyes, completely enchanted and greedy to see more of your beauty. Nobody could ever compare or hold a candle to how beautiful you looked under him when he made love to you.

That’s right- he almost whimpers at your word as his hold on your waist tightened, immediately pressing his lips onto yours. His kiss was needy, desperate to feel you in his arms, if there was anything in this world that he couldn’t lose ever, it would undoubtedly be you. Kazuha’s heart feels like it would leap out any moment now as he rolls his hips into yours, trying his best to go sensual and slow although his patience was running thin every time your breathy moans graced his ears. His lips lowered to your neck, warm breath tickling your skin, and he whispered. 

“All yours my love, all yours… Your good boy, yours…” 

-

A soft moan leaves Albedo’s mouth in pleasant surprise at the praise he hears from you. His inquisitive gaze never leaves your face, in fact his sight never seemed to focus on anything else other than your pretty expressions when he made love to you. The way your eyes fluttered shut when his tip brushes over your sensitive spot (one he knows all too well by now), the differences in your moans when he grinds into you, slowly pushes as deep as he can to drag upon your tender spot, or when he sometimes indulge his greed and slams into you harder and faster as your nails scratched into his back- all of your precious reactions are recorded in his mind like a rewound tape. 

You called him good boy- his pupils dilated visibly if you had half the mind to notice, and suddenly he was all the more determined to please you more. His mouth latched onto your nipple, one hand gripping onto your waist as he rutted inside your warm walls, pleasured groans leaving his lips while he sucked on harder. You swore sight blurred as his other hand was suddenly rubbing over your clit, circling and flicking the way he knew you moaned the prettiest for him. He knew your body better than you did by now, Albedo took silent pride in that fact. And he intended on being a good boy for you every day and night, whenever you desire him.  

- Xiao almost gets too pleasure-driven from the moment your lips are on his more sensually, from the second your touches turn suggestive. His eyes are always clouded over with lust, desire and admiration towards you, he is hardly even lucid when he finally pushes into your eager walls, he can never control himself fully once he had a taste of you- all that mattered to him was you, your moans, and your face twisting in pleasure. That’s why when you first called him your good boy, he didn’t even hear it. His one hand was pressing yours to the mattress, fingers entwined as he rammed inside needily, it felt so good, he wanted to be buried inside your snug walls forever- this insatiable lust transfers over to his actions because as much as he tries, he can’t seem to be too gentle and from the way you moan sharply each time he slams in and his cock rubs against your insides just right, Xiao couldn’t find it in him to slow down anyways.

His fingers laced with yours on one hand, indirectly holding you down in place with how with each thrust made your linked hands sink down onto the sheets, and his other holding onto your hip so tight it felt like it would bruise,. You muttered out a weak “good boy” once more- this time he heard it all too well. He groaned in pleasure at your words, at your beauty or your tight cunt he couldn’t tell, all he knew was he had to give you more, make you take more of him. His lips are on your neck and his sharp teeth sank down on the side, his lustful panting and deep moans ringing in your ear. Your wince of pain was drowned out in the high-pitched whiny moan when his claws unintentionally dug onto your hips as he forced your walls to take all of him, slamming his hips to yours desperately like he would die if he didn’t engrave the feeling of your warmth around him inside his mind. Your sweet moans always made his heart flutter, his eyes rolled to the back of his head as he bit down harder on your neck, rutting into you as though to remind you that you’re all his, and he’d be your ‘good boy’ always and forever.

[targaryen-dynasty]

THE GREATEST TEMPTATION.

Modern!Aemond Targaryen x cam girl!Reader

"Keeping your boyfriend waiting for too long is always a dangerous game, and when he finally has enough, he deems it most fitting to give your audience a real show."

WARNINGS: SEXUAL CONTENT-MDNI; p in v, semi public sex?, rough sex, manhandling, size kink, possessive and jealous Aemond, kinda submissive reader

WORDS: 2.6 K

NOTES: This is an older story, and although I have edited it, I didn't want to change too much from my older writing. I‘ll now work on new stuff with Maegor, Aegon and Cregan. The movie „cam“ was my inspiration for this!

❗️𝐚𝐝𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐲 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭!

“Come on, guys, stop it,” you say, your hands running over the curve of your hips. A short riding crop is clasped between the fingers of your right hand while the ones of your left hand pull the thin strap of your lace thong to let it snap back against your flesh, making a show for the audience as you squirm at the impact. “You know, if you don’t get to the cum show, I’m going to have to go off cam to do it without you, so…" 

You kneel on your bed, sitting on your haunches with the ring light and camera positioned so only the parts from your neck down are visible for your viewers. 

“And nobody wants that, right?” your words are accompanied by a feigned pout as you drag the tip of the riding crop from the valley between your breasts down to your navel, dragging it around it slowly. “But seriously, guys, I need it, so hurry up.”

It’s a ping! that alerts you of a received donation, and you clap your hands in excitement upon seeing the bright red $450 popping up on the screen. 

“Ah, RoguePrince81, thank you so, so much,” you hum with a smile. “Alright, ten spanks for you.”

You turn around and position yourself closer to the camera to give them the perfect view of your ass, but before you’re able to start to deliver ten spanks to it, your boyfriend barges into the room. 

Learning from past mistakes, the camera isn’t recording more than your bed, Aemond’s presence remaining unknown to the viewers. With your microphone not muted, you can’t do more than mouth a ‘five minutes’ to him still standing in the doorframe. 

The pout on his lips is barely there, already gotten used to the way his girlfriend earns her money, though he doesn’t necessarily approve of it. Sighing quietly, he closes the door behind him and sits down in the chair at your desk across from the bed. 

You barely watch him, focusing back on the audience. One slap after another is served to your ass, and you yet again make a show out of it by moaning, squirming and wiggling your ass. 

“My butt’s gonna hurt tomorrow,” you whine. After the tenth slap, you rub your asscheeks, sighing an ‘and one for good luck.’ With the eleventh slap, you throw the crop aside.

Five minutes turn into fifteen, and with all your attention on the audience, you don't notice the set jaw and furious gaze of your boyfriend, a blaze of jealousy flickering in his eye. At least not until he stands up to approach you. 

Being quick to mute the chat, you turn towards him, sitting on your haunches and looking up at him. A crease has formed between your brows, knowing that you have kept him waiting for too long. 

It’s a fruitless attempt to calm him as you rub the palms of your hands over his thighs, squeezing them just slightly in the way you know he enjoys. 

“I’m not here to waste my time watching you fuck around with other guys,” he remarks coldly. 

The coldness of his voice makes a shiver run down your spine, a contrast to the heat growing between your legs. As your eyes meet his ice-like gaze, you swallow hard. “I know,” you reply, continuing to brush your hands up and down his thighs. “But you know I need to make money, Aem.”

He scoffs at your response. “You can make money in other ways,” he replies, his hands capturing your wrists tight enough to indicate his disapproval. “You don’t need to show off your body for strangers.”

Your heart is racing now, and you feel a flutter in your chest at his words. But you can’t deny that his possessive side only makes you want him more. “But this way is easy,” you shrug, trying to keep your tone light. “It’s quick and pays well… plus, I enjoy it, you know that.”

Aemond’s nostrils flare ever so slightly at your words, his jaw setting firmly. In one fluid motion, he pulls you up on your feet. He’s tall and strong, and his presence looms over yours. “I do,” he says. “But you’re mine, and I don’t share.”

Running your hands over his chest, you take a step closer and press yourself against him, and he uses the proximity to rest a hand at the back of your neck. “And I’ll only ever be yours.” You start to play with the buttons of his shirt. “But this is just a job, Aem. It doesn’t mean anything.”

His expression betrays no emotion as he regards you, but his grip on your neck tightens. “If this doesn’t mean anything, then this won’t bother you at all,” he states, using his grip to force you towards your desk. He pushes you over it, and with you having relocated all your stuff to film the bed, there’s not much left on it that topples onto the ground. 

Your hands fly to the desk to steady yourself upon impact, a gasp leaving your lips. Your heart rate picks up, your blood thrumming with a mixture of arousal and a hint of fear. The sudden manhandling sends a thrill down your spine. “Aemond,” you breathe, your voice trembling slightly. 

His breath is hot against your ear as he leans down, chest pressing against your back while his arms cage you in. It’s clear he’s the power right now, and it’s making you feel all the more vulnerable under his control. “What?” he asks, his voice soft yet commanding. “Do you want me to stop?”

With your body reacting to his husky voice, your hips press back against his. “No,” you answer softly, looking over your shoulder at him with wide eyes. 

His lips curve into a smug smile. “Good, because I had no intentions of stopping anytime soon,” he replies. Prowling toward the dresser, he grabs the laptop. “This will be the best show they’ve ever seen.”

Several pings! echo off the device, the viewer’s comments filling the chat box with messages you’d die to read right now. Aemond has seen you set everything up plenty of times before, and he knows all too well where to put the laptop so that it doesn’t show anything else than the parts below your faces, and quickly unmutes the chat. 

His outburst is nothing new, he’s confessed his jealousy often enough, but it’s the first time he willingly participates in one of your streams. It’s clear it’s his way to mark his territory, to claim you in front of everyone to show who you belong to, and his possessiveness does little to diminish the fire in your body, the ache between your legs only becoming more prominent. 

His hard bulge presses against your ass as he approaches you again, shoving you against the sturdy desk with his hands gripping your hips. It catches you by surprise and you release a choked moan at it. 

Nimble fingers hook under the thin straps of your thong, pulling it back enough the snaps against your skin have you wincing for real. “You’re even wearing my favorite lingerie, hm?” he taunts, large hands roaming over your asscheeks. “All this for some horny bastards and their dirty money?”

You shiver at his touch and the dominance in his deep voice, too zoned out to give him an answer. His impatience runs thin with how quickly he serves a slap to your ass, palm landing exactly where you have hit yourself before. The pain is sharper, stinging, and causing tears to brim in your eyes. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”

“Gods, well…” you whimper. “I… I have to make my viewers happy.”

“Is that the only thing you care about?” he challenges. “Making them happy? What about making your boyfriend happy, mh?”

Licking your lips, you look at him from over your shoulder again. “You know you’re the only one I care about,” you breathe out. “Only you.”

Aemond’s hand smooths down your back, his touch gentle but firm. “Do they know you belong to me?” he asks, a hint of possessiveness in his tone. “Nah, fuck this, go on and tell them now.”

“They… they know I have a boyfriend,” you admit. 

But it’s a sharp slap served to your ass that makes your head snap towards the laptop quickly, taking in a shaky breath before you address whoever’s behind the screen. You merely know them by their usernames, RoguePrince81, MrSunfyre, thereal_heir and so on. “I… I belong to my boyfriend,” you say, your voice clear yet laced with a tremble that betrays your submission to him. “And only him.”

Aemond’s hand runs over your asscheek in response, soothing the stinging pain. “That’s right,” he purrs, the possessive tone evident in his voice. “You’re mine, and I don’t like sharing.”

“All yours,” you whisper, though there doesn’t come a reply from him. You merely hear shuffling coming from behind you, and judging by the haste of the sounds, it’s clear he’s desperate and impatient. Aemond enjoys teasing, and maybe even punishing you, but there always comes the point where he can’t take it anymore himself. 

It’s the elongated groan of him that has you pushing your hips back, growing just as impatient and desperate, and it’s the cue for him to tug the lace of your thong aside, easing two of his fingers inside of you. You moan wantonly at that, yet the stimulation doesn’t last long enough for you to truly enjoy it, fingers withdrawing almost immediately after the intrusion. 

With his fingers coated in your arousal, he smears it over the tip of his cock and therefore mixes it with the few beads of precum. His hand glides up and down his cock with ease, before he eventually aligns the tip with your entrance. Sheathing himself inside of you slowly, allowing you to feel every ridge and vein of him, you quickly rise on your tiptoes to adapt to his height and make accommodating his size easier, although you’re all but used to it by now. 

A renewed wave of your arousal drips down your thighs at his intrusion, allowing him to slide into you with little to no resistance. As you both moan in unison, yours is slightly muffled by your teeth sinking into your bottom lip, reveling in the slight burn that accompanies the pleasure. 

Aemond seizes a fistful of your hair, pulling you back as his hips thrust into you harshly once as a clear warning. Brushing your sweet spot so expertly, you arch your back like a cat, pushing back against him with another muffled moan making its way past your lips.

“Oh, don’t act all shy now,” he coos, his other hand finding its way to the back of your neck. “Let them know how good I’m making you feel.”

His words make you nod meekly, and he takes it as a silent invitation to move, the pace starting slow but becoming much more intense in a matter of seconds until he’s recklessly driving his hips into yours. Aemond is always fairly rough with you, but the jealousy and possessiveness do make it even better. 

A breathless gasp falls from your lips in an attempt to catch your breath through his ruthless pounding, and your fists clench around the edge of the desk again, bracing yourself for the way his cock bullies your sweet spot and drives your whole body back and forth.

“Gods, please… use me,” you whine, eyes squeezing shut as you are overwhelmed by the different sensations overcoming your body.  

“Fuck,” he groans. “You like that? You like being used by me while those miserable bastards watch you getting split open by my cock, hm?” His words are punctuated by several harsh thrusts, knocking the air out of your lungs and causing his balls to slap against your sensitive clit, sending shivers down your legs. 

His thighs are heavy as they press into your frame, applying pressure to where your hips meet the edge of the desk. While it hurts, you barely have time to focus on the pain, overwhelmed by the soaring pleasure inside of you. The building tension inside of you spreads through your core, your walls fluttering as furiously as Aemond’s relentless onslaught on your cunt. 

“Don’t stop,” you whimper. 

“Or what?” he taunts. “You’re gonna come for me already?”

Despite him mocking your despair, he pulls your hips back a little and brings his hand down between your legs, dragging his nimble fingers over your clit to give you the last blow that’s meant to push you over the precipice. Every attempt to give him an answer dies in your throat at the sudden burst of pleasure, your mind hazy and your eyes glossy. 

Parting his legs and slightly bending them at the knees, he curls his hips in a manner that all but forces his cock into you at an angle that has stars dancing across your vision, prolonging the intense orgasm that ripples through your core. The tension you hold in your legs from the position causes them to shake uncontrollably, making your body rely on the firm grip of his hand now resting at your hip.  

His own orgasm nears with how forcefully you clench around and convulse all over him, his pace more erratic as he leans down to press his chest flush against your back, pinning you to the desk and planting a searing kiss to the crook of your neck. His thrusts grow sloppier thanks to the position, but that doesn’t mean they don’t fill you deeply enough anymore. 

Bringing his hand from your hair to the wall in front of the desk, the veins in his hand and arms bulge from the exertion. “That’s it,” he rasps into the crook of your neck. “Be a good girl for me and take everything I give you.” 

“Hm-Hm… yes,” you whimper, pushing back against him. Your body is pressed flatly against the wooden surface of the desk, his weight on top of you not allowing you to take any deep breath – yet the throbbing of his cock inside of you definitely makes up for it. 

A strained groan announces his orgasm, muffled by his lips pressed against your skin. A relieved moan leaves your lips as soon as his twitching cock spends itself inside of your still spasming walls. He keeps thrusting into you, though his thrusts become gentler and even slower than before due to his stamina decreasing, eventually stopping.

It’s unlike Aemond to pull out of you so shortly after, and you wince at the sudden loss, your assaulted core clenching around nothing to adjust to the emptiness. Turning your head to look at him, sweaty and heated cheek pressed to the cold desk, you can’t hide the blissed out expression that’s written all over your face. Aemond prowls towards the set up, picking up the laptop with the camera filming nothing but his chest, still heaving with ragged breaths.  

“Now, did you like that?” he asks as he walks back to you again, obviously speaking to the part of your audience that stayed for the show. “Then you’ll definitely love this.” 

Bending forward slightly, he points the camera to your cunt, blessing the viewers with the sight of his seed slowly oozing out of your cunt, running down your folds and quivering thighs. You stay still, too focused on the multiple pings! that bounce off the device, indicating that your little show has earned you a big deal of money.

“Is this the kind of cum show you expected, hm? I bet the fuck not.”

He then abruptly shuts the laptop with a thud, carelessly throwing it onto your bed. 

You push yourself back, standing on wobbly feet as you adjust your thong, holding onto the desk. You turn your head to look at him, the smirk on your lips matching the wicked one on his. “You know you’re gonna be a regular now,” you tease. 

“And I thought you’d never ask.”

[palajae]

wrong place, wrong time.

PAIRING... heeseung x doctor!reader | GENRE... fluff, romance, humor, mentions of hospitals, flirty heeseung | WC... 1kish

“oh my god. he has to be a model. there’s no way-“

“maybe he’s famous…”

“should we ask him for a picture?”

you roll your eyes at the excited chatter coming from the nurses down the hall. who knew what they were gossiping about this time? shoving your hands in your coat pockets, you’re quite literally stopped by the sight of everyone crowded by the front desk.

you frown, taking in their lovestruck expressions. “what’s going on?”

one of the nurses, giselle, quickly squeals and runs over to whisper in your ear. 

“you won’t believe it, doc. the finest man just walked in. his condition seems alright so we’re all trying to figure out what he came in for.”

of course. you let out an exasperated sigh, watching in amusement as everyone fights to be the one to escort him to a room. 

out of pure curiosity, you decide to take a quick glimpse. exactly how handsome could this guy really be?

apparently, very. much. so. 

lee heeseung. early twenties. looks like a member of a famous boy band. has got everyone in close proximity wrapped around his finger.

also, a huge flirt (obviously.) 

the nurses love him, getting any and every chance to bat their eyelashes and flirt back. 

you, on the other hand? 

you’re sure you’ve become a pro at rejecting his advances. 

the first time he came in was for bloodwork. the second time, x-rays. the third time he was “feeling under the weather.” 

honestly, you’re wondering why he visited so often. if anything, most people avoided hospitals.

“hi, dr. y/l/n.”

your lips press together in a thin line. your eyes remain focused on the clipboard in front of you. you weren’t counting but this was, what? 

his fourth time checking in? 

“heeseung. you’re back…again. may i ask why you seem to love the hospital?”

he smirks teasingly, “or maybe why the hospital seems to love me?”

you can’t help but roll your eyes indiscreetly. 

he did it every time. of course, he was friendly with everyone. but heeseung just seemed to go the extra mile around you. 

“i think i ate something bad.”

you quirk an eyebrow, “oh really?”

“i don’t know, maybe it was something the chef cooked?” he responds cheekily. 

you let out a huff of air, one long enough that blows the baby hairs out of your face. “…what did you eat last night?”

“oh, it was delicious,” his eyes bore into you as he continues to ramble on.

“any pain, discomfort, bowel movements?” you interrupt, clicking your pen incessantly. 

“no, just the ache in my heart when you ignore me,” he clutches his chest playfully.

you look up at him with pursed lips. 

“you know what? i think you’re fine and it’s time for you to go.”

you guide heeseung to the front desk to drop him off, about to leave him in the hands of the receptionist. as you’re about to leave, you feel a hand wrap around your wrist. it’s subtle—under the table so no one else can see. 

your body stiffens for a moment, examining his face that holds an unreadable expression. when neither of you utter a single word, you gently pull your arm from his grip when someone calls for you. 

winter’s mouth drops open. “you’re telling me he came back a fourth time? this must be a record.”

ningning nods excitedly, “i mean, there has to be a reason. who do you think he keeps coming back for?”

you almost choke on your water. “you’re saying-?”

she turns to you, eyebrows raised insistently. “there must be a certain someone that catches his eye here.”

“i wish it were me,” giselle sulks as her fork stabs into her food pathetically. 

winter frowns, “you know, he has been really clingy to you, doc.”

you swallow harshly. “huh?”

everyone begins to chime in accordance. 

“yeah, he always asks about you and what you’re doing.”

“he only gets check ups from you, too.”

you scoff, shaking your head slightly. “don’t remind me.”

the three of them pause for a short moment, before their expressions change. you feel fear and apprehension course through your veins. 

“do you not like him? is it because you think he’s so cute?”

“are you interested in him?” their wide eyes and questioning voices makes your mouth dry.

“now that i think about it… y/n’s the only one who doesn’t seem down bad for heeseung.”

you stammer, unable to form a response until your pager goes off. 

“ha-oh. well, that’s my cue!” 

you quickly make your escape in order to hide your flustered expression. 

after you finished your rounds later, you slump into your chair in the cafeteria. the sounds of the conversation from the table next to you drifts over to your ears. 

“do you think it’s because of me? i mean, he always greets me good morning with those dreamy eyes of his.”

your eye twitches. 

“don’t think you’re so special. heeseung waves goodbye to me every time.”

alright, enough of this. you stand up, chair clattering backwards quite loudly, and walk off. you’ve just made it to your office, opening the door, when you freeze.

“heeseung? what are you doing here?”

he immediately smiles from—your eyes narrow—your rolling chair. he rolls closer, a bit too close.

“why do you keep asking when you know the  answer already?”

for a moment, you keep your eyes locked. then you let your professional mode switch off. 

“you really need to stop coming, hee. people are getting ideas,” you chide gently with a ruffle of his hair.

he leans into your touch with a hum, “about you and me?”

you push his head away with a snort, “no. about you and them.” 

with a chuckle, he wraps his arms around your waist. “i’m sorry. i can’t help but miss my baby when you’re practically working all day.”

you soften, “i know. i’m sorry. but this is getting a little out of hand.”

suddenly heeseung gets up, moving closer towards you. “will a kiss make up for it?”

you pretend to think, tapping your foot thoughtfully, “maybe… depends on how good of a kiss.“

he quickly leans in, one arm snaking around your waist while the other cups your cheek. your eyes begin to close. as soon as you feel the ghost of his lips touch yours, the door slides open. 

“doc-“

you immediately push heeseung off of you, startled. and then proceed to shut the door in giselle’s face, quite literally. with panicked whispers, you manage to shove your boyfriend under the desk with a final shh!

about 0.3 seconds later, you slide the door open again. 

giselle stands there, gaping. 

“what was that?!”

“what was what?” you clear your throat nonchalantly, taking a look at your patient’s files. 

“you-he-“ she splutters, “heeseung!” 

“what are you talking about?”

“you’re the one heeseung keeps coming for?”

“doctor y/l/n?!”

you both freeze. the rest of the nurses look from you to giselle and back with shell shocked faces. 

you want to curl up into a ball. this is not how you wanted everyone to find out. given, you didn’t expect your loving boyfriend to visit out of the blue without any context. 

you smile sheepishly. “surprise?”

before you know it, a hand finds its way onto your shoulder. you almost jump before relaxing at the touch. 

“we-we thought- heeseung-“

you bite your lip, as heeseung chuckles. you wanted to keep your personal life and work life separate, but with your job getting so hectic the past couple weeks, you realized you had spent way more time at the hospital than at home. 

immediately, guilt runs through your body. heeseung had always been so sweet and understanding, and seeing him come visit your work really put things in perspective. 

how bad must’ve it been for him to have to go out of his way just to see you? while you kept brushing him off? 

you wrap an arm around his waist, hugging him closer. “guys, this is my boyfriend, heeseung—as most of you already know.”

he looks at you with surprise evident in his eyes. obviously, you weren’t the most open person. 

as everyone watches you two with jaws dropped, you squeeze his hand in hopes he understands. you’re lucky to have heeseung—the most empathetic person you know, because he presses a kiss to your temple. 

“i’m sorry,” you murmur, “no more running away and prioritizing work.”

everyone else in the room fades away as he truly looks you in the eye. 

“i know, baby. i know.”

as you both beam at each other, you’re assured in the love you feel together once more. 

a/n ▸ jae posting two days in a row? that’s crazy

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[gay-dorito-dust]

Imagine Bill/Stanford x a clumsy reader who is constantly getting injured or stumbling and bumping into something.

Going on a long hike? Reader falls and busts their fuckin knee. Walking by the fridge after grabbing a snack? Slips over a puddle of water and breaks their wrist.

I'm genuinely curious as to how they would respond separately, constantly having to deal with reader's shit.

Love your content, by the way. Keep up the good work! :D 💗

Bill cipher

Finds it funny, after all pain is hilarious to him but it’s made even more funnier if someone else is doing it to themselves.

Don’t expect him to help you in any way shape or form, he’s like one of those friends who’ll laugh as you fall down the stairs before ever thinking of helping you back up.

But in this instance he just leaves you in pain and gets all bothered when you’re all healed up again, claiming that you’re not as fun as you are when you��re injured. So I’d watch your step for the next couple of days for banana peels or anything that could cause you physical harm.

You’re his very own version of you’ve been framed with how often you managed to end up hurting yourself over near enough everything, so much so that he just develops a sixth sense when you’re about to hurt yourself and appears just in time to whiteness it with some deer teeth.

Needless to say Bill will find your sprained ankles, busted kneecaps and broken arms hilarious and might even record his favourite ones to look back on when he’s bored to reminisce over the good times. (I don’t know what else you expect of me for him. It’s bill cipher, he’s the least helpful dude in existence)

Stanford Pines

Poor guy had gotten more and more grey hairs because of how accident prone you are. He would like you very much in one piece thank you very much.

Also he’s got good reflexes for a man of his age and would most likely be able to catch you by the arm or the waist before you even fall or trip while asking if you were okay with the most concerned look upon his face.

He’ll gladly let you use him as crutch when you’ve tripped and busted your knee or sprained your ankle, anything that he could do to make sure that you were in less pain then you already were, Ford will do it in a heartbeat in hopes that he’d never have to do this again. Only to later come to terms that he was with the most clumsiest person in all of Gravity Falls, and that he would be used as your personal crutch constantly.

After a couple more accidents and Ford is already carrying a makeshift first aid kit and had done intensive research on all he needed to deal with things like bruises, cuts and sprains just for you. However he’ll always try to move you away from any and all potential hazards, only for him to look back at you to see that you’ve somehow managed to trip on thin air and bruise your chin.

You’re lucky this man loves you dearly because you had proven yourself to be a handful at some cases, but Ford knew it wasn’t your fault and would never make it out to be your fault in the slightest. And yet the temptation to baby proof everything -especially the lab- was strong within him, but would rather keep an eye on you himself to make sure you somehow didn’t hurt yourself on the corner of a table or counter.

He only knew you would because you did bump into the corner of a table once and tried to hide it from him, but he knew you better then most and immediately gets an ice pack for your bruise. At this point you being accident prone was about as normal as waking up to being covered in Mabel’s stickers or almost tripping over Waddles because he was sleeping nearby.

Yes you once tripped over waddles because he was sleeping near your bed once, did you hurt yourself? Obviously. Did Ford have to take care of you? Of course he did but he didn’t mind taking care of you now and then as you did the exact same whenever he got himself hurt. You weren’t aloud in certain places without Ford because there was too much where you could hurt yourself on, that and Ford didn’t feel like having a heart attack every five seconds you came even remotely close to injuring yourself. Again.

He kisses your bruises and cuts. Fight me I’m in a soft mood.

[envy-of-the-apple]

ive been really obsessed with your gojo/geto naga oneshots and asks lately it feels like literal brain rot at this point its so good. ive reread it 6 times lol

i was wondering though, what would Geto do if Gojo was just a little bit too heavy handed with you? to the point of a sprained or broken arm or leg. Would he get mad at Gojo or just mad in general that reader was hurt? Also how would they act in response to the injured reader who can't do basic tasks themselves, I personally think they would enjoy the fact she relied on them even more to even move now.

Reminder requests are still closed!!!! I just love this idea so so much holdon lemme-

Part one Part three

(Yandere, dark, implied forced relationships, noncon touching, biting, language barriers, drugging(?))

Top of the Food Chain pt2

Dark!Naga!SatoSugu x reader

Two days later, Satoru still wasn't allowed inside the cave.

You can hear him, hissing and clicking, right outside, hovering just behind the invisible line Suguru refused to let him pass. If you weren't already in so much pain, you would have found pity on the poor thing. He wasn't allowed in his own home, even though the incident wasn't entirely his fault.

Technically, Satoru saved you. It was yet again another escape attempt. Something you'd been doing a lot these days once you've figured out these beings' intentions with you. You'd gotten past the rock quarry this time, a new record. Your plan was filled with holes: there was no way to truly escape the island. You had no boat, no way to call for help. Still, you ran, forgetting that there were more dangerous things on this island other than two territorial serpent men.

It was a monster. There was no other way to describe it. Big, ugly, shiny spikes and sharp teeth, eyes dripping with bloodlust. You would have been eaten, killed, maimed, if Satoru hadn't caught up with you in time.

The only collateral was the loss of nearby plant life and your broken wrist.

That had been Satoru's fault. He'd pulled at you too hard at the hand. The remnants of adrenaline from the fight, his anger, anger made him too rough on your fragile body. He froze at the wet snap, and then you started screaming. That was how Suguru had found you. Despite how much Satoru clicked and hummed and tittered, from his mate's look, you doubted it helped his case.

Another lonely coo made you wince. Suguru only huffed, wrapping you tighter in his coils. They were already warm from your body heat. The numerous animal pelts helped your comfort too.

"Make him stop," you beg, "he's been going on for hours."

At that, Suguru lifts his head from the base of your neck. He tilts his head as he surveys you, and you can't help but think how awful you must look. Sickly-looking from the pain, clammy skin. He can't do much about your appearance, but the least he could do was shut Satoru up.

"What want?" Suguru asks, "water?"

At that, he picks up a sack filled with sea-smelling water. You wrinkle your nose, turning away, cocooning yourself within his coils. With the increased pain, your appetite has decreased, as well as your thirst. The stress of being trapped like this along with your broken wrist was starting to take its toll on your body.

Suguru makes a sound of disapproval, shuffling around behind you. You know he's still mad about the escape attempt, but he's concerned enough for your well-being to put his anger to the side for now. He'd helped wrap your wrist, using something stretchy and soft.

You raise your wrist up, inspecting the thin material wrapped around your wrist. You're not sure what it is, it's too silky to resemble cotton. It must be from the foliage around the island. Yet, another strange thing you'd never find the answer to.

There's another rumble coming from the Naga's chest. He wraps a hand around your chin, bringing your face closer. In his other, he holds the dripping sack.

"Suguru," it's too soft to be anything more than a whine, "it hurts too much to take anything right now. Stop."

"Hurt?" he asks.

To that, you gesture to your broken wrist. It may not have been broken, you were no doctor, so you couldn't say for certain. But considering you'd been in the same amount of pain for two days, it really didn't matter to you.

A click, before he's tossing a glare at the entrance of the cave. He'd already given Satoru a beating right before coming to coddle you. Despite being bigger than his mate, Satoru is docile enough to take them. Suguru had been acting more aggressive lately. You had a feeling it was your fault.

He'd been inspecting your wrist every so often, but you see a different look within his brown eyes now as he takes your injured hand. He carefully turns your palm over, pressing slightly into your wrist. When you yelp, he retracts.

"Hurt." Suguru confirms. You can only nod.

"Hurt. No drink? No eat?" You don't like the way he's talking. As if he's putting a puzzle piece together. Coming to a solution you won't like.

When you go to pull away, his grip only tightens.

"No hurt," he says it like a promise, as though you're a toddler and he's coaxing you into drinking a sour-tasting medicine. His lips part, revealing the fangs you've often seen him use on meat, on Satoru.

Never did you think he'd ever use them on you.

"Suguru," you're pleading, trying to move away when he bends down, his hair brushing your sweaty forehead. You can feel his breath on your neck.

"No hurt," he repeats, and then he bites down.

He lied, of course, he did. His teeth puncture your skin, tearing through like paper. You think you screamed, or maybe it was more akin to a pitiful whimper. In the background, you can hear someone hiss, Satoru maybe?

For a second, you feel everything, the pain, the puncture wound, Suguru lightly licking your neck.

And then, you feel weightless.

It's hard to describe, but your brain feels like it's turned to mush. Your body feels like you're on a soft cloud, just there, floating. In the back of your mind, you remember how dazed Satoru would get whenever Suguru bit him. At the time, you just thought he was lovestruck.

When Suguru pulls away, he's smiling. A trail of blood, your blood goes down his lip. You can barely keep your eyes on him, close to falling asleep.

"No hurt," he says. When he leans down to kiss you, you accept without a single fuss.

You don't remember much after that, but you remember accepting whatever Suguru put in your mouth. The panic in your body was non-existent as he held the water-sack above your lips, watching as your throat bobbed. You think he kissed you a few more times, but you're not too sure. You were a lot more averse to kissing before. It'd make sense he'd take advantage of it.

When you wake up again, you're in between two bodies. The pain in your wrist is still there, but not as horrible as before. You're still groggy, mind fuzzy. Whatever Suguru had given you was still in effect.

Satoru is the first to notice you're awake. Suguru and him must have made up during the time you were unconscious. He props himself up, peering down at you. With how dim the cave is, you can barely make out his features. He looks just as guilty as he had two days ago.

"Sorry," he mutters, "is sorry."

If you weren't still high, you might have laughed. When you continue to stare, he takes it in stride, leaning forward to kiss your cheek, then your lips. You wince in distaste, leaning back.

"Stop," you say but don't fight when he licks at your jaw. You can barely move your fingers.

Panic is still far away, a distant call than anything alarming. It should worry you, but you still can't feel anything.

Suguru is at your back. You can hear his scales move across the cavern floor. He gives a hum, content as he curls himself around you. He doesn't seem to mind Satoru's touches. Your theory that they must have made up is unfortunately starting to strengthen.

You could barely manage Suguru's coddlings. You don't think you'll survive Satoru's.

"Sorry," he mouths into your neck. You can feel the grip on your waist starting to tighten. He stops, rising up to stare at you.

Blue, almost glowing.

"But no more leave."

You're coherent enough to piece together what he means. You can't escape Satoru. You can't escape Suguru. You can't leave this island. Running away is useless.

The nagas understood it. It's time you did too.

"Yes," you finally say, "no more leave."

[maxillness]

Only For Me To Hear || LN4 x Reader

Warnings: 18+, Unprotected sex, mean!reader, spanking, Dacryphilia, Degrading kink, handjob, overstimulation, mommy kink, orgasm delay, mention of safe word(not actually used), sub!lando, super fluffy and sweet aftercare

Wordcount: 1.6k

She looked at her phone as she heard the ping of a notification

Landonorris is playing Escape From Tarkov

She closed her book and got up from her spot on the bed. She went to the living room, sat on the couch and turned on the tv to watch her friends stream

It all went good. She was laughing, she was happy he looked happy. He was having a time which made her happy

It was all good up until she had looked away for a second, and she heard him moan. She quickly looked to the screen to see him smirk

She didn’t think much of it, as she thought she heard wrong, but she got furious when he did it again

This time, this time she was sure she heard right. She picked up her phone, went to her messages app and found his number

Stop it

She saw he had seen the message, but kept going anyway

I’m warning you, Norris

He kept ignoring her messages and kept moaning into the mic

This has big consequences, Lando

Yeah, sure, they weren’t dating, but he was only for her. He was hers, and he knew that

She got out to her car and arrived at Lando’s place, just In time for him to end the stream. He walked out into the kitchen seeing his very mad friend leaning against the counter

“Oh, hey. When did you get here?” He asked placing his cup in the sink and walked out again

“Don’t you ‘Oh, hey’ me. You know what you’ve done wrong” She said as she grabbed his wrist to turn him around to face her

“I have no idea what you’re talking about” He smiled trying to turn back around, but her hands grabbed him tight and pushed him up against the nearest wall roughly

“You know exactly why I’m mad. Don’t try an act innocent” He whined at her words as he looked down at her “What? Not so mouthy now, Norris?” She said seductively looking up at him

“‘M sorry, love” He whined putting his hands on her waist. He pulled her closer to kiss her cheek

“Don’t try to apologise” She pulled him by his shirts collar and dragged him towards his bedroom “Let’s see if you can listen this time. Clothes off, ass on the air, and face into the pillow” He obeyed quickly

In record time, he was naked and laid with his ass up in the air and his face in the pillow. He turned his face to the side to look at her standing beside him

“Please, don’t be to harsh on me” He spoke up to her

“I’ll give you what you deserve, Lan” He shivered as her cold hand lightly danced along his back. Her hand landed on his ass

He grabbed the sheets tightly, preparing the pain from the impact he was gonna get. A second went by before he felt her hand leave his ass. She swung her hand back to his ass

He whimpered at the contact of her hand against his bare ass “Please, I’m sorry, love”

“Don’t give me your pathetic pleas now. If you had just followed instructions as I told them; this wouldn’t my have happened” Her voice was rough and stern

A whimper left his mouth and a few tears left his eyes as he was hit again “Please, I’m begging you, love. I’m sorry”

“You deserve this, Lando. Three more, and that’s it” She told him before landing another slap on his ass. He whimpered, almost moaning at the contact

“I wanna hear your fucking moans, Norris. They are for me to hear, and only for me to hear” She said stern, landing another hit on his ass. He moaned at the contact

“There you go, baby. You’re only missing one” He moaned louder with the last slap against his cheek, but not without leaving a few trails of tears down his cheeks

She soothed his skin lightly. She flinched at her touch, and whined from the pain “You did so good for me baby. But I’m not done with you” He whimpered at her words “Get on your back” He quickly got his back, looking up at her

The precum from his tip slowly slid down his shaft as he laid on the bed awaiting her actions “What do you think you deserve, Lando? Hm?” She looked down at him with a stern stare

When he didn’t answer, she spoke up again “Should I just let you be? Should I go home and let you lay here with a hardon?” He just shook his head “Should I jerk you off and not stop until you’re a shaking and trembling mess and so over stimulated you want me to stop?”

He only whimpered at her suggestion “Is that a yes? You think you deserve to be tortured?” She raised her eyebrows at him. He could only nod “Use your words, whore”

He whimpered before he spoke up “Yes. Yes, I deserve to be tortured” He pressed his body deeper Into the madras

She pushed him a little to the side so she could sit on the bed beside him without falling off. She took her hand up to his face

“Spit” He didn’t need more words to know what she wanted. He spat in her palm before she drew it back. She placed her hand around his cock

“Please” His head rolled back into the pillow and his hips bucked up into her hand “Please. I promise I’ll be good” His eyes were desperate as he looked up at her

“We’ll see if you can keep that promise” She stroked him painfully slow for his liking, but it still made him moan loud and his knuckles turn white from the grip on the sheets

“F-fuck-Ah. Please, faster” His breath was fast and short as his moans and whines were loud

“I thought you said you didn’t t deserve the pleasure, Lan. I thought you said you deserved to be tortured” He voice was soft yet stern as she kept her slow pace

“Please, please, plea-Ah. Fuck, I’m begging you, love” His hand went to her thigh and dug his nails into her skin as his back arched off the madras “Please, baby, I’m sorry” A tear fell down his cheek as he begged “I promise I’ll be good”

“Here’s the deal, if you come when I say, and not a moment earlier, I’ll think about going sweet on you, but if you do come without permission, I’ll torture you until sunrise. You got that?” She asked slowing down her movements to almost stop

“Yes, deal. Please, I’ll be so good for you mommy” He knew she got turned on when he called her that. He was playing dirty

“What did I say about being a good boy? Don’t play dirty with me, Love” He whimpered at her words as she didn’t speed up again

“I’m sorry, really, I am. Please, baby” His grip on her bare thigh got stronger, definitely leaving marks later

She sped up slightly to her previous pace, making him moan louder as his eyes closed and his head rolled back into the pillow

“Fuck, baby- Ah. I’m gonna cum” He cried out, his voice in a high pitch

“No. No, you’re not” She tangled her hand I got the nape of his neck to tug on his curls. She leaned down and started attacking his neck and throat with open mouthed kisses, coating him in her saliva

“Fuck, baby. You make me feel so good” She could feel him twitch in her hand and hear his shutter in his breath

She leaned back to take a good look at him. He was so pretty like this. So fucked out and sweaty, begging her to let him cum

Without warning, he came with her name rolling off his tongue. She didn’t stop her movements, and she only sped up

“Fuck, baby, ‘s too much” His thighs were shaking and he was quirking under her “Please, I’m sorry” More tears streamed down his cheeks

“It was our deal, Lando. You came without permission. And you need to learn how to obey. I told you to stop moaning on stream, you didn’t listen. These moans are only for me to hear. Only for me to hear. You got that?” Her words where sharp and direct

“Yes, I’m sorry, I’ll never do it again, please, Love. It’s too much for me” She didn’t stop, knowing he would say his safe word if it was actually too much

She could feel him twitch in her hand again, and his moans were turning into whimpers and whines

“Cum for me baby” He didn’t need another confirmation before he came for the second time

She helped him ride out his orgasm before she walked to the bathroom to get a damp towel. She cleaned him up and walked out to the kitchen to grab a bottle of water for him

“Here, Love” She handed him the bottle. He took it and took a big sip of it before closing it again. He patted the space beside him

She got into the bed with him, letting him use her chest as a pillow. She stroked his sweaty curls, soothing him to sleep

“I love you” He mumbled. She was taken aback from his words, but said it back anyways

[blindmagdalena]

Center Stage in a Gilded Cage (chapter three)

18+ 3.8k. homelander x f!reader. pre-s1. stalking, kidnapping, imprisonment, forced relationship, slow burn, eventual smut. chapter 3/8. fic directory. AO3.

Now that he's got you all to himself, it's clear that Homelander has no intention of letting you go. For the sake of your own survival, you have no choice but to adopt his madness and play along with his domestic fantasy.

Homelander is insane.

You don’t know how to reconcile the hero of Vought’s marketing with this man, whose very presence unnerves you. There’s something uncanny about the way he moves, speaks, even the way he smiles at you. It all feels simultaneously practiced, and yet like he’s never actually spoken one on one to another human being.

The sentiment spins in your mind like a record, the melody scratchy and discordant. It’s as though you’ve fallen into some kind of bizzaro dimension where up is down, the sky is green, and Vought’s golden hero is a delusional kidnapping maniac who premeditated your abduction to the point of filling his home with a perfectly curated wardrobe for you. Even the products in the bathroom mirror your own.

You are home.

The conviction with which he said it gives you goosebumps. In the moment you’d been numb, trapped somewhere between reality and dream. That feeling–some mixture of shock and whatever he drugged you with–lingers with you even now, like you’ll wake up from this nightmarish fantasy at any moment.

You smooth your hands down your body, now clad in unfamiliar silk that feels cool and expensive against your skin. The sleep wear fits you like a glove. It’s your favorite color. It could have been pulled straight from your own closet if not for the lack of wear and the undoubtedly exorbitant price tag. All for wearing to bed.

Bed.

Nerves flutter in your gut like caged birds. You give yourself one last lingering look in the mirror. Washed and lotioned with the menagerie of products left for you, you’re unable to stall in the bathroom any longer. You’re as “comfortable” as you’re going to get, and Homelander’s waiting for you.

The thought makes you shiver. You can still feel his hands on your wrists like phantom shackles. From the moment he snapped and grabbed you, shocking you with immeasurable inhuman strength, you knew you were going to have to proceed with extreme caution. There’s something deeply wrong with him, and you’re terrified of what else he’s capable of.

What if you’re not the first person he’s done this to?

Worse than that thought, what if you’re not the last?

It’s a short walk back to the bedroom, the way lit by the dim spotlights that hang over the portraits that litter the walls. There’s an eeriness to the penthouse that makes you feel as though you’re walking through an empty museum after hours. The glossy wood flooring is as cold as tile beneath your bare feet, every part of this place hard and manufactured. It feels more like an enclosure than a home.

Even more bizarre than the decor is the layout itself. You haven’t seen the whole place yet–he had insisted a tour was for daylight hours–but rounding the corner from the living room takes you to an open alcove that serves as his bedroom. You hesitate in the open hall, struck by the sight of yourself reflected a dozen times over in the mirrors that make up his bedroom walls and ceiling, and Homelander himself already tucked into bed, his torso bare.

Your stomach flips. He smiles at you, beckoning you with a nod towards the empty side of the bed. Anxiety crawls up your spine like an insect with every step you take towards the bed, worsened by the open anticipation he watches you with. It goes against your every instinct to move closer to him.

Just as you reach the bed, he flips the blanket down for you. You tense, gaze dipping, but you’re relieved to find that he is not entirely nude. He’s wearing sleep pants with a thin band that nicely hugs the sharp jut of his hip, following the slight curve of his stomach. He’s leaner than the chiseled exaggeration of his suit implies, but his strength is no illusion. His hand felt like a steel vice around your wrist, his pull like being guided by a freight train. 

Homelander clears his throat and your eyes snap back up to his. You realize all at once you’ve been standing there in silence staring for far too long at his half-exposed body. Embarrassment hits in a hot rush and you mumble some kind of half formed apology, busying yourself with slipping into the bed, lingering at the edge.

“Don’t apologize,” he says, watching you settle on your back and tug the blanket over yourself. “Like what you see?” he asks, smiling crookedly. Though he claims he has no intention of eating you, you wouldn’t know it by the look in his eyes. He has all the intensity of a bird of prey watching a rabbit skitter through an open field.

Not knowing how to respond, you stare wordlessly at him. You notice the asymmetry of his mouth for the first time, how it curves on one side. Christ, why can’t you stop staring at him like this? Every time you try to formulate a response–something, anything–the words get jumbled up in your throat, threatening to choke you. At a loss, you roll onto your side, putting your back to him and screwing your eyes shut. The bed dips suddenly and an arm slipping around your waist startles you into a jerk, your body going tense.

“Jeeze, so jumpy,” he laughs, breath hot on the nape of your neck. He pulls your body flush against his, your soft curves fitting seamlessly against his wrought iron edges. His strength is impossible to ignore, inhuman and titanous. You can feel it in every part of him, but nowhere more keenly than in the flex of his arm as it encircles you, pinning you against him.

He sighs into the crook of your neck, sending shivers down your spine. “I’ve really been looking forward to this,” he murmurs, his words nearly beneath the thunderous racket of your own heart in your ears. Your body is awash in heat, and not just from the flush rolling through you. He’s as hot as a furnace at your back, as if his skin conducts heat just as well as the steel he feels made from.

If there was any doubt before that you had no choice but to yield to him, it’s evaporated now. He could crush you without so much as a second thought if he decides you don’t fit whatever elaborate fantasy he’s created in his mind. He could make you disappear.

“Hey,” he says softly, nudging the shell of your ear with his nose. “I’m gonna take good care of you, okay?”

The pressure of a sob swells up in your throat, the reality of your situation folding in on you with the weight of the world, but you choke it back. Hesitantly, you place your hand over his forearm and squeeze, hoping it will be enough of an answer to appease him.

You feel his smile in the way he caresses the sensitive flesh of your neck with his mouth. In turn, he squeezes you against his chest like a child would his new favorite toy, covetous and possessive. It makes you wonder what sort of boy he’d been: was he the sort to be precious with his toys, or was he the sort who wore them threadbare before looking for the next new and shiny thing?

“‘Atta girl.”

Although sleep doesn’t come easily, it does at least come eventually. The room is dark, but not pitch black, and the ambient sounds of high altitude winds spilling in from his open windows are surprisingly soothing, better than the scratchy ocean recordings you usually drift to.

The exhaustion you experience in the aftermath of your abduction overtakes you, pitching you into a deep slumber. You spend the night dreaming a tumultuous mix of reality and nightmare, some aspects exaggerated while others play out perfectly as they were. The truth of your situation is nightmarish enough without any theatrics from your imagination. 

Waking up in Homelander’s bed for the second time is no less disorienting than it was the first time. Last night returns to you in bits and pieces, but nothing grounds you in reality as swiftly as the heavy arm looped around your waist, and the steady warm breaths wafting over the back of your neck, giving you goosebumps. His other arm is stretched out under your pillow, his hand resting palm up by the edge of it.

Is he asleep…?

“G’morning,” Homelander purrs, giving a firm squeeze around your middle. Not asleep, which leaves you wondering how long he’s been awake, assuming the man actually does sleep. There’s been no lack of speculation towards how human supes really are or aren’t, whether they need to eat or rest the way regular humans do. Especially those as powerful as Homelander.

The sleepy slur and fray of his voice gives you hope that he does, though. On top of everything else, it would be too unsettling a horror to learn that he doesn’t.

“Morning,” you give back after a beat, hating how meek your voice is. The tension in your body makes everything sound tight and forced. You see his fingers flex just before he curls his arm inward, hand clutching your shoulder to embrace you.

“I don’t know about you,” he says in your ear, lips brushing the shell of it as he speaks. “But that was the best damn night of sleep I’ve ever had.”

That solves that, you suppose.

The silence that follows makes you realize he was prompting you.

“Same.” The lie hitches in your throat like a hiccup.

Another pause, and then Homelander is shifting, uncoiling his arms from around you and lifting up on his side. With a hand on your shoulder he turns you on to your back, bringing you to face him. You meet his gaze, but something about the look in his eyes turns your gut cold. There’s no softness in the lines of his face, not even thinning tethers of patience. There’s simply… nothing.

“Don’t ever lie to me,” he says, his voice set low and strangely hollow. “You’re free to do whatever you want. Except for that. Understand?”

Your throat clicks on a dry swallow. The weight of his stare makes it hard to breathe. You nod.

“Tell me you understand,” he says slowly, each perfectly annunciated word dripping with malice. There’s no pleading in his voice the way there had been last night. He’s composed entirely of cold and hard lines that make you feel caged, the bars shrinking around you.

“I understand,” you choke out.

Just like that, the lines at the corners of his eyes soften, crinkling with his smile. He leans in to press a chaste kiss to your forehead. The abruptness of the shift is enough to give you whiplash, leaving you dazed. For just a moment, he was another person entirely.

“That’s my girl,” he says, seeming to savor every word on his tongue. Dumbstruck, you watch him climb out of bed, swinging his arms in a slow stretch.

“Uhm,” you start, clearing your voice of the faint tremor in it. “I should, uh… Call someone. Work. They’re going to be worried if–”

“Already taken care of,” he cuts in, lifting his suit from the suit rack next to the bed. Your eyes dart to the crumpled one he shed the night before, still in a pile. How many of those does he have? “Everyone you know is under the impression that you had a mild stress-induced nervous breakdown, and are currently on an impromptu vacation in Europe, totally off the grid,” he says with a smile, sliding his hand smoothly through the air.

You pale. Whenever work came to be too much, you’ve joked about disappearing like that, but would anyone actually believe you have? You suddenly regret the plethora of hyperbolic existential posts you’ve made.

“Oh,” is all you manage to say, feeling sick.

Homelander, on the other hand, looks as bright as the morning sun. “So! Who’s ready for breakfast?”

Regardless of whether or not cooking is enjoyable, it’s always a reliable routine. Breakfast perhaps most of all. Eggs, toast, bacon and whatever fruit is in season. You find all these things and more in dizzying variety and proportion in Homelander’s lavish kitchen.

The eggs are large and brown, the bacon wrapped in butcher's paper rather than plastic, and cut in thick strips. The artisanal loaf of bread has a perfectly crisp golden crust, soft on the inside as you slice it. It’s everything you know, but elevated.

The opulence feels weighted. It makes you wonder how you could ever be expected to pay for any of this. How you could be worth any of this. Every ounce of silky butter you swipe over the piece of artisan toast in your hand feels like another smattering of grave soil peppering you from above, burying you deeper than you already are.

You don’t owe him for any of this. You didn’t ask for it. Regardless, you lick an excess smear of jam from your thumb–the color of it as red and vibrant as fresh blood–and all at once you are Persephone taking the pomegranate seeds between her lips. There is a terrible feeling of complicitness in this, despite that you’re only trying to survive.

Homelander lurks behind you while you cook, observing from a slight distance with an idyllic smile, his hands clasped behind his back. While you’re still wearing your pajamas, he’s wearing his hero suit again, the bulk of it returning to him his larger than life silhouette.

The silence he observes you in is unnerving, making everything else too loud in comparison. It would be nice if he’d at least sit. Instead, you’re keenly aware of the oppressive weight of his expectant gaze the entire time you cook.

“Looks delicious,” he says, his voice suddenly so close that you startle, the butterknife slipping from your hand and clattering on the marble countertop. His gloved hands cup your elbows and squeeze, soothing and overly familiar. “Oops-a-daisy,” he laughs, as if you’re just clumsy. His hands stroke slowly up and down your arms.

You snatch the knife up from the countertop and dutifully wipe away the jam splatter with a dishtowel. “I hope you like it,” you say distractedly, heart racing.

“How could I not?” he asks in that same low, pleased tone. He gives your arms an excited little shimmy before releasing them, reaching around either side of you to grab each plate. You feel his chest against your back, where he lingers just a second too long. “You made it just for me, after all.”

He moves away from you, taking the plates with him to the small round table near the floor to ceiling windows. The view from his penthouse is stunning–overlooking the entire city, all the way out to the waterfront–but it’s also dizzying. It unsettles your stomach to sit so close to the window, the size of them making it feel as though there’s nothing between you and a hundred story fall.

“You’re not scared of heights, are you?” He asks, settling down across from you.

You look from the window to him. He wastes no time splaying a cloth napkin in his lap and picking up his utensils, though he never takes his eyes off of you. You’re not sure he ever does. “Uh…Not particularly. I just don’t think I’ve ever been up so high,” you say, draping your own napkin similarly in your lap. Never has breakfast felt like such a formal affair.

“You’ll get used to it,” he says confidently, jabbing his knife into the yolk of his egg to spread over his buttered toast. “I’ll take you flying again. You’ll be conscious this time around,” he chuckles, flipping a piece of bacon on top as well.

Your gut tightens, toast paused halfway to your parted lips. You gawk at him. It’s difficult to comprehend how someone can be so beyond reproach, so intensely cavalier about something like drugging you into unconsciousness and kidnapping you.

I saved you. That his voice already lives in your mind–correcting you–is sickening in and of itself. Your already tenuous appetite vanishes, but you take a bite of the toast out of spite. The jam’s farm fresh sweetness is tart, though it’s offset perfectly by the savory sea salt richness of the butter. 

It’s as exquisite as it is repulsive.

A crisp snap brings your attention abruptly back to Homelander, whose hand is still poised in the air, his thumb and middle finger pressed together. His hand falls away once he has your attention, his smile returning. “That good, huh? Looked like you went a million miles away.”

If only, you seethe, taking another bite of the toast. You use the moment to chew, swallowing the anger over being snapped at alongside your mouthful of food.

“It’s delicious,” you say, curating your words carefully. Don’t ever lie to me, his words echo again, helping you to shape a mental survival guide. Feeling his eyes on you, you meet them. His smile widens a touch, though you don’t think it quite reaches his eyes. He’s appraising you like one might an exhibit at a museum.

Glancing down at his plate, you notice he hasn’t really eaten his breakfast so much as he’s toyed with it. It’s all just cut apart, yellow egg yolk oozing slowly across the pristine white plate. “Is there something wrong with yours?” you ask with a lurch of anxiety. He’s drugged you once already.

“Not at all,” he beams with clean white teeth, hands resting in loose fists on either side of his plate. “It’s perfect. You’re perfect.”

The strange earnestness of the compliment stuns you. “Thank you,” you say uneasily, still not convinced there wasn’t something in the jam, or maybe the butter.

His smile broadens and this time it reaches all the way up, crinkling his eyes at their outer corners. There’s a sort of pride in his expression that makes you feel like a dog that’s finally learned the trick he’s been trying to teach you. 

“Whelp,” he sighs, clapping his hands together as he stands. “As much as I hate to go, duty calls,” he says, sliding his chair back beneath the table. Rounding it, he holds his hand out to you. “Walk me out?” he asks, his smile gleaming with predator charm. You only hesitate briefly before slipping your hand into his, reminding yourself to choose your battles wisely.

He lifts you to your feet with such ease it makes your stomach flip, breath hitching in your throat. He doesn’t let go of your hand, choosing to keep it snug within his grasp as he walks you through the decorated halls of his penthouse. There’s scarcely a space untouched by decor, making even these spacious corridors feel claustrophobic, dozens of carved and painted eyes leering at you as you pass.

The tour of the penthouse had been brief, awkward. He hadn’t especially known what to say about each room, giving you more facts about the artwork than anything. The lack of personal effects only make the place feel even more like a museum than it had before.

The only pictures of him were Vought promotional material. Not a single photo of him outside of his suit. No trace of family or childhood. Just The Homelander.

He holds your hand all the way up to a set of double doors made from dark wood, where he stops and turns to face you. “Thanks for breakfast,” he says with a picture perfect pearly white smile. Not a speck of food to be found. Uncomfortable with how fixated you’ve become on the condition of his teeth, you force your attention back on his eyes and nod.

“You’re welcome.”

He leans closer, and you have to fight the urge to lean back.

“Will you kiss me goodbye?”

You blink, the question striking you in the same way his compliment had, but for a different reason. In the wake of asking, his smile has lost that razor sharp edge it usually carries. Like his eyes, it’s softer now. More boyish. There’s a level of nervous apprehension in it that’s a stark contrast from his usual smugness. Yet again it hardly feels like you’re even looking at the same person.

Swallowing dryly, you bring your hand to the underside of his strong jaw. His skin is warm under your fingers, and he leans readily into your touch. You can feel the tension in the muscle beneath his cleanly shaven face as you turn it away, simultaneously moving in to press your lips to his cheek.

When you pull away, he’s staring sidelong at you, his face still turned away, his thin lips parted. For a beat, you think he’s going to be upset, but you realize quickly that the heat you see rushing to his cheeks isn’t anger. It’s a blush. Of all the ways you expected him to react, bashful was not among them.

“Okie-dokie,” he says, suddenly sheepish, and the tension in your shoulders drains as he relinquishes your other hand, busying himself with slipping off one of his gloves. “Should be home around 4:00, but I might be able to squeeze out closer to 3:00,” he says, tossing you a conspiratory little wink. As if you should be as excited as he is at the thought.

You watch him reach for a black plate next to the door handle, which he slides up to reveal a sleek number pad with a glowing blue circle, which he presses his thumb to. The circle turns green, and you hear a mechanism unlatch. Your stomach drops. All at once you understand why he brought you all the way to the door. He wanted you to see this.

“Pretty nifty, huh?” he asks, sliding his glove back on. “State of the art,” he says with a grin, pulling the door open. Over his shoulder, you see nothing but a long, long hall and a distant elevator at the end of it. You consider screaming down it to see if anyone might hear you, but the noise gets stuck in your throat. Even if they heard you, no one would reach you in time.

Homelander steps through the threshold, lingering in the doorway, leaning partially inside. “Don’t you worry,” he says, taking in the stricken expression you wear. He looks pleased with himself. “You’ll be perfectly safe. No way anyone’s getting in or out–aside from me, that is.”

He offers a few parting words, but they distort into unintelligible static. The door closes. That green circle turns blue, and the locking mechanism echoes in your ears like the slam of a prison gate. Turning around, you stare down the lengthy corridor you came from, your ears buzzing with the eerie quietness of the penthouse.

I need to get the fuck out of here.

[shotmrmiller]

when the video on your phone freezes for a heartbeat, just a fraction of a second, you're jolted back to reality.

and then it begins to vibrate in your hand. you stare at the screen, eyes squinting against the unforgiving glow that pierces the darkness you're enveloped in. (had been, anyway.)

in the corner of it says 2:03 am. witching hour. when the world holds its breath. everyone except for him. as always.

the same man who couldn't fit you into his meticulously curated world for longer than a night; a world where emotions were ruthlessly shoved into a cardboard box and labeled non-essential. (yet dogs you endlessly.)

the phone continues to ring, vibration buzzing like a mosquito in your ear. you run through your very limited options. ignore it and you'll have to suffer with him having nothing better to do than cause you to lose sleep because you need the alarm to go off in the morning or pick up and let him prod at old wounds with his gloved fingers.

(fingers you wish were curling inside you again, pad of his thumb rubbing on your aching-)

this isn't the first time he's disrupted your peace using an unknown number and it isn't the first time you answer despite knowing you shouldn't.

maybe in another life you'll have better self control.

(your masturbation session will have to wait.)

before you even get a word out, he's already cutting you off. "pet. didn't wake ya, did i?"

insufferable fucking man. "you know what time it is. what do you want, Simon? here i thought blocking both your number and johnny's would get the point across." you hope your tone conveys the weariness better on his end than it did on yours.

he merely hums, a disinterested noise that ripples through the phone. you're tempted to hang up but you know the script. he'll just call. again. and again. and again.

"were ya watchin' our video again?" heat spreads up from your neck to the soft of your cheeks. there's no way he knew what you were doing before picking up. pure mortifying happenstance.

"i was." a tight breath warms the inner side of your wrist. he's always been a straight shooter which on him is both a strength and a flaw, and right now, with the way his voice carries over the phone, it's your weakness. good thing he's not here to notice the way you squeeze your thighs together.

"'nd it got me to thinkin' on how sweet you'd been then, bleary eyed 'nd pliant beneath me," your lower stomach burns white-hot, knowing the exact type of filth he likes to talk when he's in this kind of mood, "how thin i had your pussy stretched 'round me."

your core pulses at the memory of him resting against the firm seal of your womb, his work-worn palm pressing your stomach, as if trying to feel himself from the outside. (maybe he could, maybe he couldn't, you wouldn't know. not when he had you sitting on his lap as his own personal cock sleeve for longer than you deemed necessary. you'd been incoherent then.)

with liquid heat flowing through your veins, prickling at your fingertips, burning behind your eyelids, doing what he says next had never been easier.

"take your shorts off 'touch tha' pretty pussy f'me."

(you'd disconnected all the cameras in your room except for the one you didn't know was there. he's gotta keep a sharp eye on what's his, yknow? of course not, how could you? as far as you're concerned, he's just coincidentally calling when your hand is weaving downward to rub the little bundle of nerves between your legs with a home video he'd recorded of him fucking you stupid one tipsy night playing on your phone.)

[jwanniie]

no bc i’m 100% on board with the yunjin pulling out a camcorder out of thin air when they start doing it skdkskdkskd, sometimes not even then, she just sees yn being pretty and starts recording

Omg anon😵‍💫 we share the same thoughts for that!!

I mean look at her, I’m 100% she has a camera with her 24/7 even beside your bed, at your night stand. Girlie is used to take photos and videos due to her idol life so I’m sure she brings that to bed too. It isn’t about sex anymore she just thinks you are breathtaking while sleeping or while doing literally anything so she always has a camera in her hand telling you to pose for her.

Her favorite pictures are when you don’t know that she is taking a picture of you, you’d be doing the most normal shit and she is out there snapping pictures of you because you’re literally gorgeous doing the most basic things.?!?!?

But Yunjin has a whole album of y’alls sex life, in the middle of fucking your brain out she’d be like “I need to get my camera,pretty girl” or “we need to film your gorgeous face”😵‍💫🫣 and then she starts filming it, or omg when you give her head I’m way too sure that she is filming that too.

She keeps those videos in a private folder so nobody could see her pretty girl. She definitely does jerk off to those videos when she is away or when you have work and can’t fix her dick problems.

Sometimes When you are too shy and she is filming all your expression and pretty face, you’d try to avoid the camera and put your hands on your face, she’d grab your wrists with her free hand and bring them above your head cause how could her pretty girl not want to show her gorgeous face and body??😩

She has a folder for each part of your body!! (ik that this sounds crazy but😔) she worships your body, you are a literal work of art for her and gods shaped you, how could she not admire each part of you when you are a literal art and she needs to be equal with every part?!?!!

But let me tell you, Yunjin loves to film and she has folders for y’alls memories too, when you both made cookies (they got slightly burned🫣) or when you go for a late night walk and the moon is above you she would take pretty pictures of her pretty girl.😩

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

LITTLE DEATHS (IX)

NAVIGATION || RAVISHING ALLURE MASTERLIST || NEXT: CHAPTER X

PAIRING: Nikto x F!Reader (Soulmate AU)

WORDCOUNT: 3.9k

WARNINGS: Angst, stalking behavior, very dark/toxic modeling standards/expectations, body image issues, food issues, scar descriptions, mentions of past intimacy, hurt/comfort, soft!Nikto, etc. (Series 18+)

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

You wake up the next morning in the silk sheets of your hotel bedroom, in nothing but an oversized shirt and underwear. Your mind is sluggish and, between flashes of electricity up your thighs, the entire night comes back in slow images as you groan into the pillow. 

A quick rush of a coat to cover ripped laces, the scream of sirens, Nikto arguing with authorities before you’re both released. 

It was a play of luck that you explained away the snapped wrist as a simple instance of Nikto being some white knight—he’d kept you safe, you’d said. The host had been forcing himself on you; it could be seen on the cameras. Paired with his service record and a call from your investigators, they’d let you go without any further trouble. 

Today, the small headache from the champagne was only a dull sting in the back of your skull; you hadn’t been drunk—hadn’t gotten to that point, anyway. 

Eyes starting at the far wall, a heat builds and builds on your face as the minutes pass. 

“Did we really…” you trail off in a whisper, hand coming up to your face as you roll onto your back and stifle a loud sound of exasperation, lips mouthing out, “Fuck.”

Nikto had left you shaking on his fingers in a damn storage room. Twice. 

Your lips thin, legs caught in the sheets. You weren’t even awake enough to understand the potential consequences—not only the intimate encounter, but the repercussions of not sleeping with Oriel would be swift and fierce. 

Never mind the broken bone. 

The sharp knife of that moment is a deadly thing, it digs deep into you until your eyes are watering. That desperation in the storage room—the things you said were true. You’d silenced your phone last night because you knew the reaction would be instant; undeniable. Even now, you shift over and slide your hand over it on the side table, only to pause and take a deep breath before turning it on. 

A sudden barrage of missed calls and texts slam into your ears before you slap the device back down and turn it off with fast fingers. 

Your eyes close tightly, flopping back down and covering your eyes. It was instinctual the way your heart started running from you—the fear seeping back in. 

They’re going to fire me, you think, hands shaking. They’re going to throw me out. 

Through the heavy understanding, through the ideas you have to try and salvage this, you pause only when something makes your nose twitch. Hesitating, your hands slip from your face slowly, eyelids peeling back a millimeter at a time. Staring at the gray ceiling, your brows pull back to their normal resting point as your face goes blank.

What is that? Palms going to the mattress, you sit up slowly and sniff. It was dough, maybe? Something sweet and toasted. 

Shifting, your feet connect with the cold floor, and you stand with a grunt, a tiny ache in the middle of your abdomen that makes your face heat and your hands rub at the back of your neck. A part of you was nervous more about what was outside of your door than what was in your phone—Nikto.

How would this go? Would he ignore the entire thing? Ignore you? 

“He doesn’t run from things,” you mutter aloud, walking and stepping on the torn laces of your dress at the foot of the bed. Your hands grasp one of the bags in your room, not caring to check the rest of the contents before you sift through and drag out a pair of dark sweatpants. 

Moving into them, the waistband is large, just as the legs are, but you’re too preoccupied to understand the way you’ve slipped into Nikto’s pants before you’re already at the door. Hands shaking over the handle, your fingers run the smooth metal before you shake your head and huff. 

Walking out, the scent of fresh pancakes makes itself known as you blink at the scene in front of you. Trying to understand if you were actually awake, or if this was still some dream in the airyness of your mind. The stuttering of your heart feels real.

Nikto was shirtless.

Shirtless, making breakfast. 

Your mouth is somewhat agape as you stare, struck down to a statue in the doorway as your eyelids flutter. Again, that bear tattoo writhes as the expansive muscle moves and twitches with work—Nikto’s front facing the pan that he works a spatula through. All of the ingredients are left on the counter, bought by him or already in the luxurious cabinets for your pleasure, you don’t know; flour, milk, among the others. Jams and honey. 

You don’t know how long you stand there, fighting between your desire to run your hands over his bare skin and the respectful sense you know you need to keep. It’s enough time for him to slap one more scoop of dough into the sizzling pan and pass the done pancake to the side where one more rests, steaming.

You hadn’t thought your words meant that much to him. 

Clearing your throat in shock, you see him glance over his shoulder swiftly. A bead of silence. 

“Come. Eat,” is what he says—no emotion heard in the voice, though you didn’t expect anything less. His pale eyes dart down you, and after a small break in the air, he chuckles. “Thief, yes?” 

“What?” Your brows crease. “I didn’t…” You look down and pause. It was fairly obvious that the pants didn’t belong to you. Your lips flattened, and your eyes flinched closed in embarrassment. “I must have gone through the wrong bag.”

Turning back, you hear a call from the Russian before you can disappear like a dog with its tail between its legs. 

“I don’t wear them. I do not mind.” There's low electricity in the air. He doesn’t know how to go about this either. 

Sighing, you shrug and nod, shifting back so you can walk to the kitchen counter and stuff your hands into your pockets. Leaning your hip to the corner, you fight the clamminess of your hands. The sweatpants pool at your ankles as your mouth opens. 

“Pancakes?” You ask lowly, glancing at him. 

He’s still in that balaclava, and his cargos are loose around his hips before being stuffed into dark boots that you’d never see him without.

“With jam,” Nikto grunts. “You will like them.”

You push out a tiny laugh. “I’ve had pancakes before, Nikto. I’m pretty sure most people have.”

“How would we know, hm?” Pale eyes narrow on yours, but it isn’t hostile. Nikto grumbles, moving the pan before he motions with a finger. “Those are done.”

You glance over at the pile and sigh, taking the plate with the two already done pancakes on it and padding over to grab the jam. Your eyes move down the label to find out which one it exactly is—gray isn’t exactly a large help—and open the sealed top with a tiny release of pressure. 

Getting fat.

You pause, one hand holding the top and the other the glass jar; eyes blank, you stare at the plate with a steadily sinking heart. Clearing your throat, you move a hand and twist the top back on, placing the jam down and shifting to grab a fork instead. 

“Do you think that the investigators will call with any updates—”

“Eat,” Nikto interrupts firmly from behind, back to back. 

Your face is tight, fingers tapping the counter. There’s a tension of something between you two, but you can’t name it. Not yet. But it’s there, like a blade cutting through a corset, it’s there. It’s what got you out of bed today, it’s what got Nikto to push himself to sleep shirtless for the first time in years. The possibility of…something. Unseen, you nod and take the food—moving away from the kitchen and sitting down on the couch, you carefully dig into breakfast and shift a dry forkful into your mouth. 

Eyes closed, your head slightly bows forward as you chew.

It was no secret that you were quiet today, and Nikto didn’t have to be as sharp-eyed as he was to notice. By now you would have teased him about the effort for the food, or even spoken about the mattress you slept on, Nikto had hypothesized. But it was just…silent. 

Nothing. 

In the kitchen, the Russian’s brows crease, lips pulling. He huffs, rolling his shoulders as his bones crack. 

He’d been up last night—for a long while—doing all the things he said he would until he had the clarity to understand hours later, that everything was a million times more complicated now that he knew the truth about this ‘trip’.

And he had to know all of it.

Nikto, truth be told, was a bit quiet himself; more than he usually was. He continued with breakfast in silence, listening to the sound of your fork tapping the plate as his brain fought with itself. The Russian’s mind told him to act like that hadn’t happened between the two of you—it was unprofessional, wrong down to the core. You were his charge, and he hadn’t hesitated for more than a second before he’d ripped open your dress and played with you like you were his own.

Why? Why was he so enamored by you? It didn’t make any sense. No one had ever mattered this much to him—it was absurd.

But whatever dead part of his heart that had come back to beat again said that ignoring this would be cruel to you; if all others in your life were, that was one thing he would not be. At least to you.

Nikto grunts under his breath and grabs his plate, stacked with six pancakes, before turning, grasping the jam with firm fingers, and heaping it on top. Blinking across to you, he pauses at your closed eyes—the dip of your head. Not only was there still food on your plate but it was set down on the coffee table, resting stationary. 

You couldn’t possibly be done already.

“Not good?” He asks, voice gruff.

You shake your head. “No, Nikto, they were perfect. I’m just not that hungry this morning.” Pale blue eyes stare, blinking slowly. 

He didn’t know what to do. 

Looking down at his breakfast, Nikto clenches his jaw. Grasping his plate and his utensil he walks over before he sits beside you, sinking the cushions and shuffling aside the blanket he’d had last night. When you look over at him, confused, he doesn’t utter a word, before his free hand sneaks up and hooks under his balaclava. 

It’s a moment, he knows, a moment of hesitation that instinctually tightens his muscles, stopping him with a shake of his fingers. And then, as he usually does, he forces himself through it. 

Slipping the fabric up to his nose, you stare openly at the strong jaw that comes to light, as well as the unspoken horror of scars. It isn’t even a minute before the Russian leans back with a grunt, and spreads his feet until his knee knocks yours before he shoves the first of his pancakes into his mouth with muffled chewing. 

Eyes darting away, you stare at your own feet tightly. 

Silence settles. 

“You don’t have to do that,” you whisper.

“Да,” his words are grumbled, even if you can’t see it, his face is beginning to burn. Heavy memories coming back. He won’t stay long like this—he can’t. It hurts. “I do not.”  

You sigh, hands moving up to rub along your face, cupping at it until all the whiteness of the hotel is hidden from your gaze. It wasn’t hard to feel him passing glances. 

Shaking your head, your hands fall, and you move to mirror his own position—back leaning and legs kicking out, except yours go to rest on the table next to your plate. 

“I think a part of me didn’t expect you to actually be here,” you say, not looking at him. “I’m not used to having to deal with…” your lips halt themselves, looking for words. “After.” 

No one ever stayed. Not anyone that mattered.

Nikto’s clinking fork pauses, stuttering on its course. He licks his lips, tasting the sweetness of jam. He continues to watch you as you continue on beside him, bare skin brushing—those large biceps caressing yours.

“I don’t want things to be awkward. If you can’t do your job without something feeling off anymore, I would understand if you wanted to leave. I’m sure my mother can get another operator from KorTac to take me on, she already had two from before that might still be available. I know last night was a lot. I don’t want you to feel…pressured, I guess. That was never my intention.”

He lets you finish, sensing you need to get some things off of your chest. When had he become so soft to this? To you? He was losing his backbone here—losing that edge that kept him…him.

Or was that ever him in the first place?

“I will not leave,” Nikto speaks slowly, lips moving every scar that lives there. “We are not ‘feeling off’. No one will look after you like us, and so no one will take our place until this stalker is either taken away or in ground.”

“And the awkward part?” You ask, glancing over, getting caught by long cuts and fissures. 

“We will deal,” Nikto’s chest rumbles, and you believe falling asleep to that sound would stop your nightmares altogether. “There are worse things than that, yes?” 

You huff a laugh. “I guess.” A second later, you lightly bump your elbow into his side. “You’re better at this kind of stuff than I’d thought you’d be.”

Dark brows furrow. 

“I am speaking truth. Nothing more.” 

“Mhm,” your lips carefully peel in a tiny smile. “Sure, Big Guy.”

Nikto scoffs, rolling his eyes before he takes down more of his breakfast. He glances over to see you peeking at his old insignia tattoo—the one on his shoulder. It was strange to him, how you took so much more interest in his ink than the scars; he’d been thinking about it last night.

It was against your nature to not ask about them, and yet…you had. No one had ever not asked about the scars. But, hm, Nikto’s eyes shimmer, it only made his chest swell when you chose not to. As if you understood the sanctity of them—the importance.

That was something that he just wasn’t ready to speak about yet.

“You like it?” He speaks.

You blink quickly, looking back up in an instant. There was no use hiding it. 

“What is it?” You ask him, glancing back down at the tattoo and tilting your head at it.

The image was of some sort of crest—a two-headed bird wearing crowns; holding items in their claws with a, smaller, image set into the middle. A man on horseback, spearing a dragon. 

“FSB crest.” Nikto’s voice goes lower, more under the breath than previously. “Reminder of service.” 

“Oh,” you mutter. “What are the colors?”

He hums. “Red, gold. Little silver. Mine is just black ink, though. Did not go back for second session.”

“I’ve thought of getting tattoos before,” you confess, moving out a slow hand to trace the outline in his flesh. You notice him still somewhat at your dragging nails, lips parting softly. “AMA would never go for it, but I’ve still wondered what it would be like.”

Nikto licks his lips, letting you feel him as he side-eyes you. His muscles soften as your heat seeps in, tingling blood under his epidermis. 

“What kind?”

“A bird, I suppose,” you hum. “I think they’re lovely.” 

Nikto tilts his head, but the questions can no longer sit in the back of his throat. “You continue to be their pawn. Why? I can make no sense of it, Seraph. You speak of yourself as if you are nothing.”

“I might not be anymore after last night,” you whisper, dropping your hand from Nikto’s flesh. Your eyes close; a heavy sigh on your lips. “I know it isn’t healthy, I know that. I know it’s wrong, and vile, and disgusting—but you have to hear me out when I tell you that the only thing I have is my looks—”

“That is a lie.” Nikto snarls, glaring over at your face as his plate hits the table. “Why do you say that? You are smart, Seraph, anyone with sense can see it. You are kind; good.” The Russian curses, repeating. “You are good.” 

“AMA needs investments,” your voice is muffled. “I’m not the only one that has to do things like this. I’m not special.”

The man grinds out, “It does not matter if a million go through it—you are here with us. It is our job to keep you safe now. It is special to me.”

“From a stalker,” you argue, body starting to go rigid at the intensity of the conversation. You didn’t like talking about this.

“From any threat,” Nikto barks. Face close to yours and his hard, crooked nose brushing skin. “Is this not a threat to you?”

You stare into his eyes, and it’s an expression he can’t recall you having. It makes him nervous—nervous for you in a way that was similar to when you’d disappeared from his sight. It was dead. Dead how his eyes would get on the bad days—when he couldn’t differentiate between himself and his body; what had really happened and what hadn’t. 

You were exhausted, and you didn’t even see it. 

“You need sleep,” he drops the hard tone immediately, eyes snapping over your face in fast jerks. “You need rest. Now.”

“I’m not tired.” Pale eyes bore through you, and you relent softly. “...I don’t want any more nightmares.” Your lips open and close. “They scare me because I can’t remember them, but I know something bad happened.”

Fingers come up and brush your cheek, leaving your lips flattening before the tears can make themselves known to him. 

There was just so much going on. 

The stalker, now AMA and potential repercussions? You thought if you had one thing, you had your job—trials and exploitations all, but you still had that. You still had something. Now you might not even have a home to go back to.

Bare arms shift, looping around you. With a roaming of skin on skin, Nikto bundles you in his arms and lifts, legs taking your weight. He moves you as your head rests burrowed into his neck—forehead to the long cut that loops around the side of his throat to the front. That one really made you shiver; the thought of it—the error he must have felt. Without thinking, you lay a tiny kiss on the skin, and Nikto’s legs only stutter once before he pushes open the bedroom door. 

Setting you down on the bed, he mumbles into your scalp before he pulls away, moving his balaclava back down with firm fingers. “What can I do?”

Your body shifts, clothed in borrowed pants and the weight of a million realities. You wished you could see the color of his eyes—those creased things that watch you so closely; the marring of the different shades of his scars. 

You wished you could pick up the courage to ask him if you were his soulmate, at the very least. The hunch was dimming, taking a backburner the longer it stayed in your mind. Surely he would say something by now? Right? With how he was, you expected Nikto to be reserved about it, but now…

Now your hope was drowning itself. 

You wished you weren’t damaged goods.

“Sit with me?” Your weak voice quivers, but no tears fall. 

Nikto stares, head tilting slowly as his now re-hidden face is a mystery. “Да. Yes.” It’s so tiny that the words are almost lost. 

So, he shifts into bed after placing his boots neatly near the bedframe, letting you scoot over as he grasps the end of the covers and moves to have his back connected to the headboard. With a large pull, the fabric slides over your body and levels at his abdomen, your head slightly above it, until scarred fingers grasp and push it down a bit.

For a bit, a heavy silence settles between the two of you. You don’t touch, you don’t talk. It’s the sound of beating hearts and rabid minds, thinking over thoughts that only serve to make things worse the longer their dark fingers are around both of your throats.

“Come,” Nikto murmurs. 

Your body instantly connects to his, hands grasping into his pants and head nuzzling his thigh. His grip finds your head, running itself over it until it ends at your shoulder and pulls you tighter to him. 

“Sleep. No nightmares, hm?” He glances down, trying to push a fractured joke. “We will scare them off.”

Your broken chuckle makes his chest tighten, and pale eyes avoid looking down at you for fear he’ll realize how addictive it is to have your flesh on his—the sensation of touch that was becoming a need. When was the last time he’d been relied on like this? Never, he thinks. 

To be protection in the barest sense. 

A boy keeping away nightmares for a girl that lays in his lap. 

No weapons, no orders. Only hands and sagging bodies, and a care that was infecting him like venom—injected into his bloodstream by white fangs. It leveled out, coating him. He wanted you to be safe, and it wasn’t just because it was his job. It was because he couldn’t imagine seeing you in pain like this—in a slow death of the mind until the body rotted away with it.  

It wasn’t right to him, and he couldn’t describe it as anything other than blasphemy. Sacrilege. Nikto didn’t have the words; maybe he never would. All that he knew was that he would kill millions to never see you harmed. He would rot in the deepest part of hell willingly, go through darkness and fire—but none of it could touch you. Not a wisp of flame; not an idea of torture. 

You were good. 

“Why do you care so much,” you whisper before you fall asleep, curious even as your eyelids are fighting to stay down.

Nikto has not taken his eyes off you. He was always honest, but this truth scares him more than any other. The nagging in the back of his skull.

“I…do not know.”

You were too good for this.

So even when he gets that text message on his phone when you’re fully sleeping, even when he shifts it out of his pocket and sees the unknown number, Nikto is not going to wake you. He’s not going to shake your head as he massages the scar that lives there, his thumb taking in the familiar bumps and dips—the trauma it caused so similar to his own. 

Nikto will not tell you of the sinking in his chest. 

The guard accepts that little death in his heart when he sees that image of the both of you in the storage room. He accepts the little death when he sees your tightly closed eyes from over his own shoulder, hands digging into his one-size-too-small suit. The obvious actions taking place that are still seared into his mind hours later. 

He accepts the little death of the caption, all in Russian but never more vile in his mind.

‘I know what you did.’

And he accepts that this stranger's death will not be so little if he ever gets his hands on him.

TAGS:

@anna-banana27, @random-thot-generator, @midwesternwitchery, @pumpkinwitchcrusade, @halfmoth-halfman, @alpineswinter, @blingblong55, @cryingnotcrying, @lxne20, @not-eclipse, @theecoffeebean, @phoenixhalliwell, @h3ll-guttz, @tiinkerbell, @genjilvr, @azush4rp, @escapefromrealitysm, @neelehksttr, @aeneanc, @finnigansxz, @cowboybaby2, @delaynew, @doggydale, @zapphir, @littlemisstrouble, @xxtmoe, @grizzersmamma, @andreas-river, @blogdddxx, @jade-jax, @emthegrace, @lovebugmsyd, @makariaspresence, @noisyprofessorhoundsalad-blog, @scythebot, @blueoorchid, @kra-rino4ka, @caramlizedtomatoes, @strawberymilk,@frazie99, @homicidal-slvt, @develised, @crispyhusband, @cathnoneofyourbusiness, @ghostslittlegf, @generalcloudtraveler, @azsteris, @rvjaa, @creminemisinthehizzyforshizzboy, @comsyki

[number1mingyustan]

- Cuffing Season-

His Job

boyfriend!mingyu x fem!reader

Warnings: established relationship, kissing, cursing, explicit smut, size kink, somnophillia (consensual), humping, unprotected sex,creampie, scratching, cockwarming

Summary: A man’s work can be so demanding, but he’ll always find time for his girl

Word Count: 1.3k

_______________________________________________

Mingyu had to work late tonight. After he lost the partnering deal with the other company, he’s been determined to uphold the success of his own.

Even with the loss of the partnership, his company would be more than well off, but that wasn’t good enough for Mingyu. He valued his work too much.

He texted you earlier not to wait up for him because it was going to be another long night. It’s been like this for the past few weeks. He felt bad having you eat and sleep on your own, especially when it seemed like he was coming home later and later each night.

He shuts the front door softly and moves quietly in an attempt not to wake you. He makes his way toward your shared bedroom in the dark.

Sure enough, there you are in bed sleeping peacefully. Your chest rises and falls under the sheets as you rest. He rids himself of all his clothes except his boxers before climbing under the sheets with you.

He looks at the clock on his nightstand, it’s nearly one am. He rubs his hands over his face, he feels so bad for getting home this late. His gaze shifts to you and your sleeping figure. You stir a bit, pushing the covers off your shoulders and down to your hips. He can tell you were getting hot, there’s a thin layer of sweat on your forehead and your face is flushed. You’re in nothing but a tank top, and with the covers out the way, he’s got a great view.

He almost feels guilty for getting turned on right now but, fuck. He's been working so much he hasn't touched you in weeks. And he's been so frustrated with all his work, he's pent up and desperately in need of some relief. And there you are, sleeping peacefully in your shared bed in a tank top and some underwear.

For fuck's sake, you were wearing black lace to bed. And the already tight shirt had ridden up so much it was doing a poor job of covering your body. Your whole ass was out and those flimsy panties weren't doing much to cover either. You look so tiny and sexy, all he could think about was fucking you.

You'd talked about this before actually. With him owning an entire company, you accounted for the fact that there would be nights where he came home late, long after you'd fallen asleep. You gave him your full consent, told him you didn't mind if he fucked you while you slept.

You had a tell, a thin bracelet you kept on your wrist to let him know it was okay alongside your verbal consent during the previous conversation.

He hasn't yet taken you up on your offer until now because he'd maintained a good record of coming home on time to be with you, but that's no longer the case and he really really needs you.

He hasn't even been touched yet and his cock is hard. He's throbbing in his underwear and his balls are swelling. And of course you suddenly can't keep still anymore. You're moving in your sleep, ass pressed against his cock.

Fuck.

He holds up your wrist, checking to see if you’re wearing your bracelet. He’s quick to move once he sees it on your wrist. He lays you on your back, licking his lips as he eyes your sleeping body.

He pulls your panties down, leaving them hanging at your ankle. He dips his head between your thighs. He licks a stripe along your folds, causing you to stir slightly in your sleep.

He continues to coat your cunt with the saliva from his mouth like a starved man. You squirm around, causing him to tighten his grip on your thighs.

His hips rut into the bedsheets beneath him, cock desperate and aching for some sort of friction. You’re panting and moaning above him and it causes him to let out a whimper. He's so hard it hurts and you sound so fucking good, even in your sleep.

You're soaking, arousal painting his face like a canvas. He lifts his head, making you whine at the loss of contact. His larger frame stares down at your small sleeping figure. You're rubbing your thighs together, aching for relief.

He slips his boxers off, tossing them onto the floor before prying your legs back open and pressing his cock against your cunt. You're so wet, instantly coating his length with your essence. He slides the length of his cock along your folds, letting out a shaky breath as his body anticipates his much needed release.

You press your thighs back together, trapping his cock between your thighs and on your cunt, tip pressed firmly against your clit. He lets out a hiss as you rut your hips up against his cock. He groans are he feels himself leaking, precum coating your pussy as anticipation builds up inside him.

He needs to fuck you, now.

He pries your legs back open and you let out a disappointed sigh. Your disappointment is quickly turned to satisfaction when he pushes the tip of his cock inside of you.

There's no way he'll last longer than five minutes. Your warmth is just too good, taking his big cock in with ease. It's like you were made for him.

He draws his hips back before thrusting into you and jolting you awake. He doesn't realize he's woken you up until your nails are digging into his bare back.

"Gyu," you moan out.

"Fuck," he mumbles. "Go back to sleep baby."

You let out a whine, wrapping your legs around his torso. "C-Can't, feels too good mmph-"

He curses to himself as you pull him in, forcing his cock deeper into your cunt. “Just didn’t-didn’t want to wake you. ‘M sorry.”

“What are you apologizing for?” you coo. “This is the best way to wake up.”

He lets out another grunt before pinning your hands above your head. One of his hands keeps yours in place while the other finds it’s way between your thighs. He circles your clit with his thumb, causing you to instantly clench around him.

It feels like forever since he’s last been inside of you. Realistically it’s only been about two weeks, but with yours and his track record, it’s unheard of.

His thrusts are deep and quick. Mingyu always fucks you rough, even in a sleepy state like now. The bed rocks, pushing against the wall with his every thrust.

You’re getting close and Mingyu’s thumb quickens. He knows he won’t last much longer but he has to make you finish first. There’s no way he’d wake you up this late and not let you cum.

You’re moaning in his ear, babbling about how you’re his and how good he’s making you feel. Relief washes over him when the knot in your stomach finally unravels.

Your body spams beneath his larger frame, milking him for everything he can give you. Your orgasms happen almost simultaneously. He fucks you through it, filling you with ropes of white cum.

And fuck, he cums a lot.

The two of you groan in satisfaction as your orgasms settle and he collapses on top of you. Mingyu knows he’s entirely too big and is absolutely crushing you but he’s so exhausted,

“Gyu,” you warn.

“Hmm?” He groans into your neck.

“You’re crushing me,” you inform him.

“Sorry baby,” he says against your skin. “I just wanna stay here inside of you like this forever.”

“Gyu-“

“Please?”

You let out an annoyed groan. “Fine, but I really need you to move, it’s getting hard to breathe.”

He happily adjusts his body so he’s no longer crushing you, but remaining careful not to let his cock slip out. He holds you in his arms for the remainder of the night lovingly.

As he drifts off the sleep, he promises himself he won’t make it a habit to come home this late. He never wants to give up the feeling, holding you in his arms as he enters a state of slumber. No amount of success will give him more satisfaction than you.

_______________________________________________

© number1mingyustan - Do not repost without permission.

[leclsrc]

low down ✴︎ cl16

genre: porn w slight plot, humor, tad bit of fluff

word count: 2.5k

A lot can happen under an hour. You and Charles, self-proclaimed pros at sneaking around, can attest to this.

nsfw warnings under the cut!

18+ because... smuuut,......,,, ... ,, dirty talk, charles is a bit dom-switchy, penetrative sex, handjob (f receiving), oral sex (m receiving), semi public sex, yeah

req'd!!! title from this. leave it to auds to dip for 6 days n come back with another fic... i love u guys, my best friends foreva (dipping again for a bit after ths bec im headed back to ldn)

“So I said to her—if you text me, call me. Clever, innit? Oh.” Lando pauses telling his story, spotting you and Charles sitting on the sofa of the lounge. “Hey, you guys.”

“Mmm,” you mumble noncommittally, both of you focused on the film playing. “Close the door, the light’s blocking the screen.”

“Right, sorry.” Lando pulls it shut and turns back to Carlos to finish his story. “So this girl, yeah? Proper fit and all. Hey, Charles, her friend’s single, if you’re into that.”

Charles mulls over it for a second, his lips warping into a pout. “Sure…? Actually, mate, no.”

“Both of you are going to die single,” Carlos chirps from the fridge, tossing Lando a can of beer, who receives it as he laughs.

You snort from your place on the couch, clearly amused. “You’re saying that like it’s wrong.”

five minutes earlier

Charles’ hands sneak up, underneath your thin tank top and higher to cup your breasts. You mouth his name hotly against his ear, your own fingers threading into his hair as you whimper. “You”—another moan escapes your lips involuntarily when one hand leaves to squeeze at your ass—“you’re sure Carlos won’t come in?”

“We’ve got an hour at the least,” he promises roughly, groping hungrily, blindly almost. You part from him to catch your breath, meeting his eyes. They’re dark, with want written all over them, so you pull him closer, to let your mouths meet in a wet, messy kiss.

You two haven’t hooked up in two weeks, record time for how good you are at sneaking around. You’re not usually so careless, but you’re both desperate. He breathes hard, urgent, the tent in his jeans rubbing against the seat of your shorts. So much pent up tension, weeks of lingering touches, of eye contact at the same table, of wanting each other so plainly, in front of everyone who thinks the two of you are just friends.

“We shouldn’t be doing this,” you whimper, grinding downward, harder. Your top’s been pushed up so he can bury himself in between your tits. “But—mmmmf, fuck, I need it.”

“Tell me,” he says, demands, breathless. He thumbs at the cup of your bra.

“I keep touching myself thinking about you,” you confess. It slips easy when it’s him. 

You spread your legs wider from where you are on top of him, lying on the sofa, movie playing idly and forgotten behind you both. It’s almost embarrassing to admit how much you want him, your body warm with desire, for him to bring his hand where you need it most. 

“Fuck, baby.” He hums, and it makes you so, so wet. Like he can read your mind, he mutters, “Wanna feel how wet you are.” Your hand loops around his wrist and you’re guiding it to your shorts, thighs clenching.

“Char—” Your breath tapers off into a high-pitched gasp when his arms suddenly wrap around your waist and gently, but urgently, push you off of him.

Briefly, you’re confused, your mind stuck on Fuck, baby and two weeks without all this and his promise of having enough time to fuck which has gone woefully unkept. You feel his fingers, quick to pull your top back down, feel him mumble a quick apology, and you sit yourself down on the other end of the sofa just as the door opens fully.

“You said an hour you asshole!” You manage to wedge it in before the chaos fizzles out.

“So I said to her—if you text me, call me. Clever, innit? Oh, hey, you guys…”

—

“Leave it to her and Charles to swim even further off the beach,” George mutters to Lewis, both of them walking along the shore, feet sticky with water and sand. “Those two are always getting into trouble.” 

Lewis calls out to the blank bright sea. “Guuuys! Helloooo?! We’re leaving!” He scans the water for two heads, finds nothing.

Your head pokes out from the door of the yacht a few feet away, docked just by the pier. “Alright! Just a second!”

“What the hell?” He mutters quietly, just level enough for him and Lewis to hear. “Could’ve sworn they swam out…” The two exchange a puzzled look, but shrug it off. “Okay. Come quick!”

“Yep!” You shut the door again with a smile.

twenty minutes earlier

“Please,” you beg, fingers toying at the waistband of his shorts. It’s been so long, you’re implying. There was that one quickie three weeks ago and nothing else. Dry, dry, dry. It’s been ages. You blink, flirty, brows furrowed, lip red with how hard you’ve been biting on it. “Need you.”

Really, you are never this careless. The group—you, Charles, Daniel, George, Lewis—had all been drinking on a yacht, and then when everyone swam off, you both snuck back onto the boat and shut the door quick behind you so you could—

“I need you now,” you add, feverish, your head thrown against the wall.

“Slow down,” he grunts, a low, amused drawl. “So eager.” His hair’s a bit wet from the two minute dip you took to pretend you were both swimming like everybody else. It smells like the beach, his lips like beer. You’re addicted.

It’s killing you, the want. The hunger. The need. “Can you blame me?”

He brings his fingers up your skirt to push your flimsy bikini piece to the side, swearing gruffly under his breath when he pushes one inside of you slowly. A throaty moan leaves you, involuntary, drawn out by the slight stretch, the relief. You tighten around him, hands caging him closer toward you.

“You’re so tiny, baby.” He mutters something in French, amused, a bit in awe. “So good for me.”

“Just you, just you,” you whine, feeling him work another finger into your cunt. 

He laughs, vicious against your ear. “You like that? What if someone walks in, hmm?”

Your stomach lurches with excitement and you grow wetter. “I don’t care.”

“Atta girl,” he chuckles, low and hot. It’s so dirty, everything, all of it. The sneaking around, pretending you’re nothing but friends around everyone but claiming each other once you’re alone for even just a second. You’re desperate for him, more, more, more.

So he gives it, a third finger pushing into you and letting you feel more of the dull stretch. Your hand’s palming at the bulge in his shorts, ears savoring the whiny grunts coming from him when you squeeze at it, albeit distractedly. “I’m gonna—fuck—” You tense, the pleasure bubbling over, thighs shaking.

“Let me feel you,” he orders lowly. “Come on, ange. J’en veux. Cum for me.”

Like you’re on command, you do, toes curling and hands pulling him to latch against your neck so you can smell him, feel him everywhere as you cum. It’s hard, long, a direct result of the god awful dry spell, gushing all over his thick fingers. He slips them out, pressing a gentle kiss to your cheekbone, then your nose, then finally your lips meet again in a messy, slow kiss.

“How long do we have?” You ask, giggling. He smells good, like always, and having him pressed up against you is as comforting as it is arousing.

“I figure an hour.”

Guuuys! Helloooo?! We’re leaving! A disembodied English voice permeates the wooden wall and you screw your eyes shut tight, adjusting your pulled-up bikini top. You turn to open the door, head poked out, finding George and Lewis standing idly by the pier. Just behind the door, Charles’ big hand gropes at your ass and he laughs behind you, unseen.

“Alright! Just a second!” You chirp smilingly. They say something your mind’s too clouded to register, so you reply with a safe “Yep!” and shut the door, facing Charles with a stormy expression on your face.

“You are shit at timing these,” you scold, letting him lift you up and pin you up against the wall to savor a two-minute makeout session.

—

Daniel hands Charles a pickle jar, asks him to open it. You watch with mild amusement. This is an hours-long prank now, with Daniel proclaiming the jar to be fully un-open-able and garnering over fifteen failures over the morning. Lewis failed. Max failed. Esteban failed. Three engineers, two strategists, and one janitor failed. “Lewis failed?!” You’d asked when Daniel let you in on his secret challenge.

So you watch, eyes transfixed on his veiny, ring-clas hands wrap securely around the jar. And then it pops open.

Surprise etches itself onto your features—then warmth, at the realization that arousal had begun to boil in your stomach. “You should be proud of him,” Daniel says beside you, in awe. “Some friend you’ve got there.”

“Totally,” you say enthusiastically, elbowing Charles. “Nice one, mate.”

forty-five minutes later

“Your hands.” You feel them grope at your ass. “They’re wicked.”

“You’re weak,” he says. A menace.

“Just shut up.” In retaliation, he wraps a hand around your neck, but doesn’t squeeze. It just rests there, a promise of something more. Your breath hitches and you grow wet under your jeans. Your eyes flutter.

“Fuck me,” you breathe. And he does.

—

“What’d Charles say? Ring him, won’t you?” Alex asks, reviewing the reservation list for dinner. “He’s late.”

“He said he was good with 8PM. Let me call just in case,” Max hums, clicking at his phone and pressing his ear to it. “Charles?”

“Mate,” says Charles on the other end, voice muffled through the phone. He’s quiet. 

“You up for dinner, right?”

“Later, at eight,” says the other, breathy. “Bye—”

And the line’s clicked off. Max stares confusedly at his phone, turning back to Alex and shrugging. “Well, he said fine.”

“Does he knowit’s 8:15?”

thirty seconds earlier

Charles grabs your hair, knotting it in his grip as he sucks in through his teeth. “Fuck.”

He’s big, thick in your mouth, stretching your jaw out wide. You’re so pretty on your knees, like you have been for the past few minutes, head bobbing, bringing him toward and away from release. Your eyes are watery, pleading almost, and the farther you go the more you choke around his dick, unable to take it.

“Deeper,” he says gruffly. And you obey, like always, with a devious smile that translates mostly in your eyes, a raised brow.

He smiles back down at you, and then his phone is ringing in his back pocket. This has happened before—bosses, friends, family (God, family) calling during trysts, but Jesus, Charles will never ever—

“Answer it.” You pull off with a teasing smile. It’s a challenge, leaves your shiny lips that are currently wrapped around his tip again. You raise both brows. Go.

He does, presses accept without reading and then mumbling the first thing on his mind. “Mate.”

You cough around him, throat tightening as you deepthroat, humming sweetly like this is your favorite thing in the world. Above you, Charles is spilling nonsense. “At eight,” he says. “Bye—”

The phone clatters to the floor beside you and he thrusts roughly into your waiting mouth, good girl good girl leaving his mouth in thin, desperate, gritty moans until he’s pulling you off by your hair and cumming onto yout lips.

“Tastes like shit,” you tease menacingly, licking over them anyway and smiling. You stand up and button his jeans, laughing. He kisses you.

“I’m on a fucking time limit. Dinner at eight.”

“It’s 8:15.”

“Oh.” He pauses. “I’ll just fuck you, then.”

—

“Is sneaking around the best idea?” You ask. “For us, right now?”

The season’s almost over, and that means Charles has no time to sneak off. Between almost being caught with your panties in your mouth by Carlos, and Charles almost being caught eating you out by Daniel, you’ve both agreed the stress isn’t worth it. But it begs the other question: how long will you wait?

“It…” He meets your eyes, exhaling, bummed. “It isn’t.”

one hour later

“Harder,” you whimper, the plead leaving you softly and desperately. His hand’s heavy at the small of your back, pushing you into a perfect arch so he can pound into you the way he likes. 

“How could I say no to you?” He says breathlessly. You hear his smile, his teasing pleasure. You shudder when he goes harder, tightening around him, sinking further down onto his cock. Your brain’s all fog, dumbed down by Charles’ insistent, hot words, hands all over you. 

“Cumming,” you say, the words thin and whiny. Your thighs shake when you do, for the third time in the hour. This fuck is messier, more desperate, hotter than all the rest. He doesn’t usually handle you so roughly but you both know it’s what you want anyway. 

You’re so fucking cock drunk it’s crazy. So good Charles—I want to cum again, I—

“Come on, for me.” He pounds into you harder. “Before I fill you up with my cum.”

“Wanna be full of it,” you pant, crying into the pillows when you let yourself give in to the knot of pleasure again and cum, gushing all over his cock.

He feels, semi-blindly, for your lips, presses his thumb into your mouth for you to suck on. You sniffle around it, and clearly he’s close to release with how sloppy and rough his thrusts are now, the constant grunting music to your ears. “Gonna be good for me?” He asks. You nod. “Gonna be my good little slut?”

It’s too much, in the best way—it sends you both into overdrive, cumming at the same time. It’s so good, you’re saying, but it’s cloudy and faraway and dumb.

“I can’t,” he says through gritted teeth. His face is shiny and pretty when you turn over, feel his dick slip out, and press a kiss to his sweaty nose. “I can’t get enough of you.”

“Me neither,” you admit. The confession is swallowed into a kiss.

—

“Are you wearing Charles’ shirt?”

Max is eagle-eyed. Nobody noticed for twenty-seven fucking minutes and then Max walks in, takes a glance at your shirts, and suddenly everyone’s eyes are like glue. Your Ferrari shirt, which you’d purchased to be intentionally oversized—Charles’ size, just about—had a plain collar. Charles’—his was a polo.

You are wearing a polo. Charles is wearing a plain, U-shaped collar.

twenty-seven and a half minutes earlier

“I love that bra.” Charles flicks the black lacy strap and lets it snap against your skin. You yelp, brows furrowed defensively.

“Hey.” You pick your shirt up off the ground. “Don’t get turned on, we have to go and meet our friends. Isa’s here today, and so is Lily.”

He does the same, clutching the red and black Ferrari gear to his bare chest. “You turn me on.” It’s teasing, flirty, and you smile, pretending to shoo him away when he crowds you against his room’s wall. Get away! You’re shout-whispering, but he presses a sure kiss to your lips, and you smile against them.

“We’re pros at sneaking around,” you say, giggling as you tug your tee on.

He fixes his collar, tugs the shirt to fit properly, winks. “We really are.”

And maybe you don’t know it now, or in twenty-seven and a half minutes, but one day you will realize that the only people you’re hiding all your feelings from are yourselves.

[trashmouth-richie]

[vol i] [vol ii] [vol iii]

Eddie x fem!reader

Summary: Eddie is slowly becoming easier to live with you’re not sure if you’re just used to his disgusting behavior or if he’s truly trying to change. You make a schedule for chores and when/who/what time showers will be taken, chaos ensues on both Eddie and you. Eddie reveals a side of him that reader hasn’t seen/ noticed before.

W/C: 6.4k

A/N: if you were looking for some disgusting! Eddie smut this is the chapter for you babe.

Warnings: NO MINORS! Smut, blow jobs, rough sexual acts, degrading, daddy!kink, vomit, crude language (as if any of my fics don’t have this)

S/O: @agentmarvel @sweetsweetjellybean @boomhauer @mopeymopeymouse @chestylarouxx @banished-big-ope-vibes @carolmunson @newlips for helping me beta read, come up with dialogue, pacing, letting me insert them throughout the fic, helping me breakdown how this disgusting little mf would act in certain situations + everything in between! You guys are the best! If you aren’t already— follow them.

/

You couldn’t deny that things had gotten better with having Eddie as a roommate (not that you would ever express that to him) but living with the overgrown child was slightly very slightly, like a teeny tiny bit, better than it was before.

After living in his disgusting cluster fuck of a room for a week, Eddie finally sat down amongst his heap of mixed dirty and clean clothes and organized it. The disaster made your eye twitch every time you walked past his room in the morning and got a whiff of his stench, reeking of weed and Doritos, you finally convinced him to get it done, and in typical Eddie fashion— it came with a price.

After bargaining for days and nearly pulling your hair out because all he wanted was a single pair of your panties—

“Why? So you can hold them up like that dork in Sixteen Candles to show all your nerd friends?”

“Babe, the ladies I fuck don’t wear panties.”

He finally settled on a six pack of Busch Light, and for you to do his laundry for a week.

“Remember to separate my delicates, sweetheart.”

Fucking pig.

The only thing delicate about Eddie was his ego when you told him his hair was thinning out on top, (it definitely wasn’t, he had more hair than cousin It) but you needed the upper hand, and criticizing his hair was the way to do just that.

His bed frame and the oak dressers he had ordered, finally arrived. Allowing him to put away his never ending collection of band tee’s and holy jeans. Clearing a path for his floor.

“Holy shit, is that the carpet?” You ask, standing in the door frame before your shift at the salon, toothbrush in your hand, minty dollop of toothpaste atop it.

He’s elbow deep in the dresser, foregoing folding anything but instead shoving the clothes haphazardly into the shallow drawers and slamming them shut with his legs, or his hip.

“Wow, Tooty, you’re hilarious,” Eddie says, rolling his eyes, “but since you asked, yes, it does, match the drapes.”

A smile spreads across his lips. Another normal conversation turning into a sexual innuendo. He couldn’t be prouder of the way you walked right into that. Since you told him what happened to Eyeball he really has been holding back his usual gross behavior, but sometimes it was just a slip of the tongue for him. Involuntary action.

You turn to leave but he stops you, crossing the room at record speed and placing a ringed hand on your wrist, the surprising warmth from his hand burning your skin.

“Hey, uh, can I get your opinion quick?”

“I’ve already told you, I don’t think the groupies give a shit what color boxers you wear.”

“Wow, okay— that’s the wrong answer! But I’m talking about this.”

He points to the shelf crammed full of his odd knick knacks. It originally belonged to Nancy, but she had left it behind. Inside of it were a hoard of books. Lord of the Rings, something that looked like manuals for Dungeons & Dragons—of course he’s still playing that— a plethora of Stephen King books, and a full— more than likely sticky— stack of playboys. Go figure.

“What about it?”

“Do you think it looks good here or should I move it under the window?” Eddie asks, hands out wide measuring and comparing in arms length the distance under the window and the width of the book shelf.

You take a step into his room, every square inch of wall was covered in posters, your former bed sheets graffitied with his band, hung on one wall, the opposite held a kitchen knife stabbed through the drywall.

“What are you trying to do, feng shui?”

“Bless you.”

“What?”

He shrugs, “You sneezed, and me, being the pinnacle Christian son that I am, I blessed you, now should I keep this here?”

It took you a minute to comprehend what the hell just happened and why.

“Blessed by Eddie Munson— that’s the biggest oxymoron I’ve ever heard,” you snort, a smile twisted on your lips as you look at the overgrown man child huff about where to put his shelf, shoving your toothbrush into your mouth, “looks fine there.”

-

He did start cleaning up after himself, even offering to vacuum the living room in exchange for you making supper most nights. Begging you to make the lasagna again after he ate almost the entire pan the last time. He even decided to get take out on his one night a week to cook. Thank God because you couldn’t handle one more night of burnt, made-in-the-toaster, grilled cheese or using orange juice as a replacement when the milk was gone for cereal.

You learned the hard way that you needed to buy two separate gallons of milk, after watching Eddie drink straight from the jug, a dripping white mustache formed on his upper lip as he licked it suggestively, “Got milk?” He’d ask before roaring with laughter.

-

The next few weeks with Eddie as your roommate went rather smoothly. With you working at the salon and him working long hours at Boom’s Auto shop, you two came home at almost the same time every night. He would show up covered in grease and reeking of motor oil. His work coveralls, branding a white and red labeled patch with his name on them, had the sleeves cut off, showcasing his muscled arms and the wide array of tattoos prickling up and down them, shoulder to wrist. He wore a sweaty bandana wrapped around his head, rotating between a black or a red one, depending on the day.

You didn’t mind doing his laundry since his pockets were always full of either loose bills or the occasional joint, which you would keep, and smoke later with Robin and Steve, giggling watching the stars as you laid out on blankets in the backyard.

On Saturday nights, he usually played with the band, scoring a gig at the Hideout or working at the bar til closing time, helping Tom bartend a little until Walt got back from vacation. He stumbled in at night knocking over a lamp and almost falling backwards down the basement steps. He’d pass out for a greater half of the next day, waking in the afternoon with a raspy voice and smelling like cheap cologne.

One particular Sunday morning, he stumbled out of his room, wearing black boxer briefs, and a sleepy grin, rubbing his eyes like a little kid.

“Mornin’” he grumbled opening the fridge and diving in for his notorious pickles, tilting it to his lips and drinking straight from the jar.

You shake your head, sitting at the table and sorting through the mail. Your hair in a clip and wearing an oversized crew neck sweater, your mauve fingernails flicking through the envelope flaps, jotting down what’s due and when. “It’s 1 in the afternoon, Eddie.”

He smacks his lips loudly and faces you, fishing a pickle from the jar with his bare hands, “metal has no time limits, Tooty, we play until the bar shuts down.” He makes his way towards you, wearing one sock and chomping on his pickle.

You notice something on his stomach, a new tattoo? Maybe? Riding low on his waist and almost dipping below his underwear. The closer he gets you can make out the writing, a permanent marker phone number from a groupie written on his lower abs.

You point your pen towards his stomach, “gonna get that thing tattooed on, make it official, that Eddie the freak Munson has at least one adoring fan?”

He looks down, a smile pressing on his lips, “aww no need to be sad sweetheart,” he says lowering himself into a chair beside you, “there’s plenty of me to go around, and besides, I thought good little nuns couldn’t fuck, saving themselves for God.. or are you one of the dirty ones, showing your tits for cash so you can gamble?” He winks and laughs as you shove his shoulder trying to throw him out of the chair.

“You’re so gross!”

“And yet, I’m still here.” the Cheshire Cat smile planted on his lips.

Still. You had to admit, no matter how nasty his jokes were or how annoying he could be— having Eddie around wasn’t that bad.

-

“Tooty!” Eddie yells through the bathroom door bouncing from one foot to another, banging on the door with an open palm, “I’m going to piss my pants if you don’t hurry up!”

You had only been in the shower for ten minutes. When you walked past his room this morning with sleepy eyes and a deep yawn, metal music blared from his bedroom along with the annoying beep of his alarm clock, but the prince of filth was fast asleep.

“The schedule that you made says I get the bathroom first on Fridays, which is today!”

The schedule you had designed for Eddie and yourself consisted of 7 vertical columns one for each day of the week, and 5 horizontal columns: showering, laundry day, dishes, cooking, garbage. You had more days in the cooking column than Eddie, just like he had more days in the garbage column than you did. It evened out.

“Wrong— you were supposed to get the bathroom at 7, it’s now past 7:30 so it’s my turn,” you correct, putting a generous amount of body wash on your loofah and foaming it up, white suds cleansing your skin, “not my fault you can’t wake up to your alarm.”

“Christ, seriously just open the door! I’m fuckin’ dancing around out here like a little kid!”

“Can’t hear you,” you sing out to him, laughing silently beneath the spray of water.

You hear the feverish jiggle of the brass handle on the door and heavy footsteps as he stomps away. Oh the joys of victory. You bask in the delight of getting a one up on Eddie. Something that rarely happened in the few weeks he has been living with you. Slathering conditioner in your hair and rinsing, you exit the shower, feeling refreshed and ready to start the day.

Opening the bathroom door you expected Eddie to barrel through you to get to the bathroom, you’re taken aback when you hear faint yelling coming from outside.

“… piss in the front yard of my own house— I will! Go back to trimming your hedges with your toddler sized shorts and mind your own goddamn—,”

“Eddie!”

He’s standing barefoot in the middle of the lawn, his navy boxer briefs the only clothing he has on. Double middle fingers raised in the early morning sky aimed towards your neighbor across the street, Mr. Derry, the neighborhood watch dog. He was an older man, no kids, no wife. Retired. And a grade A pain in the ass.

Eddie turns and looks to you, pink blush creeping over his cheeks, “…business.” Eyes wide in innocence as if he hasn’t done anything wrong.

You’re still in your towel, hair soaking wet down your back, watching as this crazed lunatic you have as a roommate terrorizes the neighborhood, one flash of his dick at a time.

“What the hell are you doing?!” You ask, grabbing him by the arm and dragging him towards the front door.

“Gracing the common folk of Cherry Lane with my morning wood, yeah take a picture and frame it you fuckin’ perv!”

Yanking harder you get him inside and slam the door. Your cheeks are flushed with embarrassment.

You open your mouth to speak but Eddie has already started explaining.

“Listen, I had to piss bad, like really bad. You could have just unlocked the door but no, Ms. Uptight-independent Tooty with your rules and schedules—” he stops and takes a breath. After your conversation a few weeks ago about the downfall of Eyeball and your own family abandoning you, Eddie had been trying to be more reasonable about things, more cautious about the way he worded things. Not trying to twist the knife lodged into your chest that had been driven there years ago.

“So I made up my own rule! If you’re gonna take forever shaving your legs or…other things…” his eyes cast down your body. The white towel snug against your form, you clutch it tighter around you as his eyes stare through the towel, begging to catch a glimpse of your wet, smooth skin. Water droplets taunting him as they fall down the slick of your hair. He shakes his head to clear his gutter mind. “I’m going to take matters into my own hands, and believe me princess, it was a handful.”

That’s about as dialed back as Eddie could be.

“You can’t just piss in the front yard! This neighborhood is not like the trailer park, that asshole you called a perv—“

“He was! He was looking right at my dick!”

“— once called the cops on Nancy because she parked by his curb when we were having her bridal shower.”

“Wa-wait, Nancy fucking Wheeler got the cops called on her?”

“Yeah, Hop wasn’t too happy to find out what it was for, calling Derry a waste of space.”

Eddie laughs, “Oh I’m not surprised— him and I go way back, remember?”

Of course you did, he busted Eddie too many times driving higher than the Empire State Building while bringing you, Dustin, Will and Mike back to the Wheeler’s. It was almost a running joke between him and Hopper. Eddie would slip him a joint while in the back of his patrol vehicle and away he went, no ticket, no charge, nothing.

“Anyway,” you jeer, pointing a finger into his bare chest, the tip of your nail making a half moon indent into the head of the bloody demon inked on his left pec, “he’s a fucking asshole so don’t piss him off, he’ll make our lives hell.”

“Fine,” Eddie groans, running his hands down his face “but he was gawking!”

You roll your eyes and grab your hair dryer from your room. An adjustment you’ve had to do since Eddie moved in, getting ready partly in your room and in the bathroom. After your hair is dried and styled, you opt for a pair of light wash overall shorts, and a thick strapped, high neck tank top underneath. You finish your makeup by applying a coat of Revlon’s Toast of New York on your lips. Sliding on your knock off Doc Marten sandals, you grab your purse and head for the door.

Eddie’s sitting at the kitchen table, chair pulled out as he laces up his black work boots, body bent over his knee as he jerks his hand side to side, lazily working the laces through the hook eyelets.

“Still getting groceries tomorrow?” He asks, shoving his white cotton covered foot into his other boot, repeating the process. “I added some essentials to the grocery list.” He gestures to the pad and paper with a tilt of his chin.

Scanning the list you laugh, “Dunkaroos are not essential.”

“Don’t you dare cross them off!” Eddie fake shouts, a grin stretching across his lips, showing off his straight teeth.

“I’m off tomorrow and don’t have many clients today— I know it’s your night to cook, but I was thinking of making tater tot casserole for supper, I’ll just have to stop and get some ground beef from Bradley’s before I come home.”

“Oh shit,” Eddie lamented, “I have a gig tonight instead of tomorrow at the Hideout,” he says standing, running his hands down his legs to shake down his coveralls. “It’s probably going to be late, so don’t worry about making anything.”

Ripping the grocery list from the pad and stuffing it into your purse, you think back to how long it has been since you’d seen them play. You went along to support Chrissy and since Eddie was Kev’s longtime best friend and basically your chauffeur, you at least owed it to him to go with. A memory of you head banging and holding Chrissy’s hand tight as you both screamed for Corroded Coffin clouded your mind.

Threading your purse straps through your fingers and casting your eyes downward you have to know, “… you guys still play Lady Evil?”

Eddie grins again, “wouldn’t be a Corroded Coffin gig if we didn’t play some Sabbath, Jeff would probably throw a hissy fit.”

-

Friday evenings were usually busy in the shop. Boom ran a tight ship and paid better than any auto shop in a thirty mile radius. Eddie was lucky to get hired on using his street smarts and the fact that he was the unpaid mechanic of the trailer park for every banged up old sedan that his neighbors had since he was sixteen.

The old radio crackled and fussed as Hank Williams Jr sang about the survival rate of country boys. Boom whistled along with the tune. Running his tanned fingers through his blonde hair, a Mr. Pibb and a ham sandwich in front of him.

“So Eddie,” he says leaning back in his plastic chair, “I heard from the boys that you moved into a house on Cherry Lane. Damn boy, I thought that trailer park ran deep in your blood.”

Eddie throws his empty Mt. Dew can into the trash, missing by a mile. “Ahh Boom, you know I’m the prince of the park. Just stretching my city legs, helping out a friend.”

“Didn’t know you and Eyeball’s sister were close.” Aaron sneered, lighting up a cigarette with a strike of a match against his boot.

Eddie’s light hearted demeanor immediately changed, smile fading and eyebrows pulling together, “what the hell does that mean?”

“Helping out a friend?” Sean spat, his wiry mustache shriveled into a snarl, “what are you Mother Teresa? The only help that bitch needs is a fucking lobotomy.”

“Hey,” Eddie interjects, pointing a greased finger into Sean’s face, “don’t fucking talk about her like that, man.”

Aaron talks around his cigarette, blowing smoke across the table, “It’s true, she’s smokin’ fuckin’ hot but crazier than a shit house rat.”

The pair laugh, choking on smoke and bits of crusty bread.

“Remember what Chad said about her?” Aaron laughed..

“Fuck yeah how did he put that? Don’t marry the girls with the daddy issues, even if they let you put it in their a—”

Eddie slams his fists into Sean’s shirt, grabbing him by the collar and throwing him against the wall, “another word, about her— and I’ll break your fuckin’ nose.”

“You threatenin’ me Munson?” Sean chokes out.

Eddies eyes are crazed as he glares in Sean’s, “never a threat, pencil dick, it’s a promise.”

“Fellas,” Boom hollers, shoving his chair back with an eerie scratch, metal legs scraping on broken tile, “I’ll send ya both home for the day with no pay if y’all don’t knock it the fuck off.”

Eddie shoves Sean into the wall hard once more, releasing his grip on his shirt and adjusting his rings. He cracks his knuckles as he stomps back through the bay doors and out to the Buick he had been working on.

Ducking under the hood his breathing is erratic and his fists are shaking.

He never asked what happened with you and Chad but by the sounds of it, it sure as hell didn’t end on good terms.

It was fine if he teased you, but hearing it from anyone else wasn’t gonna fly with him. Not today, not ever. But something about the way you opened up to him, showed him your vulnerable side, it made him almost protective of you, like he needed to shield you from the ugliest parts of the world.

He never would have thought that Eyeball’s little sister, tough little Tooty, the same girl who punched Billy Hargrove in the face after pinching her ass one night, would make him care so much.

-

“Told ya he’s cool,” Steve slurs over his Bloody Mary, clinking the ice in the glass as he tips it back into his mouth, “he’s like a wild animal, but once you get to know him— he’s just a tattooed teddy bear.”

You, Robin and Steve were out for dinner and drinks at Louie’s, the newer sports bar in Hawkins, sitting under an emerald and white striped umbrella in the hot humid summer air. A monthly ritual you started ages ago when you all worked at Family Video. Only back then you went to Benny’s to get burgers and concrete thick milkshakes, racing to see who could finish first which ultimately ended in Robin getting a stomach ache, every time.

“I could have killed him the first few days,” you say, sipping your Malibu and Diet Coke through two neon straws, “honestly, still debating it.”

Robin steals the pickle spear and celery stick from Steve’s drink, munching away and talking with a mouthful, Steve simply rolls his eyes and reaches for another mozzarella stick, “wait, I thought you guys were getting along better now.”

“They are!” Steve interjects, pointing the mozzarella stick around like he was directing an orchestra, “I asked him myself when I brought my car to Boom’s yesterday for an oil change.”

The thought of your friends asking your roommate, who just so happens to also be their friend, how things were going between you both, made your stomach lurch.

“Well,” Robin began, twirling her pina colada and biting into the yellow flesh of the pineapple , “I’m just glad you aren’t by yourself anymore. It freaked me out knowing you were there alone.”

She wasn’t the only one.

Before Eddie had moved in, Steve gave you his prized nail bat to keep by your bed. So far you haven’t had to use it. And with Eddie in the house, it was stored in your closet.

“Alright, I’ll admit,” you say, taking a long drink, feeling the warmth of the coconut flavored alcohol mix with the Diet Coke bubbles, a frenzy on your tongue, “he’s come a long way,” you admit, dunking a fry into the mayo ketchup concoction, “finally house broke.”

It was the truth, you really didn’t mind him being around.

-

“Shh, gotta be quiet girls, daddy’s gonna take real good care of you, but seriously, you need to shut up.”

The girls laugh, drunk off bottom shelf liquor and Jell-O shots from the Hideout. Three pairs of tangled legs stumble through the front door as Eddie hurriedly works his keys into the lock.

The two of them giggle and hush one another, planting kisses on either side of his neck and stepping out of their shoes. His leather jacket hits the floor, the shirt he was wearing was ripped to shreds from the collar down. Carol’s fingers feverishly tore at his clothing before the three of them even made it to the van.

Foregoing the zipper on the tight leather mini dress she’s wearing, Eddie shoves it down her hips, giving her ass a firm squeeze, toying with the fishnet tights, “these stay on,” he demands, slapping her ass and unzipping his jeans, a parade of cheap lingerie, and leather studded clothing start from the front door and end in Eddie’s bedroom.

Your car wasn’t home which was odd but maybe it was parked in the garage. He wasn't sure where you were but if you were sleeping he didn’t want to wake you up. You had never discussed any boundaries about him bringing someone home, but what kind of rockstar would he be if he turned down hot twins?

They had approached him after the show, twisting their evil tongues into his mouth and groping him as soon as he got backstage.

Jeff was in the back room with his long time girlfriend Ash, they were holding each other tight as he kissed her neck and she squealed into his ear.

The girl who showed up to every gig, Marissa, wearing her signature “here for the drummer” shirt, was currently bent over the bathroom sink, Gareth buried deep inside her.

Even Big D was getting some action, the waitress from Benny’s, Emily, was currently bobbing along on his dick.

All of them were getting lucky, a win for Corroded Coffin. The girls were screaming for them, bras and panties tossed on stage, Gareth sporting multiple pairs around his neck. The old bar flies drunk off beer on tap were singing along to the requested songs.

Cece’s pink floral dress is brought over her head as Eddie sucks her nipple into his mouth, teasing and biting as Carol kneels at his feet and works her palm into his boxers, gasping at the hardened length in her grip.

A monster lies beneath the cotton. Almost as thick as her forearm, her dainty fingers unable to reach fully around his girth. She pumps him slow, releasing his throbbing cock.

His fingers twist into their hair as he shoves Cece down to her knees, joining Carol in the worship of Eddie Munson’s dick. Their greedy mouths take him in, one popping his balls into her mouth the other choking on his fat cock.

Eddie wasn’t gentle when he fucked groupies. He took what he wanted and didn’t leave any room for complaints or questions. Shut off from the gentle loving side sex can bring and only seeing red, it was like he was a mad man. A different person entirely. Truly the horns of satan poked through his forehead and his eyes clouded over revealing a black veil of sin.

Demon eyed.

He was pissed from what happened earlier at work. Fucking insane with rage at Sean and Aaron talking shit about you.

Not you, not Tooty.

His frustration builds as the sound of lungs gasping for air fills his ears.

“Fuck,” Eddie groans, “Jesus Christ— don’t you wanna be good for daddy? Open that fuckin’ throat up and take what I give to you.”

He grabs Cece’s hair and thrusts himself in her mouth, ignoring her tears as she gags and swallows him whole. “Are you crying? Poor fucking baby, what a shame, on the bed now.” He grabs her up by the throat and tosses her onto the bed.

He’d kill Chad if he ever saw him again. Still had no idea what he did or why you two broke up but hearing his mantra spill from those asshat’s mouths today was enough to make his skin crawl.

The vulgar shit they were saying. The way they non chalantly said it like they were reciting their McDonald’s order. Fuck that bothered him.

Cock swinging, Eddie pinches Carol’s nipples until she’s standing, he flips her upside down, fucking into her open mouth as he bites her fishnet tights open and spits on her pussy. Tossing her on the bed like discarded trash he slaps both of their asses.

He tries to blur you away from his mind, separate you from his brain for a while to release this pent up anger. But all he can see are the small tears falling from your eyes when you tell him the truth about your family.

The Grinch’s small heart grew three sizes that day.

Shaking his head he bounds to his bed, trying like hell to focus on his task at hand.

“Are my little whores ready? Think you can handle this without tearing up?”

-

When Steve drops you off you’ve already puked in his car, twice. When he announced that drinks were on him tonight, you may have been double fisting Jack and Cokes with Robin, and taking vodka shots, racing to see who could finish first.

Robin passed out in the back of his car, snuggled up with the cold leather on her cheek.

“Steeb, I’m fine, seriously! Look how good I’m walking.”

“That’s because I’m carrying you.” Steve huffs as he opens the front door.

You’re slurring your words and talking in a volume that could raise the dead, “You’re such a good friend Stephen, why? Why why why are you single?” You hiccup, the remnants of your vomit lingering on your breath, “You need a wife!”

“Tooty, we can talk about my failed love life another day,” Steve grunts, carrying you into the house, stepping over boots and skimpy clothing, “for now let’s get you to the bathroom so you can get cleaned up and maybe puke in the toilet this time!”

“I just wanna go to bed. I’m tired,” you whine, “Stoven bring me to my room, let me go to sleep!”

Ignoring you, Steve brings you to the bathroom and plops you down on the floor, opening the toilet lids just in time for you to blow chunks all over.

“Ooh that one looks like a mozzarella stick.”

“Jesus, I’m never letting you two idiots drink again! I’m always your goddamn babysitter, it’s so annoying.” Steve laughs, riddling your hair. Ever since you stepped foot into Family Video at fifteen, looking for a job, the three of you were inseparable. “You think you’re gonna be okay? I gotta get that other shit head home before she pukes in the backseat, I already have to clean the front.”

“Oh no! I didn’t know you threw up!”

Steve rolls his eyes, dragging his hands down his face.

“See you tomorrow, I’ll call you okay?” His face is pulled into concern, eyebrows raised and pinched together

You salute him and wave, laughing at his mop of hair flopping around as he turns to leave. Struggling for at least ten minutes to get your denim overall shorts unbuckled, cursing and giggling at your own drunken stupor. You finally manage to get them un done shucking them off your legs, leaving your upper body covered by your tank top, the black panties you were wearing still on. Sliding your arms around your back you manage to unhook your bra and thread it through your shirt, tossing it into the shower beside you. Exhausted, you rest your head on the toilet bowl— falling into a dizzy sleep.

-

“Cece, come here!” Carol whispers loudly. She’s standing in the doorway of the bathroom, mouth agape at the sight of the slumped over figure hugging the toilet bowl.

“Holy shit!” She says, emerging from Eddie’s bedroom. “Is that? No fucking way.”

“I didn’t know he was screwing her too!” Carol breathes jealousy spewing from her lips.

“You really think he’d want to fuck that? Look at her! She’s a walking basket case. I heard that her family moved away because she wigged out and tried to kill her own mom.”

“Actually, the rumor is that I killed them all,” you add, raising your sleepy drunk face from the toilet, seeing double and trying not to puke on the spot, you try to stand, using the toilet to support your weight as you push off from it, wobbling horrifically.

“Get the fuck out,” you say, vision dancing as you try to point to the front door, holding onto the sink to stabilize yourself wiping the corner of your mouth with the back of your hand, “now.”

“Yeah?” Cece spits, folding her arms across her chest, “you gonna make us? Last I checked we were guests—“

“Not anymore,” Eddie hissed, adjusting the waist of his sweatpants as he looks into the bathroom at your disheveled appearance. Your makeup is smeared from throwing up, you’re half naked and barefoot, clutching onto the sink. Your overalls are covered in puke, and in a heap of vomit on the floor, a purple bra hangs over the edge of the tub. He wedges himself into the bathroom between you and the two girls, covering you with his tall frame from their view. His nostrils are flared and his chest is puffed out, “you heard her, get the fuck out.”

“What the fuck Eddie?!” Carol gripes, looking into his mad eyes.

He glares back, bored with her, “Did you really think you were gonna stay the night?” He prods, “Please, you can’t be that fucking stupid. Get your shit and go.”

“We live across town!” Cece squeaks, face pulled into shock and humiliation.

“Don’t care.”

Carol crosses her arms and glares into his eyes, “It’s late!”

“And?” He asks glaring back, and pushing through them, “Here let me help.”

Eddie takes their purses and shoes, tossing them out the front door into the yard. Pointing to the open door and fuming, he spits, “Out.”

The girls leave screeching ‘fuck you’s’ as they walk down the sidewalk, disappearing into the night.

He turns back to the bathroom, hearing you vomit again, one small glance and he can tell you hit the sink at least, puke splattering all over— the same reaction if you held a spoon under running water.

He turns around and comes back with the cleaner and a roll of paper towels, gagging with each wipe of the sink as he cleans it up.

Your crumbled body is slumped over the toilet again.

“Gonna live? Or should I call the coroner.” He says leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed and a look of worry on his face.

“ ‘s Robin’s fault,” you mumble, voice echoing in the toilet bowl, “woulda been fine if it wasn’t for the sh—,” you gag thinking of the vodka, “—shots, I’m usually not like this.”

Eddie sits on the side of the tub. You’re wasted and half dressed. He was a lot of things but taking advantage of a drunk girl wasn’t him. He finds your robe hanging in its designated spot, and drapes it across your bare shoulders.

“Sit up a bit,” he instructs. With great effort you sit up, almost falling backwards but Eddie catches you, careful of his hand placements not wanting to graze you in your inebriated state. He helps you sit and you put your arms through the holes of the robe. He reaches gently around your middle to tie it. Putting delicate pressure on your back as he leans you forward towards the toilet. You hum with satisfaction as your face feels the cool plastic of the toilet seat. Fighting the urge to rub your back.

“I’m dying, you can have the house when I’m gone, scatter my ashes in the rose bushes out back.” You say with a whine. Groaning as your stomach churns again, puking up more and more of the mixed alcohol you drank earlier in the night.

“Need some water?” Eddie guesses.

You nod your head, feeling like it weighs a hundred pounds you set it back down.

He leaves and comes back from the kitchen with a glass of water, swirly straw included. Tapping your shoulder he hands you the Disney cup, taking a long pull from the straw, you set the cup down on the linoleum floor.

“Thanks.”

“Agh, you’ll be alright. The porcelain Gods and I are great friends— well we used to be back in high school. I haven’t prayed to them in a while,” he says with a chuckle. Sliding down against the wall behind you, sitting on the cold floor.

“Don’t forget the time you and Kev ate those shrooms and puked all night in the basement of our house.” You mutter, wiping your mouth with your sleeve and flushing the toilet.

That was a night Eddie would never forget, he was only sixteen, and he somehow scored some homemade brownies and shrooms from one of the seniors. Being young and dumb, him and Eyeball each ate three brownies and an entire bag of shrooms. The high was insane, but the aftermath was death. He hasn’t touched shrooms since.

“Shit,” Eddie exclaims, “how old were you? Ten?”

“ ‘leven,” you say, holding your elbows on the toilet seat and your head in your palms, “old enough to know you and Kev didn’t magically get the flu at the same time.”

“Man we were dumb,” he says with a laugh, rubbing his chin with his hand.

“Were?” you say slyly.

“Easy, I’m not the one who can’t hold their liquor, Princess.”

“Oh Jesus please no more mention of it or I will barf—again.”

He stands to leave, laughing and stretching his arms out over his head as a small yawn escapes him. Exhausted from the day's events: work, concert, threesome— ain’t no way he’d be up before noon tomorrow— you either.

“Think I’m gonna go to bed, you going to be okay?”

Sitting up and looking at Eddie for the first time tonight, you aren’t sure if it’s because you’re drunk, but it’s almost as if it’s the very first time you’ve seen him. His amber colored eyes are surrounded by a forest of black eyelashes, his mop of curly hair hanging in them slightly, smooth pink lips, surprisingly full, a sharp jaw with a days worth of stubble, his veiny neck dances as he swallows, adam’s apple bobbing up and down. His shoulders are thick snaking down to muscled forearms, veins protruding from them, his hands are easily double the size of yours, thick fingers adorned with the same chunky stupid rings he’s worn forever. His broad chest stretches across his ribs, nipples pierced since the 80’s. He stands with confidence. His slender waist with the tiniest patch of hair ducking into the gray waistband of his hanes boxer briefs. And the prettiest alabaster skin peeking out from his collection of black tattoos.

Mouth suddenly dry, you stutter, “I—I’m done throwing up, gonna go to my bed.”

You stand on Bambi’s legs, hitting the wall hard with your shoulder. “Jesus Christ,” Eddie laughs and scoops you up making sure he’s holding under your bent knees and around your upper arms. He carries you to your bed, his skin burning hot against your cheek. He lays you down, throwing the blankets over your head for good measure, trying like hell to ignore the flutter in his stomach as you huff and pout pulling your eyebrows inward and frowning as you place your blankets to your liking.

“Get some sleep Tooty.” Eddie says all too softly. Pushing your cute sleepy face from his mind, rocking back on his heels as he starts to leave your room.

“Eddie?” You call after him, your small voice ripping through him like a knife. “Thank you, seriously. For everything.”

Shaking his head back and forth, his wild hair flows like a curtain around him in the dark as he leaves your room, “you owe me,” he says with a small grin, shutting the door behind him.

//

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/

SEE YOU IN VOLUME: V

[volume: 5]

putting random symbols in hopes that read more will eat this instead of the last paragraph 😩

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[macfrog]

hi queenie, love of my life 😌 i’d like to ask the following for 🩵: d’you think there was ever a moment where joel really thought holy shit. she drives me insane… i gotta fuck her. ???

(rly hoping there was 😌)

ily, sister! thanks for the gif. feeling really. normal. about him. right now. oh, yeah. he had his moments. let's get into it.

compensation 1.1k words | duckie's baby shower 🩵 warnings: literally just joel masturbating to the thought of his neighbor. good shit.

she can’t have been older than twenty-five, when she moved in.

hell, she’s not even thirty yet, as it is. she’s too fucking –

you’re too fucking young for him, and that’s the end of that.

at least – that’s what joel’s telling himself, trapped on your front porch. watching you relive the story of the ups driver who almost wouldn't let you sign for his package.

doing his best to keep his eyes on yours, and not the thin tank top you’re wearing.

“…she’s like, how do i know you’re gonna get this to him? i’m like, uh, what the fuck do i want with my boring ass neighbor’s mail? no offense, joel. but c’mon. i’m literally signing for it. anyways.”

you turn, bending down for the box by the stairs, and joel drags his eyes upwards.

his hand shakes at his side. jaw ticks, watching you turn back, the package leaning against your front. your breasts – oh, jesus.

he swallows. his throat feels like carpet burn.

“’s heavy,” you mutter, edging towards him. “rock collecting?”

“mind your business,” joel clips, slipping his hands around the box. the back of his wrists brush against the swell of your breasts, and he stares so intensely at his own address on the label that he hopes it’s burned forever into his vision.

you huff as the weight passes into his hands. a little sigh.

something twitches beneath his belt buckle.

joel sits the box on his hip. “well, thanks for this. and for calling me boring.”

you cross your arms. it only pushes your tits up more. “stay humble, old man.”

he should walk away. right now. he should take his package, and his pride, and the fucking rock in his jeans – and head on home.

but then you slump against the doorpost, one ankle crossing over the other, and say, “s’posed to get pretty hot this summer.”

“’s already pretty hot.”

“hotter, jackass. they’re sayin’ record temperatures.”

“they say that every year.”

you poke at the inside of your cheek with your tongue. the way you always do, when you’re trying to annoy him.

and it’s working.

“actually, uh –” joel shifts between feet, “– i was gonna ask you a favor.”

“mhm?”

his gaze trickles down your figure. each curve and swell of supple skin. the shorts he’s getting a little too used to seeing you in, too used to looking for. your bare legs, and the glow of sun on them.

when he looks back up, you’re smirking at him.

christ, he wants to wipe that smirk clean off your face. wants to twist it into something darker, something…something louder, and filthier, and –

“joel. hellooo?”

you wave your hand in front of his face, and he snaps back.

“huh? oh, shit. sorry – i, uh…” a flush rises like an inferno up his neck. he shakes his head, fighting it off. “yeah. a favor.”

“you good? don’t pass out on my porch,” you warn. “wait until you’re back on your own land to do that.”

he breathes a laugh – panting, almost. “i’m good. i just – i need someone to water my, uh – my plants. i’m outta town next week, visitin’ my brother. if you wouldn’t mind…”

he feels like a fucking moron when he finally meets your eye again.

you blink back at him, frowning. head tipped, looking him up and down. “i don’t mind,” you say, something cautious in your voice, “but i expect generous compensation for my time.”

“compensation,” joel agrees, nodding. he’d do anything to be off this goddamn porch right now. “how about i’ll owe you one?”

“works for me.”

“alright. thank you, again,” he holds the package up, “and, uh – i’ll see ya.”

he’s gone before he hears your response.

too young. she’s too young. you’re so young. goddamn it.

you drive him fucking insane. you and your little shorts, the simper on your face. he swears he could see through the white of your top, two perfect circles where –

oh, fuck.

he spills into his bathroom, a heavy hand slamming down on the valve. the water roars from the showerhead, louder than the blood in his ears.

joel hauls his tee over his shoulders, the fabric peeling from his muscles and crumpling in a damp pile on the floor. he shucks the rest of his clothes off, kicking them to the side, and steps straight into the cubicle.

he looks down, and – fucking hell.

his cock sways between his legs, all rosy and already dripping. he can feel his pulse hammering at his tip; hisses when the stream sprays over it.

his hand lifts, curving around air.

shit, he just wants to touch himself. wants to relieve the ache between his hips. he has to.

he balls his fists against the tiled wall. his head drops low between his shoulders. the water pours down over him, pastes his dark hair in soaking flicks around his face. he can taste the salt of sweat and sun as it slips from his skin.

once. if he only did it once, would it matter? he’s hard now, anyways. there’s a quick fix.

you just – you caught him off-guard. he only went over there to pick up a package. he didn’t fucking know you’d be – oh, christ – he didn’t know you’d be in that shirt. no bra, no nothing beneath it.

he can still feel the plush of your tits on his knuckles. the way they moved as you leant against the doorframe. he can still see the summery shine on your skin.

he thinks about slipping his hands under the hem of your tank. up, up, up, across your smooth skin until he’s cupping them. squeezing them; circling his thumbs over the hardening peaks.

the short breaths from your lips, your smirk melted into a delicate o-shape. voiceless, nothing but whimpering and gasping when his teeth take your nipple.

before he even realizes it – he’s stroking his cock.

and quickly.

he groans, lips turning to his bicep. he bites down on the skin, hard.

he’d slip your shorts down your hips; see whatever slutty little panties you wear. he’d pull your thighs over his shoulders, unfold your sweet cunt and –

“shit,” joel pants, hips stuttering. his fingers splay out on the slippery tile.

you’re so infuriating. loudmouthed and fucking bratty. and he could shut you up, he knows he could. he’d sit you on his cock, wrapped perfectly around him, and fuck you dumb. fuck you until you’re nothing but a sobbing, soaking mess.

fuck you with that scrap of a tank top on. tits bouncing beneath it, the fabric riding higher and higher until they’re exposed.

what a good fuckin’ girl, taking all of him. letting him split you open, letting him fuck you raw. so big he’ll leave an ache deep inside you; so hard that he makes you come three times over before he’s even close.

but – fuck, he’s close, right now.

“c’mon, baby,” he mutters into his skin. teeth gritted; fist so tight the skin threatens to split across his knuckles. “make me come, c’mon.”

it’d dribble from your cunt, and he’d push it straight back in. make damn sure you keep it all in there, make damn sure you’re walking around all full of him. the seam of your thighs slick, semen seeping into your panties.

“goddamn,” he groans, and with a throb, coats the shower wall.

his cock twitches, pulses until he’s empty. the ache begins to thaw.

he shuts the shower off, still massaging his softening dick as he steps back out. he lifts a towel and drags it across his tingling body.

and he swears, when he notices the sun dipping below your roof –

it will never happen again.