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futureman · 6 months

Text

waiting to spill

pairing: mike schmidt x f!reader

summary: mike never thought your week-long trip home would lead to the discovery of a costly new craving

warnings: 18+ MDNI, established relationship, breeding kink, smut, desperate!mike, unprotected piv, creampie, riding, fingering, blue balls, mentions of pregnancy, cum play

word count: 3.9k

(based on this request)

Mike's praying the call goes through this time because if it doesn't, he might just lose his mind. You were supposed to land 20 minutes ago, but it's already half past 4 and your phone's still off.

Will it show how many missed calls you have? God, he hopes not. He's been redialing for the better part of an hour, hoping you landed early, but luck clearly isn't on his side. Every time it goes to voicemail, your voice taunts him. Just another reminder that you're not here—unreachable and untouchable.

Shitty fucking airline. He knew you should've taken an earlier flight, but he didn't want to be that guy. The one who tells you what to do and when, and makes decisions for his own benefit. He's a better guy than that, a better boyfriend than that, it's just—fuck, what is taking so long?

One more time. He'll try you one more time, and if it doesn't connect, he'll go sit on the couch and distract himself until you call him. He's already waited this long. He can suck it up a little longer. Probably.

He hits redial for the umpteenth time, his forehead thunking against the wall next to the landline, and then something miraculous happens. It rings.

Once, twice, and then you pick up. He doesn't wait for you to answer. Any patience he had left flew out the window hours ago and he doesn't care if you know it.

"Babe?"

You laugh softly on the other end, and it tugs at his heart...and his dick. Seatbelts click open in the background, and sounds of movement and chatter filter through the speaker.

"Hey, you. I actually just landed. I'll call you back once I get through customs, okay?" you reply, bright as ever.

It sets him off worse than he expected. You're so much more potent in real-time than on voicemail, and it's fucking with his sense of urgency. He doesn't want to rush you, but he needs you. So badly.

"W-wait. Can you come over? After you're done with the airport stuff, I mean," he manages to get out, interjecting cautiously before you can hang up.

"I was gonna stop home to drop off my bags and take a quick shower, but I can come over after that," you reply distractedly, likely dealing with overhead bins and other passengers trying to deplane.

He shakes his head, gripping the phone a little too tightly as he bites back a frustrated whine. That'll take too long. The airport's about an hour's ride from your apartment, and by the time you're done showering—no. No, just come to him. It's a shorter ride to his house, anyway.

"Just—you can do all of that here. Stay over and I'll drive you back to your place in the morning. Please?" he asks, desperation beginning to bleed into his voice.

It pulls your attention back to him almost immediately, and he hates how good that feels.

"Is everything okay? Did something happen?" you counter, misreading his plea as an emergency.

Your phone keeps shifting like it's tucked against your shoulder, and now it sounds like you're moving faster, hurrying like he wants you to, but for the wrong reasons.

"Everything's fine, I just need to see you," he says, willing you to understand. "Babe, I really need to see you."

He's too ashamed to spell it out. What would he even say? If he doesn't cum inside you soon, he thinks he might die? He's horny, not pathetic.

"Mike, that doesn't sound fine...," you sigh on the other end, your quickening footsteps audible through the receiver.

"Please."

You pause for a second, and his heart leaps into his throat. Don't say no. Please, don't say no.

"Gimme an hour, okay? I'll catch a cab to your place as soon as I can," you finally agree.

He breathes out a heavy sigh of relief, but it's louder than he realizes and you clock it on the spot.

"Are you sure you're okay?"

"Yeah, all good. I'm just glad you're back. Feels like it's been forever," he mumbles, somehow sated and yet anticipating your arrival more than ever.

He shifts anxiously from one foot to the other, wincing at the unexpected friction against the growing problem between his legs. The atmosphere around you changes and your responding laugh blends into the bustle of casual conversations and overhead announcements in your terminal.

"Can't survive one week without me, huh? I guess I'm bringing you and Abby along next time I visit my parents," you joke, but it's getting harder to make out what you're saying. "Look, I'm almost at customs. I'll see you soon, I promise."

The call ends, and he's left with the loneliness of a dial tone and an empty house. He hangs up and plops down on the couch, clutching the TV remote like a lifeline while he desperately tries to ignore the painful tent in his boxers.

An hour. He can handle one more hour.

He can't handle one more hour. It's been 45 minutes and he feels like he's about to burst. The worst part? It's his own damn fault.

He's the asshole who made the conscious decision not to jerk off the entire time you were gone, but he can't bring himself to regret it. He had his reasons. In about 15 minutes, it'll all be worth it.

Maybe less.

There's a knock at the door, and he's up and off the couch so fast, he's surprised he doesn't have whiplash. He wrenches it open to find you on the other side, a little stunned by the abrupt greeting, but worth every second of blue balls he put himself through.

"Hey," he breathes out, winded by his mad dash and the relief of you finally being here.

"Hey, yourself," you smile wryly. Your eyes drop to where he's not even remotely trying to hide his raging boner. "Ah-ha, so that's—"

But that's all you manage to say before he drags you into the house and slams your back against the door, shutting out your luggage and the cab driver still idling in the driveway. His lips crash into yours and you taste so good, it's dizzying.

Remnants of Sprite and spearmint gum linger on your tongue as it meets his, and he groans, wondering how he went an entire week without this. All that time, deprived of your addictive touch and perfect tits while he tortured himself, waiting for you to come back to him.

He can't decide where to put his hands first, roaming and squeezing from your waist, up your shirt—which he's just realizing is his—to splay across your ribcage. Pressing you harder into the door, he separates from your lips to mouth at the underside of your jaw, mumbling his appreciation between each harsh bruise he sucks into your skin.

"Fuck, I missed you," he pants, shamelessly grinding into your hip for relief. He wants you to feel how hard you're making him, so you'll understand all those missed calls.

"Yeah? I can tell," you laugh breathily, running your hands up his chest, pushing his shirt up as you go.

Your thumbs brush against his bare skin, sending a heady jolt straight to his cock, and suddenly none of this is moving fast enough. His hands drop to your ass, roughly tugging your hips into his, and you gasp in unison at the friction. Together, you fall into a frantic rhythm, rutting into each other like a pair of horny teenagers.

"Shit, Mike...," you moan his name, and he feels like he's dreaming. He has to be because nothing else in his waking world has ever felt this good.

Contrary to the rest of his body, he kisses you again slowly, savoring every noise he's coaxing from you and devouring them like a man starved. Your fingers thread through his hair, pulling him closer, and he swears he's never letting you leave this house again.

If by some miracle he does, he's going to make sure you're pumped so full of him, you'll be leaking him the entire time you're gone, unable to think about anything else. And when you come back, he'll do it all over again.

Damnit, he needs you in his bed, now.

He backs away from the door with you still in his arms, leading you further into the house down a path you know by heart. Briefly, he separates from your lips to lift your shirt up and over your head, then discards his own before tugging down the cups of your bra to latch onto a nipple.

You hiss at the contact, trembling as he teases it with his teeth, and immediately reach behind you to unclasp the offending piece of fabric. It drops soundlessly to the floor along with your jeans, underwear, and finally his boxers. Nipping sharply at the sensitive skin one last time, he pulls away to admire you, trailing his fingers down your arms until your hands are in his.

You're fucking beautiful. Your lips are kiss-swollen and glossy, begging to be kissed again, and your thighs are...wet, fucking hell. Fuck, he missed you. His mouth starts to water at the thought of licking into you, fucking you with his tongue while your thighs quake on either side of his head, but the painful throbbing between his legs is starting to overwhelm him.

He's positive, now, that if he's not inside you soon, he'll actually die. He's not just horny, anymore. It's so far beyond that.

Four more agonizing steps backward and he's finally passing the threshold into his room, so close to being on his back with you bouncing on top of him—except he doesn't make it that far.

The door shuts behind you, and then you're on your knees, wrapping those perfect fingers around his dick and guiding him between your lips. He panics. There's no way he's going to last if you try to blow him right now.

Tenderly, you lick a stray bead of precum off the tip, and his balls immediately draw up so tight, he has to slide your hand down to the base and squeeze to keep from cumming on the spot. He shakes his head, his eyebrows furrowing as he inhales sharply through his nose.

"Babe, I can't...," he grits out, struggling to find the words to explain himself. "I'll cum too fast, you can't."

You grin, leaning forward to press your lips against his white-knuckled fist.

"That's sort of the whole point, isn't it?" you tease, trailing back to his cock, seconds away from giving him the most intense orgasm of his life.

"I need to fuck you," he blurts out. It's short and to the point, but there's no use in pretending he doesn't. At this point, he'll be lucky if he doesn't explode the second he's inside you. "I need to fuck you so bad right now, I feel like I'm going crazy."

You pause to look up at him, your eyes roving over his face, lingering on his angrily ticking jaw. You get it, now.

"Hey, it's okay—you're okay," you murmur, leaning forward to kiss away another drop of precum. He chokes back a groan and reflexively jerks away, and you take the hint to release your grip. "Okay, fuck me. Show me how much you missed me."

But you don't have any idea what you're asking for, do you? He missed you so much. There's so much catching up to do, and he has so little patience left.

He doesn't waste any more time. With every ounce of self-control he's got left, he drags you to your feet and towards the bed, trying his best not to manhandle you up the mattress and onto his lap. He fails epically. The second he's flat on his back with you grinding down on him, his patience becomes a thing of the past.

"You ready for me? Because I'm not gonna be able to stop, and I need you to feel good," he's starting to babble, but he has a feeling nothing he says from now on will make any sense, and he needs you to want it as much as he does.

His hands slide up your thighs to your waist, and when he tugs you closer to notch at your entrance, he can feel you clenching wetly around him.

"Shit—," he breathes out, his biceps tensing as he lifts you and lines himself up. He pushes in just enough for you to stretch around the tip, and you steady yourself on his chest, your palms searingly hot on his skin as you squeeze him a little harder.

"Let me make you feel good," he says again, even though you're already letting him, already yielding to his steady push and pull. Every inch he gives you feels like taking a shot of tequila, and it's making his head spin. If he could hear himself anymore, he'd realize he sounds wasted.

"Let me fill you up, please," he begs, rolling his hips up to lengthen his thrusts. They’re so much easier now that you’re dribbling down him—so much wetter—but you're so damn tight, he has to force himself to look away from where you're joined and gripping the hell out of him. "You know, I-I waited for you—waited to cum, I didn't cum at all."

"Mike...fuck. That's good. That's so good, baby," you tell him shakily. "Give it to me. Nice and deep, you deserve it."

He keens at the praise—he couldn't have stopped himself if he'd tried—and your nails bite into his skin in response, nose scrunching adorably as you gush around him. He knew you'd like that. He knew you'd want it.

Look at his girl, so pretty on top of him, just waiting for him to bust inside you. Fleetingly, he wonders if you're still on birth control. Possessively, he doesn't care. Rationally, he knows he can't afford to knock you up, but shit—right now, he really fucking wants to. He imagines you in the same position you're in, horny and round with his baby, and suddenly he's never wanted anything so badly in his life.

He doesn't stop to think about whether or not he should. He doesn't stop at all, just like he warned you, not even when he's buried to the hilt and you're both struggling to adjust.

He just buries himself in you again and again and again until the sound of your skin colliding with his becomes a wet thock-thock-thock that bounces off the walls of his bedroom. The springs beneath him squeak dangerously as he pushes his bedframe to its absolute limits, but he can’t hear any of that, either.

His senses are in overdrive, and all he can focus on is how you feel around him. And he’s not nearly as deep as he needs to be. Rougher than he means to, he grabs your ass with both hands and starts to force you up and down his cock, gripping hard enough to bruise. He’ll hate how much he likes the idea of that later.

"S-so fucking pretty...gonna make me cum so hard. So much. Need you to take all of it," he pants with the exertion of lifting and dropping your full weight onto himself.

He can feel himself slamming into your cervix and desperately tries to think about anything else but emptying right into it, but the sight of you taking him like you were made for it makes it ten times worse.

Just looking at you makes him want to cum—your tits bouncing as you ride him, your pussy creaming down his cock and balls, and seeping into his sheets. Those pouty lips of yours moaning around pleas of harder and right there and don't stop, I'm cumming.

"Baby...babe—," your shattered voice cuts through the fog, and then he feels it. "M'cumming. I'm...Mike, keep going there, there. Don't stop, please don't stop."

Fucking hell, you're really cumming. Tight and wet, and clamping down on him like a vice. Somehow, he always forgets it's like this with you. That you cum this hard for him, that he's able to make you cum this hard for him. For a second, he feels overwhelmingly grateful. Then, he's planting his feet on the bed and fucking you so hard, you stop moaning and start screaming.

It's there. It's right there, so close he can feel it building everywhere. Sweat trickles down his temples, matting his curls to his forehead, and you brush them away, one hand braced on the mattress next to his head and the other buried in his hair as you ride out your high.

His balls draw up so tight, it's painful, and he thinks he might start yelling too, but he's too focused on the chase. He's too busy watching, dumbfounded by the perfect body coming apart on top of him.

The girl he waited for.

He tries to tell you. He tries to open his mouth and tell you that you’re everything he thought he’d never have, and that he wants to keep you forever. That he wants to be part of you, that being inside you is one of the rare places he’s ever felt wanted. But that’s not what comes out.

He’s too far gone now, and all he can manage is an incomprehensible stream of moans and sighs as he forces you flush against his pelvis, grinding into you as deep as he can reach. His eyes struggle not to close, nearly crossing as that familiar heat permeates his limbs and pools at the base of his cock. But it’s so much more intense than he can ever remember it being.

He lifts his gaze to your lips to find them moving, repeatedly forming a single word he can barely make out. But by the time he figures it out, he’s already giving you what you asked for.

Please. You’re saying please. He repeats it back, begging you to take it, thanking you for letting him have this.

His orgasm rocks him. As it peaks, he feels numb like he’s suspended in time, and then it slams into him so hard, he folds in on himself. He buries his face in your tits, his breath hitching sharply in time with the visible throbbing of his cock, and he’s immediately flooded with relief. But it won’t fucking stop. It lasts so much longer than either of you expect it to, pulse after endless pulse, and he holds you in place through it all.

When it finally subsides and sensitivity sets in, your nails scratching lightly across his back are what bring him back to the present. He lifts his head from where it's still pillowed on your tits, and you lean down to kiss his forehead.

Maybe he’s imagining it, or maybe he’s just been dreaming this entire time, but he swears you’re glowing. The final rays of late summer sun illuminate your dewy skin and soft curves, and as you move lower to kiss his lips, he unconsciously rests a hand over your stomach. It feels right—but only briefly. His head starts to clear the longer he licks into your mouth, and when you part, reality finally hits.

"Shit, I think I just got you pregnant," he breathes out, sliding his hand off your stomach to your waist before collapsing onto the mattress. "Shit."

He looks up at you in concern, his mind racing a mile a minute. What did he just do? He can’t—you can't get pregnant. Not with Abby, and your jobs, and his shitty finances. It just isn't an option.

And yet you’re still perched on top of him, snug around his softening dick, and he can’t bring himself to pull out. You don’t even seem remotely worried.

You're actually smiling. No, you're laughing, and he's still panicking and confused as hell. It gets infinitely worse when you accidentally push him out and his gut reaction is to plug you back up with his fingers, keeping his release from leaking out. This is so fucked up. He’s so fucked up.

"I mean—were you trying to?" you ask, raising an eyebrow. "Kinda seems like it."

Your eyes drop between your legs to where his hand is cupping your heat, irrefutable proof that you’re not wrong. So, why doesn’t that bother you?

"Babe, breathe," you smile softly, brushing a few stray hairs from his face. "I'm like, 98.8 percent positive you can't knock me up. Give or take, but we can check the box if it'll make you feel better."

It actually might, but the last thing he's going to do is admit it. He can't believe he didn't double-check something like that—but then again, he feels like he's been in a fugue state for hours, if not the entire week you were gone.

"You're still on birth control?" he asks cautiously, almost afraid to get his hopes up. He takes a deep breath like you told him to and it helps ease some of his lingering panic. Not all of it, but at least he's starting to think rationally and not with his dick.

"Mike. There isn't a single condom in this entire house. Yes, I'm on birth control," you laugh again, and even just the sound of it is soothing. It helps, too.

"And it definitely works? Because that was...a lot," he mumbles. He already knows he sounds like a total idiot, but he has to be sure. There's still a week's worth of his release plugged up inside you, and as much as it turns him on, he needs to know if he has to run out to the pharmacy or if he's free to do it again. And again.

"Have you ever fucked me with a condom on?" you counter. He scoffs at the question, and you clench around his fingers in retaliation.

"Of course, I have. Maybe not in a while, but early on, for sure," he replies confidently, even though he's not confident in his answer at all. Sure, he can't give you a specific example, but that doesn't mean it never happened.

"You literally came inside me the day we met," you deadpan.

His cock stirs at the memory, hardening distractingly against your inner thigh. That, he definitely remembers. He's pretty sure that's the night he fell in love with you, but he's hard-pressed to admit that, either.

"There's no way."

"And every time since then," you continue, looking way too amused at his misfortune. Can't get anything past you, can he?

Okay, so maybe it wasn't just your trip that triggered what happened tonight. Maybe it's always been a thing. His thing. You just look so goddamn good—filled with it, covered in it. Shit, he really shouldn't be hard already.

"Babe, come on. I do...it other places, too,” he reasons, sliding his hand up to tweak a nipple. But it becomes a moot point the second your breath hitches. So much for rational thinking. “I just—"

"You just really like cumming inside me," you finish for him, taking his cock in your hand and stroking him until he's as desperate as he was earlier.

He pulls his fingers free from your pussy and tries not to lament the immediate rush of cum that leaks out. It's okay. He's got plenty more to give you.

"Yeah, I really do."

thanks for reading!

(and so much love to @joelsgreys, @tinycozycomfort & @psychedelic-ink for your help & support, and for listening to me go on and on about this man <3)

#mike schmidt x reader #mike schmidt x you #mike schmidt imagine #mike schmidt smut #mike schmidt #fnaf imagine #fnaf smut #fnaf movie #fnaf #five nights at freddy's

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coldfanbou · 3 months

Text

More Than A Bath

I mixed things up a little with a soapland theme. I hope y'all enjoy

Length 2.7K

Nako x Mreader X Kazuha

You look up at the sign and take a deep breath. There were murmurs that she worked here, but you didn’t think it was true. You click your phone and check the time: 10 pm. The shop is supposed to be open now. You walk up to the door and step inside. The front room was decorated in such a way that it looked like a casino. To your left was a man behind the counter wiping it down. “Welcome! I haven’t seen your face before. Is it your first time here?”

You nod your head, “It is.”

“Welcome to the Royal Flush. We offer great relaxation for men after a long day's work. We have a few options here, starting at thirty minutes and going up to two hours. That said, you can extend it up to another two hours.” The man motions to a blank board behind him before turning around. “My apologies; I forgot to turn this thing on. Just a moment.” He goes under his desk, flicking a button, causing the screen to light up with pictures of women on playing cards. You couldn’t see anyone who looked like her, though. He motions to the screen. “As you can see, we have many ladies available to help you. You can choose any one of them for your time here. Or if you’re feeling lucky, you can play the roulette.”

“What’s the roulette?”

“I’m glad you asked, sir. The roulette is a wheel that gives you the chance to get two women for the price of one and even enables some that are usually reserved for special customers. The price to play is a little higher than choosing from the board, but if you hit the jackpot, you get two women for four hours. At worst, you’re paying a little more for our basic thirty-minute service, but at best, you’ll have the best night of your life. All you have to do is predict the space the ball will land in. What would you like, sir?”

You consider the chance the rumors were true, and she was just for special customers. “I choose the roulette.” After taking your money, the man smiles and asks you for a number. You choose the number she had ended up with on the show, six. The screen behind the man changes to a roulette wheel, and he begins the game. The ball on-screen moves around the roulette wheel, and while you don’t have high hopes for getting it right, you hope you’ll at least get something good.

As the ball begins to slow down, you see it coming up on your number. Time slows down as the ball approaches the number six spot and swings past it one more time before coming around again. The ball loses momentum as it hits one of the ball deflectors, and miraculously, it plops into the six slot. The man smiles at you, “How rare.” He says, a slight amusement in his voice. “Congratulations, sir, you’ve hit the jackpot. You’ll be allowed to choose two women to help you relax and choose from our special menu. That being said, not everyone is in, so you’ll have limited choices.” The screen behind the man changes again to show different women than before, and immediately, you spot her. Nako was working here. You continue to look at the boar, seeing other idols on it. Some of them greyed out to show they were unavailable.

“How do you get them to come when they’re so busy with other activities?”

“They need to relax too. All things considered, they come here pretty often. So who would you like?” You look back at the board, seeing other Japanese idols like Twice’s J-line and members of Le Sserafim.

“I’d like Nako and Kazuha.”

“Great choices. Here is your room number. They’ll be there in a moment. You may take the elevator to the top floor.” You give the man a nod and head to your room. Thoughts run through your mind. You never expected to find out that idols would work at some place like this. You hadn’t even considered what you would do now that you were faced with meeting Nako and Kazuha.

When you get to your room, you tap the card the man gave you and step inside. It was a fully furnished apartment on the inside. You walk further in, seeing the view from your floor. You could see block after block of the city from your room. Wanting to look at the other rooms, you first come across the bathroom; poking your head inside, you see the usual inflatable you had seen in porn and notice the giant bath behind it. The floor was all tile, with a drain in the corner of the room. You check the other side of your room, seeing it was just a bedroom. Checking through the dressers, you notice sex toys and condoms, among other things.

You hear a small beep from the front and head back to the living room to see Nako and Kazuha standing there. What’s immediately noticeable is their lack of clothing. Both are wearing just their bra and panties, only after you notice their hair being up. You gulp, nervous and unable to say a word. They give you a small smile and wave, obviously used to being seen in their state. Nako takes the lead, walking up to you and wrapping her around your back. “Take good care of us.” She says, her head on your chest. She shines a smile your way before letting you go.

Kazuha pats the short woman’s bottom, “Would you like to get started, sir?”

“I would.”

“This way, then.” Kazuha grabs your arm, pressing it against her modest breasts as she leads you to the bath. Nako grabs your other arm. Kazuha turns the water on for the bath, and the pair begin to strip you down, working quickly.

“Oh, look at this.” Nako teases as she pulls down your pants. Your bulge was obvious to everyone. She runs her small hands along it before kneeling and rubbing her face against it. “Ah, it’s been so long. Kazuha, aren’t you excited?” She says, looking at the younger woman. She grabs Kazuha’s hand, placing it on your crotch. “It’s big, huh?” Kazuha’s cheeks turn red, and she looks away from you, embarrassed. “Let’s get these off.” Nako tugs at your underwear until it finally comes off, your cock smacking her forehead. She’s stunned for a second but quickly laughs it off. Her small hand struggles to wrap itself around your shaft. “You are big!” She exclaims with a huge smile on her face. You groan as she strokes your shaft. While Nako plays with your cock, Kazuha takes off the little clothing she has, unhooking her bra and tossing it near the door before stepping out of her panties. Your attention quickly returns to Nako as you feel her tongue running back and forth over your cock.

“Ah, Nako.” You moan, feeling your knees get weak from the sudden pleasure. She giggles before continuing.

“We should get you in the bath,” Kazuha says as she strips Nako of her bra. “Don’t you think that’s a good idea, Nako?” Nako has a slight frown on her face but agrees, letting you go to remove her panties. Kazuha leads you into the tub, stepping in to test the water. The tub was wide enough to comfortably fit the three of you, with Nako on one side and Kazuha on the other. The shorter woman couldn’t seem to keep her hands off you. She reached for your cock, stroking it slowly as she pressed her tits into your arm. Kazuha sees what Nako is doing and joins in, turning onto her side and cupping your balls as she drags her nipples along your arm. You’re eyes are glued to Nako as she steadily moves her hand along your shaft. She plants her lips on yours and speeds up. You grunt in response, struggling to do much else. Your hand wraps around Nako, squeezing her tit and making her moan. Her devilish smile grows as her grip on your shaft tightens. Kazuha begins to whisper into your ear as you focus on Nako. “You’ve got Nako wrapped around your finger. Did you know she’s on birth control? You can cum inside her all you’d like.” Kazuha’s sensual voice continues, “I’m on birth control too. I wouldn’t mind if you gave me a few creampies either.”

Your cock begins to twitch in Nako’s hand. “Don’t cum so quickly. We’re just getting started. Kazuha and I still need to wash your body. Maybe we should use the mat. You’d like that, right? It would mean we get to use our entire body.” You nod along and get out of the bath with Nako and Kazuha. They place you on the inflatable mat. Nako grinds on your leg, lightly moaning as she stares at your cock. Kazuha had gathered water and soap to clean your body before seeing Nako enjoying herself. She huffs and puts everything on the floor before getting behind the petite woman.

“Nako, you’re forgetting your job. We’re supposed to be making the customer feel good.” She says, grabbing Nako’s small breasts and squeezing them. The short woman throws her head back and moans.

“You don’t mind, do you?” Nako asks as she grinds on your leg. “I just need a little release.”

“Nako, you’re being a slut in front of our customer,” Kazuha responds, digging her fingers into Nako’s skin.

“I’m a slut. I’m a slut,” Nako cries. “I don’t think I can wait any longer.” She breaks free from Kazuha’s grip and moves up to your crotch, rocking against your cock. Nako quickly raises herself and slams herself onto your cock. You fill the room with moans as you cum as soon as you’re buried inside Nako. You’re not the only one, though, as Nako cums with you. Feeling your warm cum flood into her cunt, Nako slowly grinds against you as she moans. Nako moves her fingers along her clit, rubbing it in small circles. “Ah, so full. I feel so hot, Kazuha.” You feel Nako’s cunt milking your cock. She was tight, her walls squeezing you with a lot of force. Your eyes are glued to Nako, watching as she pleasures herself. You don’t notice Kazuha fingering herself as she watches Nako. She’s groping herself and pushing her fingers deeper into her cunt as Nako begins to move again. Nako leaves just the head inside before swallowing your cock in one movement. You stifle your moan while Nako lets hers fill the room. “You’re so big. Look here.” Nako says, pointing at a bulge. She presses on it; you grunt, realizing the bulge was because of you. Nako begins bouncing on your cock, moving at a steady pace as she gets used to your size. She holds your thighs and throws her head back as she moans, noticing Kazuha standing there.

“Come on, Kazuha, join us. You’ll be in heaven.” Nako says, humming in bliss as she slams herself down, moving her hips to please both of you. Kazuha gets beside you, taking one of your hands and moving it toward her now aching cunt. “No, Kazuha ride him.” Nako says as she continues to use you. Kazuha looks at you, her face bright red, before nodding. She silently positions herself over your face, trying to lower herself gently. She was taking a little too long for you, and you decided to pull her down. Your tongue pushes past her wet lips, diving inside her. You felt Kazuha squirm on top of you; she placed her hands on your chest as she let a river of moans flow out from her. “It feels good, doesn’t it? Just wait until this is inside you.” Nako tells her coworker as she rubs the bulge. Kazuha's breathing quickens as she feels your tongue lapping at her walls. She struggles to keep herself up. Nako sees her friend struggling and lifts Kazuha’s head before kissing her. “I love seeing you like this.” Nako seems almost drunk on the pleasure she’s receiving; she plays with Kazuha’s tit, attaching herself to her nipple and swirling her tongue around it.

You dig your hands into Kazuha’s waist, keeping her in place. She began to grind against your face, the pleasure making her go crazy. The pleasure from you and Nako was pushing her toward the edge. She started to whimper as she closed in on her climax. “I don’t want to…I don’t want to cum yet.” She whined as she came. Kazuha’s body twitched as she came, her body rocking uncontrollably. Nako smiled, loving the sight of Kazuha cumming on your face. You lap up her sweet nectar, making the younger woman shiver before she falls to the side.

“Can you give me a taste?” Nako asks as she leans in. You were more than willing to share, pushing your tongue into her mouth. You sat up and grabbed Nako’s waist. You held her for a moment before moving her up and down your shaft. She began to groan as you took control of her. You rammed every inch into Nako’s small body, enjoying as her cries of pleasure came more often and eventually turned into whines. “I’m going to cum. I’m- I’m cumming!” Nako screamed as you continued to use her. Your cock began to twitch inside her cunt, and you told her to get ready for another creampie. “F-fuck, do it cum in me,” Nako whined as you impaled her on your shaft and shot your cum into her. Nako’s walls clamped down around your cock, rubbing the head and making you want to go deeper. Your cum flooded Nako’s pussy, leaking out of her before you even pulled out. You take a good look at Nako, the blissful expression on her face, the drool running down her cheek as her mind goes.

Nako collapses on you, her cunt still squeezing your cock long after your orgasm ended. You lift her off and turn to Kazuha. She was face down on the floor, still recovering. Your eyes move down her smooth back until you notice her shapely bottom. You get behind her and stroke your cock, getting yourself ready for another round.

With your other hand, you grab Kazuha’s waist and lift her ass. You press your cock against her entrance and slowly push yourself inside the young woman. “Ah, you're stretching my pussy,” She groans weakly. Kazuha manages to get her arms under herself and push her face off the floor. She looks over her shoulder to see you pushing yourself inside. Kazuha’s walls welcomed you, snuggly wrapping around your cock as you rested inside her. You were close to cumming, sensitive from your last orgasm. Still, you pushed onward, beginning to thrust into the young woman, your pace picking up. You have to dig your fingers into Kazuha’s waist to keep her from moving. As you’re pounding away at her body, you can’t help but look at Kazuha’s beautiful ass; you pull back your hand and slam it into her soft ass. She yelps from the hit. A handprint begins to form because of the force used, but Kazuha begs you to do it again.

You drive your hand into her ass again. She moans this time, loving the pain. Nako comes around, lying on the inflatable mattress and looking at Kazuha. Her fingers playing with her clit as she watches. You’re getting turned on by having Nako watch you and begin to move faster, slamming yourself into Kazuha without a second thought. The young woman’s moans become louder, and her walls clamp down around your cock. You were both nearing your climax. You couldn’t hold it any longer and buried yourself inside Kazuha, filling her womb with your cum. Your orgasm triggered hers. As soon as she felt your thick cum fill her, Kazuha arced her back and came on your cock. You could hear Nako teasing Kazuha, but her words were muddled as you focused in on the image of Kazuha’s back.

When you start to regain yourself, you hear Nako’s voice. “We still have three hours, Kazuha. How are you going to last that long?” Nako pinched the younger woman’s cheeks. “Are you going to make me take him the whole time? I don’t mind, but you have to be professional.” Nako turns her attention to you. “Why don’t we head for the bedroom? We can take Kazuha with us. She loves watching.” You nod your head, ready to spend more time with Nako.

#kpop smut #male reader #m reader #izone smut #le sserafim smut #yabuki nako smut #kazuha smut

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lavidavacomoverstappen · 2 months

Note

dad!charles x reader where their it is their baby daughter’s 1st time attending a race and her reaction when charles wins !!

ooo I love this!! thank you anon for asking I hope you like it!! 🎀

3.1K words a little angsty mostly fluff

Odette was only 1 when her parents decided to reveal her to the world. The smiling baby was the center of attention wherever she went. A perfect mix between her mother and father, Odette was stunning to say the least.

Ever since Odette was conceived, Charles had refused to let anything hurt y/n or his baby girl. Both parents agreed that y/n should take a break from the busy paddock.

It was the Monaco Grand Prix, Charles' home race. There was no way y/n and Odette were going to miss that. The paddock was bustling with a hue of burnt rubber in the air. Oh now y/n had missed this. Apparently, her daughter had missed it too, cooing at anything and everyone who gave her a glimpse. It was safe to say Odette loved the paddock and the Ferrari motor home where she currently lay with little earmuffs on her head close to her mother giggling loudly as the cameras panned on her father.

Charles was on pole, followed by Carlos and then Max, the top ten separated by 8 one hundred of a second safe to say it was tight. With his family watching on, Charles wanted to win this race more than ever, but with Ferrari's recent technical problems, it was easy to say the task in hand wasn’t easy at all.

Odette knew nothing about what was going on, all she knew was that her daddy was no longer in the car that was near her. A small quiver left her lips which was quickly followed by y/n picking her up.

The race was halfway through when Charles reported a sudden brake issue. The sigh from the crowd was instant. Y/n never wanted her husband to win as badly as she did today. Waking into the paddock, she had overheard Fred talking about how her and Odette were no good for Charles and that they were the biggest distraction for him currently, Y/n had kept that to herself. It wasn’t wrong for her to want her husband to win so that he would shut Fred up.

Miraculously, the Monégasque had won, for the first time ever a Monégasque had won the Monaco Grand Prix. It was almost as if Odette knew what had happened. Her little hands were fiercely clapping alongside everyone in the garage. Tears of joy leaked out of y/n’s eyes because her husband had done it.

“Tu vois odette ton papa l'a fait petit” Charles rushed out of the car once he had reached his designated P1 spot. He could hear the coos of his little girl and wasted no time in getting towards his wife and daughter.

Odette wiggled harder in her mother's tight grip as she saw her father come close. In an instant, father's arms were cuddled around her side, while her mother and father shared a kiss. It was at this moment when little Odette Leclerc decided to utter her first word “dada”. It was almost a little murmur that could go unnoticed but not by her father. No way did Charles hear what she said and the smile on his face grew twice as much. It almost looked like it hurt from how much he was smiling.

Looking down at his family from the podium was one of the best feelings for him. He wouldn’t change that moment for the world.

That day, the little family celebrated two milestones; Charles' first Monaco Grand Prix win and Odette Leclerc's first words.

#charles leclerc x wife reader #f1 imagine #f1 x reader #f1 scenario #dad!charles leclerc #charles leclerc

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barbieaemond · 4 months

Text

The King of Qarth (sneak peek)

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x Qartheen f!reader (use of she/her)

Warnings: angst, mentions of sexual abuse, child bride, smut, some bondage, knife kink, breeding kink (more to be added)

Author’s note: purely based on this vibe. To be posted next week.

Taglist: @zae5 @succnfucubus @arcielee @multyfangirl @credulouskhaleesi @bunbunbl0gs

“Wife, may I introduce you to our noble guest?”

A woman comes forward to greet him when Aemond enters a lavish hall with several windows adorned with colorful drapes of silk. He is sure he has never seen so much marble in his life, feeling even more inappropriate given the state of his clothes and his whole demeanor, shamefully far from the clean, soldierly appearance that left mouth agape.

“Prince Aemond of House Targaryen, from Westeros.” The Salt King declares as the woman stops just before him. The Prince stands tall and imposing, no matter the misery of his shabby clothes, the state of his dishevelled hair falling in silver tangles down his back. He’s still a Targaryen, his chin is high and proud.

“More like from Old Valyria.” She says raising an eyebrow, and sizing him up and down. “He seems to have just emerged from the Doom, miraculously unscathed.”

The Prince does nothing but seethe his teeth behind his dry lips, a distant shame in his eye that quickly turns into a focused and unblinking rage.

“Welcome to Qarth, my Prince. I’d trust your journey was uneventful but…I can see the Red Waste takes its toll, even on Valyrian beauty.”

Aemond takes a good, long look at her, inevitably lingering on her chest, dressed as the common Qartheen fashion dictates: one breast exposed. But a lot more of her is exposed. Her shoulders, her arms and legs, a glimpse of her hips, all crossed by swirling bundles of lilac silk.

If any married woman in Westeros dressed like that in the open, he’s sure any husband would lock her up. At least he would.

“You must excuse my wife, Prince Aemond, or rather, get used to her habit of speaking her mind.”

“Come now, Xavos. Surely Westerosi women can voice their thoughts?” she moves, walking past Aemond and her husband to reach a small table inlaid with gold to pour some greenish beverage into a cup. “I had a maid once, she was from…Rich Garden?”

“High Garden.” Aemond sternly corrects her.

“Ah, yes. A delightful creature, always smelled so good.” She says distractedly “Anyway, she fled from your lands because she liked girls and not boys and she didn’t want to devote her life to being a brood mare sucking a flaccid cock until her hair had gone white.”

Her maids snicker somewhere past Aemond shoulders, stiffening his posture at the liberties those commoners are granted. “I should hope you Westerners listen to your women more than you do your horses.”

Aemond watches as she takes a sip and laces his hands behind, slightly tilting his head for a moment. “Where I come from, women do not possess such a sharp tongue. Furthermore and fortunately, most of them have manners. They know how to address a Prince of the Realm.”

She turns to leave the cup on the same table and glances at Nyla. “Oh, he bites.”

“This is not Westeros, dragon prince.” She says turning to face him with a righteous smile “I don’t need to ask for your permission to speak. The Salt King is my husband, that is why you will hear my maids and everyone else address me as Your Highness. So, you may lower that chin and stop waiting for me to bow down to you because technically my rank is higher than yours. You might say the only one meant to bow in this room were you.”

The silence that follows is so stark that the air the Prince quickly exhales through his nose sounds like thunder, alerting the Salt King. "Come now, wife. Don't wake the beast.” he says lightly, stiffening a smile “And I mean it quite literally. You should see the size of Prince Aemond’s dragon.”

“I heard.” She acknowledges “Jorio said he’s higher than the city walls.”

“She. And twice, than your city walls.” The Prince corrects her again, just as sternly. “She’s the largest dragon alive in the known world.”

His chin remains high and haughty, simply because he can. Because she knows he could raze the entire city to the ground just by snapping his fingers.

So, she looks down and says “Since you will be our guest, it is my duty as matron of this house to make you feel welcomed. If you would be so kind to follow me, your Grace.” She forces her tone to be as courteous as possible. But then she smiles. “Is my tongue acceptably sharp to your liking now?”

PART 1

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littlemochabunni · 9 months

Text

You’re such a nice guy, a nice guy

synopsis: Toji is just being a nice guy. Helping a girl out in her time of need while you’re at home not knowing where he’s at and what he’s doing. Let him show you just how sorry he is.

pairing: Toxic!Toji x Bratty afab!Black reader

content: 18+ mdni. pwp, Toxic relationship, little angst, petty black fem reader, mean Toji, assumed cheating (Toji is an asshole but he's a loyal asshole), use of the n-word like twice, implied multiple o’s, brat taming, cunnilingus, spanking, cerv*x touching, overstim, dumbifaction, manhandling, hair pulling, full Nelson hold, backshots, c.pie (wrap it before you tap it bby) beta read. Pet names( baby, babe, sweetheart, Princess.)

Wc: 2.7k

a/n: This is my first smut ever and thanks to @peachy-dove for encouraging me and for beta reading! And shout to @rlvsmegumi for humbling my obsession for this creature of a man because insulting him was definitely a challenge before coming to her for help😭. Banner and boarders made by yours truly. Annnd on that note please enjoy 🥹💗

support & mdni

NSFW content under cut. Again minors gtfo.

It’s 2 am when your sleep is disturbed by multiple messages from your friends sending you photos of Toji and some girl around his arm leaving the club together. “What the actual fuck is this?!” You immediately sit up, feelings of anxiety and anger flooding your nervous system as you scroll through your contacts to call Toji debating if you were going to cuss him out or play dumb to figure out where the fuck he’s at. Honestly probably the latter with the amount of fury boiling in your veins.

The never-ending ringback tone plays in your ear as you’re, once again, sent to his voicemail. You opted for calling him a fourth time whilst you decide to spam his phone with text messages, but the usual blue turn green along with a reply message stating:

Msg 2110 - The customer you are trying to text is temporarily out of service.

“This fuckin—“ you let out an irritated groan, because of course this nigga’s phone service is off! And somehow he miraculously healed from the “pink eye” he supposedly had 7 hours prior when you last spoke to him too right? Since he’s out at some fucking club!

It’s going on 3 am when your rage turns into anguish as you call his phone for the nth time. You left voicemails ranging from calm, cool, collected, and concerned girlfriend to cussing him out saying, “Oh you no good community dick ass is out tryna fuck another bitch? You're fucking appalling Toji! Keep ya’ stank ass breath and dirty ass dick away from me. Go choke on a fucking Pepsi for all I care you fuckin’ dick!” You toss the covers off your body as you get up to turn the bedroom light on and began taking every article of clothing Toji has left in your apartment. Wanting to rid your life of anything of him completely, and as you're in the middle of your mental debate between throwing his shit in the dumpster or burning it, a loud banging at your door interrupts you. Reaching for the bat in your closet, you proceed towards your front door cautiously, as you stand on your tippy toes to peek through the peephole. It's covered by the person on the other side.

Attempting to use your deepest man-like voice you call out “Who is it?” “Baby open the door it’s me.” Rolling your eyes at the sound of Toji’s now sickening nickname for you, you let out an exasperated sigh. “One ‘m not your baby and two I dunno anybody named ‘me’. Get the fuck away from my door Toji.” “Y/N let me in so we can talk I just got your messages, you’re overreacting.” Gripping the bat in hand tighter as you open the door furiously.

“Oh, I’m overreacting Toji! Are you fucking serious? You get caught lying and cheating, but I’m over-fucking-reacting!?” you shout not caring about how early in the morning it is. This asshole came all the way here and the first thing he says is you’re overreacting? “Christ y/n, quit shoutin’ before you wake the whole damn neighborhood.” Toji proceed to walk inside your apartment as if it was another regular Tuesday. Grudgingly you step aside as he walks in “What happened? She kicked you out so you decided to come here?” You express as you slam the door turning toward him.

If this was a regular Tuesday, a lot less talking would have been done if he hadn’t fucked up so tremendously.

He scoffs as he continues to your living room, manspreading comfortably on the couch “I ain’t do nothin’ with her babe, I was just bein’ a good samaritan that’s it.” Your eyes hardened feeling infuriated by his words, you stomp towards him. “A good Samaritan Toji. Seriously? That's the best excuse you can come up with for lying about having pink eye, getting caught leaving the club with another girl, and having the audacity to come here like you did nothing wrong. Did you hit your head on the way outta her place or are you just that fucking stupid?” Toji rolls his neck as he sighs nonchalantly, “Look I ain’t do nothin’. I was out drinking with some friends and I got a bit wasted. After that, this girl bought me a drink, so I decided to talk to her. She was very nice and friendly but she had no place to sleep for the night. I thought giving her the key to my hotel room, I was just doing her a favor, you know? But I promise you nothing happened between us... I was just tryna be nice.”

You step in front of him, pushing the knob of your baseball bat into his broad chest, as you chuckle dryly. “You…being nice? Are you being serious right now?? You’re an idiot, you know that? You’re telling me that you were just trying to help out a complete stranger and outta the kindness of your heart. You just gave her your room? An-and for what? For her to have a place to stay for the night or so she’d end up repay you in another way? An-and what about you lyin’ to me huh? What happened to the ‘bad case of pink eye’?”

He kisses his teeth and pushes the bat away from his chest as he smirk at you leaning in closer. “Was just dry eye babe, my bad for gettin’ the two confused.” You push the bat back to his chest pushing him back against the couch, you grit through your teeth, “You're just a lying bastard. This whole time we've been together, every time you went out with your friends, I never even questioned it because I trusted you. Now, I catch you lying and you get caught red-handed by my girlfriends. And you know what's worse? You think I'm dumb enough to believe your stupid ass explanations. Well, I'm not! I deserve better than this. I deserve someone better than a lying ass, cheating piece of...”

Toji grabs the bat out of your hand standing over you feeling fed up with your bratty attitude as he speaks intermediately low, “I ain’t cheat on you, so cut that shit out or imma do it for you. Now you know better than to go around makin’ empty threats like that…” He smirks and caresses your hip teasingly, “Just lemme show you just how loyal I am baby.” Your eye slightly twitches as you look up at him and cross your arms over your chest. “Screw you Toji. You fuck up and you think sex is gonna make things alll better?”

“Yeah, I do.” Toji pulls you in by your waist as he leans down looking smirking smugly, “Are you saying no to me? Really?” Toji brings a hand to your neck caressing your chin with his thumb, “I know you don’t mean it, but if you’re a woman of your word…” He leans down and whispers in your ear. “Tell me no.” You squeeze your thighs together as you try to fight your crumbling resolve, and in a weak attempt of resisting you place your hand on his chest. He chuckles and speaks huskily, “Can you resist me? Can you do it?”

Inhaling sharply you turn your head away from his touch and grumble, “Fuck you Toji… You’re drunk.” Toji flashes a devilish grin as he pulls you in close by your neck, placing a small kiss on your jaw before sliding his hand to the nape of your neck. “An you’re cute when you’re mad. Actin’ out just to get some attention, it’s cute really.” He kisses your neck, letting his tongue glide along the side slowly before biting it. Stifling a moan you try pushing away from his large figure refusing to lose so easily.

The brat in you taking things to the deep end, you look up at him smirking smugly as you say, “If I wanted some attention I’d be out helping some random nigga find his way back to my place, and give him a place to sleep for the night. Y’know, just be a Good Samaritan like that.” Toji’s eyes darken and his grip around your waist tightens. “Still bein’ a brat huh? Well since I’m being so generous, let me help you find your way back to your place.” Your smile drops as the realization of how badly you just royally fucked up sets in and all you can utter is a small, “Oh shit.”

Toji swiftly picks you up tossing you over his shoulder like you’re a sack of potatoes carrying you to your bedroom. You gasp at the sudden movement you pound your fist against his muscular back, “Fuck Toji put me down, I was just joking shit!” He smacks your ass at your tantrum as your only warning, but as he approaches the disarray of your bedroom with his scattering belongings on the floor he chuckles dryly. “Well with all my shit on the floor, think you were pretty serious ‘bout that ‘lil joke.” Your very well-thought-out plan of begging for mercy goes straight out the window as he tosses you onto the bed, you let out a soft whimper once to lock eyes with his and he gives you a look only predators give their prey right before they devour them. “Nothin’ smart to say now, sweetheart?” With no turning back you decide to see how far you can push him, “Oh I have plenty to say, but I don’t think a poor creature like yourself would be able to comprehend...”

The sun kisses the horizon as Toji is slurping up your juices like it’s his last meal, his tongue flexing tight persistent circles on your swollen clit, your moans growing heavier whilst he brings you closer and closer to yet another orgasm he’s so generously given you. You grip his raven hair as you practically ride and push his face away reaching your third overwhelming orgasm of the day. “Fuuck! fucking waait T~” Toji groans deeply against your dripping cunt the vibrations send shivers up your back, and he flattens his tongue as he messily licks up your sticky release. Toji kisses up your thigh leaving soft love bites as he pulls away to stand up to remove his tight boxers that are restraining his hardened cock. “I think I’ve made you wait long enough for ya punishment, yeah?” You pant heavily as your back-to-back euphoric highs fog your brain. “T ‘m sorry… I- I learned my lesson.” As he pulls his boxers down freeing his twitching cock he shows you fake sympathy, “Aww my baby is sorry now? Tsk tsk tsk that could have probably worked earlier y’know instead of you being a fuckin’ brat.”

He grabs your ankles pulling you closer to the edge of the bed and manhandles you onto your tummy, gripping your ass whilst positioning you into a deep arch putting your glistening swollen cunt on display. Tapping his fat tip against your sensitive cunt, you jerk at the sensation moaning out soft pleas “Toji… Baby ‘m sorry okay? I didn’t me—..” He bottoms you out in one go without giving time to adjust to his massive size you moan out into the sheets as he thrusts hard and deep into your tight cunt. You moan out louder looking over your shoulder to see Toji playing and squeezing your plump ass, “Toji please pleaasee I-I I didn’t mean it!” he smirks down at you as he holds down your head to keep you from running from his thick cock hitting your sweet spot over and over. “Didn’t mean what huh? When you said I was fucking appalling? Oh fuuck— or when you said you were gonna let someone else fuck what’s mine huh? Or when you said that my dick was for everybody hmm? Which is it y/n.”

You can barely comprehend what he’s saying let alone hear his deep voice over your loud moans and the increasingly loud paps filling the room, and your fourth orgasm approaching fast. “Yes! Yes! Ah, fuuuck– ah T r-right there right there pleease!” Toji’s cock kissing your sweet spot with each of his brutal thrusts comes to a halt, and he pulls out chuckling at your cries. “Brats don’t get to make demands. Don’t mistake my generosity for forgiveness.” He teases you by rubbing his tip against your throbbing cunt, and watches you wiggle your ass trying to entice him, panting and begging as tears fall from your eyes.

“Please please pleease Toji! Please please fuck me.” Watching you cry for his cock causes something to snap inside of him… He grabs your arms locking them behind your back with one hand as he aligns his hardened cock with your swollen needy cunt, screaming as he slams his thick cock deep inside your walls. Toji covers your mouth thrusting deeper than before with an animalistic-like pace, he's practically fucking you onto his cock. “Thought I already told ya’ to quit that shoutin’ shit y/n. You wanted this shit, right? So fuckin’ take it.” You begin to drool and mumble incoherently against his hand, Toji tsk as he takes his hand away wiping your drool in your hair, pulling you up by your protective style against his chest whilst he continues to bully his slick-covered cock against your creamy walls. “Hmm? What was that? Got something to say, sweetheart?” Panting heavily you speak sultrily, “T-too m-much! Mmmm, please T! I-it’s too much! S-slow d-doown~” Toji groans as your cunt tightens and flutters around him and he lets go of your arms to reach down to your puffy clit, rubbing tight circles as he brings you undeniable pleasure.

“Why should I hmm? Did you slow down to fuckin’ think about what you said?” “T!! Waaaait ‘m sorry!” You shut your eyes tightly tears running down your face as your peek builds back up again faster and faster, you reach your hand back against his lower abdomen in a weak attempt to slow down his pace, crying as you moan out strenuously “Tojiii! I-I— oh fuuck please waait wait wa—” before you can plea anymore all it takes is a few more thrusts and you’re trembling uncontrollably as your release is gushing all over his lower abdomen and down the side of your covers onto the floor. Toji groans deeply and his begins to falter as he watches you squirt all over his cock. “Shiiiit Princess you like that? Fuckin’ take this shit.” He locks his arms under yours, putting you in a full nelson hold pounding into you poor cunt unforgivably as he chases his release. All thoughts and sounds leave you speechless as your tongue kills out and you drool down your chin whilst he fucks you through another unexpected high to reach his and the lewd expression on your face only drives him insane, “Fuucking good girl— oh fuck Princess.” His brows furrow while a small ‘o’ forms on his lip as watching you fucked out on his cock sends him over the edge. He groans out as he stuffs your cunt full of his thick cum, “Oh shiit y/n, fucking take that shit.” You babble and whine out in response unable to form coherent sentences “So full T— stuffed soo stuffed.”

Once he catches his breath he slowly lays you back down on the bed and pulls out causing you to hiss and whine at the lost contact. “Tojiii, put it baack.” He chuckles as he kisses your head and smacks your ass once he pulls away, “Shh, you’re tapped out. You can get some more later if you behave.” he walks to the bathroom to grab a wet rag and a towel for the bed, he comes back to clean you up, moving you over to the other side of the bed then places the towel under the large wet spot. He climbs into the bed laying you on his broad chest. After a short comfortable silence you pout softly and mumbles, “ ‘m sorry Toji.” You hear a deep rumble in your ear and Toji gently lifts your chin as he smiles smugly. “Aw sweetheart I don't want an apology,” He gently caresses your cheek as you smile sweetly at him.

“But what I do want is for you to go clean that fuckin’ mess you made with my shit.”

Well damn.

A/n: well I’m gonna turn my notifications off now byeeeeee

#➸┈❥ℳ𝒪𝒞ℋ𝒜🖋️₊˚⊹♡#toji fushiguro smut #jujutsu kaisen toji #toji x black reader #fushiguro toji #toji smut #toji fushiguro #toji x reader #jjk toji #fushiguro toji x reader #jjk x black reader #black reader #black fem reader #Spotify

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intheorangebedroom · 4 months

Text

Tonight you belong to me, chapter 2

Summary: He comes to you every Friday, in a shady motel on the outskirts of town.

Two months have passed since your first time at the motel with Frankie. What has changed, what hasn't. Who are you now?

Pairing: Frankie Morales x fem!Reader (OFC)

Rating: Explicit 🔞 PLEASE, see series masterlist for extensive trigger warnings.

A/N: Happy Frankie Friday, Orange besties 🧡 How are you all? Gentle reminder that our Reader is an OFC. In this chapter, we get to know her better, and there are indirect physical descriptions of her. Sincerest apologies to anyone who knows Tampa. I did a lot of research, but I'm afraid my ignorance will still show… I swear I did my best. Raul is real, though. He's a friend of a very dear friend and he lives in Paris.

@frannyzooey my love, as always, I am in your debt. Thank you for your help. I love you more than words 🧡

I hope you enjoy this one, Orange besties, it made me sweat blood, @dreamymyrrh and @pedrit0-pascalit0 had to listen to my constant whining to put me on life support. Ily 🧡

Word count: 8.6k

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Chapter 2: Closer

The traffic is dense, but you spot Ava’s red Toyota as soon as it turns into E 7th avenue.

On any given Saturday, the upbeat neighborhood is bustling with cheerful crowds of leisured weekenders and hip thirty-something. On this particular Saturday, the first after Thanksgiving, the streets are a vision from hell.

There’s a constant ballet of cars pulling in and out along the curbs. On each side of the avenue, the sidewalks are swarming with jittery shoppers, frenetically prospecting for good deals on potential Christmas gifts. You’re willing to bet that most of them will stretch their budget thin on useless, meaningless knickknacks. Generic trinkets without soul nor purpose but that will, for the first half hour of ownership at least, fill the void in their consumers’ existence.

The traditional Christmas tree of unholy proportions is up and sparkling. Wrapped around the iron porch columns, electrical garlands blink in rapid sequences like luminescent spasmodic snakes. Storefronts are decorated with more or less taste. The temperature has dropped twice below 70. It’s that time of the year.

The merry season usually finds you adding a generous helping of anxiolytics to your daily cocktail of little helpers. This year, however, you haven’t popped a pill in days, and everything feels… more. Louder, too vivid, more oppressive. Sensations magnified and emotions amplified. Which is, after all, what you were aiming at when you unilaterally decided to taper off your intake.

Ava miraculously secures a free spot on the other side of the avenue, about a hundred yards in front of yours. You watch her parallel park, the maneuver surprisingly sloppy, given the parking assist technology the brand-new hybrid car is equipped with, and you wonder if you really needed to spend that much money on it.

In front of your own parked car, pedestrians agglutinate at the crosswalk. When the light turns green, they move as one, like flocks of extras on a movie set, coming to life on cue when the director yells “action!”

They’re not extras, however, each one of them is the main character in the movie of their life. Together they form a constellation of individual and interconnected stories, while you stand at the margin, forever exhausted, willfully forlorn. At best, a supporting part in Ava’s fantastic tale of eccentric adventures, but more likely a backdrop in your father’s gripping success story.

Although, your narrative has changed drastically over the past two months. You now got a part in your own right, unfolding in between takes.

You wait until Ava gets out of her vehicle before you exit yours, reluctant to leave the hushed safety of your old sedan’s cab, even for the few minutes it’ll take you to meet with her and step into the coffee place.

You wave at her from across the busy street until she sees you, but when she proceeds to jaywalk over to you, reckless and entirely indifferent to your pleading expression, you have to avert your eyes. There’s a crosswalk right in front of you, god dammit.

She levels up with you and pecks a kiss on your cheek, hitting your cheekbone with force, more headbutt than demonstration of affection.

“Hey,” she says, barely stopping in her tracks before she pushes open the glass door to the coffee shop.

“Hello, pup,” you answer fondly, your words lost to the street’s bustle.

Inside, the artificial air instantly pulls at your skin. The atmosphere is cool but dry, saturated with the smell of freshly grounded coffee beans and greasy-sweet pastries. The high-ceiling, cement floor, wide open-space is packed. The brick walls reverberate the ambient noises, and the late morning sun beams brightly through the large floor-to-ceiling windows, evenly spaced along the lateral walls. People sit in small parties around the white designer tables, sipping iced coffees from tall red paper cups with white snowflakes, large shopping bags at their feet.

Trying your best not to shrink and shrivel from the multiple overwhelming stimuli, you focus on Ava’s back, walking behind her as she leads the way to a free table at the rear of the coffee shop, between the counter and one of the windows. There’s a regal quality to her gait and the way she carries herself, not unlike your father, the resemblance enhanced by her preference for masculine clothing, and you have to love the irony, given how much she hates the man. She has your mother’s beauty, though. The same luxurious dark hair, fair, flawless skin, and wide green eyes, her frame tall, her figure athletic. She’s the masterpiece. Next to her, you look like a clumsy first draft, with blurry edges and hesitant features.

She throws her jean jacket on the back of her chair and collapses on her seat with a theatrical sigh.

Across from her, you sit down gingerly on the edge of the hard wooden chair, balancing your weight around the sore and delicious ghost sensation of Frankie between your hips.

“You look good,” you start.

“Yeah, you too!” she exclaims, like it’s unexpected, “tired but like, good. Are you getting any sleep?”

You smile, waving your hand dismissively.

“Don’t we have to go to the counter to order?”

“No, it’s fine,” she answers, “they serve at the table. I’m having an oat milk matte, what do you want?”

“An espresso, I think.”

Right on cue, a young woman dressed in a black cropped top and black skinny jeans presents herself at your table and proceeds to tap in your order on a rectangular electronic device. Her long acrylic nails hit the screen with a rapid succession of click-click-click. The sound brings you back to your parents' dining-room, the large table standing like an angular island on the shiny square of reflective tiles, in the middle of a shag carpet ocean. Your mother’s nails, painted in Revlon Desirable #150, rattling impatiently over the lacquered surface of the dining table near her untouched plate and a glass of G&T sweating with condensation. She never ate her food. She drank even when she was pregnant.

Your fingers find the back of your knee and pinch the thin skin there, so hard you flinch.

The waitress waltzes off, and Ava returns her full attention to you.

“I’m happy to see you,” she offers, and you smile softly at her uncustomary expression of affection. Your chest expends. “It’s been a while.”

There’s no reproach in her tone, but you are usually the one expressing ill-concealed concern over her long silences, and the reversal in your dynamic throws you off. Guilts gnaws at you. You choose defense.

“You were away.”

“Yeah, but like, I came back three weeks ago.”

Three weeks. Your smile fades and you slump in your chair, running a quick mental calculation.

Time has never been an easy concept for you to grasp, but until recently, you’ve managed to remain afloat and functioning, on a practical level at least, amidst a society that revolves around schedules and timetables. The watch on your wrist, yearly organizers, recently and reluctantly replaced by the iCal app on your phone, sticky notes, tin boxes filled with tickets stubs… All clutches to your failing memory, anything to keep you tethered against an overpowering and primal instinct to escape, let go, drift away. And perhaps, most of your exhaustion stems from this endless swimming-race against the current.

Lately, your inability to remember appointments, to navigate time and hold an effective grasp on reality has reached a new high. For the past two months, your life has revolved around Friday nights and the sound of a red pickup truck pulling in and out of a decrepit motel’s parking, tires screeching on the gravel. Inside this timeframe, your entire life is contained. Around it, the days stretch, spiral, and blend. And you’ve lost all motivation and interest in any counter-current swimming.

You frown slightly, scanning her face, but she doesn’t let on anything out of the ordinary. After all, if she genuinely worried, if she so badly needed to see you, she could have given you a call. You were the one to reach out and ask to see her this morning.

Something’s different about her, in the way she holds herself straighter on her seat, with her legs crossed and her head tilted to the side, exposing the undercut she got before the summer. You’re still not entirely sure if this was the bold fashion statement she claimed it to be, rather than a dramatic reaction to her girlfriend moving back to New York. With Ava, it could be both. She’s not wearing any makeup today, her face looks disarmingly young, and the concern she’s expressed, however subtle, churns your insides with guilt and affection.

You plaster a polite smile on your face.

“Well, I’m here now. It’s good to see you, too. Tell me, how was New York? How’s Polly?”

The waitress returns with the pastries and beverages you ordered, and Ava begins to narrate her two-week trip to the big city. She speaks fast, punctuating her words with large gestures to describe the cultural buoyancy, the hip neighborhoods and her thrifts finds, the street food and the refined, cutting-edge restaurants, how everything is bigger there, faster and better, how she fell safe walking hand in hand with Polly, the clubs, the galleries, the weather, crisp air and chilly winds from the north, a refreshing, comforting seasonality to pace the existence.

“I was fucking crying when I boarded the plane back, you have no idea.”

“Oh, I can imagine,” you sigh, shaking your head. “You don’t miss her too much?”

She doesn’t answer, and something in the way she avoids your gaze makes you frown again.

Polly and you have always gotten along well. You genuinely appreciate her solar personality and her worldly conversation. Their encounter four years ago had been the silver-lining in an otherwise horrendous year. The happy, coincidental consequence of a chain of events that had been years in the making.

When Ava dropped out of college halfway through her freshman year, it provided your father with the excuse he had been waiting for to kick his own child out of his house. You had seen it coming. In fact, you had spent your entire adult life shielding Ava from the paternal discontent, investing all your strength into becoming the son and successor he had wished for, and that neither of you could ever be.

Ava, however, had never put in the effort. She didn’t fit into the family portrait. She never had. You didn’t want her to, and she simply couldn’t. Too rebellious, decidedly unconventional, and, well, queer, to boot. Your father had spent years formatting you and there she was, standing proud, strengthened by your unconditional support, a glaring highlight of your diverging values, a breathing reminder of his failure with you both.

In the aftermath of the fall-out, Adrian had refused to take her in, and she had spent days out of your sight, sleeping god knows where. Eventually, you’d dug your heels in, as you only ever did when Ava was concerned and her wellbeing on the line, and obtained that she move in with you. The cohabitation hadn’t gone smoothly in the least. As usual, Adrian was more concerned about potentially upsetting your father than making you happy. You were once again caught between crossed fires.

The strained situation with your fiancé notwithstanding, Ava couldn't spend her time sitting idly at home. You had pleaded with her for weeks before she agreed to resume her studies. Only this time, it had to be with your funding. The realization that you didn’t have any consequential money of your own had been brutal, even though it shouldn’t have been a surprise: you lived in Adrian’s apartment, and were employed by your father, who refused point-blank to let you sell some of your company shares, knowing the money would go to his estranged daughter.

All you could afford was Hillsborough Community College, but things had eventually taken a turn for the better when Ava and Polly had met. Polly was teaching psychology, waiting for a tenure that she would never be granted. Because of the 20-year age gap between them, she insisted Ava graduate with her BA before they started properly dating. And when they did, the improvement in your sister’s mental state and overall balance was immediately noticeable.

Calm and collected, affectionate and thoughtful, Polly grounds your young sibling. She eases her anger and channels her energy into creative and fruitful endeavors, without snuffing her rebellious temper.

And now, despite Ava being almost fully independent, with a job and a place of her own, you don’t know what you’d do if they were to break up. If one of them were to decide that a long-distance relationship is not what she wants.

You lean forward, your hand coming to rest over hers, warm and smooth. “Hey pup, what’s up? Is everything ok between you two?”

“Oh yes,” she quickly assures you, withdrawing her hand, “and by the way, she sends you her best.”

Understanding downs on you like a bucket of ice. You suddenly feel stupid, pathetically naive, forever one step behind. Leaning back in your chair, you let out a short, soundless huff. What you’re facing is not a breakup, but the likely possibility that Ava will soon move out of town to follow Polly to New York.

Ava is talking again, about New York you’re guessing, but you can’t focus on her words. Behind your impassive eyes and your attentive smile, your mind reels and wrestles with a downpour of conflicting thoughts and emotions. Pride flares in your chest at the prospect of your baby sister setting roots in a city as intimidating as New York, but it tugs at something else, something you’re too scared to consider, and an ugly feeling you’re reluctant to acknowledge.

Would she hesitate before leaving you behind, after you’ve prioritized her freedom over yours? After you stayed so she could fly away? And wouldn’t it be the point?

Your eyes travel up along the trail of small tattoos adorning her forearms. Dominos, tea cups, a white rabbit with round glasses, a flamingo, several thin arrows, a broken heart in flames.

What’s your purpose, if she’s not here anymore? If someone else is looking after her? If your sacrifice is no longer necessary nor justified?

“How was Thanksgiving dinner? Did you have fun talking about politics with Richard?”

You wince involuntarily at your father’s name. She never refers to them as “mom” and “dad.” She hasn’t for a long while. But today the sarcasm doesn’t fool you, no more than her feigned indifference.

She’s not truly asking if you had to bite your tongue and smile through conversations that make you nauseous. She knows well enough you’ve got just enough political convictions to carry you to the voting poll, but hardly a step further. Listening to him is painful, but you get by, and your shameful silence buys you necessary peace.

No, what she wants to know is if your family inquired about her. And you don’t have it in you to answer that no, no one has, not last Thursday, not for the past four years, not ever. Not your indifferent father, nor your inebriated mother. Not your bigot grandparents, not your egotistic aunt and her gold-digging husband, not even the housekeeping staff.

You shrug noncommittally.

“Who were the guests of honor, this year?”

The question makes you groan and briefly close your eyes at the memory.

“Adrian’s parents.”

“No?! Fuck! They really want this marriage to happen, don’t they? Looks like you’re not gonna be able to dodge much longer.”

She smacks her hand over her thigh, letting out a short staccato of a chuckle, as if the subject of your confinement through marriage was a laughing matter. You glare at her, crossing your legs and folding your arms over your chest, but the shifting in your demeanor goes unnoticed.

Suddenly, her levity riles you up. She got away. You didn’t. And the only thing that carried you through this year’s Thanksgiving dinner is the perspective of being fucked senseless by a stranger on a dirty motel floor the following night.

For a brief moment, you’re tempted to bite, and retort that, contrary to her, you didn't spend the holiday on your own. But the truth is that you envy her the privilege, and she knows it.

Taking a deep breath that does absolutely nothing to calm your growing nerves, you stir the conversation towards another topic, finding neutral ground with her job. You’re stalling, and you’re not even good at it. You sit restless on that damn hard chair, squirming uncomfortably, sweat prickling under your armpits in the chill artificial air, eyes flicking down to your watch every other second.

“Do you have to be somewhere, or something?”

Your head shoots up. Again, you have no idea what she’s talking about, or how long she’s been rambling for. This is ridiculous. You are being ridiculous.

“Listen, Ava, I have to ask you something. A favor. I have to ask you a favor.”

Her eyes widen at your sudden change of tone but she nods. “Hit me.”

“I need you to… I need to be able to tell Adrian that I spend… that I spend Friday nights at your place. Actually, I’ve already been doing it for a while. He thinks we see each other on Friday evenings. I just… I need more time. I need the night.” You grip your shin with both hands and dig your nails in. “It really doesn’t matter anyway, he’s not home on Fridays, he plays poker and he never comes back until like, 3 or 4am, and I just need— I need to be able to come home after him. Not, like, every week. Or yes, maybe every week. Just in case. If ever. You know?”

She remains completely still and silent as you wrestle your words out of your throat. Her face hardens, her wide, green eyes strained on you. She gauges you in silence for another moment, while you rub your clammy palms on your jeans under the table. Above the table, you do your very best to maintain a casual air.

“And what exactly is it that you do, on Friday nights?”

You anticipated the question, of course you did. You swallow around the sharp stone stuck in your throat. Your eyes dart down to your espresso cup. It’s empty.

“I’m just taking a bit of time off for myself.”

More time, to commit his body and his face to your long-term memory after he’s left you, depriving you of his heat. The tiny bits of him that add up to form the formidable sum of the man he is. The locks that curl around his ears. The dip in his collarbone. The little target tattooed on his hand. You’re never sure which hand it’s on, you need more time, that’s all. And you won’t lie to her, not exactly. You set your mind on that early on. But you will not tell her the whole story.

A large shit-eating grin slowly parts her plump lips.

“Are you telling me that Richard’s favorite daughter is getting some side dick on a weekly fucking basis?”

“Jesus, Ava, why do you always have to be so crude?”

“But you are? Right? You are getting dicked down, every fucking Friday night? Right? Are you on Tinder, or something?”

“I’m not—” you start, but her excitement is louder than your exasperation. She uncrosses her legs to lean toward you, propping her elbows on the table and threading her fingers together, talking over you.

“Why didn’t you tell me? For once that something cool–”

“Because there’s nothing to tell,” you retort through clenched teeth, raising your voice. Her mouth hangs open in shock. You don’t give her time to recover. “And look, if you don’t want to do that for me, it’s fine, it’s not like anyone is going to call you to ask if I’m with you.”

She takes the blow, leaning back in her chair. “Wow. You really thought this through, didn’t you?”

You don’t answer, shame and anger burning your cheeks.

“Why you’re telling me now, then?”

“Like I said. In case.”

“I case what? In case I find myself on a Friday evening in the same place Adrian takes his cuntsluts?”

You steel yourself and stare at her.

“Something like that, yes.”

—

Two months.

Two months of lies and deception, shoving your bright secret deep down inside you, shrouded under a veil of routine and normalcy.

Nine weeks, split into six days of stretched out hours, swirling languid and excruciating, like smoke from a cigarette stub in a room without air, and one day of counting. The minutes, your steps, your breaths, your heartbeats.

Saturdays, worn-out, appeased, pleasantly aching. Sundays rising slow like a lurking threat. Mondays-Tuesdays-Wednesdays merging, dragging and useless. People talking to you, expecting words, when your mind is filled with two glistening bodies entwined in golden hues. A tremor on Thursdays, the nearing promise, and by Friday morning you’re all frayed nerves and aching want, tapping into your pent-up emptiness for focus and patience.

Friday evenings sliced up into a ritualized sequence of actions.

At 6pm, you leave your office and head toward the employees' underground parking. There are 37 steps from your desk to the two silver-doors elevators on the landing. Seventeen stories down, including 2 underground levels, and 58 steps from the elevators to your designated parking place. It is crucial that you don’t allow the pace of your steps to catch up with the racing thumps of your heart.

From downtown Tampa, it’s an hour and thirty-six minutes drive north on the 589, before you reach the motel. An hour and fifty minutes, two hours top, if the traffic’s bad. There might be faster alternative routes, but you don’t use the GPS, so you don’t know about them.

Once you’re there, you park in front of room number 7, the one with the missing brass number. You stuff your phone into your purse, which you slide under your seat.

You exit your car and walk towards the reception in short, hurried strides, cursing the tight skirt that hinders your steps and gives your posture a subdued aspect, which is probably why your father imposes the garment on his female employees.

The reception is a square room with an old humming AC unit, dark-brown fabric wallpaper, yellowing popcorn ceiling and a counter behind which sits Raul, the night clerk. Raul is a short man in his mid-60s. His dark eyes are reshaped into tiny concentric boot buttons by the thick lenses of his small, round glasses. His light brown, straight hair is styled in a bowl cut. He only wears beige Henley’s with rolled-up sleeves and indigo painter overalls. You’ve never seen his shoes.

Every week, Raul hands you the key to room number 2 without lifting his boot-button eyes from the charcoal drawing he busies himself over behind the counter, and tells you in a thick accent that “everything has already been taken care of.”

Every week, you thank Raul, grab the key from his stretched out left hand, and chance a glance over the counter to see what he’s drawing. Mountains, infallibly, week after week, the scenery only varying in shape and shades of anthracite.

And every week, as you exit the reception, you feel Raul’s boot-button eyes strained on your back through his round glasses.

When you step inside room number 2, you flick up the two toggle switches by the door, turning on the lights and the overhead fan, and you go to the bathroom to wash your hands and check your reflection in the antique black-edged mirror.

Then, you return to the room and you sit on the bed. That’s where you wait for him.

You don’t undress, you don’t lie down, you don’t undo the bed.

You know what he’ll do to your clothes. Anticipation trickles down along your spine all the way to the ripe heat between your thighs, and it travels right back up to tug up at the corners of your lips, but you press them together, lips and thighs, as you wait.

He comes in after dark, preceded by the sound of tires on gravel and that of his boots stomping on the porch and he’s here, Frankie’s here, the rush of night air from outside when he storms into the room wafting over your face.

He greets you with a hoarse voice, like he hasn’t used it all week, and he takes a couple of long strides towards the desk, where he sets down his cap. You peer at his reflection in the framed mirror when he combs his fingers through his dark curls, tense jaw, creased brow. You study his broad shoulders, the rippling muscles of his strong back, when he takes off his jacket and drapes it on the back of the chair, swift, precise gestures. It’s his own ceremonial, you let him have it, his transition into this world that you share. The confine of this room. Brown carpet, yellow curtains.

When he turns to face you, at last, it’s always with a heavy, grating sigh, a sound so rough and primitive to express his relief, his hunger, the limit of his patience. You stand up slowly, unfurling in slow motion from your sitting position on the edge of the bed, eyes on him, forever and always. His want radiates from him in colorful angry waves, like a tangible, virulent aura, black eyes boring into your skin and you welcome it as it pours out of him and creeps up to you like thick fumes.

You stand tall in the charged stillness of the motel room, offered, but not quite yet within reach, waiting for him to come and seize you.

“Take off your clothes,” he says as he comes closer, tilting up his chin. The command rumbles low and guttural from his throat, and those words are your cue. You clamber out of your statuesque stillness, twisting your ankles out of your pumps while he tugs at your blouse, as he crashes his lips onto yours.

His first kiss is voracious, unescapable, your face trapped between his cupped hands, and you’re engulfed in the taste of him, drowning in the scent of him, leather and soap and musk. And something metallic you have no name for. It’s intoxicating, you’re floating, losing both bearings and balance, like when you were thirteen, and you’d sneak to the downstairs pantry to drink your mother’s gin before dinner.

On some Friday nights, you’ve already made it back to your glass prison when you notice a tear in the seam of your shirt, or a missing button. “Take off those fucking clothes, I wanna feel your skin.”

“Yes,” you answer with parted lips, parted heart, parted life, jaunty fingers working your skirt open.

Beyond that point, neither of you talks much.

It’s his name –Frankie– falling from your lips, a long but quiet whimper when you come, a whine of pleasure-plain when he inches into you, a moan when you plead for more, a whisper when you promise you can take it all.

It’s his clipped orders, sharp and short.

Open up

Push back into it

Let me hear you

I want you to come on it

And two words, always the same since that first time in the parking lot.

Stop me.

Stop me when he pins your hands above your head or folds your arms in the small of your back, his fingers like shackles around your wrists, and he lines himself up. Stop me before his saliva drips down his tongue in fat drops between your breasts, and he straddles your chest. Stop me, when he closes a fist in your hair and slides you down along his hard length, your chest caving in under your gag reflex, beads of tears like precious shiny diamonds clinging to your lashes. Stop me when he angles your spine backwards with a sudden tug on your hair, when he bands an arm across your belly and ragdolls you to the floor to fuck you harder and deeper. Stop me when he ties your wrists to your ankles with the black zip ties that bite into your flesh.

Stop me with the flat of his hand pressing down between your shoulder blades, Stop me with his thumb teasing your tight ring, Stop me with your legs around his neck.

Those two words, a beacon guiding you through the week that precedes.

Sometimes, when you’re alone, you repeat them to yourself.

“Stop me,” you say, low and quiet, facing the mirror when you're applying makeup, staring straight into your eyes, so intently it twists your reflection.

“Stop me.” A whisper, and a slow-spreading, carnivorous smile that splits your face in two because someone, at last, wants you beyond reason.

Stop me. You will never stop him.

He fucks you twice, three times a night, before he leaves you covered in him, sated and sprawled on the rumpled bed around 2am, with a nod and a husked, “I’ll see you next Friday.” He sounds calm at last. Drained.

Once he’s gone, in the rumbling of the pickup’s engine and the screeching of the tires, your mental countdown to the next Friday is reset. You crouch into the narrow bathtub of dubious cleanliness, and ruefully wash him away in the trickle of hot water. You try to hold on to the thought of him, even more so than to the feeling of his touch. That’s what the soreness is for. It will stay with you until Monday at least.

But in your memory, his face is blurred. Only his sad angry eyes stand out, dreamlike, entrancing.

There's a conflicting distance beyond his hunger. An underlying restraint beyond his roughness. Withheld intimacy. A reluctance to give into your softest touches, when his forehead briefly rests on the plane of your chest, and you circle his neck, or carefully run your fingers through his sweat-soaked curls.

It doesn’t take a PhD in psychology to understand that if he wasn’t in here with you, he’d be somewhere else, doing something worse.

Some weeks, you go through strings of sleepless nights and restless days of anguish, your mind spiraling to the agonizing thought that you are nothing more to him than an empty and interchangeable vessel into which he can fuck his rage.

With masochistic thoroughness, you pull taut a red woolen thread to connect the clues of your insignificance.

He doesn’t name you. There are no sweet names, no terms of endearment, and he certainly never calls you Marion. The sounds he produces when he’s inside you, that’s your reward. Deep guttural grunts, and if you’re lucky enough, they resonate through your whole body when he holds you tight and close.

He never comes inside you. Where do you want it? he pants, when his hips start to fall out of pace. “Mouth,” you quickly answer, always, a greedy match for his gritty ways. And most times, he obliges. Flips you around or scoot over you and shoves his pulsating cock into your warm, wanton mouth.

But sometimes, he doesn’t. The thick pearly white ropes of his spend spurt over your back, your belly, your chest. That’s when he’s got a mind to rub it into your skin. That’s when you want to believe he might have chosen you to be here with him.

In those scarce instances, you are tempted to rely on your instinctual understanding of your relationship. Far from the toxic codependency that, according to Ava, you feed into with Adrian, what you share with Frankie is elsewhere entirely. Week after week, he presents himself before you, visibly wounded, willing to offer exactly as much as he needs to receive. The balance is perfect. No travesty, complete equality. The purest form of interaction. The most honest transaction you’ve ever taken part in.

And thus, no matter how remote he may seem on some nights, no matter how dark his eyes, how clouded his gaze, or how brutal his hold, you can’t help but feel safe.

The feeling thrums underneath your skin and finds an echo in his bloodstream. You hear it in your shared silence, when you lie side by side on the bed and stare emptily at the ceiling, chests heaving, bodies cooling off. When a shiver rakes through you, he gets up and turns off the overhead fan. Walks over to the bathroom to bring you a glass of water.

He’s given you everything you wanted and didn’t know how to ask for.

And when he looks you in the eyes, he doesn’t blink.

Stop me, he says, and what you hear is, Trust me.

He’s been quick to learn your body, and he’s greedy with your highs. He keeps you pinned down onto the threadbare linen with his mouth fastened around your cunt until your legs tremble and your throat is hoarse with your repeated high-pitched moans, the stubble on his cheeks scraping the sensitive skin of your inner thighs. Bestowing pleasure, drinking it right back.

Your body expands into new sensations, after years of a dormant existence, curled up within your outer shell into the tightest ball, the smallest possible shape. You’re spreading, stretching into your limbs, filling them in. Growing nerve endings that shoot farther along your extremities with each fiery kiss, each starving touch, each orgasm, like trees rooting in beautiful, intricate ramifications.

The wild creature nestled between your lungs has a mind of its own. You’re developing emotions unknown to you until now.

The tranquil contentment he leaves you with when he steps back into the night and closes the door behind him rapidly fades over the following days. By Sunday evening, there’s nothing left of it, and you find yourself shivering, deprived of his heat, unsettled, agitated.

Your mind wanders to her. The faceless, nameless woman he drives back to after you’ve fucked each other free of your pain.

Envy, tinged with hatred, pours ugly inside your chest, pressing against your rib cage, hindering your breathing, its heavy particles tainting your oxygen.

Does he handle her with reverence? Does he use sweet names to beckon her into his embrace? Does he spit in her mouth, does she beg him to? Does he rub his spend into her skin, or does he stuff her pussy full of his seed?

Whenever you loosen the grip on your thoughts, you’re brought back to a large reception room on the last floor of another glass prison, stilettos wounding your feet, strangers with empty smiles and cruel eyes drinking from crystal champagne glasses. The excruciating misery of having to interact with Adrian’s colleagues, laughing at golf jokes you did not understand, desperate to fit in. Fighting your survival instinct, to tether yourself and not present a blank stare to those people you were supposed to impress. As Adrian’s fiancée. As your father’s daughter.

The effort seemed worth it, then. You were in love. Or so you thought. In hindsight, you’re not certain anymore. Reinterpreting your past is a temptation you try not to succumb to. In more then one way, you still love him.

There was a hushed tremor in the faceless assembly of tuxedos and cocktail dresses, and you saw her entering the room, parting the crowd. Slender, swaying, lush honey blonde locks and incandescent hazel eyes. Junior partner at Adrian’s firm, quickly climbing the ranks, flawless makeup and oozing self-confidence, she smoked Vogue cigarettes and when your gaze returned to Adrian, everything fell into place. You knew with a chilling certainty that this formidable young woman was fucking your boyfriend.

Adrian had had a couple of flings in the past, but this one was different. He fell for her hard, a grown man in a teenage-like trance. Your blood left your face when you realized everyone else in the penthouse, and most likely in the firm, could see what you were seeing.

You decided then and there that you were never going to marry him, regardless of what he or your father would threaten you with.

But even then, what you had experienced wasn’t jealousy. You’d felt trapped, and yes, betrayed. Wounded, in what little self-esteem you possessed. Thoroughly defeated. But you did not feel jealous.

You understand it now, and every time you think of Frankie’s touch grazing the faceless woman. Every time you torture yourself into considering the nature of their bond and the depth of their attachment.

Would Frankie look at you the way Adrian looked at her? With blunt desire, unabashed, irrepressible thirst? With belonging? Would people around you know? Would they identify you as lovers?

After all, a single glance had been enough for him to take you from a bar, to a parking lot, to a motel. To make you desperate to mean something to him.

Does he miss you outside your shared time? Does he think of you? Does his mind wander to your skin in the blue morning hours, does he try to name your scent?

Deep down, you are no fool. If there’s one thing you’ve always known in this life, it’s your place.

But some Friday nights are more dangerous. They give you too much hope. Prompting you to call your sister, for instance, and risk your little secret so you can spend more time in the small room with the yellow curtains. Wrap yourself in the dirty sheets that bear his musky scent, instead of jumping into the shower. Linger into that breach of your life’s continuum. Extend the delusion.

Last Friday, he buried his face into your core and drew violent waves of release that he kissed back into you, swirling his tongue into your mouth to coat it with your taste.

His face was shiny with your slick and his body glistening with sweat in the soft yellow hues from the bedside lamps, when he got up to the desk and slid his belt out of the loops of his pants.

Your eyes grew wide, but not with fear.

He placed you face down on the bed, with your arms along your chest, and he trapped your body with the belt. You accompanied his movements, docile, curious, without apprehension. The metal buckle was cool on your feverish skin, and the leather smelled like him.

Stop me. He was hard and thick, and he fucked into you in long, thorough strokes, dragging the round tip of his cock along your clenching walls, slamming his hips into the swell of your ass. With his thumb pushing into your asshole and his hand around the belt to keep you where he needed you to lie still.

You came in seismic tides that quaked along your body in concentric ripples, from your wrung out core to the extremities of your fingers and toes. The sound that came out of your throat was unrecognizable, and perhaps it was his. Your mind tipped over into unconsciousness. When you resurfaced, his cock was rubbing in the cleft of your cheeks, his come leaking down the curve of your back, mixing in with your combined sweat, his chest pressing down onto your shoulder blades.

You felt his lips brushing against the shell of your ear, hot breath searing his choked up words into your soul.

“You’re a good girl. Say it. Say you’re a good girl.”

“I’m— I’m—“

“That’s it, say it for me.”

He was lying heavy on top of you, sinking you into the mattress, his belt buckle digging into your side. This was going to leave a mark.

“I’m a good girl.”

“You’re my good girl.”

You will never stop him.

—

Sitting on the edge of the bed, with your back straight and your ankles crossed, you wait. Eyes on the yellow curtains, darting beyond the dusty fabric into the warm December night. It’s yours. All of it. Yours until morning.

There’s the faintest hint of a bad taste sitting on the back of your tongue. Coppery, bloodlike. It comes in waves every time you remember how you twisted your baby sister’s arm into covering for you. But the night is yours. You swallow hard, force a smile. You want to be guiltless, for once.

“Polly says you’re overly secretive. That you like to live ‘hidden between the folds of life’, as she puts it. Something about culpability being a coping mechanism…”

The words, delivered flatly after you’d stubbornly diverted and defused all her questions, had cut through the most tender parts of your flesh.

“Is that her professional opinion?” you had retorted, your chin tilted up as if you were not bleeding inside.

You swallow hard again. If you close your eyes, if you concentrate, you can almost hear it. The pickup’s engine, bolting down the asphalt, bringing him into your needy arms. You can feel the heat radiating from his solid chest and seeping into your body through your palms, resting empty and upwards on your lap. Your tongue tingles with his tangy taste, a trail of goosebumps breaks across your skin, anticipating his caress.

Frankie.

The daydream that carries you through the week, carries you through that very last stretch.

Until the man himself storms into the room like bad weather. Dark, electric, a standing threat.

One look at his face and you know. It’s going to be one of these nights that make you doubt everything.

At first, the change in the script is barely perceptible. There is no gentle acclimatization, no ceremonial, no tacitly shared ritual. He doesn’t face away to let you observe his reflection in the mirror. But he looks like he hasn’t slept since last Friday. The crease in his brow is forbidding, his eyes are too bright, too clouded, circled in black and you’re dizzy with the distance you find there. Tension rolls out from his taut muscles underneath his clothes and you stand up, alert, if not entirely ready.

“Get naked,” he growls, tugging his gray t-shirt over his head, his trucker hat falling to the floor and tonight, you miss your cue.

Instead, you come closer, extending your hands towards him. You call him in a murmur, Frankie, but the wild thumping of his heart under your trembling palms cuts you short.

The light flickers in his eyes, so you hang in brave, hang onto the thread of your touch, sliding your hands up his burning chest. He stills. His gaze focuses on you for the first time since he came in. Your fingertips brush lightly along his collarbone, to the dip at the base of his neck, where they linger, underlining the hollow shape of it, skating around his neck to his nape. His brow shifts, his jaw ticks, and you draw him in for a kiss.

He jolts when your lips meet his. His hands grip your hips, rough and desperate. This is the part where you melt into him, surrender to his touch, but tonight the balance is tipped off. He licks into your mouth with a pained, muffled whimper, and your eyes remain open.

You’re powerless, powerless to get to him and bring him back to you from wherever the hell he may be. And his distance settles between your two bodies, an invisible partition. It stands erect and opaque, projecting its shadow over you when he lies you down on the synthetic quilt and dives between your hips. His ministrations are detached, performative, mechanical. There’s no contained urgency in his handling of you. Empty touches, empty silence, and you orgasm weakly, the sensation floating on the surface of you.

You can sense him, trapped behind his black eyes and this damn crease that splits his face above them, only you can’t reach him. He won’t let you. For every one of your attempts at a caress, at tenderness, is rejected by a shrug, a push of his hand, a shake of his head.

Sweat breaks on his forehead and dampens his curls as he becomes restless, showing none of the familiar signs of the relief he finds in your release, when he hums softly into you, lapping at your entrance to capture what you offer him, what he drew from you. Impatience and desperation roughen his grip on you. He shoves you to the head of the bed and you scramble, sliding on the slippery quilt, curled on your side, until you’re caged between his rigid body and the headboard.

There’s no warning, no Stop me, when he lines himself up with a stifled groan. You bury your face into the pillow and bite down on it to muffle the pain when he splits you open. He starts rutting into you with unrestrained strength, forcing through the vice grip of your tight cunt around his hard length. You try to relax into it. That’s all you ever want, for him to fill you up, to be inside you and around you, but that’s the thing: he’s not touching you. Not really.

Instead of gripping the curve of your hips, or kneading your breast, or lying between your shoulder blades, his hands are clenched on the headboard, white knuckled. His bent knee doesn’t quite touch your folded legs, his hips don’t even slap against the swell of your cheeks.

“Frankie,” you try, but your voice comes out thin as a ripping thread. It’s immediately drowned under the sounds filling the room, the creaking of the bed, his strained breathing.

“Frankie,” you call again, louder this time, reaching to the side to grab his thigh.

He jerks at the contact, sliding out of you with a hiss like you just burned him with a red-hot iron. You grab the side of the headboard to haul yourself up. Behind you, you feel him falling back on his knees. For a few seconds, you can’t bring yourself to move. You remain hunched over, fingers wrapped so tightly on the hardboard, your nails digging into the cheap, tender wood.

“Fuck,” he breathes out, and you turn around to face him.

Your heart sinks and chatters at the sight of him, of his glassy, pleading eyes that won’t meet yours. His chest heaves with exertion, and the weight of something else. He grazes a palm over his face, tilting his head down.

“I hurt you. I fucking hurt you, I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.”

Tonight, this is it. These words are your cue.

“No,” you start, scooting closer to him as he shakes his head, exhausted, isolated. The gesture no longer carries the warning it did as he was about to succumb. It’s a measure of his failure, of the depth of his defeat, and it chills you to the bones.

“No,” you repeat, stronger, and you offer him the only lifeline you know.

Closing the physical distance, you straddle his lap and wrap your arms around his shoulders. When his body stiffens, you harden your hold.

“Frankie… Frankie…” you coo, again and again, like his name holds the solution, and all of your devotion. You say it as you press your forehead to his, as you rub your cheek against his stubble, as you nuzzle the sharp edge of his nose, and trace his plush lips with yours.

Until his shoulders sag under your embrace, until you feel the choked up breath that quakes his chest, you keep repeating his name. A few minutes, or an infinity of seconds, time doesn’t matter anymore. The night is yours, your skins are glued together in the soft yellow light.

His arms circle your waist, hesitant at first, but you encourage him, raking your fingers through his hair, twining them into his soft curls. He lets you, he gives in, tucking his face in the crook of your neck. He inhales you there, raising the soft hair on your nape. His voice is broken when he speaks.

“I’m not–”

“Frankie don’t, please don’t,” you cut in.

You know the words that are piling bitter and desperate on his tongue, know them on an instinctual level. You feel them swirling, black and hopeless inside his head, you’ve known them from the very beginning, recognized them in the sadness of his angry stare. And you won’t let him pronounce them inside this room you share, you won’t let him give them any kind of substantiality. Not between your arms, not against your skin.

“I’m not hurt,” you begin, pulling back to see his face, to look into his eyes and sink your words of hope and faith into him, past the barrier of remorse and regret, “I want everything you–” but his brow furrows deeper as he clenches his eyes shut, and you trail off.

Panic briefly floods your brain. You’re acutely aware of your shortcomings and limitations, of all the things you’ve never been taught growing up. How to translate feelings into words, how to express compassion, how to care for others. How to be heard.

You take a deep, shaky breath, your breasts pushing into his chest.

“Look at me, Frankie baby. Look at me. Let me–”

Let me in. Let me be yours. Let me mean something.

Your plea dies on your tongue when his eyes shoot open. They shine with unshed tears, pierced by a ray of light from the bedside table, and for the first time, you see that they’re not black. They were never black. His eyes are brown, a deep, rich, precious mahogany brown. The color paints your vision, it flows into your bloodstream and courses along your veins. It spreads into your heart, gets tangled in your soul. Around you, the whole world disappears, along with everyone in it. There is only him, his mahogany eyes brimming with tears, and the feeling of his hot, damp skin against yours.

His arms wrap tighter around your back, his warmth seeps into your bones. His hands find purchase on your curves, drawing you closer.

“I want you so badly to be real,” he whispers, quiet and pained, like he can’t ask you this much, but you know that, for him, you’re willing to be.

“I’m so sorry,” he says again.

Swallowing down the tremor in your throat, you give him a tender smile, tinted with gratitude, colored with praise. You cup his face, fingernails scratching at the heart-shaped patch on his jawline. His eyes flicker down to your lips, and you give him what he needs, leaning in to press them to his.

Underneath you, his length throbs with unreleased hunger, and you sway your hips over it. He moans against your lips, the vibration trails down to your core like hot, liquid amber. His tongue peaks out, and you open up for him, like you always have, like you always will. A grating sound comes out of his throat, an echo of your gratitude, a mirror of your pain, a reflection of your loneliness.

He breaks the kiss to lift you up gently, helping you find friction with his cock sliding between your folds, where it pulsates hard and thick against your clit. Your limbs turn to molasses, toffee soft and sticky, but your hips lock into a slow, languid rhythm, slick pooling down on him as you stroke him between your two bodies. His right hand skates up flat along your spine, to settle on your nape.

He draws you in closer, closer than you’ve ever been. His heart beats inside your chest, enveloping the purring wild creature you still can’t name or tame.

“Make us come, baby.”

A dry sob undulates up to your throat. Your eyes fill with hot tears, they spill against his temple. Mahogany explodes inside your brain. The night is yours.

“Yes, Frankie.”

“Make us come together.”

****

Taglist (thank you 🧡): @elegantduckturtle @mashomasho @lola766 @flowersandpotplantsandsunshine @nicolethered @littleone65 @bands-tv-movies-is-me @the-rambling-nerd @saintbedelia @pedrostories @trickstersp8 @all-the-way-down-here @deadmantis @hbc8 @princessdjarin @harriedandharassed @girlofchaos @gracie7209 @mrsparknuts @your-voice-is-mellifluous @mylostloversbookmarks @readingiskeepingmegoing @lovesbiggerthanpride @youandmeand5bucks-blog @sarcasm-theotherwhitemeat @southernbe @blackvelveteen1339 @anoverwhelmingdin @casa-boiardi @nandan11 @jessthebaker @pedroshotwifey @angelofsmalldeath-codeine @noisynightmarepoetry @missladym1981 @laughing-in-th3-purple-rain @survivingandenduring @jeewrites

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deathbecomesthem · 5 months

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Eddie Munson x Fem!Reader | ~1.1K

+18 ONLY - there be smut below.

*self indulgent fic. Reader has an emotionally difficult job, Eddie helps her forget a bad day. I don't know, I wrote this for me.

---

The day stretched out. Too long. Minutes ticked forward, then back, then forward again. It started out fine, the usual. Logged on, typed in your password once, twice, thrice, and then a final time. Right in a row, your screen filled up with the tasks of the day ready for you. Just the way you liked it.

And then it happened. You didn’t just read the words on the screen in front of your face, you understood them. In the middle of writing the Motion to the Court, you read the allegations and understood them. Not just understood, your mind took that understanding and turned them into images in your mind.

Your vivid imagination is a blessing most days, you can read a book and see the scenes in front of your face. You can conjure your own little stories in your mind, and watch them play out. It’s a gift, and you didn’t know that until you realized that not everyone has these miraculous images pop up in their heads when they read a book. Or listen to a song. Or think of a fun story.

But today, you think about the words in the work document, and the story plays out in front of you. You can’t shy away from your own brain, it’s inside of you. You think you shouldn’t anyway. You should let the scene play out, and let the feelings wash over you. You should do those things, because this isn’t a story. No, it’s real. So you take a moment to read. To understand. To see. And then you take a sip of your coffee, and move on to the next one.

—

The good thing about the commute is that it requires no thought. Muscle memory leads the way- a left, a right, take the 4th exit on the roundabout, 4 miles later, you take a right, and then a left. 5th drive on the left, and your home. You think about nothing, you just let your body do the things that need to happen to get your car back to your place. You think about nothing until you see the van, and know he’s home.

A deep sigh, you kill the engine. You grab your bag and your lunch box. You grab your coffee mug and your water bottle. You put one foot in front of the other. You turn the key in the lock. You kick off your shoes and let your socked toes sink into the carpet as you make your way into the heart of your home.

“Hey, I got off work early today.” Eddie’s sitting on the couch with a bottle of beer in his hand. And, why not, it’s Friday evening. “We should go to that place you’ve been talking about. You know? The Korean place on Harvey?”

You think about this. Bowls of sizzling meat, chopsticks, and flavorful broth. Any other Friday, but not today. Your stomach betrays you with a small growl, it’s thinking about the warm food traveling down your throat and filling it up. Your stomach’s emptiness is small compared to the pit in your chest, though.

Your target is in sight, the man sitting with his legs spread on the couch at the center of the living room. You found that couch, in near perfect condition, on the side of the road a month before you and Eddie moved into your own place. You’d stored it in the garage at your parents’ place for 28 days. It’s brown, and the only blemish it had before the time spent in that cold garage on Cherry St. is a tiny hole in one of the arms where the previous owner laid her hand every night.

You lay your hand on that hole, and straddle your legs around the thin frame of your lover, still clothed in the poly cotton blend uniform that has a patch with his name stitched on the left breast. Your other hand runs along the seam of that patch. You’re looking at the white stitching against navy blue when you ask your question.

“Will you please fuck me, Eddie?” Your voice is wet, you didn’t know there were tears until you heard them. They slid down your cheeks, burning at the corners of your eyes as they escaped.

Eddie switches the beer to his other hand, and places it on the corner table at the end of the couch where that small hole in the arm resides. His thumb, still cold from the glass of that beer bottle, catches the tear of your left cheek as it tries to escape and land on your satin blouse.

“Yes.” He answers, a large palm at the back of your neck pulls you down to him so that he can kiss your neck. Kiss that spot below your left earlobe, tasting that salty runoff. He does not flinch from your grief, this is not new. It’s a part of you, a part of what you do.

“Then fucking do it,” you spit at him. His cock beneath you is hard and ready. He’ll fucking do it.

You’re ready to pull your blouse apart, let the buttons fall to the ground. Eddie takes care. Undoes one, two, three - and pulls it over your head. He wastes no time, the bra joins the blouse, $40, on the beige carpet at your feet.

Eddie’s teeth find your shoulder. The bite is anything but gentle, the pain a welcome sensation. You are here, you are marked. A whine escapes your mouth, and his teeth sink into your flesh deeper. His hips rock up so that you can feel his hunger.

You’re on your back, the ridges of the second hand couch pressing into the bare skin of your back. Your pantyhose and underwear have joined the blouse and bra on the floor. The skit stays today. That’s fine, you think, as he pushes the fabric up around your hips.

“Please, Eddie. Please, fuck me.” Your hips rock against open air while he’s peeling the layers of polyester and cotton fabric off of his skin. You can smell the oil, the stuff that keeps the machines on the floor of the factory moving. You think Eddie can’t smell that anymore, but you can. It smells like your man.

Eddie’s hand comes down hard on your aching cunt, a slap that sends a jolt of pain through your body. Throbbing pleasure at your center. It’s right, just right. You gasp, and roll your hips again.

“You want me to fuck you?” Eddie asks, his cock is in his hand now. It’s swollen and leaking. You think about the way it would feel in your mouth, silky smooth skin. Salty, thick, and him. “Ok, baby, I’m gonna fuck you. I’m gonna make you forget.”

Eddie doesn’t take his time, he thrusts himself into you fully with one hard thrust. It’s hard enough that the top of your head is pressed against the arm of the couch - the arm that has no holes.

#eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson smut #eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you

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freelancearsonist · 1 month

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oblivion

➔ Dave York x gn!Reader - 2.2k

➔ Dave left years ago to keep you safe from him. Now, he comes back to finally claim what’s his.

➔ Rated MA for kinda dark fic?????, gn!reader (no pronouns or anatomy described), reader is able-bodied but otherwise is physically a blank slate, infidelity (Dave cheats on his wife w/ reader), smut, choking, biting, blood, this is the midnight mass au that no one asked for [pls let me know if i missed any warnings you think should be included :)]

➔ Thank you to my love @ozarkthedog for this prompt, if you're reading this ily <3

Everyone is leaving this island–your home–in droves. The seas are drenched in oil, and there’s nothing left to fish or net. People are moving on to bigger, better things. But not you; you’ve never enjoyed the mainland, never craved the just-another-face-in-the-crowd feeling of those big cities. You love your little small town, even if most of it is gone now.

You go for your nightly walk, and the loneliness gets to you for the first time since the spill. There’s no lights on in house windows, no kids playing out in front yards. It’s just you as the sun goes down, casting everything in fiery red and orange brilliance.

Some nights seem darker than others, regardless of the star visibility or the moon’s phase. It’s almost like the air swells and surrounds you until it feels like a thick, dark blanket. It can be almost stifling; and those nights never quite leave your mind.

That’s what it feels like tonight, and for no discernable reason. There’s a wicked sense of foreboding–even more so than you’ve come to be accustomed to. It ramps up even more so when you see the only other house in the neighborhood with lights on: Dave’s house.

Dave left with his wife and daughters two years ago, long before the spill destroyed the island’s economy. No one’s stepped foot in it since–you figured it just never sold. But certainly it hasn’t sold now; who would want to move to the island at a time like this?

Curiosity gets the better of you, maybe because a traitorous little part of your brain wonders if it’s Dave. If he’s finally come back for some reason, if he’s here to fix things. That nagging little hope keeps you up at night more often than you care to admit; that he might return and you’d get a second chance. Either way, you don’t think twice about walking up the short driveway to knock on his door.

It’s completely silent for a long few minutes; long enough that you almost knock again. But maybe this is just some fluke thing, an electrical malfunction or something that turned his lights on. He swore he’d never be back, after all. It’s just wishful thinking.

It started on your night walks. He jogged the same route every single night after the girls went to bed, and eventually his jog slowed to a walk when he would come alongside you. You’d walk side by side and talk about anything and everything, vent about work or life and tell each other little stories. Before too long, you knew him better than anyone, and it was all completely by accident. Just the neighborly kindness of him slowing his pace to chit chat with you.

And then this man who you shared nothing with besides a nightly exercise route, after weeks of small talk every single evening, kissed you. In the middle of a street, in the middle of a very small island community where every single person knew every single thing about every other person; a community where every single person knew that Dave was married, and that he wasn’t married to you.

You dragged him home to scold him somewhere that no prying ears would catch it, and somehow you ended up in bed underneath him. All desperately breathless kisses and deeply earth-shattering thrusts and muffled moans of pleasure.

He whispered that no one had ever made him feel so alive before, that he’d never wanted someone more. And you wanted to believe him, so you did.

Miraculously, no one ever found out; not about that first time, and not about the million times after. No one ever found out about all the times that you swore up and down it could never happen again, only to fall right back onto your knees for him. No one ever found out about the time that he finally agreed with you, and the way you cried yourself to sleep when he stuck to it and didn’t catch up to you on your walk the next night. No one ever found out about how the next night after that, he caught up to you and begged for you–for your forgiveness, for the feelings that only you had ever been able to make him feel.

And for a while, it was enough. Being his at night under secrecy of darkness was plenty; until all of a sudden it wasn’t. Until you would bump into his wife at the market and nearly have a panicked breakdown by the time you got home, wondering just how much she knew. Until he would say things that were heavier and heavier–things that translated to something akin to ‘I love you’ without actually being the words. Until he had to leave for a work assignment.

He’d be gone for a week. That was all. A simple job, he’d explained. Somewhere overseas, but that was really all he said. He never liked to talk to you about his work much. He said he’d be back before you could even miss him.

But it was a month before he returned, and he came back different.

Withdrawn, dark eyes darker than usual, sunkissed golden skin looking a little insipid. You tried to convince yourself that he was just coming down with a cold, that the way he’d put his hand around your neck just to feel your pulse thrum under his fingertips and squeeze a little tighter than comfortable wasn’t related; that the way he nearly broke skin from biting into your shoulder so hard wasn’t anything to be concerned about; that the way he seemed to have doubled strength while he was away wasn’t cause for alarm.

You lied to yourself because it was easier than the truth; whatever had happened on his assignment, he wasn’t the same man anymore. The man you had started to fall in love with, circumstances be damned, was long gone.

But it came to a point where the truth couldn’t be avoided any longer, because the inevitable can’t be postponed indefinitely. Ignorance is only bliss until the truth comes unapologetically crashing in.

He fucked you so relentlessly it scared you. The hands that had once held you so gently were pushing you into positions far past your comfortable range, his hips were thrusting hard and deep enough to bruise. He saw the tears that leaked from the corners of your eyes and called you pathetic; and just like that, you knew your Dave York was gone. Where to, you weren’t sure. But something in his roughness, in the way he wanted to hurt you, made you sure he was never coming back.

You pushed him off of you and told him to get the fuck out. For a moment–one flickering, horribly tension-fraught moment–you didn’t think he would. The most terrified you’d ever been in your life was when you looked into his dark eyes and saw nothing but violence.

For a moment, you didn’t know what he was going to do. And then he hastily pulled on his clothes and slammed the door shut behind him without a word.

You didn’t see him on your walk the next night, and the following night after that there was a U-Haul parked in front of his house. Part of you was relieved at the sight of boxes and furniture being lugged out of the front door into the box truck; another, more complicated part of you wanted to fall to your knees right there in the street and start screaming.

You felt his presence before you saw him–just behind you to the left, out of your field of view. You didn’t turn to look at him; you couldn’t stand to see his face when you asked, “Why?”

“There are worse ways to hurt you than leaving,” he murmured, low and deep. “If leaving is what I have to do to keep you safe, then I’m never fucking coming back.”

You turned at that, because what the fuck was that supposed to mean? What would he have to keep you safe from?

You saw so much sadness in his brown eyes that you nearly broke down sobbing. You knew right then that it was over. There was no begging him to stay, no changing his mind. You didn’t even really know if you actually wanted him to stay, at that point.

He walked away to help the movers lug a couch before you got a chance to say anything; no ‘I love you’, no ‘I’ll miss you’, not even a simple ‘goodbye’.

By morning his family was gone, him included. His house stood empty for two years with not a sign from him. Until tonight.

The living room lights cast a warm yellow glow over the front yard in the dark even through the obscurity of dusty window blinds. You’re tempted to peek through and see if you can tell what’s going on inside after standing on the stoop unacknowledged for a few minutes; just as you make the decision to snoop, the front door opens.

It’s him. It’s really fucking him. He hasn’t changed even the slightest bit. His brown hair is still cut short and neatly styled, his handsome face is impeccably shaved. His dark brown eyes are just like you remember them, from before; the hatred and violence they held those last few days isn’t there anymore.

He whispers your name, and then his eyes flash. “You’re still here.”

“Of course I am,” you reply, on guard. “This is my home.”

His fingers twitch on the doorknob, like he’s contemplating shutting you out. “I didn’t know anyone was still here. I wouldn’t have come back.”

“Why did you come back?” You ask, curiosity getting the better of you.

His eyes shift for a moment, jaw set firmly. “It’s the only place I have left.”

He doesn’t have to put it any clearer than that for you to know that his wife isn’t in the picture anymore. You wonder what happened between them, but a selfish little part of you is triumphant at the fact that he came to you.

Except he didn’t, not really. He said himself that he didn’t think anyone was left. That he wouldn’t have come otherwise. Why wouldn’t he have come?

“You need to go,” he says firmly, moving to shut the door in your face. But your hand shoots out before you can really even contemplate it.

Now, you say what you wish you would’ve had the courage to say all those years ago. “I missed you, Dave.”

You can see his patience is waning–his hand flexes anxiously against the door but he doesn’t say anything quite yet, and you know his is your only chance for closure.

“You said, before you left, that you were protecting me by leaving. What do you have to protect me from?”

“Myself,” he growls. His eyes flash dangerously, the same way they did two years ago.

“What…”

“Each man kills the thing he loves, honey,” he murmurs, stepping closer. It feels like he’s towering over you now, looming ominously. You don’t remember him being this imposing before he left. “And I… I loved you.”

“I loved you, too,” you whisper. Hindsight is funny like that–your brain reveals in hindsight what your heart can’t reveal in the moment. “We can… we can make this work, Dave.”

You should be more hesitant. You should remember how scared of him you were at the end, how strange it is for him to show up here in the middle of the night all alone. You should wonder why he’s back here now, when everyone else is gone.

“You don’t know what you’re asking for,” he growls, all the while moving closer to you as if you have a magnetism he can’t avoid. “I’ve changed.”

“I’m asking for a second chance,” you plead as you set your hands on his strong, solid chest. He’s so achingly close now, and yet he still won’t touch you. “I’ve changed too, I’m… I’m willing to make this work if you are.”

He licks his lips, dark eyes focused… on your neck? Why is he looking there of all places?

He notices that he’s been caught when his eyes flicker up to meet your gaze. He just stares at you for a moment, then two, so close that each breath you exhale mingles with his.

And then suddenly he’s leaning in. You let your eyes flutter shut, awaiting the sweet sensation of his lips on yours after so long; but it never comes. You wait, and you wait, and then you feel something puncture the side of your neck.

It’s sharp, and it hurts. Your eyes snap open and all you can see is Dave; his body curls around yours as he gulps eagerly from your punctured artery. A weak hand comes up to nudge his head halfheartedly–somewhere in the back of your mind, you delight in the softness of his hair between your fingers again after so long–but his arms wrap tightly around your waist to keep you in place and your weak resistance is futile.

He was right, you think as your vision blurs around the edges. You really didn’t have a clue what you were asking for.

➔ moodboard by @ozarkthedog

➔ beta: @futuraa-free and @mothandpidgeon (thank u so much my loves <3)

➔ Want to see more from me in the future? Follow @freelancearsonist-updates and turn on post notifications to be notified when I post new fics!

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#dave york #dave york x reader #dave york fanfiction #dave york smut #dave york one shot #the equalizer 2 #the equalizer 2 fanfiction #pedro pascal #pedro pascal characters #cece writes

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morverenmaybewrites · 1 day

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His Father's Son

Chapter 1: A Home Half in Ruins

Pairing: Jason Todd x Reader

CW: Major Character Death, Graphic Depictions of Violence

Tags: Alternative Universe: Dark Fantasy Gotham City, Hanahaki Disease, Childhood Friends to Lovers

Synopsis:

Gotham City: the world’s last and greatest bastion of magic. A city made out of spells and twisting steel.

And the only place where the dead can be brought back to life.

After Jason Todd had been forcibly resurrected by his father, he left Gotham City in search of a new life. One where he did not have to be constantly reminded that he now sits on the border between the monstrous and the miraculous. One where he could forget that no longer quite belongs in the world of the living.

But when a strange new curse surfaces, one that causes plants to take root inside of living people and leaving flowering corpses in its wake, Jason finds that he must come back and help solve the case before it devours the city whole.

Read on AO3

Preview:

Jason Todd hated taking the bus.

He hated the fact that there was only one exit–one escape route, and that he was almost always seated too far from it. He hated the constant contact with strangers, any one of whom could be carrying a gun or a bomb or a knife, never mind the fact that Jason himself had all three on his person at any given time.

He hated where this particular bus had been taking him, right before it had come to a screeching halt in the middle of the road.

The thing that had somehow snuck aboard, ripped off the driver’s left arm, and curled up above the glass doors did not help improve this sentiment.

It had a man’s head, its once-blue pupils now milky with death, sitting on top of a writhing mass of arms. Some of its hands scrabbled at the glass windows, fingernails tapping out a meaningless rhythm that made Jason’s s head ache. Others were grasping blindly at the steering wheel.

Its mouth opened, once, twice, as if trying to speak. But no sound came out. A quarter-sized hole, neatly slotted in the center of its forehead, sluggishly oozed out blood.

Jason’s gun was still smoking.

Someone behind him spoke in a shaking voice. Jason could smell the stink of urine.

“Is it dead?”

The head twitched, when it heard the woman’s voice.

Then it smiled, showing far too many teeth, yellowed and cracked like old tombstones. Its arms stilled their distracted movements, muscles cording underneath gray skin.

Though its eyes didn’t move, Jason knew that the thing’s attention was focused solely on him.

He reached for his other gun.

“No.”

#jason todd x reader #red hood x reader #jason todd #red hood #dc comics #dark fantasy gotham city

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dancingtotuyo · 1 month

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drabble. what's that i see?

Woman | Joel Miller x Female Reader

Rating: Mature/Explicit

Chapter Summary: a unexpected discovery brings Joel acceptance.

Tags: Joel Miller X Female Reader. Age Gap (13/14 years). HBO Characters. Mostly cannon compliant for show & game. Timeline is changed.

Chapter Warnings: pregnancy related things, grief, acceptance, fluff?

Notes: no beta, we die like Gabe, Chris, and Paul.

If you have checked out Before, I would encourage you to do so for more backstory on our dear reader! The final part is out now!

Words: 865

Series Masterlist | Author Masterlist | Playlist

The sun still sits below the horizon when a hand roams over your middle and the scruff of Joel’s beard scratches your neck. You don’t bother opening your eyes, a half-assed whine leaving your lips. He chuckles softly. “Just obeyin the rules, Sweetheart. About to head out.” He kisses your cheek.

You crane your head back, eyes opening to small slits. He smiles at you. “Be safe,” you barely manage to say.

Joel nods, minty breath hitting your lips as he kisses you. It’s soft and gentle. It feels like a lazy morning spent in bed, meant to lull you back asleep. “Always.” He kisses your head. “See you at dinner.”

He stops in the doorway, looking back at your sleeping form. You're seven months along now, well rounded in your middle. Your ankles and fingers are swollen. He’s noticed the slight waddle develop in your gait as well. It all makes him smile.

You’ve been taking things one day at a time, but neither have you made any preparations for when the baby gets here. No crib. No clothes. No discussions of a name. You still need time, even though the window rapidly is closing.

Joel thinks about it silently sometimes, especially when he can feel them moving about, the small grunts that leave you when you get a fist to the bladder or a foot in your lungs. What will the baby look like? Will they have your eyes? His smile? Will it be a boy or a girl?

You’re unconscious before the bedroom door clicks behind him.

Patrol has picked this neighborhood over a hundred times in the last decade, but Joel and Tommy still stop. They still rummage through a couple houses. As time goes on, people have had to get more creative. Things that once seemed useless have renewed purpose.

Joel hasn’t been in this house before. It’s a single story. Three bedrooms by his calculation. He rummages through linen closets and dresser drawers while Tommy goes through the kitchen. He finds a couple towels. They have a few holes, presumably from moths, but they can be cut down for rags. He finds a couple bars of soap still in boxes shoved to the back of one.

The last door is stuck. He puts his shoulder into it twice before it gives way. His breath catches the moment he takes in the space. Dust floats around, flickering in the sunlight from the intact window. A crib sits in the corner, covered in dust. The sheets are faded with tiny pink flowers and the walls painted in pastel pink.

He takes in a deep breath, blinking back tears. It’s eerily similar to the pink he’d painted Sarah’s walls right after her birth. He’d painted it over with purple a few years later once she expressed her preference. It brings forward a whole slew of emotions that he hadn’t realized were bubbling under the surface.

What if you were carrying a girl? Would it feel like he was replacing her? Rationally, he knew that wasn’t the case. Ellie had carved her own spot in his heart. So had Carter. Would this be different? Would biology make a difference?

Joel clears his throat, pushing away the moisture from his eyes. It’s extra dusty in here, he reasons.

There’s no closet in the room. He opens up the dresser. Once again, Joel freezes. Light muslin swaddles miraculously untouched by time. One has little yellow flowers against white, and the other has bouquets of pink flowers that match the sheets. They each have a solid color pair to match. He picks them up, expecting them to disintegrate in his hands, but they don’t. They only release little puffs of dust into the air as he shakes them out.

The last one catches his eye, purple butterflies. Tears gather in his eyes again. There’s a tugging in his heart. Joel has never thought much about what comes after this life even before the outbreak when there was time to do so. So much of his life has been spent focusing on survival. Wherever Sarah might be, he knows she led him here. He turns around half expecting to see her smiling at him from the corner.

It’s empty, but he still imagines her there. There’s no doubt in his mind you’re carrying his daughter. It’s a surety in his brain, and for the first time, he’s okay with the idea of a girl. Hell, it might be the first time that he’s truly at peace with this pregnancy. She won’t be a replacement or a placeholder for Sarah, but the little sister she spent years begging for. His heart will grow, create a new space just as it did for Ellie and Carter. He knows that because he can feel her telling him that.

Joel nods to the empty corner clearing his throat. He wipes the moisture from his eyes, shoving the swaddles into his backpack. The drawer of clothes isn't as preserved but he manages to find a few options untouched by two decades of moths and other insects.

He carefully tucks the items into his pack. He’ll give them to you when you’re ready.

#joel miller #the last of us #joel miller x reader #tlou #woman (joel’s version)#woman (joel miller)#joel miller fanfiction #joel miller x you #tlou fanfiction #tlou hbo #em's fics #pedrostories #pedro stories #ppcu fanfiction

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bettyfrommars · 1 year

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I'm on Fire//older!biker!Eddie Munson x artist!fem!Reader//90's au//Part 8

🚨18+Only, smut, oral (f receiving), fingering, angst, biker!Eddie, biker!Steve, sexual innuendos, alcohol consumption, mention of financial troubles, falling in love, heartache, talk of commitment, talk of monogamy, casual sex, implied cheating, sex with someone other than reader, betrayal, having a stalker, biker gang, swearing, exotic dancers, reader wears dress and heels, reader wears red lipstick. Word count: 9.5k

Summary: In part 8, you start your new job as a cocktail server at the Velvet Hammer, and a few new characters are introduced. You and Eddie are officially falling for each other, while Eddie recalls a relationship from his past that left him shattered. A jealous ex-lover continues to try and rip the two of you apart, and this time, she might have succeeded. 90's playlist here

Series Masterlist

A/N: I'm not sure if it's that time of the month or what, but I cried twice while writing this🙃and not during the parts you might think. Rest assured that biker!Eddie and Reader are endgame. I love being in this world with y'all, and I always look forward to hearing from you! xoxox

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I'm on Fire//Part 8: From Here to Eternity

Day 3 of not hearing from Eddie, and you found yourself staring off into space, trying to calculate what could have possibly gone wrong. The idea that this was the kind of man that he was, that he would just ghost you without a word made your stomach sick. You thought you had developed better radar than that. You’d been listening to way too much Fiona Apple over the past 12 hours, but nevertheless---it was Thursday and you had to get ready for your first shift at your new job.

Shana, the hiring manager at the Velvet Hammer, let you know the dress code and a few ideas for what you should wear. It had to be skimpy and sexy and classy all at once, and at first you worried you might need to go shopping, but then Katie pulled this black latex halter top dress with a zipper down the front out of nowhere, and it didn’t fit her, so she assumed it belonged to her ex. Sure, it was not your signature style, but it gave you a certain Femme Fatale air of confidence that you hadn’t possessed before you put it on. Some of the servers got all decked out in creative makeup and wigs, but you decided to tackle your first day with caution.

You went over and checked the message machine in the living room again on your way out, just in case a call came through in the past 20 minutes that you miraculously did not hear, but the digital red number blinked a big, fat “0”.

Training at the Velvet Hammer was only about an hour long, and you met Jackie, the cocktail server you would be shadowing that night. She raised her eyebrow and gave you a bored look as she chewed her gum, hooking one of her long fingernails into the zipper of your latex dress to pull it down, exposing more of your skin. “That’s better,” she gave an extended wink. “We need those good tips tonight.”

-------

Meanwhile, Eddie spent the morning introducing the new office assistant around that he hired from a temp service, but then he had to leave to run a tow while Wayne showed her the ropes. The old man hated the suggestion that he needed help, but Eddie basically told him he had no choice. From Here to Eternity by Iron Maiden came on while he was en route back to the garage and his chest clenched, because for some reason, it made him think about you.

He never stopped thinking about you, really. But, if he kept busy with work, and drowned out the voices in his head with loud music and distractions, he could push aside the knowledge that he was already falling for you, and simultaneously come to terms with the fact that he was no good for you, and that you would be better off without him. The nights were the worst. He was back to getting only 3 or 4 hours of sleep, feeling like he had been spoiled on those occasions over the phone when he was lulled to dreamland by the sound of your sweet voice.

He knew in his gut that he was doing the wrong thing by not saying anything to you, but his denial was overshadowing his logic.

The suspension on the tow truck, or lack thereof, made him bounce as he came up onto the sidewalk lip to the driveway of the garage, and it somehow jarred his memory to the fact that your first day at the Velvet Hammer was tonight. He almost barreled right into the back of a car pulling out from one of the parking spots and had to slam on his breaks; he was becoming a hazard to everyone’s health, especially his own.

He needed to get his head on straight.

Fuck it, he needed to see you again.

------------

You were bummed to find out that Steve was tattooing at the shop, and not working the door that night, but the bouncer replacing him was also a biker who went by the nickname Thumper. He was stocky with big arms, a bald head, and a beard down to his chest. He called you darlin’ when he introduced himself to you.

“I’ll keep my eye on you girls,” Thumper reminded you and Jackie. “But be sure to come and get me if anyone give you any trouble.”

Tall, curvaceous Jackie rested her elbow on Thumper’s shoulder and leaned against him. “Thumper here tossed a guy out in the street for staring at me for too long once. He doesn’t play.”

“Ogling,” Thumper corrected. “The dude was ogling you, and if they’re gonna sit and get a free show to jerk off to later, they better be leaving decent tips for you ladies.”

Outside, there came the unmistakable growl of a gang of choppers coming up the street, and you excused yourself from the conversation to peek around the doorway. A group of Coffin Kings slowed down in front of the Velvet Hammer to acknowledge Thumper with a lift of their chins before speeding along to their destination, but none of them were Eddie.

The DJ played Thunder Kiss ‘65 by White Zombie an hour or so later as a purple and orange sunset blossomed over the mountains and the place started to fill up. A beautiful girl with a baby pink bob of hair got up on one of the stages with a pole and stated to work her magic while you carried a tray of drinks over to a table of four. The Velvet Hammer dancers never went completely topless, but they did strip down to tiny bikini sets that were plenty revealing, and their dance moves were seductively choreographed. The one with the pink bob had on finger-less, fishnet gloves, and a big tattoo on her thigh that you couldn’t quite make out.

You walked away as soon as you set the drinks down for the table, and Jackie snatched your arm.

“Where do you think you’re going?” She asked with a forced smile, talking without moving her lips.

You were genuinely confused, wondering if you somehow messed up on the drink order. “Um, nowhere, just--” you figured you’d get busy filling napkins and straws or something while you waited for more customers to come in.

Jackie pulled you to the side, bending close to your ear so that she wouldn’t have to shout over the music. “Part of the job is to socialize with the customers, honey, make them feel relaxed. Flirt with them, laugh at their jokes even when they are lame as hell,” she checked over her shoulder and smiled at the men at the table in question. “The more they think you’re actually interested, the bigger the tip, usually.”

You were nodding, taking the information in, wanting to do your job correctly. You’d been working in customer service in one way or another since you were a teenager, but, damn, you were horrible at faking interested or forcing conversation with guys you didn’t want to talk to. You hoped it was a skill that you could pick up from Jackie, because she was a magician at it.

You followed her back to the table so that she could introduce you to the group. It was four men, all in business suits, loosening their ties as they greeted you. They were a little older, ages ranging from 35 to 50, and the one who looked like he might be the oldest with a thick head of salt n’ pepper hair made eye contact with you and said he recognized you from somewhere.

God, the last thing you wanted was for a patron to recognize you from the gallery, that would be the worst.

“Probably from here?” You said with a lilt in your voice, trying to mask your bluff, hoping Jackie wouldn’t blurt out that it was your first day.

“No, I don’t think so,” he squinted, sitting back in his chair as he palmed his drink. “I’ve never been here before, so it couldn’t be that. But, I’m really good with faces, especially when one is as beautiful as yours.”

The forward compliment made you uncomfortable and you tucked your chin. He was a handsome older man, you couldn’t deny that. His eyes were such an intense blue, they were almost white, and you could tell from the way his shoulders fit in this suit jacket that he was in good shape and took care of himself. His friends were looking you up and down, and you could almost hear their internal lewd thoughts, but the older man—his name was John—kept polite eye contact with you as you talked. The watch he had on alone was worth at least a couple grand, and they all smelled like they were made of money.

But, none of them were Eddie, and so your banter felt particularly forced.

Thankfully, another group of customers came in and you excused yourself to follow Jackie over to the next table, wobbling for a moment in your heels before recovering quickly by bracing your hand on the back of a chair.

Later, just as John was leaving, a guy celebrating his 21st birthday had one too many tequila shots and tried to climb onto the stage, but his migration was interrupted by Thumper, who charged over to clam a big, meaty hand on his shoulder and remind him of the rules in a way that made the guys face go pale as he plopped back down into his seat.

You were standing at the bar with your back to John, but he came up behind you and touched your elbow. When you turned around to meet his gaze, he pressed some cash into your palm and said, “this is for you,” with a dimple and a wink, before heading out.

The rest of the group collectively left just as much of a tip on the table for Jackie. “A c-note tip on your first day?” She said with a shake of her head and a snort. “Sorry, but I kinda hate you right now.”

“Who was that John guy?” You whispered across the table to her as the two of you bussed the empty glasses.

“I have no idea,” Jackie shrugged. “His friends come in once in a while, but I’ve never seen that sexy DILF before. He had on a wedding ring, but most of the dudes who come in here do. It never keeps them from making a play.”

As the night progressed, there were eventually two girls dancing, one on each stage at opposite ends of the room. Jackie took her 15 minute break to go out into the alley for a smoke while you kept an eye on your tables. The dancers started a routine to Symphony of Destruction by Megadeth, and just when you had managed to get in a decent five minutes without Eddie on the brain, that song brought it all crashing back. You were at the far end of the bar, and when you glanced up to see who was coming in the front door---there he stood in the flesh, as if on cue: Edward Munson.

You blinked a few times, certain that your eyes were playing tricks on you and it was just someone who merely resembled Eddie, like a mirage appearing in the desert after you hadn’t had a sip of water in days. His muscular frame took up space in the doorway, wearing his black leather jacket, and his hair tied back to expose the two small silver hoops in his ear. He finished shaking Thumper’s hand, and then his eyes found yours, and the hint of a smile quivered on his lips. His gaze shifted around the room, taking in everyone in your vicinity, before they returned to you and hovered there.

A giddy breath hitched in your chest as you mirrored his reflexive grin, wholly unable to mask how happy you were to see him. But then, you remembered that this gorgeous dickhead is the one who selfishly left you in the wind for the past 3 days, and with a dramatic flourish of the tray in your hand, you spun on your heel to head in the other direction to check on some patrons near the stage.

---------

Eddie sat on his chopper with his boots planted wide on the pavement while he smoked a cigarette and stared at the red neon above the door to the Velvet Hammer. The decision to stay away had been to keep you out of Charlene’s cross hairs; to keep you from taking the brunt of this dark, underbelly of a life he had established for himself. As it turns out, staying away from you was too much torture for his raggedy old heart to bear, and that was saying a lot, considering the amount of shit he’d gone through in his life.

He indulged in long drags, sucking in his cheeks, watching people come and go out of the bar, wondering how you would react to him just popping in after days of silence. You knew he didn’t like talking on the phone, and besides---he needed to see your face. There was so much emotion a blind phone conversation could never capture; a lowering of the eyes or a worried brow. He needed to smell you, touch you, and taste your lips; he craved it in the deep corners of his cobwebbed soul.

If there was one thing about Eddie, he was patient when it came to matters of the heart. Matters of his dick were a different story, clearly, but when it came to those rare times in his life when he saw someone as a potential partner, he couldn't just dive in with reckless abandon; he wasn’t Steve. When Eddie loved someone, he handed over his entire heart: all of his loyalty, all of his trust, everything he owned---and that kind of vulnerability was not something he’d been open to feeling for what felt like an eternity.

There had been a woman who was very special to him once, years before you, and it ended with Eddie being hauled off to jail for beating the guy she was cheating on him with to a pulp. He bought a house and moved her in with him; he had a whole lifetime together with her planned in his head. But, there had been clear signs that it was never going to work, including the tiny detail that she never really loved him. Sure, she loved his image, the fact that he was in a band, the way he protected her, but he never felt like he could really be himself around her. He always felt tense and worried, like everything he did would never be enough.

He’d asked himself a million times since then what made him fall in love with her, and the most obvious answer what that he didn’t really know how love was supposed to feel at the time. His whole life, it felt like people were always leaving him, like he was always begging to be noticed and loved, and so her often cold disregard of him felt like familiar territory. Then, one day he comes home early from an overnight run with the Kings to find her taking it doggy style in their bed from this guitarist that Eddie had always considered a friend.

For months, she begged to come back, for him to forgive her, but once Eddie shuts a door, it locks forever. He knew he could never trust her again, which was the most important thing to him, and the pain of that betrayal still lingered like a permanent scar on his heart. In an effort to distract himself, he joined the Coffin Kings charter in Chicago and moved there for a year, fought in an underground bare knuckle ring, and did everything he could to numb himself. That was around the time Steve found out he was a father by way of Oliver basically being dumped at his doorstep, and Eddie realized he didn’t want to miss any more of his honorary nephew’s life.

All of the women he’d been with since then were just futile efforts to fill the void, until you.

So, what are you going to do about it, then, Munson? Just lurk out here on the street all night like a little kid at the fair who’s afraid of the big rides?

He dismounted the bike and stomped out his cigarette nub with the toe of his boot, adjusting the sleeves of his leather. Something made his defenses spike and he looked around the street to see if someone might be sitting in their car, watching him. At this point, he was almost certain that Charlene had paid someone to watch him, because for two days in a row, he’d noticed the same dark red Chevy Cavalier tailing him, staying at least one or two cars back. He didn’t see a car that fit the description parked anywhere near, but whoever it was could be anywhere, maybe even in the building across the street.

Charlene’s unhealthy obsession with him had to run it’s course eventually, she had to get bored and give up at one point. He hoped so, anyway. He couldn’t imagine her dragging this out for much longer, but he also never expected these threats from her in the first place, so he rightfully had his concerns. He thought maybe if he held out a few more weeks, she’d be off on one of her exotic vacations, and she could move on to ruining someone else’s life. But, he couldn’t wait that long to see you, to touch you. Hell, in a couple weeks you might not even want him anymore, and it was a risk he wasn’t willing to take.

There was a chance you might not want him now. There was a chance he’d already fucked everything up.

Thumper was a longtime friend, and he’d been with the Coffin Kings ever since back in the day when Wayne was a patched member. The two smacked their hands together in a signature grip as Eddie crossed the threshold onto the burgundy carpet. Inside the Velvet Hammer was buzzing with music and people and dancers wearing next to nothing on the back stages, people sitting shoulder to shoulder at the bar.

You might as well have been the only one there, though, because you were all he could see: simultaneously loving and hating the fact that you were dressed to kill. He’d never seen you in that color of lipstick before; it was a deep red and he ached to part them with his tongue.

He swore you were about to smile when your eyes met, he caught that adorable glimmer pass over your face and it made his heart still for a beat. But, then it faded just as quickly and you turned away to continue on with what you were doing, giving him the cold shoulder.

This was the first time you hadn’t rushed into his arms since this whole thing started, and it wrecked him. But, he also knew he kind of deserved it.

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Your mouth was moving and sounds were coming out, but you couldn’t remember a word you’d said to the guys at the table in the corner who were still nursing their beers. Your ears were ringing and your adrenaline was surging, flushing a hot wave over your chest. Had Eddie come there to see you? Or was he just there to casually have a drink and get turned on like everyone else?

If he wasn’t there to see you, and he planned on just coming by to hang out once in a while, you’d have to quit. There’s no way you could keep seeing him on a regular basis if this was how he chose to treat you, it would hurt too damn much, and no job was worth that. You had this overwhelming urge to run and hide somewhere, but you couldn’t duck out until Jackie came back, and so you straightened your shoulders and turned to face the music like a big girl.

And there he was: standing at the bar with both elbows hooked on the ledge behind him, boots crossed at the ankles, waiting for you. You could tell that he had just been checking out your ass because of the way his gaze flicked up to your eyes with incriminating speed. His expression was unreadable, but that was nothing new.

Reluctantly, but also, with excitement bubbling in your veins, you made your way over to him, pausing briefly as one of the other servers walked out of the hallway where the bathrooms were. Another song started up, this time it was #1 Crush by Garbage.

“Do you have a break soon?” Eddie swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry at how hot you looked in that strange zipper dress. “Or, I can come back?” His mind couldn’t help but jump straight to the fact that every single dude in the place was thinking dirty thoughts about you, and it made his back teeth clench.

He was there to see you, you thought, your heart soaring. But in almost the same second you realized that he could be there to tell you that this wasn’t working out, that he didn’t want to see you anymore, that he met someone else, that he was moving to Brazil: all of which would be awful, but then at least you could start the process of moving on instead of hanging in limbo. Moving on from Eddie…that sounded like it was easier said than done.

Just then, as your mouth was open about so answer him, Jackie came out adjusting her belt, chewing gum. “Your turn,” she said as she walked between the two of you. “Take a fifteen. Oh, hey Munson,” she added passively at the end, patting him on the arm as she continued around the bar.

-------------

At the far end of the hallway there was a heavy metal door that locked from the outside automatically when it shut, and there was a little wood wedge out in the alley to keep it open a crack. You bent down to push the wedge into place while Eddie put his hands on his hips and stared at the brick of the building across the way so that he wouldn’t get an erection at the sight of your perfect ass up in the air.

On one side of you squatted a big, metal dumpster, and on the other side were a few square crates where employees sat during their breaks, the pavement between them littered with cigarette butts. It was dark, and the only illumination came from a bulb over the door across the way and a streetlamp further down where the alley met with the sidewalk.

Eddie could tell things were different, he could tell you were upset, probably even hurt and disappointed, and he hated that he had something to do with that. All he wanted to do was put his arms around you, but your energy was telling him that you weren’t ready for that.

“I’m sorry…” He hesitated. What was he sorry for? Lots of things. “...for breaking our date and not calling.”

Your tight stomach softened, and your gaze flicked to his after not being able to make eye contact since stepping out of the building.

Eddie hooked his thumbs into his belt loops and looked down at the ground, shuffling his foot. “I had some shit to take care of and I got overwhelmed. But I should’ve said something to you.”

This was starting to be a pattern with him, but you believed that he was telling the truth. It sounded like there was a lot more to the story, but a sincere apology was worth it’s weight in gold to you. You could also tell that he was nervous to be in front of you right then, like maybe you wouldn’t forgive him.

He opened his mouth to say something else and you reached out and grabbed his hand, squeezing it, making his gaze jump to yours. “Hey, it’s okay,” you told him as he unhooked his thumb from his belt loop and took your hand. “I missed your stupid face, that’s all.”

He gave a soft snort, a sparkle returning to his eyes.

You leaned in, resting your other hand on his chest, relishing the direction this conversation had gone and how safe and whole you felt in his presence. You searched his eyes. “You need to communicate with me if this is ever going to work, okay? I don’t want you to feel like you can’t tell me things. Really, there’s nothing you could ever share with me about your life that I wouldn’t be able to handle.”

He really, really wanted to believe that was true, but the cynical part of him, the part that had learned to keep secrets as a way of life, doubted that anyone was that understanding.

“Come here,” he breathed on the curve of a smile, cupping your neck, and pulling your mouth to his. There were a few tender, sweet kisses, no tongue, and then he brushed his nose across yours a few times, lips brushing yours as he spoke. “I missed this.”

You kissed his bottom lip, and then his top lip, savoring their plump, perfect shape, before resting your head below his shoulder and wrapping your arms around him in a hug, his leather squeaking at your embrace.

You released a long, heavy breath. “I thought you came here to tell me you didn’t like me anymore.”

He kissed your temple. “I never said I liked you,” he mumbled, to which you dug your fingers into his ribs in an effort to tickle him, simultaneously trying to pull away. But, he held you tightly in place, deep chuckles rumbling in his chest. “It’s much more than that.”

At those words, you settled, smile pressed up against him, swooning so hard you felt like you were drunk.

What he had with you was special, and now, in his thirties, Eddie knew how rare this kind of chemistry was. You were the drug he wanted to be strung out on.

This...this was his, and he wouldn’t let anyone, especially Charlene, take it away from him.

--------------

There was a pep in your step when you returned to work, enough so that Jackie commented on it, giving you a side eye. “Who the hell got you off on your break?” she asked rhetorically.

Truly, your break had felt like it was over in a blink, like you and Eddie had only been standing out in the alleyway for a second before you checked your Swatch and had to scramble back inside. He asked if he could wait for you and walk you back to your car when your shift was over, and you were fine with that, but you let him know it would be another hour or so, and he didn’t seem to mind.

Eddie knew a lot of the people who worked at the Velvet Hammer. Or, more precisely, the people who worked there knew Eddie. The bartender that night was a guy who looked like Kurt Cobain and he ignored everyone else to make sure Eddie got what he wanted the second he sat down at the bar. The place was packed by then, but every chance you got, you would walk by and run your hand across Eddie’s back and give him a flirty glance over your shoulder as you schlepped drinks around.

Thumper came over and sat next to Eddie when the night got slow and had a beer with him, and the two went out front to have a smoke and chat about the good ‘ol days.

“Is that new server your old lady?” Thumper asked after a drag on his cigarette. He flicked the ashes to the sidewalk and cocked his head.

Eddie propped his foot up behind him, against the building, wallet chain hanging down his thigh, thoughtfully exhaling gray smoke into the night. “Maybe, if I don’t fuck everything up,” he coughed.

Thumper wheezed in a laughing spasm. “You still sticking it to that rich bitch, what’s her name?”

Eddie stiffened. “That’s been over for a while. Bitch got all Fatal Attraction on me,” Eddie’s vernacular took a turn when he was around the older charter members, it was second nature.

“Man, I wish I was 20 years younger,” Thumper sucked in the tuft of graying hair that was under his lip. “Those were the days.”

Eddie was eager to change the subject. “How is the fourth marriage working out for you?”

“Fifth,” Thumper corrected with a nod. “Divorced Jeanie last spring, married Lorraine a few months ago. No kids this time, I got the snip. One more baby momma would break me.”

As bleak as the conversation topic was, Eddie had an inner warmth radiating through his body, healing him, now that he knew the two of you were back in a good place. He didn’t know if a traditional wedding or kids were things that you wanted, but he saw himself making coffee for you in the morning and bringing it to you in your studio while you worked on a painting. He could see you running out the door to hug him as he dragged himself home after a long day at work. A life together with a porch swing and a view of the sunset, maybe a cat and a dog and some chickens. A big garage for his bike and whatever classic car he was working on at the time.

God, he was getting a head of himself. Did you even like dogs?

-----------

Back in the dressing room at the end of your shift, you and Jackie were both changing out of your work clothes and into something more comfortable when Jackie whipped around in only her bra and panties, startling you as you pulled your shirt on over your head.

“Hold up, you never told me you were Eddie Munson’s girl,” she hushed, giving you a sustained look of awe. “The stories I’ve heard about that cock are legendary.”

The way she sounded when she said it suggested that you should’ve been proud, but the declaration only succeeded in activating your anxiety. You tried not to think of all of the women in town he’d given orgasms to as you tied the laces on your shoes. As long as he was faithful to you, none of that other business should matter. But still, somehow it did. That reminded you, maybe it was time to lay the cards out on the table and have that monogamy talk before you got more invested than you already were.

There were still a few customers hunched over their drinks as you walked out, but the dancers were done, and you said goodbye to Jesse, the bartender, thanking him for all of his help. Jackie gave you a high five, and hugged Thumper before she headed off down the opposite side of the street, high ponytail bobbing.

You smiled up at Eddie who was standing there with his arm out, waiting for you to curl against him so he could wrap it around your shoulders.

“I thought for sure you would’ve ditched me by now,” you told him, slipping one of your hands into his back pocket.

“Nah, you’re not getting rid of me that easily,” Eddie joked, lifting his hand in a wave to Thumper as the two of you headed off down the street.

“Take care of that one,” Thumper shouted. “She’s a good girl.”

------------

“Are you?” Eddie asked as the two of you approached your car that was parked a block away.

“Am I what?” You asked, stopping to turn and gaze up into his face.

Eddie lifted his chin with a smirk, exposing the tattoo lines that peeked out of the collar of his shirt across his throat. “A good girl?”

You wet your bottom lip with the tip of your tongue and tilted your head. “Depends on who wants to know.”

He pulled took you into his arms for another kiss, eager tongues this time, moans in the back of throats, cock jumping in his jeans.

Your lips came away just enough to speak, your hand cupping his face, the stubble around his jaw prickling your palm. “What about you? Are you a good boy?”

There was a shiver of hesitation on his breath before he answered. “Only for you.”

The two of you were locked in a moment, you could’ve been on the sidewalk, you could’ve been standing on the moon---nothing mattered and you had no concept of time.

But then Eddie spoke up again. “Do you wanna get out of here? Go for a ride? I want to show you something.”

You didn’t have to be back at the Velvet Hammer until Saturday, and the thought of getting on Eddie’s bike again gave you excited goosebumps.

Eddie started opening the strap on one of the black leather saddlebags on the back of his chopper once the two of you arrived, and you stood back and watched as he pulled out a second bare bones helmet, the top shiny like the round edge of a bowling ball.

“I got this for you,” Eddie said, passing it over. “It should fit better than mine.”

You were speechless for a moment, looking down at it, touched by the thoughtful gift. “Thank you, I love it,” you whispered. He placed it on your head and adjusted the strap under your chin, diligently making sure it fit correctly.

“Is it too tight?” He asked, making sure the sides weren’t pinning your ears.

“It’s perfect,” you nodded.

He straddled the bike. “Do you remember how to get on?”

But you were already grabbing onto the back of his jacket and swinging your leg over. You’d been practicing getting on the back of Eddie’s bike in your dreams.

-------------

You clung to him as the two of you sped along in the dark, your fingertips meeting at his stomach, chest glued to his back, core locked to his tailbone. He had on a pair of clear, protective glasses to keep the bugs from blinding him, and every so often, he would reach one hand down and put it over yours as the bike wound up the hill. You’d kiss the exposed skin on the back of his neck between his hairline and the collar of his leather, and he’d squeeze your thigh.

The spot he wanted to you to was a grass ledge near a line of cherry blossom trees that overlooked the city. He pulled out a thin blanket from one of his saddlebags and stretched it out over the grass. Lights down below twinkled like stars and you took your new helmet off to get comfortable next to him.

“Yep, it’s ugly,” you joked, referring to the spectacular view.

Eddie stretched his legs out in front of him and braced himself on his hands. “I knew you’d hate it just as much as I do,” but then there was a sliver of hesitation, his foot moving back and forth as he considered if he should say it or not. “I’ve never taken anyone up here before.”

Summer was fast approaching as far as the temperature went, but the nights were still chilly, and you had a sweatshirt on, but his proximity and the tone of his voice was rapidly throwing coals on the fire in your circulatory system.

Things progressed quickly. One second, you were laughing at a joke he made, and the next---your lips were on each other, hands roaming over each other’s bodies, heat throbbing between your legs. You were trying to push his jacket off, but Eddie sat up and removed it in a flash, tossing it on the bike with a twist of his wrist.

You rutted your hips against him a few times, but you could sense the hesitancy he had for whatever reason, and you took hold of his hand to move it down to your core, enjoying the growl he let out when he latched on to the wet heat already permeating through your jeans. You clung to his neck as he unzipped them, and you wiggled your hips out so he could slide his hand in. He paused only to take his rings off of his H-E-L-L-F-I-R-E knuckles, and then his fingers dipped back down to curl inside your underwear, slipping into the gushing arousal he found there, groaning against your mouth.

His thick fingers rolled in circles over your anxious nub. “Is this mine?” He asked in a throaty whisper, pressing his forehead to yours, waiting for you to answer.

Saliva got stuck in your throat but you whimpered a yes. He starts to slip his fingers down through your folds and you quiver as he travels deeper, aching to penetrate you, but you catch his wrist, stopping him from going any further.

“I have to...to say something,” you breathed.

Eddie pulled his hand out and rested it on your thigh, and brought his face back so he could see your eyes as you blinked at him under the moonlight. “You can tell me anything, baby.”

You planted a kiss on his chin, feeling nervous for some reason when it came to setting your boundaries. “I can’t be intimate with you if you’re also doing this with other women. I need to know that we’re…” you struggled with how to word that. Demanding some large scale commitment from him might come off as getting ahead of yourself. “I need to know that you and I are something special and there’s no one else,” you paused to lick your lips, eyes lowered to the neckline of his shirt.

Nothing you said could’ve pleased Eddie more, and his attraction to you intensified ten fold in that moment. He used the crook of his finger to tilt your chin up, encouraging you to meet his eyes. “There’s no one else. There hasn’t been anyone else since the barbecue at Robin’s house.”

It was on the tip of his tongue to add, “if you’re my girl, there will never be anyone else,” but he didn’t want to come off as smothering, or make you feel uncomfortable with the intensity in which he was capable of devoting to you.

Relieved, you brushed his cheek with your thumb. “Trust and monogamy are really important to me, I need to know I can trust you,” your eyes met, searching deep, and he pulled your hand to his chest. “You’re the only one I want to be with, and I think we could---”

But Eddie’s lips found yours with a new level of need as he wholeheartedly agreed, so caught up in his growing feelings for you that he didn’t have the words to express them. He could ramble on about cars and music and bikes all day long, but when it came to feelings like this? He was struck dumb.

“I want to taste my girl,” he choked out, helping to work your jeans down with his hand as you kicked them down and off, keeping your mouth on his while your hand clutched his hair that had fallen from the tie and was loose around his shoulders.

“I want to be in your mouth, baby,” you gasped as he met your eyes and then made his way down, lifting your shirt to kiss your stomach, tongue darting out to tease your flesh, face stubble tickling.

A purr escaped his throat as his mouth found its destination and he planted kisses on the outside of your soaked underwear, down your slit, and then he peeled them to the side with his finger, darting his tongue in just enough to make you writhe.

“You can...take those off…” you breathed.

He kissed your inner thigh. “You let me take care of it,” he told you in a deep voice, as he continued on with his business.

His tongue dove in to penetrate you a few times, swallowing, groaning, “fuck, you taste so good,” his hot breath fanned against you as his cock begged for release, his hips rocking against the ground.

The need to be inside of you was overwhelming; painful, even, but he hadn’t brought any condoms with him, and he didn’t know how you would feel about being that close to him this soon in the game. The thought of getting you to cum in his mouth already had his cock leaking.

For some reason, the way he pulled your underwear to the side was turning you on even more? He sucked your clit in and flicked it with his tongue, moaning against you, and it made you arch your chest, exposing your throat to the cherry blossoms above as you cursed. He drew a few long licks along your slit, and then you felt a finger go in just as your fingers dug into the grass on either side of the blanket.

“Are you mine?” Eddie asked between sucks, sinking another finger in.

Crickets made their music all around as the soft hush of the town life below drifted up in the darkness.

“I’m-I’m all yours, baby,” you stammered, forehead clenched.

Eddie’s fingers found a rhythm, moving long and deep in fast strokes as his mouth found the perfect spot that made you hiss, “right there right there,” and he kept working until he could feel your tight walls start to clench around his fingers.

“You’re so good, baby,” you were mumbling, barely coherent now as a strangled cry escaped your lips and your hips fucked into his hand and Eddie’s pelvis fucked the ground, and your eyes started to roll back in your head.

“Eddie, Eddie, cum-cum-cumming,” you jerked as the velvet walls crashed around you, limbs popping spasmodically, whimpering his name.

Eddie pressed his mouth against your core, one hand around your thigh to pin you against his tongue so that he could drink every last drop, riding the high with you until he knew your nub would be too sensitive, and then his tongue returned to your hole a few times, moaning with pleasure at the sweet nectar of your release.

And then you were pulling him up, coaxing him into your arms, your mouth eager to find his and taste your spend on his lips. He wrapped the side of the blanket around you to keep you warm as you rolled against him, both lost in an oxytocin high, muttering words of affection to each other.

Both falling hard under the adoring pink eyes of the cherry blossoms.

------------

The next day, someone knocked on the door to the women’s restroom at the Velvet Hammer because it was locked, and Steve’s head sprang up from between the thighs of the woman he had propped up on the sink counter.

“Ocupado!” he yelled in Spanish, lips and chin glistening in the dim red light.

The woman with the short skirt shoved up around her waist and her feet planted on his shoulders whined, “Don’t stop, Stevie, I’m close,” which made Steve’s mouth lunge forward again with unbridled enthusiasm.

About a minute later, she came, while grabbing his hair and telling him no one ever made her cum that hard. She was a yoga instructor, and they’d only met up a few times so far, but he was already thinking about getting her name tattooed somewhere on his body.

As they were cleaning up, there was another knock at the door, this time it was more of an aggressive pounding, followed by the voice of Jackie, one of the servers. “Telephone call for you, Casanova!” She swatted the door a few more times with the palm of her hand.

Steve let Mary the yoga instructor go out first, and then he followed after a ten count, tucking his shirt in and slicking his hair back as he went. Mary went to the bar to wait for him. It was almost 9:30 and he was getting off early that night because there was another bouncer there, and it was slow for a Friday.

Steve ducked in behind the bar and yanked the receiver to his ear. “Yeah, this is Steve? Whadda ya want?”

It was you, and by the sound of the gentle sucking in of breath and tremor in your voice, you had been crying. Your voice was a tiny mew. “Steve? Have you seen Eddie tonight?”

At the dire tone of your voice, Steve curled into the corner of the bar and put a finger in his other ear so that he could hear you more clearly. “I haven’t, but I should put an ankle monitor on him. Are you okay? Are Oliver and the girls okay?”

You cleared your throat, about to try and explain, but then just said, “Everyone is fine. I’m sorry to bother you. I have to go,” and then you hung up on him, sobs jerking in your chest.

-----------

Earlier that same evening, Robin and Oliver came over to have a pizza night with you and Katie at your place, and then Robin and Katie cuddled in front of the TV while you and Oliver spread out at the kitchen table to make some art.

You had been messing around with some watercolor pencil sketches when they first arrived, and Oliver was mesmerized. He sat as close as he could to you and asked if he could help. You brought out a bunch of markers and crayons and brushes from your studio, and the two of you worked in silence for periods of time, just enjoying the craft. He was a creative, intelligent little boy, and the latent motherhood genes in your DNA made you feel very protective of him. Mess with you? Fine. Mess with Oliver? I will end you.

His concentration reminded you of a younger you, honestly, and a couple times he mentioned his Uncle Eddie and your heart swelled.

Speaking of Eddie---last night, after he made you cum like a banshee, you got dressed so he could take you back down the hill to your car. You called him once you got home, like he asked you to, but you hadn’t heard from him since. Fridays were always busy for him at work, never mind the rest of the shit he had to deal with, so you weren’t too worried about it. He’d probably call you later when he was in bed. There had been a palpable shift, and things were different between the two of you now. You were both on the same page, each committed to a mutual respect for each other.

By the end of the evening, when there was only a few crusts of pizza left in the box, Oliver gathered the handful of artwork he’d created on your sketchbook paper, and slid them over to you as if he was making a business deal.

“Can you sell these in your gallery?” he asked, bending one of his small fingers into the stack. “That way I can help my mom pay some bills.”

For more reasons that one, you started to tear up. You turned your head away to sniff and ran your finger under your eyes, blinking as wide as you could to keep the waterworks at bay.

“Ollie,” Robin said softly. She had just been coming up behind him when he said that, and her eyes met yours. “Things have been a bit stressful lately, but I never told him to---”

“I wish I could,” you nodded, composing yourself, turning to smile at Oliver. “These drawings are worth way too much, though, our gallery could never afford them.”

He looked thoughtfully down at the stack and shuffled them, smiling to himself, and then he pulled one out and passed hit to you. “This one is you and uncle Eddie. You can keep it.”

You were suddenly so emotional. Was your period close? Was someone cutting onions?

The picture he drew with watercolor pencils and charcoal and crayons was a tall stick figure with long, wavy dark hair holding hands with a big pink heart with arms and legs, but no hair or other defining characteristics. An orange oval with legs and a round head to represent your cat Charlie, and there were “m” shaped birds and a sun in the sky.

You thanked Oliver, swallowing back a hitch in your chest, and immediately went over to put his artwork on the fridge, wiping your wet cheeks.

-------

Robin and Oliver had been gone for 20 minutes or so, and you and Katie were wrapped up on opposite ends of the couch watching a horror movie in the dark, candles burning on the coffee table, when the doorbell rang.

It didn’t just ding once: whoever it was blasted their finger onto the button a good 6 or 7 times before they let up.

“What the hell,” you murmured, pausing the tape as you got up, prancing to the door, hoping that it might be Eddie.

You peaked through the peephole and was confused to see no one there. Your eyeball was scanning around for other signs of life when it landed on a manila envelope on the doormat.

“Where you expecting some mail?” You called to Katie, and she got so curious, she jumped up from the couch to come down the hall and see what made you ask that.

She checked the peephole to take a look at the envelope and the surrounding area. Down the street, you heard a car engine start up.

You backed up, worry creasing your brow. “Leave it. I have a bad feeling.”

Katie threw you a look over her shoulder before she unlocked the door and swiftly bent down to snatch the envelope before reeling back inside and clamping the locks down again.

“It has your name on it,” she said, handing it to you.

Sure enough, on the front was your full name in block letters, and on the other side was a sealed lip held in place by an aluminum tab.

Just then, a dark red Chevy Cavalier crept down the street without its headlights and eased onto the main road, out of sight.

-----------

Eddie was at the garage finishing up until 6, and then he had a beer with Bones, who was also a Coffin King and one of his mechanics, and then he went over to Wayne’s to help him install a new cabinet in his bathroom. He made them both some tomato soup and grilled cheese for dinner, and it got him wondering if you would like it if he made it for you.

It was getting late, and he almost called you from Wayne’s, but decided it would feel good to take his boots off and lay down first. He’d let you know the night before that you might not hear from him until late; he was determined to be a better communicator and not let you down again.

He yawned as he entered his apartment, locking the door behind him and throwing his leather on the back of the sofa.

The new answering machine that he had picked up from Radio Shack on his lunch break, and set up at your request, was blinking that he had 2 new messages, but it wasn’t something he was used to checking, so he cracked open a beer and hopped in the shower first.

------------

Once you saw what was in the envelope, denial was the first stage you jumped to.

“But, what are these?” You spread them out on the kitchen island, shock clamping down on your brain so that it refused to process the information in front of you.

They were 8x10 photos, taken with some type of high-powered camera...of Eddie. In his apartment. With two different women on separate occasions. All taken within the past couple days.

How did you know that they were taken within the last couple days? Whoever took them didn’t want to leave you with any room for doubt, and so they were holding up the front page of the paper for that day to mark each incident.

But, you knew Eddie so well, that detail would not have been necessary.

In the ones where he was in nothing but his boxers, kissing Erica in the hallway, you could see the markings from the love bite on his neck that you had accidentally given him over the weekend when he came to pick you up at the gallery.

In the second set of photos, where a tattooed redhead you didn’t recognize was behind him on the bed with her arms wrapped around him---he was in the exact same t-shirt he’d worn last night with a smudge of your red lipstick on the white collar. From when you were both under the cherry blossoms. When he promised that you could trust him and there was no one else. After you opened yourself up to him and let him take a piece of you.

“Who would do this?” Katie said in a hush, almost to herself, picking up each one to look at it closer. “Why would someone do this?”

“There must be a mistake,” you mumbled, your nervous system crashing, feeling lightheaded.

Katie swallowed and put down the photo she was holding, giving you a look that was full of sadness and concern. “How could it be a mistake, though? That is definitely Eddie.”

Feeling yourself about to lose it, you scrambled to pull all of the photos together and hurried down the hall to lock yourself in your room. Once inside, you clutched the photos to your chest and slid down the door until you were on the ground, shaking, choking on tears.

-----------

The older man with the salt n’ pepper hair and crystal blue eyes returned to the Velvet Hammer on Friday evening just to see if you were working. He had a whiskey sour at the bar and asked after you, but was told you didn’t have a shift that evening. Steve overheard the conversation he was having with the bartender and went over to him.

“She’s a friend of mine,” Steve raised an eyebrow, rolling a toothpick between his lips. “Why are you asking about her?”

John turned on his bar stool and shook Steve’s hand, white teeth brilliant against his tan skin.

“She waited on our table the other day, and, it took me a while, but I finally realized where I knew her from.” He paused to extend his hand and ask Steve if he could buy him a drink, but Steve declined.

John opened his wallet to pull a business card out. “I bought some original art from her at an outdoor market a few years ago. She’s a brilliant painter," he met Steve’s bored gaze, seemingly unaffected by the intimidation factor that he usually had on people.

He handed Steve his card. “I’d love to commission another piece from her, if she’s willing. Do you think you could have her call my office?”

Steve inspected the card, turning it over.

“I wrote my personal line on the back,” he continued. “I’m usually at work, but my secretary always knows where to find me.”

Steve knew that you’d be glad for the extra cash, so he slipped the guys card in his back pocket instead of throwing it away like he normally would.

“I didn’t catch your name?” John asked Steve.

“That’s because I never threw it,” Steve returned, introducing himself.

“Good to meet you, Steve,” he nodded sincerely. “My name is John. John Gregson.”

Steve had already read his name on the business card and was still trying to figure out why it sounded so familiar as he watched him get into a black Mercedes across the street.

----------

Eddie was in his gray sweats, drying his hair with a towel when he finally noticed the number 2 flashing on the machine. He pushed play absently as he went to sit on the bed.

The first message sounded like a strangled gasp and then a sniffle, and it made his head snap up, both hands holding onto the blue towel around his neck.

“...Eddie…” it was you, and he could tell you were in distress, and you’d been crying. He leaned forward to hover over the machine, his brow clenched. There was a stretch of time where you were struggling to speak and only managed to swallow a few times. “….why would you do this to me?” Then another pause when it sounded like you were whispering whywhywhy over and over under your breath.

You finished with, “This hurts so bad...." And then there was a click and the message abruptly stopped.

Eddie’s head was reeling, fear and worry jack-hammering in his veins.

His eyes wide and frantic, he picked up the receiver to call you, but then the second message clicked on.

The sound of Charlene’s voice spiked with amused laughter sent a dagger into his gut:

“I warned you.”

--------

Part 9

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@emxcast @bexreadstoomuch @micheledawn1975 @ms1oftheboys

@hellv1ra @dream-a-little-nightmare @etherealglimmer @manicmagicmayhem @layla-loves-ed @aysheashea @unfocused81 @notsobubblybaby @truffleshuffle12

#eddie munson #eddiemunsonseries #eddie munson fic #eddiemunsonsmut #biker!eddie munson #bikersteve #90s au #1990s #1990s music #charlene must die #im on fire #eddie munson angst #angst

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