#//NAILING IT// FOR EACH AND EVERY CIRCUMSTANCE

[anundyingfidelity]

PRIMAL — Weapon X!Logan

Summary: You are right where he wants and won't escape the subject's twisted mind.

Warnings: heavy non-con smut, dark stuff, mentions of being tortured, female!reader. Read at your own risk tbh, thank you if you do though. Someone pls write more Weapon X! Logan, I'm going crazy at this point.

GEN MASTERLIST!

He has you exactly where he wants. Between the concrete and his intimidating aura. Your eyes are glossy, chest going up and down, ready to be the next victim. His last one.

You study the Weapon X subject one more time. He’s broad and muscular, strong frame with adamantium bones, claws out his knuckles as he walks to you, full in his naked glory. Stains of blood start to dry off on his chest, abdomen and shoulders. And even though in other circumstances he would make a good-looking man, he is far from being one now.

He is not human anymore, he is an animal. And you had been part of the experiments since the beginning. For some reason, he had saved you last from all the personnel of the base. A twisted and sick choice.

Logan takes the last two steps towards you, closing the distance. He can smell your fear, sense the shaking of your whole body, the beating of your heart… He had been watching you, paying special attention to you each time he could. Your voice, your silhouette, your job, your routines around the lab. Everything you did he had learned.

And now, after killing and dismantling the place, leaving a horrid trade of bodies and red around, he feels like finishing everything with you.

He doesn’t know your name, he just knows you were part of them and he fucking hates it.

How could such a pretty thing like you could bear torturing a lost soul like him? He growls at the thought, leaning until his nose is almost touching yours.

You gasp loud, the echoes of your breathing filling the empty place. Your eyes shut and you feel tears running down your cheek.

“Logan…”

He replies with a deep groan again, taking in the scent of your neck and the salty sweat covering your skin. Oh and how he loves the reactions of your body as he traces his way to the shell of your ear with his nose.

“Please… You- you’re not like this…”

Begging would do nothing, he knows it. You keep begging and begging, calling his name as he takes in the features of your face, eyes barely opening. And when you cross glances, besides the fear on your gaze, he can sense something else building on you: arousal. It’s not the first time he’s sensed it on you, but sure he will take out his own suffering and frustrations on that.

“Logan…”

Claws come close, cutting your blouse and bra off. He rips the fabric with his hands before your trousers and panties come off the same way. You squirm and cry, but don’t make any effort on pushing him away because you know he would win the same. He’s massive, stronger, and dangerous. He’s a weapon you helped to build, and compared to him, you are nothing.

Probably he will get vengeance by tearing you apart, forcing you on the smudged, cold floor. He’s all over you, not quite giving kisses but bruises with his lips and teeth on your neck, biting on your skin, legs wide as he feels your wet cunt against his hard cock.

You cry his name, more like a moan, when he forces himself inside your tight walls without any preparation. He’s animalistic, erratic, growling, almost howling, like a dog in heat.

The scratch of your nails do nothing. He pounds harder into your abused cunt, tearing an orgasm out of you. He spills himself in seconds, feeling your walls around him sucking him completely, and he continues fucking you over and over his own high, increasing the sensitive feeling between your legs. And just as you think Logan is over by how quick he keeps rutting on you, hips making an obscene noise every time he buries balls deep inside your cunt, it feels like he goes faster, harder, that it becomes too much and you cling into him with nails and loud whimpers, sore throat crying into the void.

He comes a second time with a deep moan, filling you up once again and you do nothing but take it. Slowly, he pumps his white seed into you until he fully stops inside your abused, needy pussy.

The primitive need to kill now is replaced with a more primal urge, and you would be perfect for that from now on.

[saltpepperbeard]

absolutely crying and throwing up over how the beautiful song that plays at the beginning of episode 8 when ed is monologuing/alone, aka etude blue, only has one lyric at the end.

and that lyric is “you don’t need me.”

which…coming off the back of ed running away from stede because he’s panicking about their relationship/about feeling unwanted?

…

[sterekotypes]

Okay excellent points.

I like to think that it’s not even uncommon in the wolf world either. Derek grew up with the “you might not catch disease, but you could catch a baby, so practice safe sex” or something. Derek always used to roll his eyes because that happens to people like Josh from Satomi’s pack, not him.

He’s better than that, he thinks. And, of course, years later, he’s so eager to finally have something -anything- of Stiles that he’s not even paying attention when the condom breaks. All he can do is hope that he is not preg, and give a fake little laugh when Stiles says “Good thing you can’t get pregnant, huh?” as Stiles is walking out of the door.

Because being pregnant? That would be so amazing awful, and how would he even tell Stiles, huh?

He couldn’t possibly ruin Stiles’s life like that. Not when it’s just started. Not when he’s already taken Stiles’s teen years from him with all those supernatural crises.

Derek does what Derek does best. He clams up about it. Disappears from Beacon Hills for months 5-9, and comes back with baby Eli. He just stares at anyone who asks who Eli’s mother is, and eventually everyone just knows not to ask.

So, Derek relaxes into the silver fox we saw in the movie. It helps that Sheriff Stilinski takes it upon himself to help Derek. And if the Sheriff is helping because all he can see is himself trying to raise Stiles after Claudia died? Well, that’s no one’s business but his own.

And Derek is grateful because not only does he have help, but Eli can get to know his granddad and know what a loving pack feels like.

And, yeah, when Stiles comes to visit his dad it’s awkward. Unbeknownst to Derek, Stiles is heartbroken that Derek ran off and had a baby so close to when they slept together. Stiles thought maybe there could be more, but obviously Derek was not into him like that.

And the awkward is too much to handle, so Stiles comes by less and less. Until it’s been 10 years since Stiles had been home, only keeping up with his dad through FaceTimes, voice calls, and texts. His dad offering info about Derek without Stiles having to ask.

And that’s how they go on. Getting little bits of information from the Sheriff about each other.

And when Derek dies? Stiles tries to go home for the funeral, but he has a panic attack as he’s boarding the plane. The flight attendants won’t let him on the plane until he calms down. He does but he misses his flight. Meaning he misses the funeral. He didn’t want to go anyway. He didn’t want to see Derek lowered into the dirt. Not the way his mom was. The way Allison was.

But Allison came back, somehow. That’s what Stiles does on the plane ride back to LA, think about the “somehows” that would allow Derek to come back. And on the car ride to Beacon Hills, he starts to cement his plans. His eyes are burning with exhaustion from the drive, the plane, the tears. So, when he sees Eli for the first time in 10 years, he’s sure he’s hallucinating.

And when Eli gets a sniff of Stiles, he rushes to hug Stiles because he smells like pack. The kind of pack he didn’t have since his dad died, and he had to move in with Scott and Allison.

Stiles tries his best to keep Eli out his plan to revive Derek, but the kid just won’t mind his own business. And Stiles has a flash of being so grateful to his father for his boundless patience when Stiles was constantly getting into something.

And the more time Stiles spends with Eli the more he realizes just how similar he and Eli are. Stiles wants to feel flattered that Derek raised a boy who was just like Stiles, but all Stiles feels is scorned. Because here is living proof that Derek didn’t hate Stiles for his personality, and the more he thinks about it - the more confused he gets.

He stops being confused and starts being suspicious when he visits his third wolf pack and see three same sex couples with a pregnant partner.

Eventually it’s well over a year later. Eli and Stiles have been disappointed time and time again, but neither one wants to call it quits. So, they don’t. They push harder. Stiles is barely sleeping, hardly eating, and the Sheriff is getting more worried every day.

Scott, for his part, has been telling Stiles to just give it up. Move on. He’s been saying that from the beginning. At least Sheriff Stilinski and he lived and he should be glad that no one in his family died. Yikes.

That conversation did not go well. It started with Stiles ripping Scott a new one and ended with Eli living with the Sheriff and Stiles.

Eli nearly dies twice, sticking his nose in where it didn’t belong. Stiles tries but fails to ban Eli from the effort to revive Derek because Eli refuses to listen and sneaks in anyway. And Stiles can’t have his son going off and doing something dangerous on his own. He won’t lose two Hales to the Hale Martyr Complex.

One day, while Stiles is sitting on the stump of the Nemeton, something just clicks. Stiles presses his hands into the stump until they phase through. Until Stiles falls into the between, Bardo. And there is Derek Hale, smiling, waiting for Stiles to bring him back. Because Derek knew if anyone would, it would be Stiles.

This time when Derek Hale is resurrected, Stiles makes him swear he won’t die again. Derek, for his part, swore that when he got out of there. When he saw Stiles again, he would be honest. About everything.

So he is. He stumbles over his words. Can barely look Stiles in the eyes as he confesses his love for him and Eli’s parentage. His palms are sweating as he talks, but he muscles through. And when he’s done, Stiles kisses him. Hard. And when they pull away Stiles says “We will talk about this later. First, we need to go see our son.”

And Derek’s heart just cracks open and oozes over 15 years worth of love for Stiles that has been building up. Derek tosses his head to the sky and howls - long and loud. He gives Stiles a brilliant grin when Eli’s howl answers and just takes off through the woods towards Eli.

The wind and Stiles laughter whips through his ears as he rushes to his son.

And that’s what happened before and after the movie :)

Everyone on here talking about Stiles mpreg but let's think this through. What makes more sense, that Stiles carried Derek's baby to term and left forever? Or that Stiles knocked Derek up unknowingly on their single hookup where they both got so awkward afterward not able to express their feelings that he left for 15 years to avoid it and Derek was too self sacrificing to tell Stiles and became a single dad? And Derek, Mr. Strange werewolf biology who aside from general werewolf shit like aging differently and shifting, can also fully turn his body into an actual wolf. Now who is more likely to have this baby? A seemingly cis male human like Stiles? Or Werewolf Derek with his already strange werewolf biology?

[perlelune]

NDA | Coriolanus Snow

When you get hired as a nanny for President Snow and his wife's firstborn, you’re beyond thrilled and grateful. But quickly, the perfect facade melts, revealing the ugly truth of what actually goes on in the Snows' house.

Warnings: NON-CON, Capitol! Reader, Innocent Reader, Cheating, Coercion, Blackmail, Power Imbalance

This is a dark story. Heed warnings before reading under the cut.

Your worried eyes track the frenzied glide of the woman’s quill over the notepad. You squint, hoping to discern some of the words she’s scrawling that way, but they are indiscernible…just like the stone-cold expression of the bespectacled woman on the other side of the desk.

She catches you trying to peek. Your heart jumps.

As her sharp green gaze zeroes in on you, you clear your throat and shift in your seat.

She puts her quill down and twines her fingers.

“So what do you think sets you apart  from the other applicants?”

You chew on your lip. When you arrived to offer your candidature this morning, you naively believed you’d be early. Instead, you were forced to join the tail end of the massive waiting line stretching far outside the Snows’ estate. It didn’t hit you before that moment, how prized the position is. Each of the women and girls you saw radiated excellent breeding and impeccable manners. Many probably attended the University and could double as a tutor if the need presents itself.

This isn’t your case. Your parents left you and your brother Laertes with nothing when they suddenly passed away in a rebel bombing. You couldn’t blame them. This wasn't the plan. Who plans on dying and leaving their two children to fend for themselves?

Still, you now have a list of bills the length of your arm coupled with a massive mortgage to pay every month. And as Laertes’ sole caretaker, you must ensure you can afford to send him to University once he completes his education in the Academy.

Circumstances denied you that chance. Despite being of university’s age, you couldn’t afford the cost of tuition and had to drop out as soon as you got accepted. You want better for your little brother.

So as soon as you heard the news that President Snow and First Lady Livia Cardew were in search of a nanny for their son Martius, you jumped on the opportunity to apply. You rose before the sun, rummaged through your mother’s closet to find her best dress, and hailed a car to come here.

It’s a long shot, of course. You’re not as polished and impressive as some of the other women. You’re also noticeably younger. But the wages promised alone compelled you to take a chance despite the odds being unfavorable.

Fiddling with your hands, you meet the woman’s impassive stare head-on.

“What sets me apart?” You mull over your answer. You could paint a false, august portrait of yourself, your skills and your accomplishments. Or try to at least.

But what would be the point of pretending to be someone you’re not only to be found out later on? So you elect to tread the path of honesty.

“Nothing,” you say. “But I’m a hard worker. A very hard worker. In fact, I already have three jobs, one at a bakery, another as a clerk in an antique shop and I assist Fabricia Whatnot at her boutique sometimes.” Panic quivers inside you as the woman quickly jots something down on her notepad. You swiftly specify, “...But I’ll quit all of them if I get the position, of course.” You lick your lips as knots tie your stomach. “I can learn everything there is to learn on the spot. I love children, and…” You trail off, gaze traveling to your lap as you muse if you should reveal more. Your fists clench as you add, “I have a little brother who’s a few years older than Martius, and I’m really hoping I get this opportunity so I can give him the life he deserves.”

An unnerving quiet occupies the air. The wait is agony, your nails digging painfully into your palms. The jagged drumming of your heart bleeds inside your ears as she studies you.

Eventually, she leans back in the velvet chair, her face betraying no thought or emotion.

“You’re dismissed,” she says.

Your heart plummets to your feet. You shakily rise, dispirited as you drag your heels towards the door. You steal a glance above your shoulder. The woman’s attention has already drifted away from you as she shouts for the next applicant.

You sourly exit the office. You try to swallow your dejection as you note how many women are still waiting in line, each of them likely more qualified and experienced. It’s obvious you tanked the interview. Shoulders slumping, you take resigned steps through the elegant, palatial hallways of the Snow’s mansion. You get lost in admiring the crystal and gold chandeliers hanging from the high ceilings. There isn’t an inch of the house that doesn’t scream excessive, unattainable wealth.

You take your time soaking it in. Chances are you’ll never step foot in such a place in your lifetime ever again.

Distracted, you don’t notice the person in front of you before it’s too late. You bump straight into a hard, inflexible body. 

The sudden collision threatens your balance.

Fingers coil around your wrists as you stagger back, preventing your impending collapse onto the marbled floor.

As your attention drifts skywards, your jaw drops at who fills your vision.

“P-President Snow, my deepest apologies, s-sir,” you stammer, flames licking your cheeks.

As if you didn’t make yourself look dimwitted enough before, you now carelessly crashed into the leader of all of Panem. Just when you thought the day couldn’t possibly get worse.

You take him in. It truly is him. Shock fills you. 

 Tall and dazzling in a crisp white shirt and crimson vest that hints at his lean physique beneath the clothes, his signature blond waves slicked away from his face, he looks every bit the important figure that he is.

The flickering TV screen you own at home doesn’t do him justice.

A gentle smirk unfurls on his lips.

“It’s quite alright. I’m not made of sugar,” he jests.

“No…you’re not, your highness…majesty...I mean sir.”

Your blunder expands his smile. His cerulean gaze drags over your frame.

“Are you here for the nursemaid position?”

“I am, sir.” You unleash a deep exhale, his inquiry tossing salt on the fresh wound. The interviewer clearly wasn’t impressed by your less than stellar performance. Maybe you should have tried to mimic the way the girls with whom you attended the Academy behave more. They carry themselves with such confidence, wading through the world with the certainty of their destinies being secure, bereft of hardships unlike district dwellers.

You envy how carefree they get to be. Everyday you wake up worried you’ll come up short on a bill and you and Laertes will be forced to leave your family home. No matter how diligent you are at work, there never seems to be enough money to sustain the two of you. Even with three jobs, you’re barely eking out a decent living for you and your little brother. Many times, you’ve gone to bed hungry just so Laertes would not.

You don’t even realize tears have filled your eyes to the brim until a handkerchief is daintily pressed into your cheeks.

Flabbergasted, you blink up at President Snow. 

“Thank you,” you exhale, stunned by his kind gesture.

“What’s the matter?” he asks.

You search his eyes. Genuine interest lights up his pellucid blue orbs.

Without much thought, you confess, “I just don’t think I did very well with my interview.”

As he scrutinizes you in silence, cocking his head sideways, embarrassment rushes through you.

Words anxiously leave your lips in a tremulous string.

“God, I’m so sorry, spilling my problems to you as if you’re not an extremely busy man, sir.”

He shakes his head. “It’s quite alright. And do not count yourself defeated, sweetheart.” Your pulse stutters when he bends over you to whisper, “You may have left a stronger impression than you think.”

He nudges the pocket square between your hands. It’s still damp with your tears. You gape at it in awe. President Snow’s initials are elegantly etched in the left corner of the fabric.

“Here. Keep it. Though I’d much prefer it if you didn’t cry.” He pauses, studying you. “Girls as lovely as you never should.”

His words send your heart into a frenzy. For a while, you’re too stunned to move. You then shake yourself back to reality, noticing you’re now staring at the empty space where he used to stand. He’s gone. You look ahead. He’s already miles away from you, wrapped in conversation with who seems to be an assistant of his. 

Your thumbs press against the soft fabric of the pocket square. Cheeks ablaze, you hold it to your nose. It smells like roses, the same delicate scent that wafted from him a few minutes ago. Your back prickles. You pivot and are astonished to find the envious glares of some of the applicants still waiting in line zeroed in on you. Self-conscious, you rush to continue your exit, fleeing away from the hateful stares. 

As the outside gates come into sight, you can’t suppress an elated smile. It’s not everyday someone meets President Snow and receives such a gift from him. Shoving the handkerchief in your pocket, you vow to place it somewhere safe and always cherish it. 

When you return home, your brother’s already sitting in the living room, his tiny brows scrunched in concentration and his nose buried in his books. Your stomach sinks. Everything you did today was for him. You can’t help but feel you missed out on a huge opportunity, one that’d have changed the course of his life forever. You glance around at the apartment. The walls are crumbling. The wooden floors are creaking. The pipes in the kitchen have been leaking for weeks, a measly bucket you must empty every morning the only thing preventing a flood. And at night, the pitter-patter of rodents’ paws resonates from the ceiling.

Every inch of your family home is in dire need of repairs.

Unfortunately, every penny you earn goes into rent and food, meaning the house falls apart a bit more everyday. Perhaps one day, you and Laertes will awake beneath the rubble of what’s left of your childhood home. Nightmares of that sometimes keep you up at night.

“How was the Academy today?” you chime, rummaging through the kitchen cabinets. Worry twists your chest. There isn’t much left. You’ll need to make do with cabbage and whatever other veggies are left. Perhaps you could toss in some leftover dried meat and make a stew.

“My teacher signed me up for advanced trigonometry,” your brother announces.

You close the cabinet and beam at him.

“Oh, that sounds hard. I’m proud of you.” It doesn’t exactly surprise you. Laertes’ always been exceptionally smart. Even his teachers noticed how gifted he is from an early age. Unlike you, he breezed through middle school and now the Academy.

It’s why it’s crucial you make sure he can go to the University. A mind like his shouldn’t be wasted.

You brother shrugs, exuding nonchalance.

“It’s fine.”

You rush to him. You wrap your arm around him playfully and hug him in his chair, pulling his cheek like when he was little. You know he hates when you do that but you can’t help teasing him a bit. It’s your duty as a big sister after all.

“Don’t downplay it. My little brother’s a genius.”

He wriggles his way out of the hug, rolling his eyes. 

“Stop it.”

You head back to the kitchen and fire the stove.

“I’ll make you something,” you say, smiling at your brother.

His brows knit. “Make something for yourself first.”

You nibble your bottom lip. You truly hoped he wouldn’t notice, how much smaller than his your portions are. But he’s growing; he needs it. Much more than you. Besides, how can he focus at the Academy and be the brilliant boy he is supposed to be with a growling stomach? You won’t allow it.

“Laertes…”

He shakes his head, his expression firm.

“No. You always do this. This time, we split whatever is left.”

Heaving out a resigned exhale, you nod. You whirl to resume preparing dinner.

You gather a boiling pot from the overhead cabinet and place it on the stove. With the ease of practice, you begin chopping vegetables and tossing them into the pot. You add spices and water. The mouthwatering aroma quickly fills the kitchen. Pride swells in your chest. Your cooking skills have improved so much in the last year since your parents passed. You now manage to bring flavor to the blandest of meals. 

Once the stew’s ready, you pour a portion in each bowl, putting just a little more in your brother’s and praying he will not notice.

You place the steaming bowls on the table and take a seat opposite him.

“No books at the dining table,” you admonish, mimicking the exact tone your mother used with your brother. Admitting defeat, Laertes sighs and sets his homework aside. The tiny victory tugs your lips skyward.

He tells you about his day at the Academy while the two of you eat. You’re delighted to hear he’s making a lot of friends and he’s at the top of his class for most science subjects. He’s struggling a bit more with his poetry and ethics classes, but you encourage him by reminding him he can just ask the teacher for extra assignments to keep his grade up.

“I interviewed for a new job today,” you reveal, stirring the spoon in your bowl while waiting for your brother to eat more of his food.

“How did it go?”

“Well, it pays really well so I’m hopeful.”

The hope dancing in his eyes makes your chest ache. You don’t have the heart to tell him you made a fool of yourself today. You may not be gifted like your brother, but you want him to know he can rely on you at least.

Pursing his mouth, he looks down at his stew.

“That’s great. It’d be good if you didn’t have to work as much.”

Your smile falters. “Don’t worry. I have everything under control.”

“Okay.”

His dour tone stirs your concern. You wish you were better at hiding things from him, making his childhood as normal as possible. But your brother’s twelve now, and that’s old enough to sense when things are wrong.

He rises from his seat. You frown as you note there’s still food left in his bowl.

“Finish your plate before going to your room.”

Annoyance pinches his features but he still picks up his bowl and hastily guzzles down the remainder of his stew.

“Happy now?” he says, wiping his mouth.

“Yes. Very,” you cheerfully respond.

He gathers his books and strides towards his room. 

Your voice rises.

“Don’t stay up too late to study, okay? I love you.”

“I…love you too,” he mumbles.

You bask in the moment as you clean the table. Thankfully Laertes is still at an age where he says it back. One day he might not. So you must cherish every instant. Every conversation, every hug, every ‘I love you’. Because it could all vanish in a second. You learned that the hard way a year ago.

The day of the interview recedes to the back of your mind as you keep living your life. Work is harrowing, as usual, but you tend to your tasks as best as you can. Your arms ache as you knead the dough in the back of the bakery. You give yourself a second to wipe the sweat off your forehead. It’s been a hectic afternoon. There’s a massive pastry order for some Capitol heiress’ birthday due tomorrow. So you’ve been racing between the front desk and the kitchen in the back. A baker called in sick today, leaving you with twice the workload.

You know it won’t take much to crash into your bed and fall asleep tonight.

To make matters worse, the day hits its nadir when you get your pay that day. You peer inside the envelope for the umpteenth time. An anxious chuckle peals out of your lips. 

“I’m sorry I don’t want to complain, but…this doesn’t match the hours I put in.”

The owner scratches the back of his neck, a contrite expression etched on his face.

“I’m sorry too. With the new taxes imposed by the Capitol, I had to cut your salary.”

Slack-jawed by the news, no word leaves your mouth as you stare at him. He sighs.

“If it’s a problem, we can find someone else-”

“No, no,” you interrupt, blinking in panic. “Please, I need this job.”

He acquiesces and you’re forced to thank him despite feeling cheated. You actually scaled back your hours for your other part-times since this one paid more. What a waste. 

Dispirited, you return home. As you give the driver a bill for the fare, your insides wrench. Every bill counts. Perhaps you’ll need to walk back home from now on. The streets of the Capitol are notoriously dangerous but you can’t see any other way to save your dwindling wages. You already know you’ll need to request an extension for rent this month. How will you pay it, however?

You suppose you’ll have to figure it out. You always figure it out.

These are the somber thoughts swaying in your mind as you check the mailbox. 

Bills. Bills. And more bills. Your already sour mood plummets even more. But a slim, silver envelope sticking out from the pile corrals your focus. Curiosity surges inside you. It looks fancy and there’s a wax seal with the Capitol’s symbol keeping it shut. You rush to open it, heart fluttering in strange anticipation.

You unfold the neatly folded letter inside. As you read the words, you gasp, dropping the letter. Still trembling from shock and excitement, you bend to pick it up. 

You take a deep slow breath before reading it again. 

This time, a squeal escapes from your lips. 

You read it many more times to make sure your eyes aren’t just conjuring wild fantasies. 

After a while, you realize they aren’t. It’s true. 

Holding the letter to your chest, you toss yourself on your bed and kick your feet excitedly. 

You then place your palm on your forehead. In disbelief, you beam at the ceiling. 

Somehow…you’ve been hired to work for the Snows. You actually got the job. 

Perhaps there is light at the end of the tunnel.

You fidget before the iron gates, smoothing absent wrinkles on your skirt. It’s one of the best outfits you could find on short notice that wasn’t moth-eaten or visibly overworn. You pray it’s enough. You let your gaze wander. The Snows’ estate truly is majestic. The lush gardens. The beautiful architecture. You feel a little small as you admire the mansion.

Remembering yourself, you pivot to the man who drove you there. You fish inside your pocket for a bill and hand it to him. He stares at you blankly from the driver’s seat.

A weary sigh ripples behind you.

You turn, your eyes widening. It’s the woman who interviewed you that day. She wears the same stern expression.

“You don’t need to pay him,” she explains, dismissing the man with her hand. He nods and drives away. “He’s your assigned driver. He’ll pick you up each day and take you back home.”

“Oh.” You offer your hand. “Nice to meet you…again.”

She gives you a lengthy onceover, completely ignoring your gesture. Then she motions at you to follow her. You let your hand fall to your side. Heat blooms in your cheeks. Perhaps, you were too enthusiastic just then. Straightening your spine, you try your best to keep pace with her quick strides.

“I’m Pandora. I supervise most housekeeping duties for the president. I’ll show you around the estate. Then you’ll meet the young Master.”

She gives you a tour of the mansion. You’re even more amazed than last time though you try to suppress your awe and not stare excessively. She shows you the garden as well. The sea of snow-white roses makes your head spin. She specifies that the only part of the house that is off-limits is the west wing of the mansion, as these are the First Lady’s apartments and she must have rest and quiet.

She ends the visit by taking you to the nursery. A smile spontaneously finds its way onto your lips. A toddler plays with his toy train on the floor. With his blonde curls and bright blue eyes, he bears a striking resemblance to his father.

“That’s him? He’s so cute,” you whisper. Even the stern woman’s expression thaws a little as she looks at the child, softening ever-so-slightly. You send her a questioning glance. She gives you a nod of approval. 

You approach the boy and crouch in front of him.

“Hi. You’re Martius, right?”

He lifts his head and beams at you. You’re immediately endeared. Again, his smile reminds you of President Snow. You suppose one could probably take over the world with a smile like that. 

You turn to Pandora.

“Is his mother around? I should probably introduce myself.”

Her face pinches. “Mistress Livia has been unwell as of late. She is not to be disturbed today as she is quite tired.”

“Of course.” Your lips squeeze shut for a few seconds but curiosity gets the better of you. A question burns on your lips, one that nagged you ever since you got the job. It slips out before you can think it through. “Is this…Is this why the president and his wife require a nanny? The First Lady is sick?”

Pandora glowers at you. You flinch as she steps further inside the room, her searing tone like a whip.

“You are here to do your job, and nothing else. Mistress Livia’s health is no concern of yours. Do you hear me?”

You rise on shaky feet. You forgot yourself.

“I-I understand. I’m sorry I asked.”

“This reminds me. You have to sign this,” she says, handing you a pen and clipboard. A thin stack of papers are attached to the clipboard. The front page spells ‘Non-Disclosure Agreement’ in bold letters at the very top. You scowl as you flip through the pages.

“What’s that?”

“It’s a contract, one signed by every one of the President’s employees.”

“I don’t understand most of what’s written here…”

A frustrated exhale peals from her lips.

“I’ll make it simple for you then. For the duration of your employment here, nothing you see or hear must ever leave this house. You are here to care for the young master, that is all. Nothing else should concern you. Is that clear enough?”

You swallow thickly. It doesn’t sound hard at all. Discretion is essential in every job, isn’t it? But the way Pandora makes it sound, you’d assume there are bodies buried beneath the Snows’ estate. You’d laugh if her death stare weren’t so disquieting.

You peruse the contract, perplexed by most of the legal mumbo jumbo filling the pages. None of it rings any bell. You understand the gist of it however. You must preserve the president and his wife’s privacy. While you don’t know the specifics of the first lady’s condition, her public appearances have been few and far between in the last few years.

She used to be the envy of every woman in the Capitol. Beautiful, young and married to the dashing President Snow.

She was a fairytale princess come to life.

Then their son Martius was born. And when they held him up from the balcony of their mansion for all of Panem to gaze upon, they truly seemed like the perfect family.

Until one day, Livia Cardew simply…vanished.

She was noticeably absent from all the events of the season, some she even hosted herself. Tongues wagged of course, rumors and wild theories spreading like wildfire. 

But no one knew the truth of what had happened to her.

The matter seems delicate. You promise yourself not to bring it up again.

You click the pen and scribble your name at the bottom of the very last page.

“I’ve…never signed a contract like that before starting a job.”

Pandora lets out a wry chuckle.

“Well, you’ve never worked for President Snow.”

As promised, you quit your two other jobs to focus solely on Martius. You’re hesitant at first. Your departed parents taught you never to put all your eggs in one basket. And it’s exactly what you’d be doing by trusting the Snows. But when you receive your first paycheck, long before the end of the week, every qualm you had fades. It’s more money than you’ve ever had, more money than you expected. Rent isn’t an issue anymore. Neither is food.

Besides, gifts keep coming from the estate. Clothes mostly, for both you and Laertes, but also jewelry, perfume and other fancy things you don’t need. Overwhelmed by President Snow’s generosity, you try to send some of it back, but you don’t have the heart to return everything when you see your brother’s happy face when he opens his wardrobe one day.

You’ve caught the self-conscious glimpses he casts at his classmates sometimes, when not wearing the Academy uniform. Their clothes are always brand new and custom, perfectly tailored while his are stitched back together by your clumsy hands whenever they fray at the seams. You’re not a seamstress but you’ve always done your best. But you know your best doesn’t compare to the access and privilege those kids have.

Other than those blessings, your time with Martius has been a breeze. Only hazy memories of your brother as a toddler linger in your mind, but you don’t recall him ever being as sweet and calm as the little boy is.

It hardly feels like work, caring for the small child. You spend the day playing along with his games, reading stories to him and, as the day nears its end, the two of you feed the ducks in the massive pond behind the mansion. He even gives them names and gets upset when they fight with each other. 

“Lily doesn’t like James anymore,” he whispers to you one day, a sullen pout scrunching his tiny features. 

“And why is that?”

“I think she’s angry that he steals her food.”

You chuckle and ruffle his golden locks. The little boy always has a story for everything he sees. At all times, his world must make sense. So if he cannot find a reason to explain what fills his gaze, he’ll weave a tale that matches it. His stories are each more wild than the other and he sometimes utters words you’ve never heard a four year old use.

But you surmise it is expected from the son of the president. When he isn’t with you, the little boy is often with his private tutor. Even at his tender age, the importance of manners and eloquence is impressed upon him.

Martius tugs at your skirt when you make your way to the door. You look down. His blue eyes are pleading. 

“You’re leaving again?”

You heave out a long exhale. The little boy wasn’t so clingy before but with your bond growing, he’s been expressing more sadness from watching you go at the end of every day. 

You hunker down to his level.

“My little brother’s expecting me.”

His forehead puckers. “Stay…”

“I told you before, Martius. I have a brother. He’ll miss me if I’m not here.”

“Okay,” he mumbles, giving a begrudging nod. Tears already swim in his eyes though. Panic flows through you. You didn’t want to upset him. You pick him up and bounce with him in your arms to try to soothe him.

“Oh, no. Don’t cry, sweetie.” He buries his head in the crook of your neck, nearly squeezing you to death when he wraps his arms around your neck. His loud, tearful sobs swell in the room. “Hey, it’s okay. I’ll see you tomorrow like always, okay? So I need you to be brave for me.” His grip on you loosens as he sniffles. You put him down and the two of you pinky promise that you’ll return. Your heart twists at the sight of his tear-stained little face. 

You give his hair one last affectionate pat before rushing outside. If you stay, he might throw another tantrum. No matter what, you can never get mad at Martius. He’s just a child. In the absence of his mother, he’s bound to grow attached to any woman filling a role adjacent to hers. You loathe that you’re taking those moments from the first lady. Though it pleases you to have a steady job and spend time with the sweet boy, it feels wrong that she isn’t there. She should get to see her baby grow up. She should hear his inane ramblings and eccentric stories.

As time wears on, you’re dying to meet her and tell her about Martius. Is she truly so sick that she can’t even see him for a mere few minutes? You’re itching to break the rules and visit the west wing of the mansion. Sometimes you hear blood-curdling  screams and wailing coming from the dark halls but you never dared venture through them. You know that if you did, Pandora would crucify you.

Laertes’ well-being matters more than your curiosity.

Humming absently, you halt in your tracks in the middle of a hallway. Confusion has you blinking. A peculiar noise bounces faintly against the walls. Your gaze drifts sideways, where the noise seems to come from. You’re clocking out. Whatever’s going on in the house isn’t any of your business at this hour.

But what if someone needs help? What if it’s something bad? You’d feel awful if you learnt something happened the next day and you pretended to ignore it. So you gingerly approach the wall. Your fingers graze the tapestry covering it. 

Your eyes widen when the wall moves, a tiny crack forming in it.

Your eyes bulge. It’s an ajar door, you realize. A secret door one wouldn’t notice if they weren’t aware it was there. Light spills from the slight opening.

Confining your breath, you bend over the crack in the wall to get a glimpse of what’s behind it. 

The vision crowding your sight makes the blood in your veins freeze. 

President Snow rutting into a maid with his pants down to his ankles. His usually neat blonde locks are tousled, a few damp curls kissing his forehead. His massive cock glistens with the girl’s essence, disappearing into the girl’s spread lips over and over again. Her body is bent over the railing of the bed and her maid outfit is bunched around her hips, exposing her ass, the flesh trembling with each of the president’s harsh, pointed thrust.

Each time he snaps his hips he draws a broken moan from her. One of his hands is around the back of her throat while the other’s on the small of her back. He grunts low in his throat as she clenches around him, thrusting into her even faster than before. 

The obscene sound of their coupling rises, coalescing with the feral grunts spilling from the president’s mouth. In that moment, he’s not the poised gentleman you’re used to seeing, he is an animal in rut chasing his high.

A shocked exhale escapes your lips. Your hand flies to cover your mouth. President Snow’s head snaps up, his gaze landing straight on you.

Your heart slams against your ribcage.

You jump back from the door and push the secret door closed. You dart across the hallway, determined to find the exit as quickly as you can. You don’t glance back, your steps hasty and panicked. 

Pandora was right. It’s best not not to hear or see anything, to become a tomb in which secrets are buried.

You can only hope he didn’t recognize you through the tiny crack in the door. 

Though you’re shaken to your core, you continue your work as a nanny. You still need money. You may have set aside everything you made thus far, but it will only sustain you and your brother for a month or two. Besides, you’ve already handed in your resignation for your other jobs.  The positions have likely been filled. You can’t exactly show up out of the blue and ask for your former job back. 

No. So you convince yourself that it’s alright. You have a good thing going anyway. You’re making more than you hoped. The child is happy. You’re happy. All is well. Or it would be at least.

…If you could conjure the memory of President Snow railing into the maid far away from your mind. 

You want to forget it, bury the moment so deep in the abyss of your thoughts, it can never be unearthed.

But it isn’t so easy. Because every time your mind wanders even a little, you see him again. Skin glistening with sweat and blue eyes alight with lust. The image is tattooed into your brain. 

You wonder if the first lady knows. Perhaps it’s why she’s hiding away. The weight of her husband’s indiscretions may have grown too heavy to carry. It sours your heart. President Snow seemed so kind, good and noble. He was nice to you. You still have the breast pocket he gave you tucked away in a drawer. You loathe to think he’d do that to his wife. No woman deserves this.

You lift your head when your name is uttered. You get to your feet. Adrift in your thoughts, you didn’t realize Pandora was in the nursery. 

“Yes?”

“The president wants to see you in his office.”

Dread wrenches your gut. It’s exactly what you feared. Does he know? Did he see you? Your pulse picks up. What other reason would there be? He never summoned you before.

“Really, why?”

“He didn’t say, but I’m assuming it’s to congratulate you.”

Befuddlement wrinkles your forehead. “Congratulate me?”

Pandora heaves out a weary sigh. “Well, you’ve done much better than we thought,” she begrudgingly admits. “The young master smiles all the time.” She rolls her eyes. “Even if we must deal with his tantrums when you leave.”

A sliver of pride flutters through you with her admission. Pandora made her doubts about your capabilities plain and obvious from the beginning. It gladdens you that you may have changed her mind a little. 

“I’m sorry.” 

“It’s fine.” She turns to him, the ghost of a smile playing on her lips. “It’s a small price to pay for his happiness.”

Your smile vanishes as she adds, “Now let me escort you to the president’s office. He doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

Swallowing the lump in your throat, you trail behind her. The entire trek to the president’s office, your stomach’s in knots. You keep wondering if it’s the day you’ll lose your job for being too nosy. You should have walked past the noise. You shouldn’t have peeked. 

You inhale a lungful of nerve as Pandora opens the door to his office and frees room for you to enter. Your clammy hands wrench in your lap. He’s sitting behind his desk. You stagger further inside the room as he motions for you to sit in the chair on the other side of the desk. He looks the same as the first time you stumbled into him, disarmingly handsome in an impeccable shirt and pants that flatter his long legs.

A sharp contrast to the version of him that has plagued your thoughts lately. 

His sky gaze follows you as you take a trembling seat.

“Are you settling in well?” he asks.

“Hm, yes,” you stammer, anxiously twining your fingers. “It’s pretty much the perfect job. I get to be around a cute child all day.”

“I hear my son is very fond of you.”

You bashfully dip your head. “He’s very easy to like. He’s such a good boy, sweet, kind, and curious. You and your wife are raising him well, sir.”

He hums in thought. “I can’t take much credit for that. I’ve tried my best to carve out time for Martius…but work’s kept me busy. As for Livia...” He lets out a humorless chuckle. “Well she isn’t quite herself these days.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

He places one hand under his chin, scrutinizing you. You try not to twitch beneath his stare, your insides tight with dread.

“Hm, it’s strange,” he states after a minute that goes by like an eternity.

Your head rises. “What’s strange?”

“A girl like you.” His lips drag upward. “Sweet, nurturing, beautiful. Shouldn’t you be married already?”

Your lips part in astonishment. This isn’t the line of questioning you expected. “I-I’m not.”

“No fiancé?”

“No, sir.”

“A lover then?”

Warmth rushes to your face.

“No…”

He laughs, mirth dancing in his cobalt orbs.

“You must pardon me for being so forward but I simply find it astonishing. No suitors? It’s hard to believe since you’re so lovely, sweetheart.” He tilts his head. You shift in discomfort, his attention making you feel see-through. “I mean, a husband would have made your life easier than it’s been thus far, wouldn’t he, dove?”

A long exhale flows from your lips. “I’ve had offers, after I graduated from the Academy. There was even this boy, he was so kind to me.” The memory draws a small smile from you. “He proposed. I’m sure he’d make a great husband, but…”

“But…”

Your mouth dries.

“I know it’s probably naive and unrealistic but I want to marry for love, that great, life-changing love, like in those romance novels my mom used to love, not money or status.”

His eyes twinkle. “Or financial stability?”

Shame gathers in your chest. You know it sounds silly when uttered aloud. 

“I know, I’m an idiot.”

“No, you’re not. It’s sweet that you still believe in love.” He appears lost in a faraway memory, his gaze hazing over with remembrance. “I used to believe in it too. I used to think, ‘Who needs wealth and success and power when love conquers all?’”

He chuckles but it’s bereft of amusement. 

“Really? What happened then?”

His gaze locks with yours. 

“I grew up.”

Confused, you frown. 

“But aren’t you and the first lady in love?”

Another laugh bursts from his chest.

“God, you’re sweet.” His tone lowers to a dulcet whisper. “It’s like none of the world’s ugliness has gotten to you yet.” He reveals matter-of-factly, “My wife and I hate each other.” His smile widens at your flabbergasted expression. “Always did. It’s best that way, more…efficient. Of course, there was a time, when we had…passion.” He licks his lips, something you can’t pinpoint flickering in his gaze. “But not anymore. She’s far too gone for that.”

He rises from his chair. You stiffen as he circles the desk, making slow steps towards you. 

“Which is why I must…satiate my needs wherever I can,” he mumbles, fingers lurking under your chin, forcing your eyes to fall upon him. “Do you understand my meaning, dove?”

“I…yes.”

Discomfort flares within you. Tension hangs in the air, so heavy it clogs your airways. 

He cocks his head, lips slanting crookedly.

“Do you really? With that innocent look in your eyes, it’s hard to tell.” His thumb sweeps over your shuddering bottom lip. “Men have needs. And am I not a man, sweetheart?”

“Y-Yes you are, sir.”

He bends over you to whisper in your ear. “You saw everything that day, didn’t you?” Your heart stops.

Flames lick your face as you bow your head. “I-I didn’t see anything.”

His warm breath ghosts over your earshell.

“Liar,” he mumbles.

Your pulse quickens.

He leans back and nudges your chin upward.

“Since my wife fell sick, I’ve been very lonely. And sometimes…” He looms over you, crowding your space as you peer up at him, fingers squeezing the arms of the chair. “I need something soft and warm to forget that feeling.”

President Snow slowly falls to his knees in front of you. His fingers find your thigh, starting to creep under your skirt. A devilish glint sparkles in his cobalt gaze. He finds your center, pressing the sheer fabric into your folds. You gasp. He chuckles at your reaction. He starts teasing you through your panties, tracing your slit and dragging over your tender bud. Your breath hitches as the air around you grows hotter. You grow slick beneath his finger, your thighs shaking as tingles bloom on your flesh.

“Sir…” you whimper, tears welling up in your eyes.

He pushes further inside you, adding another finger, and you unleash an audible breath. You try to close your thighs. He places his other hand on your knee to keep you open for him.

The air in your lungs grows thinner as he rubs your core through your soaked panties. The friction is a delicious torture. Pleasure pools in your belly causing your face to burn with shame. You’re getting embarrassingly wet with President Snow’s attention.

“I just want a little taste,” he murmurs, his deep timbre bleeding lust. “Just one time and it’ll never happen again,” he promises fervently as his lips graze your ankle. You find some relief when his fingers disappear from your drenched center. But your respite is ephemeral. He slips his hands under your ass and tugs at your panties.

Panic widens your eyes. Cheeks ablaze, you pull at the material between your legs with both hands. But he’s stronger than you and effortlessly drags the fabric along your legs. A wicked smile plays on his lips as tears glisten in your eyes. It’s soon down to your ankles. You squeal when the president yanks the panties off your foot, tossing them aside. Cool air sneaks beneath your skirt, swirling over your bare folds.

Hands over your knees to keep you spread, his wolfish gaze sweeps over your glossy folds. 

Your skin heats, embarrassment gathering in your chest. You’ve never been this vulnerable and exposed in front of anybody before.

“Please, President Snow, s-stop…” 

“But you’re dripping, sweetheart,” he states smugly, sinking a finger inside your weeping core, as if to make a point. Your breath hitches. He takes his finger out sluggishly. You clench when he grazes one of your sensitive spots. “Just as sweet as I expected,” he hums, obscenely licking your essence off his long digit.

Without a warning, he buries his head between your thighs. A sharp exhale leaps from your mouth. His cool tongue traces a wet trail over your folds. President Snow traces maddening patterns over your swollen bud causing your eyes to roll back.

You card your fingers through his silken platinum locks, hoping to push his head away. But the delightful sensations grow too overwhelming. You unravel beneath his sinful ministrations, your limbs twitching as the thread of your thoughts comes loose.

Your grip on his hair weakens. Your belly tightens, your chest rising and falling rapidly. 

You jolt as his tongue flickers over your tender heap of nerves. 

“P-President…” 

He purrs against your folds and the vibrations rock through your core. You squirm in the chair. Your thighs quake. Your vision dims, your mind blank as waves of pleasure swaddle you in their tide. Protests scatter on your tongue, replaced by wanton whimpers and moans.

Electricity ripples through your spine as you cry out.

Bliss engulfs you and your legs turn liquid. Shame swirls in your gut as your juices coat his tongue. He drinks your nectar, elation rumbling in his chest. 

When he lifts his head, you hardly recognize him. The feral glow in his gaze chills your blood.

There is no time to collect yourself, realize what just occurred, as the blonde gathers your limp frame from the chair and places you on his desk. Documents and papers are flung to the ground as he grabs your thighs and presses his throbbing hard-on against your cunt. 

He hastily unbuttons his pants, freeing his hard length. He fists his cock and guides it through your wet entrance. Your back arches, the sudden intrusion robbing you of air. He reaches the hilt of you in a few seconds, giving you no time to accommodate his thick girth. You collapse over the desk, weak whimpers leaving you as your walls are stretched to their limit. He drags out of you, his pupils flaring as they trace the motion of his length in and out of you. Coriolanus leans over you. He snaps his pelvis into your hips, each of his thrusts tearing tearful moans from your throat.

When you turn your head, hot tears flowing down your cheeks, he grabs your chin so you’re forced to meet his lustful stare. Bracing himself on the desk, he reaches between your bodies to pinch your swollen clit. He plucks at your soft bud until you shatter around him with a sob. His throat bobs, a look of sheer bliss flitting across his face when you clench around him.

“I’ve been dying to fuck you the minute I saw you,” he confesses, trailing soft pecks over your collarbone. A sinister chuckle peals from his lips. “The way you looked at me with those sweet, innocent eyes…it made me rock-hard.” He tilts your chin towards him, his thumb skimming over your parted lips.

Satisfaction glimmers in his eyes as they flick over your prone form.

“You should thank me. Those boys at the Academy wouldn’t know what to do with a girl like you…” His cock twitches inside you. Sticky warmth spills from him, painting your walls and dripping past your hole. Drops of his seed leak onto the desk. A throaty sigh pours from President Snow’s throat as your cunt flutters around him.

His teeth nip the skin of your neck.

“...But I do.”

After what occurs in his office, you hope to avoid President Snow. Those hopes are swiftly dashed however. President Snow lied to you. It doesn’t happen once. In fact, you begin to lose count of the actual number.

Every time the president finds a little spare time, he summons you.

Sometimes you end up bent over the desk in his office as he pours the frustrations of the day into your warm hole. Sometimes he prefers you sprawled on your back in one of the multitude of luxurious beds in the mansion while he devours you as if you were his very last meal. And at times, he grows even more impatient and simply shoves you against a wall before ravaging you.

More than once, a maid or footman has walked in on the two of you, and you’ve had to swallow your shame and embarrassment.

As you’ve come to learn, the entire staff is aware of Coriolanus Snow’s insatiable appetite and none of them seems to care.

You feel sick, desperate, trapped in something twisted and awful you never signed up for.

But how does one say no to President Coriolanus Snow? The entire Capitol yields to his every whim. And you are the same. Here to bow and smile and lie back whenever he demands it.

You long to focus on your job, to care for Martius and nothing else. Whenever the boy looks up at you with those innocent blue eyes, eerily similar to his father’s, your stomach wrenches. You pray he never comes to learn what kind of man his father is. You wish he’d stay just as kind and sweet as he is now.

Those are the thoughts drifting through your mind as you watch Martius play with his toy trains. Your eyes wander towards the window. Outside, orange and purple hues are bleeding into the sky, the afternoon nearing its end. Your stomach coils. It’s during times like these that President Snow often seeks you out. You’ve tried to run away from him but it’s all a game to Coriolanus, and he always delights in chasing you through the hallways.

Your brows crumple as you note that Martius has stopped playing. He drops his toy and rushes to your side. Confounded by his behavior, you’re on the cusp of asking him what’s wrong…but your gaze follows what caught his attention on the other side of the room.

You fall silent, your eyes rounding in shock.

“Martius. Come here, my love,” says the blonde woman in a white robe and nightgown, her arms wide open.

Time stands still for a few seconds. It takes you a while to realize who stands before the door. She looks so different, more ghost than woman, her glassy blue eyes hollow and sunken. But her likeness is unmistakable. Even with her graying, limp tresses and ashen complexion, you recognize Livia Cardew. The president’s wife.

You bolt to your feet. Arms still open, Livia takes slow steps towards Martius.

“I’m your mom, sweetie. Don’t you remember me?”

The little boy’s fists clutch your skirt as he hides his face against your leg.

“You’re not my mom.”

A stricken look twists Livia’s features as she shrinks. As if her own son just drove a knife through her heart. Your chest twinges. While her abrupt appearance is a shock, you can’t imagine how she must feel. You place a hand on Martius’ back and try to nudge him forward.

“Martius. It’s the First Lady, your mother. Go on, hug her,” you urge softly.

He shakes his head, tears filling his eyes as he hides behind you even more.

You’re stunned. Has it truly been that long?

“Martius-”

You don’t get to finish your sentence, Livia lunging at you, her eyes wild with fury.

“You! This is all your fault,” she hisses. She points at you and scoffs, “You’re his new whore, aren’t you?” Her mouth wobbles as she grips her head. “First you take my husband, now my son.”

Martius begins to sob. His loud cries overlap with his mother’s frantic yelling. You cover his eyes, tossing Livia an apologetic look.

“First Lady, I never meant-”

Before you can explain yourself, she grabs a nearby vase and smashes it. White roses scatter on the floor. Stomping all over the petals and broken glass, she collects one of the shards and races towards you. Terror numbs you. You freeze as Livia aims the shard at you, scarlet droplets dripping on her nightgown as she squeezes her fist around the glass.

Your eyes shut as you wait for the inevitable strike.

You shiver, waiting still.

But it doesn’t come.

“Livia, darling, that’s enough. It’s time for you to sleep and take your medicine.”

The familiar sound of Coriolanus’ voice causes your eyes to snap open. 

You watch him restrain a struggling Livia. She curses at him, fighting him with all her might. It’s a painful spectacle. 

“No, don’t touch me!” Other staff members rush into the room. It takes several people to hold Livia down, colorful expletives pouring from her mouth as she punches and kicks whoever comes close. “You’re killing me! You bastard! Give me my son back! Martius! Martius!”

The child trembles against your skirt, his tear-filled gaze stuck to the floor.

Eventually someone manages to stick a needle into Livia’s neck. She instantly goes limp, arm still reaching for her son in her last conscious second.

“Take her away,” Coriolanus instructs.

The first lady’s flaccid form is dragged out of the room. Still shaken by what you just witnessed, you don’t move a muscle. President Snow approaches you, worry swimming in his blue orbs. 

“Are you alright, dove?” He cups your cheeks, his brows crumpling as his gaze settles on your neck. “I’ll have Doctor Gaul look at you. She has an ointment for that.” He caresses your cheeks, smiling. You gape at him. How can he smile at a time like that? “It won’t even scar. I promise.”

You graze your neck. Your fingers come away bloody. Oh. Livia nicked you with the shard but you didn’t even feel it. Perhaps adrenaline numbed you to the pain.

“Dada,” Martius chimes, lifting his chubby arms.

Coriolanus’ face warms as he picks up his son. He tosses him in the air and catches him. Martius giggles through his tears.

“My sweet boy. That was very scary, wasn’t it?” he says, balancing his son on his hip. Martius nods and wipes his nose. Coriolanus flicks his cheek, beaming at him. “Don’t worry, son. The scary lady won’t bother you anymore in a few months.”

A wave of ice blows through your veins. You wonder why the president uttered those words with such certainty. Like a promise. Or a prophecy. Almost as if he knows exactly when the grim reaper will come knock on his wife’s door.

The next day, you hand over your resignation to Pandora. Her expression is skeptical as she gauges the manila folder you give her.

“This is for the president,” you announce.

She unleashes a deep exhale. “You should reconsider, sleep on it.”

You almost laugh. Sleep on it? You can hardly find rest, the picture of a disheveled Livia Cardew crying out for her son haunting your nights. Whatever befell upon the poor woman, you wouldn’t be surprised if her husband somehow had a hand in it. It broke your heart, seeing her like that, her own son unable to recognize her. You also despise the role Coriolanus forced you to play in erasing her memory.

All of it feels wrong. 

And most of all, you don’t want President Snow to use you to satisfy his lewd desires anymore. He took all your firsts, all the moments that should have been beautiful, and made them a nightmare you have to relive every time he touches you.

You respected him; you admired him. Now you can’t be in his presence without dread whispering through you. What will he make you do this time? How will he make you small and powerless again?

“I can’t…I can’t do this anymore. He can hire someone else to care for him.”

Pandora purses her lips and shakes her head.

“It’s really not that simple. The president has developed…a fondness for you.”

You bristle. “I have to go back home. Laertes is expecting me.”

“You won’t like what comes next, trust me.” Her gaze narrows. “No one leaves the president.”

Ignoring the shudder elicited by her daunting words, you pivot and make a beeline towards the exit. Pandora’s voice echoes down the hallways.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Depleted, you glumly make your way to the gates. You enter the car that takes you back home everyday. Your thoughts wander as the Snow’s house grows smaller through the car window. You were thrilled when you got this job. It felt like kismet after the year you and your brother had. A rainbow after the rain. A slice of hope.

How it all went to hell so quickly. You’re still reeling from it. You’ve no idea what you’ll do next. The only thing you know for certain is that you will not step foot into the Snows’ estate ever again.

The car suddenly halts. You bump your head into the passenger’s seat. Wincing, you grip the sides of your head. As you retrieve your senses, you look around. You stopped.

You toss a questioning look at the driver.

But before he can respond, the car door opens and you’re yanked outside. Two pairs of strong arms drag you away from the car.

You take in the blue uniforms of the men. Terror pulses through your blood.

Peacekeepers.

Noting the guns at their sides, you stop trying to resist. There’s no fighting against them, ever. They are the Capitol’s fist and carry the President’s will. You don’t stand a chance. In fact, you likely never did. You slump in their grip, despair thrumming inside you.

They escort you to a black car with tinted windows. Your pulse soars. You’ve only ever seen one individual step out of this car.

The peacekeepers toss you inside and slam the door shut.

Your fearful gaze rises to him.

He casually sits in front of you, his eyes narrowed.

“You disappoint me, dove.” He lets out a weary sigh. “After everything I’ve done for you…you try to leave me. I thought you were smarter than that.”

You twine your hands, sputtering, “I-I’m not the right person for this job, sir.”

He slides his fingers under your chin, tilting it upward.

“Oh but you’re perfect. My son loves you. You’re sweet, dutiful and most importantly…” He smirks. “You are mine. Mine to hold, spoil and fuck whenever I please for however long I please.”

The prospect fills you with dread. He wants you to be his toy again, submissive, available whenever he pleases.

“Sir…”

His jaw ticks, his hold on your jaw tightening.

“Wouldn’t it be wonderful if your brother could attend the University, free of charge? A bright young mind such as his, I believe he deserves it.” His blue eyes twinkle. “Instead of, let’s say…end up in a District, his name chosen as a tribute in the next Hunger Games.” Your heart sinks to your feet. “That’d be awful, wouldn’t it? So cruel…” he mumbles, stroking your trembling bottom lip.

“No, please,” you beseech, tears swelling in your eyes. Your brother’s all you have left in the world. Nothing can happen to him. 

Coriolanus fondles your cheek, the tender gesture a sharp contrast to the wicked words rolling off his tongue.

“It’s all up to you, then, dove. As long as you behave, I’ll give you the world. But if you act like a little brat again…” A threat lurks in his soft tone, a glint of madness swaying in his cobalt orbs. “I really don’t know what I might do.”

Chills dance over your spine.

“I promise to never do it again,” you blurt out.

He pulls out a square from his breast pocket. It’s identical to the one he used the first time.

But a lifetime seems to have passed since that moment, the world now so different from what you imagined, and the man before you…even more so.

“Good girl,” he lauds while swiping away your tears. 

He shoves the pocket square back in its place. Coriolanus then beams at you as he starts unbuttoning his shirt and undoing his pants.

“Now, I’ve had a long, exhausting day. So how about you get on your knees for me and make it better with that sweet mouth of yours, dove?”

[hobicakess]

Wonderful World — JJK One-Shot Series

SUMMARY: The world had gone to shit just like many had theorized. The living was not only fighting the dead, but they were also fighting against themselves and each other. Jeon Jungkook has been in the field by himself for months, living off of scraps, his own rules of survival, and barely enough water. Along the way, he finds a ditzy girl spoiled girl ironically Princess and her crusty white dog. He understood they'd be a handful, but he was Jeon Jungkook, and he could handle anything.

RATING: 18+ (im not the momma you are in control of what you consume.)

PAIRING: Jeon Jungkook x Bimbo!reader

CONTENT WARNING: apocalypse!au, gore, blood, ditzy!reader, angst, slow burn, eventual established relationship, jungkook is sighing every three seconds, eventual smut, crusty white dog (yes that's a warning), minor character death, named reader, corrupt dystopian society, meanie jungkook, princess is just a girl, more to be added AUTHORS NOTE: i am back in my zombie apocolyse era!!!! this is heavily inspired by zombie land because i love it sososo much. the post for this story will be in shorts pushing 1k- 3k? words and my ask box is always open to request and thoughts for this series. If you are new to my blog welcome hottie! be sure to check out my other works, you"ll love it over here xxx

Jungkook had strict rules.

Four sips of water a day, only eat when his stomach is cramped to the point of when he couldn't walk, never sleep over an hour, don't let anyone in. He didn't need extra weight slowing him down from his destination. Was he being hard on himself? Maybe. Since losing his group in an unexpected ambush all those months ago he couldn't bring himself to be softer on his habits even if he had more than enough resources to keep him alive and breathing for the year. He was guilty, and angry. Angry at himself and angry at the world for what it had come too. Despite his personal angst Jungkook refused to die holding onto the hope he would finally reunite with his six soulmates.

Another unspoken rule of his was to never walk upon the main roads. Stay away from those maniacs dressed in military clothes and those who drove military trucks. So he stuck to the shadows, camouflage into the trees with stealthy movements. Quick and quiet, never stay in one place longer than two days. He's been in here for at least a day spending that time securing the area and everything around it before he could properly set up his base in the abandoned thrift store he found. Hopefully he could get as much rest as a person could during the end of the world. As he tracked back to his base swiftly moving through the tree-line with the new finds he managed to scavenge. He stopped when he heard a squeal that didn't sound like the parasites that took over the world. Peeking through the green he saw a woman. A frown taking over his handsome features as his eyes rake her clothing.

A tiny pink cropped tank top, tight denim shorts that had jeweled pockets, ripped black fishnets and wedged heels that threw him off more than the unethical outfit. On her back was a clear backpack and inside was a tiny sleeping dog who was unaware of the life or death circumstances their owner happened to be in. Surrounding her were geeks groaning and growling, taking swipes at her. Their only objective is to eat,eat, eat.

Jungkook didn’t deal with other people, for obvious reasons but he was still the selfless Jeon Jungkook who couldn’t turn his back on anyone, especially a woman clearly in need of his help. So he quickly jumped from the trees, holding onto his crow bar tightly and as he approached the woman and the group of zombies.

Until she screeched, "You broke my nail" pulling out a knife from her thigh garter taking down all four of the dead. Breathing heavily she blew a curl from her face as she turned, jumping at the sight of Jungkook's large frame looming over her with his crowbar up as if he was ready to attack her. She squeaks gathering herself into a tiny fighting position as she points her knife at him and he notices the handle was decorated with a dark skinned hello kitty print.

“You’re literally so sexy. I’d let you kill me as long as I’m in a chokehold.” Her big brown eyes trailed to his beefy tattooed and tanned arms causing his eyebrows to shoot up in surprise. Clearing his throat he put his weapon down turning on his thick soled heels back into the ditch disappearing into the greenery. She wasn’t in any danger anymore so he wasn’t needed.

“You know it’s not very nice to leave a lady unattended in the middle of a road especially during an apco-" he was quick to grab her, shoving her down against the tree trunk. He smacked against her mouth, as a group of military men began to drive along the side of the road closest to them. His eyes met her wide ones as she blinked her wispy lashes at him. His gaze trails over the freckles that danced over her button nose, and cheeks, slight blood splatter caked there along with her forehead. She giggles quickly as he removes his hand from her mouth revealing a bright and pearly smile.

"Kinky." his lip curls in annoyance as he turns his back on her again.

“You can’t just leave us! Me and Minnie are great company.” He stopped walking when he heard the name of her dog minnie. Who's been surprisingly quiet through the whole ordeal. Looking over his shoulder at her, he then shaking his head, he continued on taking longer steps.

“Okay I get it silent and boarding, dark and mysterious, tall, tanned, and handsome.She rambled on scurrying behind him.

“Whew you know what hulk- ACK!” a thud echoed through the trees making him turn seeing her fallen to her knees in mud. She sniffles as she tries to stand on her feet, failing miserably only getting her hands dirty in the process.

"They leave me all alone, take my stuff, then I break a freaking nail because of those nasty freaks, now I'm covered in mud following around an avenger who doesn't even. . ."

She's fully sobbing now, fat tears falling down her chubby cheeks as she gives up moving. "Just strike me downnnn"

Again his selfless heart was aching as he winced. He grumbles as he stomps towards her reaching his own hand out for her to take, after all this he couldn't find it in himself to just leave her not now. She sniffles as she looks up at him, then stares at his hand. With another pretty smile she takes it, letting him pull her upright, allowing her to rub her muddy hands on his black tank top with a defeated sigh.

“Thanks Thor.”

Huffing he began walking again this time slower so she wouldn't lose him. As he gets to the brick wall that seperates the forest from the store. She stares up at it and swallows hard. “How are we gonna get up there?”

Rolling his eyes Jungkook pulls his backpack off of his back, throwing it over the wall. He reaches towards her and she gasp, “You are not throwing my precious Minnie over that wall!” Stepping back from him a pout set on her lips. He shrugs and begins to climb up, leaving her there to watch as he disappears over the wall. Pouting and huffing, she removes her backpack from her back, strapping it in the front just in case she falls on her ass. “I'm way too pretty for this”

Scaling the wall she walked along it ignoring Hulks loud huffs and tapping of his boots. That's when she found a hole there big enough for her to fit through happily making her way through.

Jungkook might just leave her there on the other side of the wall. Hopefully she'll use whatever's there in her brain to find her way over the wall with her crusty white dog who he wished he could sleep like. He jumps at the tap on his shoulder turning to her standing behind him hands behind her back as she gave him a closed lip smile puffing the apples of her cheeks rocking back and forth on her wedges. “Guess what hulky.”

He raises a pierced eyebrow as she points in the direction she came from. “Found a hole in the wall!! You didn't even have to climb over silly.”

The happiness in her face fell as Jungkooks face hardened. Storming over to the said hold, cursing. He could have sworn he sweep the whole perimeter. How could this have gotten under his nose? He turns back to you standing pouty and confused. Since the first time meeting him Jungkook opens his mouth to speak.

“Good job princess” his voice deep and hoarse from not using it for months.

"OMG how'd you know my name" She smiles practically bouncing on her feet from the praise and his attention, twirling on a piece of her hair like a school girl with a crush. Shaking his head he turned back to fix the wall.

Inside of the thrift store, Jungkook listened quietly to her ramble about her love for thrifting and how she would rather thrift than online shop. Then he watched her get teary eyed again over not being able to online shop anymore. “It's just not fair!!! Like I was living the most barbie dream girl life, ya know?”

Accepting the tissue he handed to her staring at the sleeping dog in her lap. “Then bam the Internet shuts off, then boom my freaking neighbor tries to eat me.”

“Like I'm just a girl! I'm not fit for this at all.” Blowing her nose into the tissues finishing her tantrum while Jungkook debated on what to say. “I watched you knife four geeks by yourself, I think you're doing pretty good.”

“ Really?”

“Really?”

She giggles sniffing, as she held out her hand. “I’m Princess Marie sorry for the late introduction ‘s very rude.

Clasping his hand into hers, “Jeon Jungkook. Don't worry about it too much.”

His gaze drifted to her bloody broken nail.

“Let's clean this up, kay?”

Eagerly she nodded dark curls bouncing.

“Mmkay kookie”

Jungkook wouldn't admit it out loud but being in the presence of another human being that wasn't trying to kill him was nice. He knew that princess and her crusty dog would be a handful but he was willing to deal with it. Plus he missed being called by his favorite nickname.

- © hobicakess ! do not steal, modify, copy, plagiarize, nor repost any of the works on this blog without given permission!

[prael]

Not Quite Home

Kinktember Day 15: Stand & Carry

Kepler Youngeun x male reader smut

words: 1,495 Kinktember Masterlist

She is everything you're not. Everything you hate. How can someone refuse to have a place to call home?

All this about being a free spirit and experiencing everything that the world has to offer all sounds well and good but how is a tree supposed to grow if it has no roots? But Youngeun insists that is exactly what she is after, the constant thrill, the constant novelty, the rush and urgency. In every interaction, she seems to have been in search of the next big adventure.

And you think you do her a disservice by not understanding.

Perhaps if you had met each other under other circumstances, things might have gone better for the two of you. But now, you resent how she feels like a stranger whenever you're together. She once brought an element of excitement and risk to a routine, drab life, but that grew exhausting and more than once made you feel like you were suffocating. You grew to loathe her carelessness.

"Your parents?" You ask as she stands in your bedroom for the third night in a row, "Have you even told them you're back in town?"

She shakes her head in lieu of an answer, "You know how they are."

"You're going to blame them for wanting their daughter to visit for once?"

Youngeun laughs. It's one of your least favourite traits—her incapability to take anything seriously. "Not your business. Besides, seven nights, remember?"

Yes. Seven nights. This is what she told you, another expiry date on another chapter of whatever the fuck this is between you. Another unspoken contract was signed for the hell of it. A time limit, for something that isn't even real.

"Just think about it," you continue, hopelessly, "talking with your family. It'll clear your mind."

"Know what clears my mind? The wind in my hair, sun on my skin, music in my ears," Youngeun runs her hand through her silky hair, "Landing in some new town, finding a new local hang out to try something exotic and then exploring whatever is hidden in that town's history, picking up a new person, hooking up with them, letting the excitement course through my veins, knowing there's always something else waiting on the horizon."

Another insufferable thing that she does. It's been maybe fifteen minutes since you tangled limbs in the bed and now she's standing across the room naked making no secret of the fact that she picks up guys and girls wherever she goes. Youngeun looks down at you on the mattress and runs her eyes up and down your body, her fingers resting lightly over her collarbone.

You follow the line of her fingers, nails cut short with traces of peeled black nail paint. A callus on her finger is a reminder of how often she played the guitar. She runs them down her chest, thumb catching a nipple in the process of doing so.

"Look at you. You get hotter every time I come back." And just like that, Youngeun drops a compliment, casual and effortless and you question who's benefiting from this relationship because it clearly isn't you.

You're gonna fuck her again tonight. Tomorrow too, and another three nights after that. After which she'll be gone for another six months to a year. There's a weird emotional emptiness to this routine—you give and she takes and this is all she asks.

"Come here, will you? Pin me to this wall already. Make me feel you." Her hand cups her breast and another traces its way down her abs, a clear intention.

You should hate her, really. Like how you hate the idea that she left home for no reason or how she wasted her potential, hate her for her indifference, for her recklessness and her cold detachment, or hate the fact that it's just meaningless sex. 

She doesn't like strings, it makes no sense to her how people commit. If she was the type of person who asked to be understood, you would probably try to, but that's never something she ever expressed. 

For all of that, you don't hate her. It's why you're still walking towards her and she's backing up into the wall.

So, what does she ask for? Her answer is pleasure and pain.

She kisses like a raging fire. Everywhere her hands roam leaves marks on your skin; she scratches deep in your back as you hook her thigh up around your waist. A hand between her legs, sliding in without any sort of preamble. She's still dripping wet, though some of that may well be your last load. She tastes of salty, sweaty sex and you relish it. She kisses and she gasps as your fingers work at her entrance; crooking them upward so you can press them into her and rub right against the sensitive spot inside her.

Her tongue slides past yours, hot and wet as she grinds up into your hand, claws digging into your lower back. Your hand fucks into her roughly with reckless abandon and her breathing gets shallow as your fingers bring her closer and closer.

It doesn't take long, she's close, you know that when she throws her head back against the wall. "Stop—wait, fuck—wait," Youngeun barely gasps and then with your name in her throat, the friction of your fingers sends her over the edge. A moan escapes as her mouth falls open, eyes clamp shut as you finger her to orgasm.

It's always been easy to make Youngeun cum, but it never loses its magic. There's something particularly thrilling to the way she moans your name in that honey-laced rasp, to the way her entire body arches upwards as the pleasure mounts. A sharp gasp cuts the air.

Her limbs slacken. She leans her head against the wall. She's struggling to catch her breath.

And this is the fucking problem. For every reason to hate her, there are so many more reasons to enjoy her.

That's when you lift her, hooking up the other thigh and holding her by her tight little ass. Youngeun hisses and she's staring daggers and that's always a part of the fun. She'll give you these looks that could kill a lesser man, but you know the only solution is to pound her into submission.

"Be rough with me. Hard," Youngeun pants, sucking air in, breath ragged. Her skin's hot to the touch.

"Like last time?" Your voice comes low, thick and gruff as you hook her legs higher.

"No, harder, faster," Youngeun replies between rapid, short breaths, she grips your arms, rolls her hips and wraps her body tighter around you, "Want me to stay? Fuck me until I can't walk out."

You're incensed and sliding your length over her slick, warm, inviting heat, before slamming her back into the wall, entering her in one long hard motion and enjoying the way her lips fall apart; enjoying the way her hot and messy, fucked-out body arches upward as you hit deeper and the way her cries pitch. You don't even wait for her to catch her breath before snapping your hips over and over and giving Youngeun exactly the type of pounding that she wants.

There's a sharp gasp. A second of silence and then a choked-back scream. You feel a palm on the nape of your neck and a sting on your shoulders as her nails dig deep and scratch. She rakes them over the broad expanse of your upper back and it fucking hurts. It fucking stings and it's delicious. You bury yourself deep inside her, stretch and fuck her all open on your dick.

"Like that. Yes! Like that! Fucking ruin me."

"Since you asked so nicely."

Her moans become a struggle now that you've run a hand roughly up her body and planted it around her neck. Squeezing, not too hard, not to cut her airflow, not to bruise, but firmly enough that she will feel it and feel that she is being held. She loves to feel hopeless. And there, that's what you like: her hot, sweaty body locked between you and the wall and helpless against you as you sink into her.

And as much as she says it doesn't mean anything. Youngeun cries out your name like it means something.

The ever-familiar suffocating grip of her wet cunt grips you as she cums again. Bodies flushed together, grinding and sweaty.

"I can't breathe—" Youngeun whimpers in that cracked, vulnerable and submissive way and you snarl. Fuck her up as promised. Hurt her like she begs for. And Youngeun loves it like nothing else, absolutely nothing, her eyes rolling to the back of her head and a strangled groan as you reach another climax and fill up her pussy again. You pound yet another load into her tight hole.

As much as she would hate to ever admit it, this is as close to a home as she has in her life.

[kimberly-spirits13]

Dating Dean Winchester Brain Dump Headcannons

Warnings: it's a bit random and all over the place but it's 3am and I've got random thoughts

you've either known each other for a long time (since childhood or teen hood), or you meet on a hunt

Bobby probably introduced you two

You guys realized pretty soon that you'd be good friends based off your interests in music, sarcasm, hunting, etc.

it also helped that Dean thinks you're hot

poor boy tries not to care much about the superficial, but he can't help that it helps

once you get close, he lets you start driving Baby and really pays attention to every detail about you

He's got a cassette tape that has all of your favorite songs on it

when you're not paying attention, he'll pop it in and start playing it

It's labled something like "Y/N/N's favorites"

One of his favorite types of dates are simply driving around, heading into some random roadside diner when you're hungry, and staying out too late at night

He likes basically all types of physical touch

Please run your fingers through his hair or scratch his back

he'll melt and pass away

You always share a bed

Even when you weren't dating, you would sleep together for comfort

Dean runs warm and he knows you're not trying to suffocate, so he turns the AC on full blast to make sure you have to stay close

He likes when you steal his clothes

will purposely leave articles of clothing out for you to take

acts like he's not doing anything when he does it, but you always get the hint

Most of the time, Dean makes Sam ride in the back and you ride shotgun

He loves his brother, but he doesn't get the same level of comfort if you're not up there

He likes to hold your hand in any circumstance

keeps his hand on your thigh when driving around

always makes sure that you're out of the haunted/ sketchy places first

opens doors for you and walks on the sidewalk closest to the road

He likes playing little pranks on you so that when you get over being mad, he gets good post annoyed kisses

Schemes pranks against Sam with you and always will say something like "She made me do it!" when caught

Secretly likes to paint your nails and brush your hair

Dean would die before he admits it, but it's relaxing and he likes being close

he'd do a facemask with you at any time

especially when there's a great shower with like, sixteen shower heads

You're always comforting when he wakes up with a nightmare

Poor boy is always having nightmares and they're mostly about you or Sam dying

He's known to hyperventilate and break into hives if the dreams are bad enough

put him in a warm shower and wash his hair for him and he's peachy

He's probably got an emergancy pie stashed somewhere at all times

Dean thinks that true love is that you make his coffee right every time

Coffee is the only way that he can complete a hunt without dying

Speaking of which, if you get injured or anything on a hunt, he is all over it

Carries you back to Baby no latter if it's a papercut or being shot

Drives pretty recklessly trying to get back to the motel or bunker quickly

Sam will try to help, but Dean insists that he can do everything and will be the only one to patch you up

if he's also injured and can't help you, he's losing his mind

To him, there's nothing worse than not being able to take care of you when you need him

Sam has to tell him to calm down since you seeing him in distress stresses you out more than if Dean would just be a calm bleeding person

Dean likes to take time for himself, but always ends up cutting it short since he misses you/ thinks it would be a better time if you were there

He's got some sort of corny ring tone that always makes him cringe a bit when you call, but he thinks it's too funny to change

He gave you a nice bracelet for your birthday one time and he notices every time you wear it

it makes his heart sour every time he sees you wearing or using something he gave you

makes him feel accomplished/ he did something well

you're the ONLY one that is allowed to wear the leather jacket

he'd go insane if someone else did

When you're up late researching or chilling out, he loves being able to sit in silence as close as possible doing whatever it is you're doing

there's no need for words, it's enough to be together

Obnoxiously singing in the car together

Cleaning Baby together

you walk outside and die when you see him working on Baby

he knows it too and it's annoying

[syoddeye]

down the hatch / twinkie talk

141 x f!reader | ~1.7k read parts one and two tags: flashback in italics, possibly bad french (sorry french-speaking people, i tried). thoughts about fucking. a/n: i am having a ball writing this goofy story. banner by @/cafekitsune.

you miss some things from the before times. a couple are obvious—fresh food and the internet—but then there are indulgences that haunt your dreams: monster munch, memes, those talking toilets with heated seats, and fresh nails.

then there’s the annoying things you oughta not miss, but you do. mouth breathers. drunk teenagers. the librarian with a one-sided beef over your overdue charges.

it hits like an errant frisbee to the face. what the annoying things have in common. people. yeesh. you miss people. 

but you aren’t sure if the fellas staring you down are the kind of people you miss. they confer, huddling in the kitchen. eight eyeballs glued to little ol’ you, on the floor and tied to a side table. back aching from slumping against the couch. no one’s offered water or one of your twinkies. pilferers. thieves. vagrants.

all this looking gives you ideas. 

first. they’re clearly all fucking. if the shower gargling wasn’t evidence enough, they’re touchy. two of mohawk’s fingers hook through the loop of scragglebeard’s belt. dry bones’s big arm holds ballcap close. and when dry bones presented you to the other three, he got two ass slaps out of it. (you can’t blame them. apocalypse be damned, the guy is keeping himself fed.)

second. scraggle is in charge. the pecking order is like one of those shape puzzles kids play with. you’d be an idiot baby to not figure it out.

third. they’re not afraid of you—why would they be—but they’re wary. it makes you wonder how many folks are upright above ground, and by extension, how many women. you’re not stupid. even if they’re together and experts in gland-to-gland combat, you’re alone in a bunker nobody else knows about. yet, it’s been hours, and they haven’t tried anything.

under different circumstances, you’d be interested. it’s not every day the universe serves up four hunky albeit stinky men. there’s no harm in indulging in fantasy, though, especially if they’re likely to kill you. get your jollies where you can and whatnot. so, you dip your head back and close your eyes, picturing a writhing tangle of limbs and a hole buffet.

some time later, the men break.

you crack an eye, and watch the four fan out, approaching as if you’re the elephant’s foot. scraggle drags the coffee table closer and sits. his ass barely misses the puzzle.

a hiss pushes violently from between your teeth. “watch it.”

his lip quirks beneath his mussed beard. for a moment, he simply assesses. his eyes linger briefly on the jorts, before dragging a breath in through his nose.

“bonjour mademoiselle. parlez-vous…english?”

it's the most god awful french. you think of muzzy. why he’s speaking to you in broken—

oh yeah.

“told ya i was gonna find ya.”

you chomped dry bones’s fingers with as much force as adrenaline could spare, momentarily freeing your mouth from the tyranny of his mean hand. “tu es un artichaut! artichaut!” 

“what the fuck is—” he swore, dodging more teeth as he wrestled you the ground. 

loud, clamoring footsteps announced the arrival of his bleary-eyed comrades. you got a look at their bewildered faces with your cheek pressed to the ground, screaming. “les nains! de jardin!” 

scraggle’s mouth hung open, eyes darting from yours to the man whose knee pressed into your shoulders. he nodded, and something struck your head. light switch, lights out.

they think you actually speak french. titters of laughter burst through your chapped lips. if panic-quoting film is enough to fool them, planning an escape will be no problem. still. maintaining the ruse long-term is not ideal. you chew your cheek, then shrug.

“yeah. i speak english."

scraggle’s eyes pinch. “then why french?”

“because i’ve watched ratatouille and amelie about a dozen times each since i got here.” you explain. “because it’s the language of love and i’m desperately in love with dry bones.”

mohawk snorts. scraggle shoots him a look over his shoulder.

“if i free you, are you going to be good?”

you bat your lashes. “what else could i be—wait, wait!” the jerk rises to his feet, lips pursed. “i’m joking, christ, did humor die with everybody else up there?”

scraggle sighs. awfully impatient for a man with nowhere else to be. “got a name?”

it takes a moment to find it. something itchy and uncomfortable sticks to the base of your throat. nobody’s said your name in months. you haven’t thought about it. it comes out more of a question than an answer.

annoyingly, scraggle repeats it, stupid easy. “are you alone? how long have you been down here?”

no point in lying. “yeah, i’m alone. it’s been three months, i think. since it happened. you gonna free me now?”

scraggle’s chin dips to his chest, studying you for a second time. the patheticness you’re trying to exude must work, because he jerks his head. “gaz, untie her.” 

ballcap—gaz, what a name—doesn’t hesitate, but his frown deepens with each step. he drops to a knee, guiding you to sit straighter to reach the cord. he doesn’t smell as bad as dry bones. probably because he got a quarter of a shower. 

“i know what you did. puzzle interloper.” you whisper into his ear.

to his credit, his nose only wrinkles.

scraggle scratches at his scalp under his hat as your bindings loosen. “did you build this place?”

“hilarious. no. technically it belonged to my neighbor. it’s mine now since he melted.”

“melted?” gaz pauses, pretty brown eyes blinking incredulously.

“yeah. you guys nearly stepped in him. he’s the hardened chunky stew outside the hatch.”

mohawk whistles, shaking his scruffy head. “thought that was sick.”

“and who was he?” scraggle asks, making room for gaz as the younger man stands.

“no idea. he told me once, the, uh, time we spoke.” you rub your wrists, thinking back to move-in day maybe six months ago. the absurdly large man openly stared and talked at you as you carried in boxes. didn’t offer to help. “i just called him ‘austria’. speaking of. do you have names? because i don’t think you’ll like the ones i made up.”

“oh, let’s hear them.”

“that’s not—”

“mohawk. scragglebeard. dry bones. you were ‘ballcap’ sixty seconds ago.”

“very creative.” mohawk sneers, though he looks more offended than anything.

“what the fuck is ‘dry bones’.”

“video game character. super mario, mario kart. skeletal-turtle creature.”

“quiet.” scraggle orders, glaring at you, obviously displeased with how you’ve sent his little interrogation careening off the rails. 

you drag an invisible zipper over your lips.

another long sigh. he points at each of the men, then himself. “gaz. ghost. soap. john.” 

you unzip. “what, too cool for an absurd nickname? or have you not earned one better than ‘scragglebeard’?”

for a second, you think you’ve signed your execution. sped the collapse. then your stomach grumbles loud enough to make four men wince, and that’s how you end up at the kitchen counter with a twinkie. scrag–john, gives you the short and sweet of the situation topside.

bombs. lots of them. thousands dead, possibly millions. difficult to know for sure with the dissolution or retreat of the powers at be and the general, violent distrust between survivors. long-distance communication is spotty. they’re military and emphasize that they’re special ops. you should’ve seen that coming. whatever 'special ops' means. but what raises your interest and your hackles is that they plan to use the bunker as a rendezvous point, if they can reach their friends in kastovia.

“ex-fucking-cuse me?”

“settle down.” john urges with arms crossed over his broad chest.

you jut a finger in his face, nearly touching his unkempt beard. “you broke into my home, my safe spot, and now you’re planting a flag. don’t tell me to settle down.”

“hen, i dinnae—”

“i don’t want to hear it.” you snap at soap, then reel back on john. “pull up stakes and move on.”

“mm, not gonna do that.” john lifts his chin to stare down the bridge of his nose. “first place we’ve come across with stable power. water. food.”

“don’t forget the sterling company.” ghost adds.

you want to hurl a pastry. a knife. a stick of dynamite. you couldn’t miss people, couldn’t want some around. not these dickhead invaders. john’s eyes say it all. underscore their intentions. they’re sticking around and digging in. potentially inviting more fucking soldier types underground.

all your plans to sneak out and lure them to their deaths or dismemberment eddy out of your head. you’ll need time to recalibrate and come up with a fresh strategy. sizing them up again, you chew your lip. 

gaz’s hand rests on a sidearm clipped to his belt. ghost and soap lean against one another, the former’s hand curled in the latter’s shirt like a leash. and john…

he smirks underneath his oily whiskers.

big, mean bastards. strongarming you into letting them stay. 

the fantasies of a fuck bunker dissolve. you’re definitely gonna kill them.

“fine.” you relent, ignoring the twinge of satisfaction from seeing four sets of shoulders relax. “but i have ground rules. conditions.”

john plucks a third twinkie from the box and offers it in an open palm.

“let’s hear them.”

~~

“it’s like bein’ back in th’ barracks.” soap grouses, twisting beneath the thin sheet. “it’s nae fair she gets the bigger bed.”

“it’s what was negotiated, and it’s only right to give a woman a private room.”

gaz scoffs, shucking off his shirt. “the same woman who spied on soap and me in the shower.”

“soap liked it.”

“i didnae like it, lt.”

“s’not what our old collection of tapes say.”

“the three of you, shut it, and keep your voices down.” john groans, sinking onto the edge of the firm bunk, scratching through the fur of his bare chest. “it’s either play nice now and hope she warms up, cooperates, or piss her off and live with what amounts to a rabid dog until—”

“until she needs puttin’ down.” ghost finishes, leaning against the bedroom door. still kitted out, adamant someone keeps an eye on their reluctant host.

“your words, not mine.”

“dog. more like a bloody badger. holed up underground, cushy little life. bad fuckin’ attitude.” gaz grumbles, punching the thin pillow into shape.

“four unshaved, dirty men with firearms broke into her home. did you expect her to throw a parade once we met?”

soap, propped on his side, traces a circle into the empty space beside him. “would have been nice.”

~~

next door, ear pressed to the ventilation shaft, your grin curls. grinch-like. play nice. you can do that. 

tramps. drifters. vagabonds. you will make them regret coming down the hatch.

[existentialgaybirdnerd]

Unknown facts about the 141 that even they don't find out from each other until specific circumstances:

Soap knows how to make jewelry, his sisters tricked him into liking it at 10 and it became a hobby he uses to destress. He sells his stuff online or gives it to friends and family for special occasions or just because he wanted to. His specialty is earrings.

His favorite color is purple. Not because he got it from someone else or even because he thought it was genuinely the prettiest color, but because it's a mixture of red and blue, his real favorite colors. He just couldn't pick one so he went with purple for simplicity.

Because his sisters can't sew worth their lives, he learned. It was a necessity, and something he didn't grouch about being "girly" like he jokingly does with the jewelry making sometimes. He thinks everyone regardless of gender or upbringing should know how to sew. Can make an entire outfit just hand sewing, but likes using a handheld sewing machine rather than a desk machine or actually hand sewing. Doesn't make outfits often unless they're gifts.

Has panic attacks. Not because of his time in the military, but because he's had a panic disorder since he was young. Once, he and Ghost get stranded at a safe house for about 2 weeks and he starts thinking about what would happen if they are forced to stay longer. Ghost walks in on him curled up on himself on the side of the bed, breathing so fast it's more of a wheeze than actual air being moved, and comforts him to the best of his ability. He somehow gets out not to touch him, so Ghost sits 2 feet away and starts talking about his life and his family. This was the catalyst for Soap realizing he's been madly in love with Ghost for a long time.

He fell first.

Whenever Ghost gets the chance to, he cooks. This is not a known fact to Soap until they get stranded at a decently stocked safe house with Price and Gaz and he Jerry rigs MREs to taste better.

Ghost likes to grow his fingernails out because to him it's a sign of being healthy. He hates when a nail breaks and tries to resolve any weakness in them to show he's strong and healthy.

He has a (probably) 15 year old pillow he keeps in his bunk. It's a gross color and can be folded so many times, but it's his favorite pillow and he finds he can't sleep well without it. Soap stuffs it full of cut up memory foam when he learns about it and it makes the sleep with it even better. This is the catalyst for Ghost realizing he's madly in love with Soap.

Likes having long hair, hates that he has to crop cut his hair for his work and takes as much time as possible between cuts, thanking the universe that his mask covers his hair because he'd be getting reprimanded often for his choice in how long it gets before he gets it cut.

He fell harder.

Gaz reads romance novels. He likes to make fun of the "my alpha" ones but genuinely gets interested sometimes because he has a habit of putting himself in the MC's shoes.

He likes receiving flowers. One time in secondary school another boy gave him flowers as a prank, this is where he finds out he likes lilies and dahlias the most.

Doesn't like wearing shoes or socks. He's got this thing where something being on his feet feels restrictive, and can't relax unless barefoot.

Doesn't like loud and sudden sounds. Bombs make him nervous and he can compartmentalize around them, but if someone slams something near him when he's relaxing he'll either go into a panic attack or blank out completely. It reminds him of being bullied and abuse more than it does war.

He won the bet on who would be the reason the Ghoap relationship got exposed to them.

Price grabs a newspaper every chance he gets, not because of staying caught up on the news, but because he likes to read and keep his favorite comic strips.

LOVES spicy food, Ghost will walk up to him randomly and hand him a jalapeno or habanero and he'll just crunch it. His favorite takeout when off duty is Indian food. No one said he can HANDLE the spice, just that he likes it.

Always has a bag of skittles on him. One time early on in their friendship Ghost was being mean to himself and refusing to eat more than bare minimum to not die. Being a big man, this means he expended more energy at one point than he had given himself, leading to a black out during a debrief in Price's office. This scared Price so badly until he found out Ghost's blood sugar just bottomed out, now he carries his favorite candy with him. He later adds Reese's for Gaz and twizzlers for Soap.

Price writes a journal every day before going to sleep. He carries a tiny one with him on missions to later transfer into the big one at his bedside table. He confesses his worry for his boys and his observations on their behaviours and likes and dislikes. He keeps a stream of consciousness going on some pages trying to figure out the best way to help if someone has a panic attack in front of him.

He was really hoping his lieutenant was better at stealth while distracted than THAT.

[maikissed]

post euro Jude Bellingham oneshot felt like writing something like this again, but it's a fluff (I guess?) sorry for typos, was writing like crazy!!!

ps. they’re best friends

A very early morning in Tokyo and you were glued to your laptop, attentively following the occurrences happening on the pitch on the other side of the world. Your eyes bloodshot, your head heavy. You did not get enough sleep since you’ve woken up on very not your usual hour to watch the European Championship final. And to add to that you went to sleep rather late. Sorrowfully, you were not prepared for it’s outcome, as you started picking at your nails, watching the minutes reach the end of the short added time. The final whistle, the final breath that left your lungs as the pictures of true euphoria kept flashing with bright colours at your tired eyes, bright red colours, happy screaming and whistling faces amongst the colour white, shrouded in sadness and defeat. You could not believe it. You were devastated. You were searching for his face but to your dismay the whole attention focused mostly on the true smiles of the cheerful winners. You waited a little bit more and there it was, an icy pain spilling inside your guts at the sight of his gaze, shocked, lost, unfocused. You were sure yours was the spitting image. Quickly you grabbed your phone laying on the nightstand to your right and looked at the last messages exchanged.

“Good luck, big boy. You got this!!!!”

“💪❤️”

You started to type. You stopped for a second and thought about it. What one say at such circumstances? Seemed easy but in fact was not. You knew how Jude was after losing any game, a damned one of the biggest events final must have been a disastrous blow. And he gave his all to it.

“Head up. You were wonderful”

You knew you would not get any more sleep this morning, so you decided to start your day at 6. After two hours of desperately trying to find a purpose in this day, you finally searched for a closest flight home.

Breathing in the England air felt different every time you came back. At some point the same, freshening, enlivening, moist whiff filling your lungs with longing; different with the way you were accepting it each time you were strolling down the very known streets. Every other time it seemed more feeble than before, like you’ve turned into a stranger. Like you did not belong anymore. You wondered why, since it was still your home, your roots. Were you distancing yourself? From home? From family? From him? Were you too preoccupied with all these new, different things? You felt downhearted at the thoughts. 

You reached the doorbell with your slightly numb fingers. Just a minute later Mark opened the door for you. You smiled from under your cap.

“Y/n, what are you doing here?” his face bright and smile honest, he reached for you to pull you into a greeting hug.

“Hi” your voice croaky so you cleared your throat “Took a quick flight. Wanted to check on you” 

“Quick? Thought it’s about fourteen hours” his expression amused, yet amazed.

“Something like that” you shrugged.

He nodded at your answer, gently in a thought.

“Please come in, want something to drink?” he turned around vigorously after a second and you followed him into the sitting-room connected with a spacious kitchen.

“I’m alright, thank you”

Not much changed around this house since your last visit, you thought to yourself. And it was quiet.

“Is he with you?” you murmured, almost like a whisper.

“Yes, upstairs”

Still very quiet.

“Asleep?” you asked.

“No, not yet” he commented, smiling at you with solicitude to it “I mean he struggles, more than usually. Mostly spends his days actively but alone, with no space to think too much. Running during the night, training for hours since early morning, sometimes visits the grandparents” his voice calm and stable, simply voicing out the facts but it added to your worry nonetheless.

A process of healing, you thought. But it broke your heart a little bit. You realised there must have been a sign of concern showing on your face because his lit up once again, his eyes smiling at you.

“He’ll be very happy to see you” you watched him beginning to collect some dirty dishes from the kitchen island “You happen to visit during his short rest so I guess he’ll be in his room or the gaming room”

You nodded before silently heading to the corridor leading to the stairs. There was an awful feeling gnawing at you because of your decision to not stay for the rest of the tournament to cheer for him, and leaving back to work after just 2 matches. Despite that he assured you it’s alright, you had your duties after all.

The doors to his room were opened and you took a quick peak around but he wasn’t there, so you turned to the other room, as Mark informed. The doors opened silently, the first thing you spotted was the back of the couch, the big TV in front of it turned off. The top of his head visible as he was sitting comfortably on the said couch. You took a few steps. A book in his hands, you realised and smiled amusingly at the sight. His head still down as he didn’t notice you.

“What’s the book about?” you started circling the couch to come closer.

His eyes shot up from the lecture and the first expression on his features that met your unsure gaze was surprise. He opened his mouth, with no sound at all, no words to voice out, his eyes always big and sparkly now smaller and tarnish. He reached out his hand for you to take it, his face softened. The corner of your mouth rose up as you placed your fingers in his gentle grip, sitting down next to him. He placed a gentle kiss on your knuckles and that’s when you reached for him to pull him in a hug.

“When did you arrive?” his voice raspy like he did not speak at all for the last few hours. You wondered.

“Two hours ago” you murmured into his arm before he pulled away.

“You crazy girl” he whispered, a bit of light entering his eyes as he examined you in amusement.

You granted him with the softest smile.

“Wanted to see you and tell you I’m proud of you” you shrugged.

Your sight turning blurry in a span of a second. You indeed were more sensitive than you would ever like to admit.

“Flew fifteen hours to tell me you’re proud of me?” he joked, his lips flexing in that funny smirk you knew so well.

“Fourteen” you corrected, making him chuckle in answer “You look tired”

“I am tired” he turned to lean back on the sofa.

“You did a great, invaluable job, you do know that?” after few seconds of silence.

These words made him tense, you could see that. His fingers shot up to his face, to the corners of his closed eyes, he sighed. Your intention was not to stress him, but it seemed it was still a very delicate subject. You reached with your own hand to his face, gently pressing on his cheek so he looked at you. Vulnerable and drained, your touch brining him peace.

“What would you say about a nap?” you asked.

As kids you used to love doing two specific things together during your free time. Playing outside all day, just the two of you or with your friends, until there was no more energy left in your limbs. And then coming back to yours or his to take a nap together. Sometimes short, sometimes lasting few more hours. Cuddled together or him resting on the pillows that were spread out on the floor and you on the bed, sometimes the other way around. Most of the times you were absolutely drained and it happened spontaneously, whatever space you reached first. But you loved to nestle into him, you rested well with his heartbeat palpable on your side. You never confessed. When you were kids it was simple and held no more into it than affection and happiness of two carefree souls.

And now you desperately yearned for him to have some good, cleansing sleep. You wished it could help, to go back a few years and feel it the way it used to made you feel. Safe and calm.

He silently agreed, so you stood up, his hand in yours when you started to walk in the direction of his room. There was a bit of awkwardness to it as you both laid down on the mattress next to each other. There never used to. But you weren’t kids anymore and it didn’t feel as natural as before. Many things didn’t feel like it used too anymore.

You turned your head to look at him, his eyes opened, staring at the ceiling.

“Come here” a whisper, a bit unsure but you hoped he didn’t notice that.

He turned your way and you rose up slightly so your back rested more on the backrest. He looked at you questionably.

“You want me to crush you?” he smiled.

“I’ll be fine” you rolled your eyes at his mocking smirk.

You’ve never been nervous around him, but when he placed his head on your stomach, gently and considerably, and his left hand reached around your waist to rest on your hip, there was a burst of funny sensations inside your belly. Affection, you held so much of it for him.

“Close your eyes” you whispered when your fingers reached his nape to scratch it gently, going down his back slowly and then back up.

“That’s nice” he hummed, his breath hot on the material of your shirt.

“Take some rest”

Minute by minute you could feel him relax more, his weight more prominent, his breathing evening – fifteen minutes later it turned deeper. He did fell asleep, you felt lighter at the realisation.

But after few more minutes you noticed the doors opening silently and you stressed that whomever decided to invade this peace might woke him up. You frowned when you noticed Jobe’s tall figure entering the room. Your expression dangerous as you shook your head at his brother because you were ready to murder him if Jude wakes up now. He smiled widely at the sight and despite your silent threats he circled the bed with an index finger placed lightly on his lips, as a sign that he’ll remain quiet. You followed him with your gaze. Bending over you he placed a quick kiss on your cheek in greeting, your features softened.

“He’s hopeless without you” Jobe whispered in your ear and you did not expect it “Don’t you dare leaving him again” his face funnily serious when he leaned back, turning away to leave you as you were.

You looked down at the boy resting on you, deep in a peaceful sleep, and you started to think heavily how would your life look like if you sacrificed all for everything you felt for him.

A sharp jolt startled you, you opened your eyes realising that sleep quickly overcame you as well. You looked around you quickly, the room turned darker, hours must’ve passed. Jude still laid on you, your legs entwined, but his grip on your side harsher, his body stiff against you. He jumped again, a distressed groan leaving his throat, followed by a quiet whimper, his face pressed hard onto your stomach. He was having a bad dream, you comprehended. You placed your palm on his arm.

“Jude” you whispered, shaking him delicately, but to no avail “Jude, wake up” louder.

He shuddered, his head rose up. After a second he turned to you in a little confusion.

“Y/n” he spoke your name more to himself, like an reassurance.

“I’m here” you confirmed watching his sleepy face, eyes a bit puffy, a few sleep wrinkles created by the material of your shirt visible on his skin.

“Good” he nodded.

He still looked disorientated, like he hasn’t fully woken up from a very deep slumber.

“Come here” he muttered, motioning for you to lay lower next to him.

You did as he asked, noticing a soft ghost of a smile on his lips, while his eyes kept closing involuntarily. You almost laughed out fondly at the sight. You had no time to correctly process his next move when he leaned closer to you and put a quick, sweet peck directly on your lips before whispering:

“Thank you” 

His head rested down on the pillows, his face in the crook of your neck, arm wrapped around you. He fell asleep on the spot and you smiled to yourself, for the deepening darkness to see only. You felt lighter than you’ve felt in years. You belonged, just not where you believed you did in these last few years. You belonged back home.

[misserabella]

Filthy Rich

Spencer Reid x Fem! reader PT.1

pt2! pt3!

✧ Synopsis;; Spencer Reid was filthy rich, for he was royalty. Handsome, charming and a gentleman, a dream dressed in pure silk for any kind of woman. But not you.

✧ y/n is a mere slave of a nobel family who just turned 22. On the night of the prince’s royal ball she is dragged against her will to this dance just to be used as a coat rack for the purses and coats of the family ladies, who, of course, treat her like absolute sh’t, to the point where they could agreed to hand her over for a generous amount of gold.

“Just name your price, sweetheart.”

“Screw you, my prince.”

Just how lucky you were for had caught the

prince’ s attention!

< enemies to lovers 3

17th century royalty! inspired by bridgerton!

CW;; this series might include 18+ content (details will be given at the start of each new part uploaded) MINORS DNI AND SKIP!!!

WARNINGS PART ONE: mention of blood, abuse, cursing and slave trafficking.

Please, under no circumstances, repost my work on any other sites. I do not consent to anyone taking my work and posting it as their own.

WORD COUNT;; 2k!

Her faced seemed to tell everything: she hated it.

She hated everything. From the music, to the little stupid shoes that clacked against the floor. The floral scent, the wine, the giggles… She hated the ton*. Every single one of them,

Everything. It was a goddamn nightmare.

“y/n! You are letting my coat slip! Do i have to tell you how much it costs?! If you dare let it touch the floor I’ll take the money out of your poor allowance to pay for a new one!” one of the misses glared at you, hitting you in the face with her closed paper fan, its gemstones leaving marks on you cheek.

“We might as well do it anyways, since her filthy hands have touched them already!” her sister laughed, grabbing your face in between her gloved fingers and digging her nails in your skin. “Don’t you think so, y/n? What? Cat got you tongue?” they giggled.

“Children, children!” the woman of the house hushed them with a sweet smile. “You shall never touch her!” she said, taking of the gloves out of her daughters hands to give her a new pair, with a sweet smile telling one of the servants of the castle to burn them. “God knows what she might infect us with!” she laughed, her offsprings following her.

God, you hated her. Her and her stupid daughters. With their stupid dresses and stupid painted faces.

You glared at them, your grip tightening around their belongings, holding your stare and your head up even when the woman stared back at you, her face scrunching in disgust and anger.

“Who do you think you are staring at?!?!” she suddenly yelled, catching the attention of those who enjoyed drinks and company around her, not waiting a mere second to rise her hand and slap you to ‘show you your place’. You took the hits, the metallic flavor of blood filling your mouth due to the continues smacks and hits with the back of her fan. “You filthy ungrateful bitch, you dare stare at us, who give you food and a bed?! I should’ve let you died out in the cold, in the dirt, where you belong to!” you gritted your teeth, your eyes down to the floor as your free hand made its way to your bottom lip, where you felt the skin split, the crimson of fresh blood tinting your frail skin.

“Fucking fussock*.” you cursed her under your breath, loud enough for her to perfectly hear you.

“What did you say?!” her free hand gripped your long and matted locks, making you look into her enraged eyes, her other hand rising up to hit you once again.

Your eyes closed as you expected a new slap, which surprisingly enough never came. The sound of multiple gasps filled your ears and when you opened up your eyes once again, your stomach sank at the sight of…

“Your highness!” everyone suddenly diverted their eyes to the floor, including you, your mistress and her daughters bowed in his presence, the wrist of the first of them all gracefully and softly held by the prince’s, who let her go with a kind smile.

“Is everything alright?” his voice tested the waters, his tone low and soft as the silk he dressed in, his hands jeweled in golden rings joining and intertwining in an elegance you never had witnessed.

“Yes, your highness.” the woman stuttered, showing a nervous smile. “Our slave just seemed to…, misbehave, your highness.” your eyes travelled trough his tall and magnificent demeanor. His fern green suit matched perfectly with the caramel of his skin and his brown and perfectly combed curls.

Your eyes quickly darted always as he had caught you staring once he had turned to you. He fought the lopsided smirk that urged to grow in his lips, stepping closer to where you stood.

He took a glance at the ragged clothes that hid your bruised and malnourished body, probably due to the family’s treatment under your care, your matted hair, cut up hands…

His warm touch spread on your skin as he took your chin in between his thumb and index finger, softly trying to rise your head up, but you denied him, in a harsh turn of head freeing yourself from his touch before giving him a glare.

A new wave of gasps filed the air as you stared right into his eyes, him holding your glare.

You didn’t care if he was a noble or pure royalty. Those ‘pure blood’ were all the goddamn same. With their leather shoes and gold jewelry, fancy words and silk dresses and suits. Their appearance was only a pretty facade that hid the ugliness of their insides.

You hated all of them. Might as well just get your head off as soon as possible.

“You slave! How is it ye dare to stare at the prince, soon king?!” a brunette and tall man talked, you recognized him as the pince’s right hand, but only with a wave of this hand, he stood silent beside the prince.

“Huh…” the smile he had been trying to fight off finally took place on his gracefully sculpted face and full rosy lips. “Interesting.” once again he took a soft grasp to your face, this time not letting you go even if you fought him off. His eyes took everything your face offered him, from your perfect nose to you long eyelashes and your beautiful fierce eyes, which stared at him with pure hatred and anger. “How much?” he suddenly asked, still not drifting his eyes away from you.

The woman stood frozen in place, just like her daughters.

“What does your highness mean with…-”

“How much would you want for her?” he cut her off, the deadly silent that fell on the salon almost giving you chills.

What was he saying?

“Your highness, I can’t…” she was short of breath and words. “I surely doubt thee would want her under your care, she…”

“I don’t care about any of it. Name a price.” everyone was shocked by the situation. Buying and selling slaves was something quite common, that’s how your current ‘family’ have got you, but this…

The prince? Has he gone nuts?

“Your highness, I don’t think…” the prince’s counselor stepped in, shutting up once again as soon as he gave him a glance.

“50 gold coins.” the woman suddenly blurted out, everyone’s jaws dropping at the audacity of the woman and such large figure.

“Mother!” her offsprings whispered-yelled. Not believing her words.

50 gold coins?!

You scoffed, smirking at such nonsense, not noticing the staring of the prince due to your reaction.

She wished you were worth that much. He would never…

“Make it 150.” he closed the deal.

“Your highness!” the counselor exclaimed, completely alarmed.

“I don’t wanna hear it, Gideon.” he hushed the man with his soft hazel eyes.

You watched as the woman who once abused you and starved you for days fainted due to the prince’s words and his daughters kneeling down to help her followed by some of the nearby guests, fanning her pale sleeping face.

You too felt like fainting.

“Hey, eyes on me, sweetheart.” the prince caught your attention once again, when your eyes met a smile growing on his lips. “All you need to do from now on keep your eyes on me.”

“Get off of me!” you screamed at the servants that tried and strip you out of your clothes, pushing their hands away. “I said stop!”

“Miss, they’re orders from your highness.” one of them spoke, her blue eyes soft on you. “He wanted us to help you bathe and and get rid of your dirty clothes.” she explained.

“I don’t care about what he said.” you scoffed. “If he wanted me undressed so fast why isn’t he the one taking my clothes off?” they all gasped at your words and no respect to the prince.

You didn’t care though, they were all the same anyways. Always reaks* that just wanted to have women swoon at their feet. Maybe that’s why he had bought you, just to use you when his cock got cold.

Suddenly, the door on your back opened, the heads of the servants quickly lowering as your eyes met the prince’s.

“Oh, fantastic…” you muttered. Just what you needed at the moment.

“You heard her, ladies. You are all dismissed.” he smiled at every and each one of them, bowing and moving aside with a swing of his arm on the door to let them out, all of them bowing and giggling.

And weren’t you just right?

“Great. And what do I have the honor of your highness’ presence for?” you sarcastically inquired him once he had closed the door behind his back, noticing…, ‘Gideon’ outside. “Got too excited due your new acquisition to just wait?” you mocked him.

“I heard you were putting up a fight.” he smiled, ignoring your words whilst looking at you up and down. “Is there something not to your liking, perhaps?”

“‘Not to my liking’?” you scoffed. “I can’t believe you.” you shook your head, grasping at your locks as you stared at him in disbelief. “How about this whole goddamn situation? I mean, look at this!” you pointed out everything that surrounded you, the whole bathroom with a gigantic bathtub of quartz, marble floors and pillars… “A few hours ago I was being used as a coat hanger in your ball and now I’m in a bathroom with the prince, who, surprisingly enough, bought me for 150 golden coins god knows why?!” you exclaimed.

He stared at you with a funny look in his eyes. His back against the door as his eyebrows raised at you.

“What.” you spit out, a glare in your eyes.

“Nothing, is just that…” he stepped closer to you, his arms crossed over his chest. “You don’t seem to…, respect me.” he frowned, his voice low. “Not like all of them.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, your highness, for not being another dog licking your leather boots.” you bowed, more of his steps growing closer to you until his thumb took your chin, rising your head up so you could meet his eyes, his face stood serious for a couple of seconds, before a downside smirk grew on his factions. “Why haven’t you cut my head off yet?” you inquired him, not really understanding his behavior. By the way you treated him, any other prince would have already gotten you to the guillotine.

“Why shall I?” he answered with another question, his thumb caressing the wound on your bottom lip, the still fresh blood that stood on it staining his thumb as you hissed in pain, getting away.

You stared at him in confusion.

Yeah. He was absolutely nuts.

“The water will go cold if you don’t get in soon.” he said, drifting off the matter while whipping off your blood from his thumb with his handkerchief. “Are you sure you don’t want to get off those ragged clothes?”

“This is the only dress I’ve had, sir.” you said, his eyes meeting yours.

“What’s your favorite color?” you frowned at his sudden question, which made absolutely no sense. He made no sense. “Crimson, like the purest blood? The forest’s green? The ocean’s blue, perhaps?”

“I’ve never seen the forest nor the ocean, sir. I’ve never left the capital. Though I find the sky’s blue on spring pretty wonderful, not sure it does justice to the ocean’s.”

“It doesn’t.” he said, sitting in the edge of the bathtub, his fingers taunting the warm water. “The ocean is cold, and fierce…, untamable. But it can also be warm, and calm, and soft.” he tried to explain, and from your point of view it didn’t make sense.

It didn’t make sense but you found it…

“It must be beautiful.” you said, him flashing you a soft smile before nodding.

“It is.” he got up clapping his hands together before looking back at you. “Well then, you should really hurry up, the water is perfect.”

“I already told thee, this dress is the only-“

“You won’t need it anymore.” he cut you off.

“And why is that?” you inquired, his steps growing closer to you.

“Because from now on…” he said, catching one of your locks in between his fingers. “You belong in this castle.”

To be continued…

*fussock; a lazy fat woman…, a frowzy old woman.

*the ton; the ton actually refers to English high society during the Regency era, and encompasses every aristocrat from the royals to the gentry.

*rake; ‘rake’ is used to describe an immoral, hedonistic young man circulating in high society.

[obsessedwhyyes]

An Empirical Study

Part 2 of The Scientific Method Series (though readable as a standalone). Part 1, A Sound Hypothesis, can be found here!

Summary: As your first night together with Astarion draws near, your mind, ever the analyst, goes into overdrive. Thankfully, Astarion has a cure for those racing thoughts - a sensory experiment, one that will release your inhibitions and help you to embrace the unknown. In doing so, you discover that some mysteries are best experienced, rather than solved.

Rating: Explicit Word Count: 7132 Pairing: Astarion x Fem!Reader Content: Act 1, smut with plot, inexperienced nerd reader, losing virginity, sensory play, tantric massage (sort of), fingering, Astarion guides you during sex. Warning: Very mild reference to Astarion's past trauma, though this Tav doesn't pass her insight checks.

Gif by silverformymonsters on Tumblr!

A/N: This fic was inspired by the idea that mindfulness is the best cure for a busy mind. No one says mindfulness can't be sexy, right? Actual smut appears halfway through.

Travelling lush verdant landscapes on your search for the Druid, Halsin, your eyes are drawn to Astarion at each opportunity, your mind wandering to thoughts of your night prior. You had bared yourself to him, and him to you in an evening of bliss and exploration which you, even in all your overthinking, had not anticipated. Yet, it was nothing compared to what was to come tonight - at least, according to him.

Stolen glances, lingering touches on the small of your back, a brush of his hand against yours - all promises of what is to come, whispered between almost-lovers.

And so you find yourself sneaking glances at his lips, which spilled forth such delicious sounds for you at your touch; at his silver hair which you envision your hands running through in a moment of passion; at his eyes, which gazed into yours with the intensity of a winter storm as his pleasure spilled from him.

Gods, is it distracting.

You're meant to be leading this merry band of tadpolled companions you have founded, not indulging these dirty little fantasies of yours. You need to keep your wits about you. Lives depend on it. 

He, meanwhile, is the picture of easy grace and sardonic smiles, sauntering ahead of you with all the casual arrogance of a man who knows how good he looks from behind.

Every so often, he pauses to check his nails or adjust his perfectly coiffed hair, as if the finer details of his appearance are the most pressing concern in this current life-or-death situation.

And then there's that smirk. That knowing, mischievous quirk of his lips whenever he catches you staring. It's a look that says, “I know what you're thinking, darling. And you have to work for it.”

You're torn between wanting to wipe that damn smug expression off his face and wanting to… well, the evermore debauched side of your mind helpfully supplies several colourful suggestions, none of which are appropriate for your current company or circumstances.

So when you find yourself tripping over a fallen beam and nearly falling face-first into a pile of mouldy straw as your companions attempt to loot the blighted village you’ve stumbled into, you decide, for your sake and the sake of your increasingly concerned friends, to seek a moment of reprieve.

“You all go on ahead,” you shout to them. “I'll catch up.”

When they nod their understanding and continue on, you're relieved to have a moment to yourself. A moment to rein your wandering thoughts back under control and return to the wizard you were - one with a mind of sound, scientific thought and resolve, not of such lewd desires. For now, at least.

It seems only a taste of the once unknown was enough to drive you to madness.

But that isn’t all that plagues you.

As you stand alone in the dilapidated building you’ve resigned yourself to in your moment of madness, your mind wanders to the night ahead. Excitement bubbles in your chest, but it’s tempered by a gnawing anxiety that threatens to overwhelm you. You’ve faced down monsters, handled the horror of a mindflayer parasite lurking in your brain with a surprising grace. And yet, the prospect of fully giving yourself to Astarion shakes you in a way that you have never experienced.

It’s a natural biological response, you tell yourself. The release of hormones in response to a new, potentially stressful situation.

But there is a sense of finality to the coming night that intimidates you - a threshold that once crossed, cannot be uncrossed.

You pace the worn floorboards, your footsteps echoing in the empty room. Your mind, ever the analyst, begins to dissect your fears with scientific precision. Perhaps it’s not the physical act itself that fears you, but what it represents: a change. For so long, you’ve defined yourself by your rationality - your dedication to your craft - even if it meant keeping intimacy at arm’s length. But Astarion - he's awakened something within you. Something primal, something that can't be contained by logic or reason.

Astarion is a master in getting your heart racing - a dangerous cocktail of excitement, fear, and desire that leaves you breathless, in more ways than one as of late. He’s like the night itself - dark, mysterious, full of hidden dangers and untold pleasures. And just like the night, he calls to you, urging you to explore, to experience, to lose yourself in the shadows. It’s intoxicating.

There’s a part of you that fears this - that desire to cling to what is familiar. Yet you also yearn for the connection, the raw intimacy, the chance to experience life with your whole being, not just your mind.

And really, what does it matter if you lean into this yearning? You could all be dead tomorrow, or worse, transformed into mind flayers. If you're going to die or become a monster, at least you could do so knowing what it feels like to–

No, no. Stop that.

You groan and run a hand through your hair. All this anticipation is maddening.

Your eyes scan the room - what was once a bedroom - for a distraction, and locate a suitably perfect one placed conveniently on a bedside table: a small coffer, liable to be filled with the valuables of its owner, now long dead to the goblins which had infested this area before you and your companions had cleaned it up.

You sit down on the edge of the bed, the old, torn frame creaking as you lower yourself. The coffer is ornate, its lock intricate - complex enough to keep out the finest of goblin thieves, seemingly. Probably not enough to keep out particularly dextrous vampires though, your traitorous mind supplies.

Nevertheless, it will make a suitable distraction. You can figure out an old lock without Astarion’s expertise. You’re a wizard for gods’ sake.

You pull spare lockpicking tools from your pack, tongue poking out slightly in concentration as you set to work, trying to remember the vague instructions you’d once overheard in a tavern. Hells, what was it again? “Insert and wiggle?” Or “poke and hope?” Undeterred, you begin your fumbling.

… And the pick slips as you attempt to insert it into the lock, jabbing under your fingernail.

You yelp, nearly dropping the entire set, swearing profanities under your breath.

“Now this is just pitiful.”

“Shit!” You shout, the coffer clattering to the floor as you scramble to get up to address the velvety voice that manifests behind you.

You look up to see Astarion gazing down at you, eyebrow raised, amused at your lack of grace. He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, the picture of casual elegance.

“I hope I’m not interrupting anything,” he coos.

“No, I just…” You fight to catch your breath. “It looked valuable. I couldn't just leave it here without taking a peek.”

“All by yourself? I do hope you were planning to share,” he teases in mock pouting.

“As if you wouldn't keep it all to yourself.”

He brings a hand to his heart, with all the theatrics of a wandering bard recounting his most exaggerated conquests after too many tankards of ale.

“How you wound me! I think you'll find I'm very generous.” He looks you up and down as you reclaim your fallen items and your space on the bed to resume your attempts at this gods-damned impossible lock. Astarion, however, seems to have other ideas.

He saunters into the room, circling you like a predator sizing up its prey.

“You know,” he continues, a smirk on his lips, “if you need me to teach you, you only have to say so. If I recall, you're an exceptionally fast learner…”

He leans over you, lips hovering closely to your ear. You pulse quickens, but you don't look him in the eye.

“... Darling.”

Nope. Still not looking him in the eye.

“I’m perfectly capable of picking a lock, Astarion.”

“Oh, I’ve no doubt. But perhaps you’d like a lesson from the master of larceny himself? I promise to be a thorough teacher. All you have to do,” he teases, “is say please.”

Bastard.

“And I suppose you’re offering this lesson out of the kindness of your heart?”

Astarion’s laugh is rich and warm, and your heart flutters for just a moment. “Let’s just say I enjoy watching you learn.”

The double entendre isn’t lost on you. Heat pools in your belly as you recall his “lessons” from the night prior.

“Fine,” you sigh in mock exasperation, turning to look directly into his ruby eyes. If it’s a cat-and-mouse game he wants, a cat-and-mouse game he shall have. “Please,” you purr in your best attempt to embody the sultriness that Astarion so easily exudes, holding his gaze with eyes hooded. You can only hope you don’t look and sound as silly as you feel.

You get more than you bargained for.

“Oh, my.” He positions himself behind you on the bed, pressing his chest against your back, his legs either side of you. “Since you asked so nicely.”

Your breath hitches. Your pulse quickens, pounding so loudly that you have no doubt he can hear it. But worst of all, the proximity, his breath on your neck, and the feeling of his hard body against yours ignite that familiar ache in your core. 

So much for a distraction.

He tuts. “Ah, I see the problem.” His voice is low, lips now hovering beside your ear. “The pick you’re using - it’s not quite up to the task.”

You frown, examining the delicate tool. “What do you mean? It seems fine to me.”

“Oh no, my dear. Size matters when it comes to these things. It’s simply not big enough for a lock like this. Luckily for you, I have a pick that is very large.”

You bite back a laugh and decide to play along. “Is that so? And how exactly do you manage to fit such a large pick in these small locks?”

He chuckles, the sound low and rich in your ear. “It’s all about technique, darling. With the right approach, you’d be amazed at what can fit where.”

You half expect to find yourself suddenly transported into the pages of one of those tawdry “romance” novels hidden in the darkest corners of Candlekeep’s library.

“I see,” you reply. “And I suppose you’ve had plenty of practice…”

Gods, you can’t quite believe you’re indulging this.

“... inserting your pick into various locks over the years?” You continue, heat flushing your cheeks at your own brazenness.

“Oh, indeed,” he replies. “I’ve encountered all sorts of locks in my time. Each one unique, requiring a… personal touch to open properly.”

“And have you ever met a lock you couldn’t pick?”

Astarion’s voice is downright wicked. “Not yet, darling. Though I must say, I’m quite looking forward to trying my luck with yours.”

There’s that ache of excitement again, pooling at your core at the implications which race through your mind. The air hangs heavy between you, charged with promise and anticipation. “Well then, master lockpick, perhaps you’d better show me how it’s done.”

“With pleasure,” Astarion coos, reaching behind him to retrieve an, indeed, much larger lockpick from his pack, alongside an additional curved tool: a tension wrench - how very advanced. He hands them to you, keeping a hold of your hands as you hold onto the implements.

“First,” he murmurs, his cool, long fingers guiding you to bring the tension wrench to the lock, “we need to slide this into the keyway, here. Apply constant, gentle pressure. Too much, and you’ll bind the pins. Too little, and they won’t set.”

Next, he raises your other hand, holding the pick. “Now for the delicate part,” he purrs. “We’ll use this to probe deeply, searching for those sensitive spots that, when touched just right, will yield to you.”

You swallow hard, but persevere.

As you work, you feel the subtle vibrations of pins through the pick; the minute clicks as they each settle into place. Astarion’s hands never leave yours, his touch both instructive and maddeningly distracting.

“Feel that resistance?” he asks as you encounter a stubborn pin. “Sometimes, darling, you have to apply a little more pressure.” He emphasises the word by pressing his body closer to yours, and you have to bite your lip to keep from making a sound. “Maintain tension while you lift the pin with the pick.”

“That’s it,” he encourages as you successfully work your way through the lock, guided by his expert hands. “I knew those clever fingers of yours were good for more than just spellcasting.”

“And just what other uses did you have in mind for my fingers?”

His chuckle is low and rich. “My dear, I have so many ideas, we might need another night to explore them all.”

The promise in his words sends a thrill through you, equal parts excitement and trepidation. 

“Almost there,” he murmurs, voice husky with concentration - or perhaps something else entirely. “Just a little more pressure…”

With a satisfying click, the lock finally gives way. You let out a triumphant laugh, turning to face Astarion with a grin.

“Well done,” he says, with something resembling pride flickering across his features for a moment. Or hunger. It’s hard to tell sometimes.

As the excitement of your victory over that bastard lock fades, you become acutely aware of Astarion’s proximity. You realise with a start just how close you are. His face is mere inches from yours, eyes boring into you with an intensity that steals your breath. The cool solidity of his chest against your back, his breath ghosting over your neck - it’s intoxicating and terrifying all at once. The reality of what is to come tonight crashes over you like a wave, bringing forth those familiar pangs of anxiety deep within your chest.

“Astarion,” you begin, turning your face away from him. “About tonight…”

“Not having second thoughts, are we?” He says as he shifts to sit alongside you. You find yourself equal parts relieved and disappointed at the loss of him pressed so firmly against you.

“No,” you say quickly, then pause. “I want to. It’s just… I don’t know. I’m just–”

“Nervous? Darling, I assure you, I won’t bite.” He pauses, a wicked grin spreading across his face. “Unless you ask nicely, of course.”

Your face flushes at his brazen comment.

“Besides, after your… performance last night, I thought we were well past this bashfulness. You don’t need more ‘experimentation,’ surely?”

“That was different,” you mutter, avoiding his gaze.

“Oh?” Astarion leans in. You feel his breath on your skin, cool and gentle. “Do tell. What makes tonight so special that it has our dear leader in such a state?”

You take a breath, deciding to be honest. “It just feels like… once we do this, there’s no going back. I’ll be… I don't know. Different.”

It’s a foolish notion by all logic, but one that gnaws at your mind nonetheless. You feel almost ludicrous as you voice your feelings aloud. It’s difficult, this “being honest with yourself” business.

Astarion’s eyebrow arches, a mix of curiosity and amusement. “Ever the overthinker.” He pauses, seemingly considering his words. “Darling, you’ll still be you. Just… more experienced. And significantly more satisfied, I might add.”

You roll your eyes. “You know what I mean, Astarion.”

His expression shifts to something altogether softer. "I do. But tell me, darling - didn't you feel it last night? That thrill of breaking free from your own chains? The prim scholar I met would have baulked at such unseemly behaviour. And yet, there you were, eager and willing. Why cling to those old restraints when you could shed them entirely? There's so much more to experience, so many delicious freedoms to taste."

You blink. Loathe as you are to admit, he’s right about one thing: abandoning your own self-imposed constraints last night was… liberating.

“You know, you can be surprisingly insightful at times.”

He feigns offence, placing a hand dramatically over his heart. “Surprisingly? My dear, I’ve had centuries to perfect the art of observation. How do you think I’ve survived this long? It’s a crucial skill for any vampire. Or any lover.”

You laugh, and some of the tension eases from your shoulders at his usual bantering. “And there’s the Astarion I know.”

“Would you prefer I return to being mysterious and dangerous? That can certainly be arranged.”

“No,” you say softly, meeting his gaze. “I think I prefer you as you are.”

Shit, you think. Did I really just say that?

He makes an odd expression. That same indecipherable expression from the night prior, flickering across his features, barely visible, impossible for you to categorise. Is it disappointment? Annoyance? A deeper emotion that you cannot name? Gods, you wish you could see into that mind of his.

Well… you could, but that would be impolite.

But before either of you can speak again, a voice cuts through the air.

“Oi! Are you two coming back or do we need to leave you to the goblins?”

It’s Shadowheart, her tone impatient and slightly suspicious.

Astarion's usual smirk slides back into place, the elusive expression gone as quickly as it appeared. "Well, we'd better not keep them waiting. Wouldn't want them to start any unsavoury rumours, would we?"

As you gather your things, your mind whirls with thoughts of what almost was and what's still to come. Astarion brushes past you as he heads for the door, his hand ghosting over the small of your back.

"Until tonight, darling," he murmurs, just for you to hear.

-

The day crawls by with agonising slowness, each moment stretching like treacle in the sun; thoughts of the unknown looming over you like a curse - albeit one that promises especially satisfying outcomes.

When evening approached and you and your companions returned to the sanctuary of your camp, Astarion had caught you alone, his voice low and rich with promise.

“Meet me tonight,” he murmured. “When the others are asleep. In the clearing we found yesterday. Follow the path, and head east at the fork. I'll be waiting,” he finished with a smile - that same teasing, rakish smile which lingers in your fantasies at night.

Now, as you make your way through the darkening woods, your heart pounds a staccato rhythm against your ribs.

What if I do something embarrassing? What if I accidentally cast Fire Bolt in a moment of madness?

You snort at your own ridiculous thoughts. You can almost hear Astarion's voice in your head, calling you out for being the terrible overthinker that you are.

As you approach the clearing, you take a deep breath, trying to centre yourself. You're a bundle of contradictions - nervous yet eager, apprehensive yet excited. Your mind might be a chaotic whirl of thoughts and doubts, but your body moves forward with purpose, drawn to Astarion like a moth to flame.

Well, you think wryly, at least if I embarrass myself horribly, I can always hope for a sudden mindflayer attack to put me out of my misery.

With that comforting thought, you step into the moonlit clearing, your eyes searching for Astarion's familiar silhouette.

And then you see him.

Astarion emerges from behind a tree, shirtless, moonlight casting shadows that accentuate the lean contours of his form.

"There you are," he purrs, his voice low and rich. "I've been waiting. Waiting since the moment I laid eyes on you. Waiting... to have you."

You can't help but chuckle, a mixture of nervousness and amusement. "Since the moment you laid eyes on me? You mean when you held a knife to my throat?"

"Gods, you just can't let me woo you, can you?” he teases. He steps closer to you, his presence electric.

Your eyes trace the elegant lines of his face, the sharp angle of his jaw, the mesmerising depth of his ruby eyes. He is beautiful in the way that wild things are beautiful - captivating and perilous in equal measure.

“You don’t need to ‘woo’ me, Astarion. I’m already here.”

His smile widens. "Indeed you are. But where's the fun in rushing? I intend to savour every moment of this."

As he approaches, he snakes a hand around your waist, lingering at the small of your back, before pulling you flush against him. Before you have a chance to acknowledge his brazen actions, his lips meet yours and his kiss is as hungry as you remember; as intoxicating as you’d dreamed. His tongue plays with yours, cool and skilled, a stark contrast to the warmth blooming in your core. For but a moment, you find your body taking the lead once more - your fingers glide up the bare skin of his chest, up his jaw, finally tangling themselves in the silken strands of his hair.

As your arms wrap themselves behind his neck, you suddenly feel your feet lift the ground. Your stomach drops, a fleeting sensation of weightlessness before Astarion secures you in his arms, twirling to press you against the tree he emerged from. The rough bark presses into your back, only accentuating the feeling of his hard, smooth body as it envelops your own.

But then the rush of sensation begins to ebb. In its wake, your mind reasserts itself, a tidal surge of thoughts and fears flooding back in. The bark digging into your back, once a thrilling counterpoint to Astarion's touch, now feels uncomfortably real. The weight of the moment settles on you, heavy and undeniable.

This is happening. This is real.

Your body, so responsive moments ago, now feels stiff and awkward. Your hands suddenly feel clumsy and unsure. You're acutely aware of every point of contact between you, hyper-conscious of each touch.

Astarion, ever perceptive, seems to sense the change. His movements slow, and he pulls back slightly, ruby eyes searching your face. A furrow appears between his brows, concern replacing the hunger that had darkened his gaze.

"You've gone rigid as a statue, darling.”

You open your mouth to respond, but the words stick in your throat. How can you explain this? The desire that still smoulders beneath the surface, at war with the fear that threatens to extinguish it?

Astarion's head tilts, a predator scenting uncertainty. But when he speaks, his voice is uncharacteristically gentle. "You're overthinking this again, aren't you? I can practically hear the gears grinding."

He doesn't wait for your response, instead lowering you gently to the ground into the grass below and settling on his knees alongside you.

"Perhaps," he says, a thoughtful look replacing his usual smirk, "we need a different approach. One that will keep that brilliant mind of yours occupied.

“I want you to close your eyes,” Astarion instructs, his voice soft but commanding. “And then I want you to focus entirely on sensation. No thinking, no more analysing. Just feeling. Can you do that for me?”

You nod, both nervous and intrigued, as your eyes flutter closed.

“Excellent,” he purrs. “Now, I’m going to touch you, and I want you to tell me everything you feel. Everything. Alright?”

“I think so.”

With your eyes shut, every other sense seems to heighten as anticipation washes over you. Moments pass like centuries, almost agonisingly so.

As if to break the spell, you feel him trace a line, gentle and deliberate, along your jawline, all the way to your neck, resting his fingers above your pulse.

“What do you feel?”

“I… I feel your fingers,” you venture. You can't hide the uncertainty in your voice.

“What about them?”

“They're… cool? But not cold. Your fingertips are slightly rough; they have a texture to them.”

“Excellent,” he encourages. “What else?”

You pause as you feel him shift above you, straddling you at your hips, and he brings his head down to nuzzle into the crook of your neck. You shiver slightly as you feel the coolness of his breath, and his lips, which graze your skin, leaving a trail of kisses in their wake.

“I feel your lips. They're soft. I can smell your cologne… It's fresh, herby almost. And something else… something earthy. Something ‘you.’”

“You're more observant than I gave you credit for,” he teases, though his praise causes your heart to swell for a moment.

His touch becomes bolder, a hand trailing down from your neck to reach the swell of your breast, massaging it gently. You inhale sharply, the sensation both thrilling and unexpected as he brushes a thumb across your nipple over the barrier of your clothes.

“And now?” he asks into the crook of your neck, punctuated by slow, delicate kisses, planted along the line where he would sink his fangs.

“It's… intense,” you manage. It's as if your skin has become hypersensitive, every nerve ending alive and receptive to his touch. “I can feel everything so clearly, even through my clothes. It's almost overwhelming, but in a good way.”

You hear a low chuckle from Astarion. “Good,” he murmurs. “That's exactly what I want you to feel.”

As he sits up, his fingers travel to the hem of your shirt, a whisper of a touch that sends shivers across your skin. He pulls at the fabric with deliberate slowness, exposing your midriff inch by inch. His fingers occasionally brush against your skin, leaving the most wonderful tingles in their wake. When he reaches your chest, he pauses, hands hovering just below your breasts.

“May I?”

You nod, unable to find your voice. With a gentleness that surprises you, he slides your shirt, bra along with it, up and over your head as you raise yourself momentarily to help him. The cool night air hits your exposed skin and you shiver, though not entirely from the cold.

“Beautiful,” Astarion breathes.

His fingertips trace patterns on your skin, starting from your collarbone and working their way down. Each touch feels electric, sending little sparks of sensation through your body. He traces the curve of your breast, the dip of your waist, the plane of your stomach, as if memorising the feel of your skin beneath his hands.

When he reaches the waistband of your skirt, you feel his knuckles brushing against your hip bones as he works at the fastenings, and the muscles in your abdomen tighten of their own accord. You hear every sound, every breath he makes, every rustle of fabric.

As your skirt falls away, pulled with deliberate slowness, you become aware of new sensations. The blades of grass tickle your legs. The night air caresses your skin. 

You feel exposed, vulnerable. But… safe.

For a moment, neither of you speaks. The night seems to hold its breath, the world narrowing down to just the two of you in this moonlit clearing. You're acutely aware of your nakedness, and you need not see it to feel Astarion's eyes roaming over you.

“You're exquisite,” he says, and for once, there's no trace of his usual sarcasm or teasing.

Astarion’s hands and fingers continue their exploration of your body, alternating between feather-light touches and firmer caresses. He seems to delight in discovering places that make you gasp or shiver - the shell of your ear, the dip of your waist, the inside of your wrist.

The sensation is incredible - like tingles radiating out from his touch, spreading across your skin in waves. It reminds you of the pleasant shivers you feel when someone whispers close to your ear. But gods, this is so much more intense; more all-encompassing.

“It… it feels like…” You try to describe the feeling aloud, but words catch in your throat, coming out as a soft moan instead, causing you to clasp your hands to your mouth to stifle yourself.

“Don't hold back, love,” he encourages. “Let me hear you.”

As his fingers trail along your inner thigh, a soft gasp escapes your lips.

Astarion’s touch is feather-light, teasing, as he moves higher. When his fingers brush against your entrance, arousal and anticipation leaving you more sensitive than you have ever known, a low moan rises unbidden from your throat.

And then his fingers enter you. One finger, then two. He moves slowly, almost agonisingly so, in and out and in and out of you, curling his fingers ever so slightly upwards. Little whimpers and sighs escape you, a wanton symphony of pleasure that you never knew you were capable of. Each sound seems to spur him on, his touches becoming faster, more purposeful, more focused.

You find yourself arching into his touch, your body seeking more of the exquisite sensation he's drawing from you, only for him to bring a thumb to your clit, playing you with virtuoso expertise in rhythm with his fingers. You cry out and, for a moment, you're embarrassed by the volume, but Astarion's hum of approval vanishes any self-consciousness.

“That's it, darling,” he whispers, his voice dark, husky. “Let go. Let me hear how good you feel.”

His words push you closer to the edge. Your sounds become more frequent, more urgent. You're dimly aware that you're babbling, a stream of “please” and “Astarion” and “oh gods” spilling forth from your lips. 

As the pleasure builds to a crescendo, you feel the last of your inhibitions slipping away. It's as if the invisible chains which have bound you for so long are finally breaking, link by link. Each wave of pleasure weakens their hold, and Astarion’s touch is the key that unlocks every shackle.

When you finally reach your peak, it's like a dam bursting within you, sending all the pent-up fears and self-imposed constraints out along with it. Astarion’s name leaves your lips in a cry that's part plea, part praise, as you soar on wings of newfound freedom.

“Open your eyes, darling,” Astarion says softly, a grounding force in the wake of your climax.

You do, blinking in the moonlight. It takes a moment for your vision to adjust, but the world comes into focus slowly, like awakening from a dream.

Astarion’s face is the first thing you see, illuminated by the soft moonlight filtering through the trees as he sits up on his knees alongside you. And as your gaze travels down…

… He's also naked.

Heat rises to your cheeks as you take in the sight of him - all of him - all lean muscle and pale skin. You don't think you'll ever get used to the sight of his cock. Somehow, in this light, it's even more perfect than you remember: glistening, with a slight upward curve, and a girth that makes you ache in anticipation.

Astarion's smile widens, a hint of his usual mischief returning to his eyes. “See something you like, darling?”

You laugh, your voice raw. “You know I do,” you admit, surprising yourself with your own boldness.

“Hmm, yes,” he purrs. “But I do so enjoy hearing you say it.”

He shifts, positioning himself above you, aligning between your thighs.

For the first time, even at the final threshold, your mind is… quiet. You find yourself relaxed, languid. You feel that pang of nervousness, yes. But you don't find yourself restrained by it.

You want to revel in this feeling. In him. In the sensations he brings you. In this freedom he has granted you; this freedom that you have never before granted yourself.

A moment passes, and tension crackles in the air between you.

“Ready, love?” He asks, breaking the silence.

You nod. You are certain.

He positions himself, his hand guiding his cock, ready to bring it to your entrance.

“Breathe in for me, darling.”

You do as he says, drawing in a deep breath. And as you do…

His cock enters you.

You squeeze your eyes shut at the sensation. There's a moment of discomfort, your body stretching more to accommodate him as he slowly inserts inch after inch, giving you time to adjust. You have never felt so full before. You have never felt anything quite like this before.

“How does it feel?” He asks, his voice strained with the effort of holding still.

“It's a little sore,” you exhale, and your voice slightly shaky at the rush of sensation.

“Then let's start slowly, shall we?”

When he leans down to kiss you, you become aware of every point of contact; the coolness of his bare skin pressed so closely against the warmth of yours, yet it never quite feels close enough. You wrap your arms behind his neck, pulling him closer, deepening the kiss between you and, in turn, he wraps an arm under the small of your neck, lifting you to him. His weight on you is grounding as you adjust to the foreign sensations.

That is until, oh so slowly, he moves inside you.

His movements are controlled, restrained, yet you can feel the barely leashed power in his lithe form, in the ripple of his muscles. He's a predator, dangerous and deadly, yet in this moment, he handles you with a gentleness that gives you goosebumps.

Pain meets pleasure with each deliberate motion, merging into one muddle of intense sensation. But then the discomfort begins to fade, replaced by a building warmth that spreads throughout your body. Each slow thrust of his hips brings a new wave of feeling overwhelming yet exquisite.

Astarion brings a hand to your leg, coaxing you to lift it. You understand the message, wrapping your legs around his waist as he thrusts into you and gods. He's even deeper within you, the sounds wet and lewd with each undulation of his hips. You gasp loudly at the sensation, breaking free momentarily of his kiss.

You suddenly find yourself in need of more. More closeness, more contact, more of him.

Your legs, encircling his waist, involuntarily pull his hips into you, urging him on, faster and deeper into you. You hadn't meant to be so bold. But this feeling of fullness, of connection, is overwhelming, igniting every primitive urge within your body, now unconstrained by the shackles of your mind. He responds in kind, thrusting in time with each pull of your legs. Your voice is not your own, the most wanton of cries spilling forth from your lips, high pitched and needy. Your eyes search for his, eager to see them hungry, dark, brimming with pleasure just as you remember from the night prior.

But something’s different.

His eyes are glazed, ever so slightly, looking more through you than at you. It's as though he's focusing intently on something you can't see.

Concentrating, perhaps? Trying to maintain control? Gods, it's hard to think straight when each thrust hits deep inside you so deliciously. Each movement is methodical, perfect - skill clearly derived from centuries of experience.

But amidst the haze, you reach up and gently brush your fingers along his jawline. “Astarion?” you breathe, soft and inquisitive between each gasp of pleasure.

He blinks rapidly, his rhythm faltering. He pauses, still inside you. For a split second, what looks to be confusion flickers across his features, before his usual charming smirk, practised and perfect, returns.

“Ah, darling,” he starts, his voice hoarse. “Just got a little… lost in the moment.”

Before you can respond, Astarion suddenly shifts, changing your positions with a grace that takes your breath away. In one fluid motion, he scoops you into his arms and sits up, bringing you with him so that you're straddling his lap.

“Now then,” he says, “where were we?”

His renewed enthusiasm is almost overwhelming. His touch is more purposeful, his movements more intense as tangles a hand in the strands of your hair, pulling you in to kiss him. You find yourself swept up in his redoubled efforts.

Astarion’s spare hand settles firmly on your hip, pulling you to him, coaxing you to rock back and forth on his cock and–

Stars burst behind your eyes. A new, intense pleasure, richer than the last as the head of his cock brushes the uppermost wall of you.

He guides your movements, bringing you to a rhythm that has you gasping. You chase that elusive feeling eagerly. When you falter, uncertain and unbalanced from inexperience, he whispers his encouragement.

“That's it,” he murmurs as you find your stride. “Keep going.”

He rocks his hips to meet your own, and gods, there's that beautiful voice of his, punctuated by the rhythmic slaps of skin against slickened skin. His low groans reverberate through your body, mingling with your own breathless gasps and whimpers.

Finally, seemingly sensing your fast approaching limit, he brings a hand between your bodies, and you feel the familiar sensation of his thumb rubbing delicate circles on your clit.

The added stimulation is too much to bear. You cry out, overwhelmed by the sensations coursing through your body as you close your eyes, giving yourself over to the feeling. Your breath quickens, your pulse a drumbeat in your ears, and you feel yourself shuddering, spiralling. You’re falling, flying, lost in sensation, and Astarion is both the cause of your descent and your only lifeline. He holds you steady, an anchor, as your senses return to you.

But this steadiness does not remain for long.

With a start, you find yourself lowered to the ground, Astarion holding you firmly by the hips, burying himself in you once more, his purposeful rhythm replaced with an erratic, senseless pounding in the final throes of his pleasure.

You feel the tension in him before it fully takes hold, a low steady hum beneath his skin. His breath grows shallow, his muscles tightening as if holding back a flood. You watch it build, each buck of his hips pulling him closer, like a thread winding tighter and tighter. His body starts to tremble and then, suddenly, it breaks - his breath catches, his body jerks, and you feel him give in, a surge of release that ripples through him like a passing storm. You find yourself moaning in response to the intensity, lost in the tension heavy in the air. Somewhere in the midst of his climax, you realise, he had pulled out of you, as you feel the coolness of his release on your abdomen.

He exhales, spent, the fire that had burned so hot now just a quiet warmth.

In the aftermath, silence falls over the clearing, bar your shared panting. The night air, cool against your heated skin, brings you gently back to reality.

“That… was amazing,” you breathe, still somewhat dazed.

Astarion chuckles, leaning his forehead delicately against yours. “You sound surprised,” he teases.

“Not surprised. I just had no idea I could even feel like that.”

Astarion's lips curl into a smug smile. “You just needed an expert’s touch.”

You laugh, giddy and carefree from the lingering euphoria. “Gods, all this talk of your touch might just make me want to go again.”

“Tempting,” he purrs. “But even I need a moment to recover, love.”

With that, he rolls off of you, settling beside you on the grass. You turn to look at him, taking in the sight of his profile in the moonlight, smiling as you notice the charmingly dishevelled state of his hair, a few errant strands falling across his forehead.

He seemingly feels your gaze, turning to meet it. The moonlight catches in his crimson eyes, causing them to glitter with his usual mischief, and something darker, more complex.

You recall his eyes in the throes of passion… a glazing over; a distance that you couldn't quite understand. The look had vanished as quickly as it appeared, just like all the others. The vigour with which he renewed his efforts to pleasure you was almost enough to make you forget the moment.

Almost. 

Alas, you are ever the overthinker.

You find yourself spurred on by thoughts and feelings you don't quite understand. A need to experiment.

Acting on impulse, you shift closer to Astarion. You hesitate for a moment, then slowly, carefully, you rest your head on his chest. You feel him tense for a moment.

“What are you doing?” he asks, his voice a mixture of confusion and wariness.

“I'm not sure,” you admit. “I just wanted to be close to you. Is that okay?”

There's a long pause. Astarion doesn't push you away, but he doesn't relax either.

“I suppose,” he finally says, his tone carefully neutral. “Though I must say, this is… different.”

You lift your head slightly to look at him. His expression is guarded, as you've come to expect.

“We don't have to if you're uncomfortable,” you offer softly.

Astarion’s laugh is short and sharp. “Uncomfortable? Darling, I've done things that would make a succubus blush. This is hardly–”

He cuts himself off abruptly, seeming to realise he's saying more than he intended. There's a moment of silence, heavy with unspoken words.

Then, slowly, hesitantly, his arm comes around you. It's not quite an embrace - more like he's unsure where to put his arm and this is the most logical place. But it's a start.

You settle back against his chest, feeling the gentle rise and fall of his chest as he breathes - unnecessary for a vampire; a relic of his past which he retains.

“This isn't… unpleasant,” Astarion finally says.

You smile against his skin.

Astarion truly felt like a puzzle box of a man at times. Certain reactions of his, certain words, dance on the edge of your understanding, always just out of reach. For a person of science, not being able to understand him in moments like this was… infuriating. Exhilarating. A conundrum that both frustrates you and drives your curiosity. Each time you think you've figured him out, he reveals another layer, another facet that sends you back to the drawing board. It's like trying to map the stars only to find they've rearranged themselves overnight. Thrilling, yes, but also unsettling. You're used to being the one with answers, the one who can make sense of the chaos. But with Astarion, you're adrift in uncharted waters, your usual compass rendered useless.

And yet, isn't this what drew you to the arcane in the first place? The allure of the unknown, the thrill of discovery? Astarion is a mystery more complex than any spell you've unravelled, a puzzle more intricate than any magical or alchemical theory you've studied. He challenges you, pushes you beyond the boundaries of your understanding in ways both terrifying and exhilarating.

You find yourself wondering if perhaps this is true alchemy - not the transformation of base metals into gold, but the transmutation of the self through connection with another. Each interaction with Astarion feels like it's changing you, reshaping your perceptions, your desires, your very understanding of the world.

But these are hypotheses to be considered in the daytime. For now, you rest, as a curious yet comfortable silence settles over you in the night air.

Masterlist can be found here.

No Pressure Tags: @silverfangmarks @davenswitcher @roguishcat @sparrowbard @chonkercatto

[murdrdocs]

thinkin abt messy audible sex w stiles

It’s like your senses are heightened, the ability to take in absolutely every single thing happening around you a new addition to your usual life. Maybe, if you weren’t in these specific circumstances, you would be a little freaked out. Heart racing for another reason, a different type of overstimulation seeping into your body and sending you running instead of chasing the sensations. 

But with Stiles above you, left hand pressed into the pillow under your head, right hand gripping your bare hip like his life depends on it, you’re able to use your enhanced-like senses to your advantage. You’re able to smell the remnants of Stiles’ cologne and your perfume as your combined sweat washes it off, replacing the traditionally pleasant scents with untraditionally aromatic smells of sex. You’re able to feel Stiles’ silky soft hair under your fingertips, and the easy way his cock slides in and out of your welcoming walls. But most of all, you’re able to hear the sound of you and Stiles together, the wet squelch of your cunt taking his inches with each thrust, the near silence of the refusal to let him go as he pulls back. 

When you’d first started a couple of orgasms ago, you could barely hear all of that, your moans and Stiles’ praises drowning the sound out. Then after your third orgasm, you’d gone silent, your euphoria rendering you speechless, soundless even. It’s then that you could hear it all, Stiles noticing first as he shushed you with a just as audible kiss. 

“Listen to that. You hear that?” He waited for your response, amber eyes flickering between each of yours. When you did hear it, mouth dropping a little as your eyes hazed over, he smirked, a curt amused chuckle falling from his lips before he kissed you once more. “Making fuckin’ music, baby.” 

Usually, Stiles fucked you with as least some sort of percision, some technique that he'd picked up which always made you mess. But you were already a mess, and Stiles' style of fucking you tonight was messy. Uncoordinated thrusts that had you wanting more and less. Fingers added along with his cock, the slightest stretch having you seeing stars. Circling your clit and spitting on it and even fucking speaking to your cunt. He's like a different person.

You were fucking gushing around him, a product from the first orgasm Stiles had given you with his fingers, then the second with his tongue, and the impending third from his cock. You’ve been in a position similarly to this one before, but your abundance of arousal was unusual, probably an effect of Stiles’ new haircut and particularly cocky attitude today. 

Both had you wanting him more than usual, trying to keep your hormones subdued even though it made them worse. Pretending like you didn’t want Stiles eventually had you pressing yourself against him when you were alone, close to begging for him to touch you but you’d never have to beg Stiles, he thinks it’s a privilege to have you like this. 

To him, his form of heaven is bringing you to the edge again and again. It’s why he’s bolstering right now, chattier than usual as he praises you for even being this wet for him. It starts off as praise, and it starts with him talking to you, but then you feel as if he’s talking more to himself. 

“So, so good for me, sweetheart. You don’t even know what you do to me, do you? Think about you all day. My girl. Letting me treat her like a little slut. Don’t even know what to do with myself most of the time. Can’t do anything but jack off, thinking about how good you taste, how good you feel.” 

And as much as you like hearing Stiles talk, you just need to hear what the two of you sound like a little more. So you bring him down to you, nails digging into his scalp to silence him even as you push your lips to his. Then, you pull back enough to speak to him, a commanding, “listen” let out into the air. 

Stiles smiles against your lips, and then he listens.

[hyuckiefluff]

drunk in you pt.2 | mark lee

pairing: mark lee x fem!reader genre: friends to lovers word count: 3.1k a/n: i meant to post this sooner but a whole week ended up going by without me realizing lol thank u for liking part 1 thoo content: semi-public sex (they’re in the living room of a shared apartment so), dry humping, usage of pet names like doll and baby, mark also calls reader a slut (this was self-indulgent hehe), oral (fem receiving), creampie, a fair amount of ass grabbing/slapping cuz mark is an ass guy in my head :))!! edit: it’s not even in my head anymore go watch his mommae challenge and tell me im not right

part 1

Life is funny in sick ways, because just a few minutes ago you were thinking about how badly you wanted to ride your best friend’s thighs but now that you were actually in a position to do so you couldn’t move. You were just straddling him, not even sure where to put your arms and shifting minimally scared that any movement against him could reveal how pathetically wet you were right now. I mean he had barely spoken a few words to you and you were putty in his hands, ready to give him anything that he asked for. So, why isn't he asking? Why isn't he doing something? He's the one who-...

Your train of thought came to an abrupt halt when his hands slid under your dress, grabbing a handful of your ass. A surprised yelp escaped your lips, almost sounding like a moan, and he seemed to like your reaction as he pressed his lips together to suppress a grin. Then he experimentally thrusted upwards, his hands keeping a firm grip on your ass, leaving no space between your clothed cores.

He took in your fucked out expression after every thrust as an invitation to keep doing it "M-mark…" you moaned, your nails practically carving into his shoulders.

Your head hung low, your hair acting like a curtain, blocking Mark's view from your flushed face. And he was not having it. He wanted to see you, he wanted to remember every little detail of you like this. So he grabbed a handful of your hair and gave it a gentle pull, making you lift your head. That put your neck in his line of sight, like a blank canvas he was ready to mark with his lips, leaving purples and reds behind.

He immediately latched his mouth on the space between your neck and clavicle, each kiss, bite and suck coaxing delicious moans from your throat, “F-fuck, keep…keep doing that” you managed to breathe out, your hands finding their way to his head. You attempted to grip his hair, but his haircut left you with little to grab onto. But that didn't stop you from trying, and he seemed to like it because as soon as you tugged, he groaned against your neck and sucked harder on a particular spot that sent tremors through your legs.

You were so focused on how good his mouth felt all over your skin that you completely missed the way his hand slid inside your panties. The sudden feeling of his fingers touching your folds making your brain short-circuit. So much so that you almost missed the words he whispered into your ear, “You’re already this wet just from a little teasing,” he tutted. 

His finger emerged from your panties, glistening with your arousal. That was a sight that would have embarrassed you under different circumstances but you couldn’t find it in yourself to care about that, not when he brought his finger to his lips and licked every drop of your essence off it all while making eye contact. A whimper got caught in your throat as you watched, captivated by the way he tasted you.

"How will it feel when I fuck you for real then, hm?" 

Your thighs instinctively tightened against his after those words left his mouth. A reaction that wasn't lost on him. His flushed face sported an even cockier smirk now, "You'd like that huh?" he quipped, extending the finger he'd just licked toward your mouth. Without hesitation, you took it in, not caring about the mingling of his saliva with yours.

"But here's the thing," he continued, "You've gotta ask for it."

You were having a hard time paying attention to what he was saying. Your brain being more focused on his finger abusing your mouth and the subtle but persistent thrust of his hips against yours. His words seemed like distant echoes, drowned out by the sensations wrapping around you. That is, until a sudden slap against your bare ass jolted you back to reality. His voice was low and commanding, "Ask me to fuck you, doll."

His gaze bore into you, intense and almost predatory, "Please… fuck me, Mark," the plea slipped from your lips easily and before you could fully process your own words, he was lifting you up.  You expected him to take you to his room upstairs, but instead, he started walking right up to the big couch in front. 

Certainly he wasn’t planning to fuck you in the middle of the living room, where any of the boys could just walk in on the scene, right? Your hazy brain couldn't even remember if Jaemin had gone back to his room. The last you knew, he had been somewhere near the kitchen, possibly passed out. But if he were to walk in here and…

Your thoughts were once again interrupted by Mark lowering you onto the couch and immediately discarding your soaked panties. He spread your legs a little bit more and made eye contact with you right before his head was disappearing between your legs. Things were moving so fast but you couldn't bring yourself to think about the consequences of doing this right now when it felt so damn good.

The heat pulling in your lower stomach intensified as he used his nose to nudge against your entrance and with one swift move of his tongue against your core he had you losing your mind.

“Oh.. god-.. Mark… fuck…that feels so-” you tried to voice the overwhelming pleasure coursing through you but your words broke into fragmented moans and gasps.

Your fingers clenched in a tight grip on his short hair, urging him further against your core. You were so desperate and it was embarrassingly obvious. But you felt his chuckles resonate against your core, so he clearly found it amusing. His tongue danced and explored every sweet spot slowly, making you see sounds and hear colors. But, it wasn't enough. The ache inside you demanded more.

Your need for him to fuck you into tomorrow was almost unbearable.

"Mark…" you called out to him, but it seemed he was too focused on eating you out to hear you. His own desperation was also palpable, clear by the way his hips rutted against the couch. His fingers joined his tongue sliding inside you one by one. The simultaneous ministrations threatened to push you over the edge. If he kept up this pace, you would definitely cum all over his face.

His gaze locked onto yours immediately as he pulled away from your core. The sight of his swollen lips glistening with your arousal, and his hair sticking to his forehead leaving you with an image that would replay in your head for many nights to come.

"Are you close, doll?" his focus on your reactions intensified as he coaxed you, "Aw, look at your pretty fucked out face, cum for me, okay baby?"

His words and the relentless pumping of his fingers were enough to bring you over the edge of an explosive orgasm “Oh my go-," you moaned, your voice a chorus of curses mingled with his name.

This was the first time in your life you’d actually orgasmed after being asked to. His tongue wasn’t just good at eating your pussy, he was also good with words. 

You squeezed your eyes shut, your chest heaving as you gasped for air. But before you could fully recover, Mark grabbed your legs and quickly flipped you onto your stomach. Your dress was hiked up, baring your ass to him. Another firm slap echoed through the room, the sting sending a jolt of pleasure straight to your core. A quick glance over your shoulder revealed the hunger in his eyes as he looked over your curves, a satisfied smile tugged at your lips as you confirmed that Mark was very much an ass guy– Haechan owes you $10.

“Can’t believe my best friend is about to blow my back out," you muttered with an amused grin, the words directed more to yourself. However, Mark's snort indicated that he heard you loud and clear. "This is quite the bonding experience, don’t you think?," he said playfully and the boyish smile on his face didn’t quite match his actions. He pulled his dick out in one swift move and you felt almost embarrassed at how your mouth watered upon seeing his length and girth. You’re so glad he prepped you with his fingers before, otherwise you don’t think you could take all of him.

“What’s wrong? Never seen one this big?” you rolled your eyes. This was a side of Mark you hadn't seen before – this level of cockiness – but given what he was packing, you guess he had every right to flaunt it.

“How about you shut up and fuck me?” 

“Don’t gotta tell me twice,” he seized your hips and gave them a teasing squeeze as he positioned himself at your entrance.

"Wait, shit"  he cursed under his breath, and you turned on time to see him run a hand frustratedly across his face "I don't have a condom,"

You grabbed his arm and pulled him back toward you. "I'll take the morning-after pill, just please, fuck me already.” the man didn’t need much convincing because before you knew it, he was gradually pushing himself inside you. 

The room echoed with his grunts and muffled moans as he pushed deeper inside. You struggled to stifle your own cries, but his generous stretch brought tears to your eyes, and your lip was surely going to bruise from the excessive biting.

"Shit... doll... you're... you're squeezing me so hard," he grunted, his fingers digging into your waist with a grip that promised to leave marks. Once he bottomed out, his hold on you relaxed. After the initial discomfort passed, you found yourself moaning at the intoxicating sensation of being filled completely. He gave you a brief moment to adapt to his size, peppering your backside with kisses before seeking your consent to move. And only after a strained "Please" escaped your lips, he started moving.

Though he started slow, his thrusts were anything but soft. The explicit sounds of your sticky bodies colliding filled the air, almost scandalously loud, and you couldn't help but wonder if the other guys could hear it from their rooms. It was almost as if Mark could read your mind, because he took hold of your jaw and drew you flush against his body. The change in position momentarily stifled your moans. “If you keep being this loud, the guys will surely hear how good I’m fucking you right now…” he bit your lower lip, drawing a weak whimper from you.

“But maybe that's what you want, huh? You like the idea of them hearing?… hmm.. Look how nicely you're clenching around me after I put that thought in your pretty, twisted mind.” He thrusted hard against you, this new position putting extra pressure on your muscles and you felt like you might collapse any second, but Mark was so in tune with your body language that he noticed this and swiftly flipped you over again. 

Now face to face, you had an unobstructed view of Mark Lee thrusting into you. A faint furrow adorned his forehead, and his flushed complexion extended from his neck to his cheeks. It also struck you that he had taken off his shirt somewhere along the way, exposing the expanse of his soft skin. Seizing the opportunity, your hands roamed freely across his torso, fingers tracing the contours you'd always secretly admired. You wanted to kiss it and bite it, and what was stopping you? You pulled Mark closer to you by his necklace and this sudden closeness seemed to have caught him off guard because his pace faltered a bit, you took this chance to start leaving a trail of kisses on his chest and collarbones. The soft moans he emitted as your lips grazed his skin were almost enough to send you over the edge once more. Your erratic pace was matching his unhurried thrusts as your hips met in the middle. In response, he snatched one of your legs, hoisting it onto his shoulder to penetrate even deeper.

“Shi–... you feel so, so fucking good, doll.” Mark groaned against your ear. Your eyes met as you tried to pull him impossibly closer by the hips, and at that moment you wished that eyes could talk because he was looking at you in a way he never had before. Good sex did funny things to people, you were probably his favorite person right now, if the way he was smiling like an idiot was any indication. 

“Wha..what?” you asked, trying to match his smile but the way he kept hitting that specific spot had your expressions morphing in pleasure. “Be honest… how-..fuck... how long have you wanted me to fuck you?” he said, his eyes shifting from yours to the point where your bodies joined, the sight of his dick pumping in and out of you enough to make him want to go crazy.

"T-this isn’t the time for that," you managed to say, your head lolling back until it met the plush surface of the couch behind you.

“You know…you could’ve just told me earlier… cause now I regret not fucking you before,” he confessed, his words punctuated by the exertion in his voice. Without waiting for your response, he bunched up your dress, exposing your chest. His eyes lit up as they fell upon your naked breasts, and a satisfied "Knew it" slipped from his lips. 

"Wearing that flimsy dress and no bra… did you really think I wouldn't notice?" he tutted while cupping your breast. The cool touch against your warm skin made you release an involuntary moan "You think the boys didn’t notice?" he chuckled bitterly and took one of your nipples between his forefingers, his gaze unflinching as he watched your mouth fall open in response. 

"But this was for me, wasn't it? All that innocent act in front of them, while secretly wanting me to fuck you so bad.” you whimpered in response, unable to respond or deny what he was saying because it was in part true.

“You were practically drooling at the thought of me touching you like this," he grunted and suddenly took that same nipple into his mouth, alternating between nibbling and sucking. “M-Mark, oh my go–...” The words were cut short when he began to thrust into you harder, his hips meeting yours more desperately now.

He pulled away from your breast slightly to whisper a stream of dirty nothings against your skin. You only caught the words little slut and the surprise of such a term rolling off his tongue only served to turn you on even more. Your walls instinctively tightened around him, a reaction that had him sucking your nipple even harder. 

“Shit… If you-…if you keep squeezing me so hard… I’m gonna-“ he could barely speak, his words being lost between every thrust and the feeling of your pussy taking him so well.

Mark was pretty damn sure he'd never been this pussy drunk before. He was even fighting to hold off his own orgasm just so he could bask a bit longer on how your walls were deliciously clenching around him. And oh, the view. You sprawled beneath him, disheveled yet so beautiful. Your flushed cheeks and lips, slightly swollen from your own nibbling. Bangs pushed back from your face revealing those pretty eyes that struggled to stay fixed on his. They rolled with pleasure every time he found that sweet spot. And he couldn't ignore how your tongue darted out every now and then to moisten your lips, tempting him to bridge the gap between your mouths.

“Mark.. I—I’m c…I’m cumming,” you said, grabbing onto his neck for support.

 "Me too, ah... wh-where do you want it?" he managed to ask between ragged breaths, his wide eyes strangely innocent amid the frenetic rhythm of his thrusts.

“Inside,” you said, and a glint of something flashed through his eyes. 

All of a sudden he closed the gap between your faces, his lips claiming yours in a kiss that matched the intensity of his thrusts. It stole your breath quicker than you'd care to admit. His tongue asserted itself without hesitation, as if it already knew the contours of your mouth intimately. You nipped at his lower lip juts like he did to you earlier, catching him off guard. To this, he let out a guttural whimper that would definitely linger in your mind for days to come. Mark's moans had a mix of whininess and a deep resonance that struck you at your core and you wanted to hear more of it so you kept kissing him hard. His moans became your own as your kiss deepened.

Your orgasm came first, your cries muffled by Mark's mouth. He followed suit not long after, his thrusts growing sloppier. Then, he stopped completely and you felt him filling you to a brim. You both looked down at the same time to see the messy evidence of both of your releases mixing. You immediately regretted doing this on the couch when he pulled out from you and the sticky mess spilled out of you. 

But you decided that would be a problem for your sober self to deal with later.

~~

Sober you wasn't exactly managing the situation well.

Waking up after having drunk sex with your best friend in the living room of the dorm he shared with your 6 other best friends didn’t turn out to be the chill moment you thought it would be. 

And the way his hand was casually resting on your ass, coupled with the feeling that you'd been run over by a truck about twenty seven times, certainly didn't contribute to improving your state.

You reach over to his side and grab the cushions under his head. Then, you give his body a careful nudge, turning him around slightly which oddly enough doesn’t even make him stir a little. You climb on top of him, pressing the cushion down on his face just enough to jolt him awake, without actually cutting off his air supply. His arms flail in confusion for a solid five seconds before you lift the cushion, revealing a bewildered yet still half-asleep Mark.

"What the…" was his initial reaction, though it took him a moment more to fully register the scene– you sitting on top of him, only a cushion covering your nakedness. “…fuck”

"Yeah, exactly, what the fuck," you gesture between the two of you, highlighting the rather interesting scenario.

A few seconds of just silently staring at each other went by while you could see in his eyes that he was trying to come up with what to say now.

"Uh… wanna go again?" he joked, and you respond with a playful pillow thwack, prompting a chuckle from him.

"Just kidding!"

a/n: after editing this i realized how many times i wrote the word ass and i feel ashamed lol... also the ending is kinda bleh cuz i genuinely dunno how to end my fics but i hope yall liked this! let me know in the comments how it was! xx

part 1

© hyuckiefluff

[sherwees]

cw: oral (fem received.), dumbification (both), embarrassing (haechan), corny stuck under the bed scenario, practical smothering from.. *reads from sticky note* ass, dubcon, you're embarrassed by haechan, haechan has a nickname, haechan is a loser.

side note : it was really fun making haechan's name pink for some reason, I got all giggly and this is a makeup for that stupid nonsense haechan drabble from months ago.

apart of the corny nct porn plots series !!

you just couldnt fucking find it!

you searched, high and low and around the town for your fucking keys! your roommate, haechan was just on the couch; ogling at your frantic figure running in and out of rooms. he didn't even move a muscle or say a word of concern, he just gazed.

maybe it was the skirt you wore? I mean, the pink nike dunks you wore were pretty cool too. it was definitely the skirt, the rear of it would raise from the dash of wind from your retreating feet. when you would bend over and he'll get a tiny view of the taunting miniature cherries but once he looked closer, they were actually heart shaped and a few of them were carved with the word, “pink”.

but it'll only be for a second, he always sighed in defeat and you would look back with confusion each time.

you were running back to your room again before your hand reflexed to hold the white doorframe to bring your legs to a collected stop. once you finally processed the miniscule slip of silver from under haechan's bed, you squinted.. searching for your palm tree key charm..

your head angled lower before you noticed the familiar edge of a leaf.

they were your keys!

your heart and feet leaped and bounced with joy into the male's room, mindlessly. falling to your knees, you rub them in anticipation with a bite to your lip. “I finally found them!” you lilted with a sense of relief in your soul but they were too far.. they didn't seem that far before?

“uhm, channie?! can you reach these?” you yelled but silence only answered. mumbling a little curse, you crouch and shove your body into the cramped orifice.

little did you know, he was standing right there. he leaned on the wall quite comically, his face expressed a light smirk as he watched you unconsciously wiggle your ass, shoving yourself in there. he could now see the view of your waistband, there was a slogan of some sort on it but he couldn't make it out, quite yet.

haechan found you beautiful, pretty, vulnerable.. he'll compliment you for every little change just to make you all flustered and stuttering. when he would give you the smallest touch or even a caress and you would nearly collapse to your hinds.

the little things do truly count.

you rolled your eyes, huffing a “whatever,”; dragging it out purposely to make him somehow summon. but he didn't, so now you were stuck to an unfortunate circumstance. you were relieved on the fact that there was nothing but maybe some shoes, dust or jewelry that fallen through the cracks, he was fairly clean..

the base of your spine ached, the charm of your heart necklace dangled against the hardwood; it's clanging setting as a reminder of your special valentine's day outing with your “friend” yangyang, your boobs also uncomfortably bulged out of your bra cups.

the scritch–scratch of your nails reaching for the hook of the key became an obnoxious rhythm that just tantalized you like a game of cat and mouse but the key would just slide further to the other side. I mean you could just get from under the bed and go to the other side, matter of fact, you were able to do that since the beginning but you were already here.

also... you really didn't feel like it.

before your wrist could dislocate from your arm, you sighed and rested the joint. your finger unconsciously brushed the key to the other fucking side. you gotta be serious.

you prayed that if god loved you right now, he'll push that key right into your hand. to your avail, nothing happened and even when you stretched out your hand once more, nothing happened. you tried to scooch your way out, your patella frictioned and crackled against the ground uncomfortably, the heels of your feet couldn't flex to the ground.. were you stuck? oh shit.

you sighed before trying to rub your palms against the ground, attempting to slide yourself out but they only slid against the hardwood because of the sweat and dust collected from the ground.

you shut your eyes, contemplating absolutely everything. why wouldn't he just help you? why didn't you just go to the other side? are you late? what the fuck? are those footsteps? is someone here? there was a deep chuckle, causing your eyes to shoot open. haechan liked when you were scared.. confused, just simply unaware.

“hey! I know you're there!” the toe of your shoes bumped against the ground when you wiggled again, your skirt bunched up once more. the air hitting the backs of your thighs only adding more of a cloudiness to your nausea from the clustered atmosphere. your armpits were sweaty, ruining your attractive long sleeve white crop top.. you were a hot mess in your imagination.

hair clumped with balls of lint and dust that'll take hours to comb out, lip gloss smudged on your top lip along with the sweat clinging to your miniscule mustache hairs, mascara possibly not smudged to your hopes.. you didn't really realize how high your skirt was raised, it felt like it was initially ridden up maybe enough to see the underline of your ass but you were full on mooning haechan.

“can you help me..?” you cut yourself off with a cough. “I'm stuck and it's really.. dusty down here!” you whined, tapping the front of your shoes on the ground. you probably creased them but it's whatever. haechan chuckled lightly before walking over, now he could read the waistbands full slogan: “love pink” in a sewn white cursive.

“oh really?” he had that sarcastic surprising tone to his voice that he always teased you with.

“I'm fucking stuck!” you rebutted immediately, trying to use the palm slide out method from before but it only arched your back more, like a cat; the prominent bulge of your pussy poked out a bit more.. he could even make out the small, smooth bump of your labia. he kneeled beside your struggling figure, your wriggling stopped once you felt his hand massage your lower back, his index tracing along your spine until it rested on your ass cheek.

“relax, I'll help you babe..” he reassured, his hand moving to your hip to maneuver your ass on his swelling crotch. you couldn't help but wince at the heat emanating from his growing erection, “haechan..?” you questioned but it came out like a squeak. his hands squeezed on the backs of your hips, his weight pushing you firmly down. “you're so pretty..” he purred whilst gyrating his erection, the tip coincidentally hitting your clothed clit.

“what are you doing? just help me!” haechan just snickered, you tried to look back but you only had view of his grey sweatpants. “you'll be fine.” he said nonchalantly. his hands moved from your hips and slapped on the floor, his head tilted playfully. his eyes were filled with glee along with his lips that tugged into a mischievous grin that made your insides churn with unease.

“besides, I know you'll love it..” he added on to his tease, setting a light slap on your ass. suddenly, his fingers hooked under your waistband; pushing your cherry embroidered panties to your knees. waves of shivers ran through your body as the cool air hit your sodden, pulsating hole; his eyes zoned on the wetness sheened on your plush pussy lips.

“you're so fuckin’ pretty like this,” he growled, his nose prodded at your clit unexpectedly. his large hands groped your cheeks; a resounding clap echoed throughout the room, “I'll be gentle.” you only whimpered before you screamed at the sensation of his tongue darting into your hole, right at your g-spot.

I mean, he was literally smothering himself in your cheeks. you tried to move away from him but his grip was too tight and he wouldn't let go to your prevail. “haechan~ please..” you mumbled whilst blinking constant tears away, your hands balling into fists. he only responded with a slap to your ass, “did I tell you to speak?” he taunted you with a presumed grin.

his hands traveled up your legs, caressing your thighs until he smushed your buttocks in his face once more; you cringed at the disgusting grunt or moan he let out. his tongue worked relentlessly, probing and teasing the warm muscle with a jarring consistency. your back and calves strained, trying to meet with his tongue but he'll only stay at the shallow end; his fingers ghosted and poked at your clit.

“taste s’fucking good..” he groaned once he pulled away, voice husky with desire and drunk from your delicate juices. your stomach swirled with arousal and a weird tension of pleasure that built up at your clit. his hands moved until the waistline of your shirt to cup your breasts; slapping, pinching and squeezing them with vigor.

haechan couldn't bare the tightness of his pants any longer, the mounts of precum that saturated his underwear wasn't ideal. “tell me you want it.” he demanded hoarsely, moving his hand from your clit to readjust his neglected length. “fuck– you taste so good, princess..” he muttered, smacking your ass once again in that same spot.

the pain was less thrilling, the sensations became sore and irritable and even on your tan skin, his handprint will surely visible. with your jaw laying slack on the ground, a puddle of spit evolved on your cheek and your lips grew dry. your throat was beyond irritated from the speckles of dirt and debris that flew and seemingly attached to the back of your throat in lumps.

there was then a pressure, your body trembled and shook; representing your incoming high. “oh fuck–” you slurred, your fingers clenching and unclenching.. really wishing you could just fucking strangle him. something about this made you enraged but it was quickly over thrown when a harsh stinging rushed through your lower region; the warmth of haechan's tongue far gone causing you to shriek and whine, like a child.

“be patient, babes..” you shut your eyes, somehow finding the energy to bite your lips. the corny pet name threw you off so fucking bad, you then realized.

you were fucking, no.. getting TONGUE fucked by your annoying–borderline–obnoxious–hamster–look–alike roommate. not the sexy–maybe–vampire guy that you planned to go out with, and today was valentine's day! and you were spending it, UNDER A BED, sweating, fucked out, hyperventilating, dust everywhere etc etc..

“what the fuck!” you sobbed in real embarrassment, tears welled up in your eyes. he clicked his tongue in mock frustration, you could imagine his jaw clench; “be embarrassed all you want,— there was a shifting of his fabric against his skin before his pants and underwear presumably fell to the ground with a light thud— but I know you want this..” he rasped whilst tugging at his lengthy cock, eyes boring into your heat.

fuck he wanted to taste you again.

his finger spread your moist lips before he attempted to position himself against your indigent hole but the muscle suctioned around it immediately. “fuck, you're a needy one, huh?” he teased, already you could imagine the shit-eating grin on his face before he shoved his quite.. ample cock into you. your body tensed from the unexpectancy and the pure pleasure that coursed through your veins like you were on crack or something..

“you love this, huh? being treated like a fuckin’ slut..” haechan pestered, his hefty tip nudging against your cervix with every shallow thrust. “aw– fuck, channie.” you heaved, your knees nearly buckled; trying to meet his impetuous thrusts.

haechan's hands gripped your hips once again, his gyrations became shockingly and yet excitingly quicker. the back of your hand (which you now realized) covered your mouth, muffling your moans and sobs; tears free falling from your eyes. his torso sheened with sweat, dripping and accumulating between the connection of your moist skin. “oh– fuck please..” you muttered, your tongue slightly lolled out at the familiar pressure building between your legs.

haechan's thrusts of his cock only quickened at the familiar pulsations of your walls, a long groan launching from his throat. “keep– fuck–” his tender bottom lip popped out from his teeth once he stopped his thrusts abruptly; a slip of his precum leaked out of your hole. he was trying to keep his composure but

holy shit.

he eventually resumed, trying to totally keep it together which was totally not working. your beautiful whines, cries and pleads threw him off so bad and your fucking pussy was like.. like..? he couldn't even fucking explain it. “I-I wanna cum inside of you–” he pleaded, he bit his lip and held back a sigh from his embarrassing comment.

“then fucking do it!” you remarked with a whiny pitch to your tone and an unintentional clench. haechan was overcame by that small ministration and took your comment seriously and came immediately, letting out a guttural groan before pulling out. haechan now noticed his bedside mirror, the reflection of him had ruddy cheeks, pupils dilated and plump raw lips. he tried to convince himself that wasn't him. damn he was a loser and he came too fast.

but meanwhile, you laid slack. in shock, confusion and regret; that was such a fucking waste of time. at least you tried convincing yourself that, but you were free! you realized once you slid yourself from under the bed, haechan's back was slumped once he looked at your face; similar to his.

why the fuck did he start crying? before you could even process, you were in his warm embrace. his semi-hard cock laid between your abdomen's uncomfortably, he was mumbling and blabbering about how it was embarrassing that you were his first time and how he didn't even make you cum and how he came too fast and hyperventilating about SEX.

but it's whatever.

“we could always try again..” you clarified, pulling away from him slightly.

he was kinda cute when you noticed his puffy lips and cheeks before the snot running from his nose, he sniffled.

“wait really..?” he asked, eyes filled with wonder and relief.

“yes, really..” he smiled along with you, your heart fucking bursted.. he was so adorable.

“yay! teamwork makes the dream work!”

😽 😽

[musickgeek]

Shadows [Alastor x Reader]

Enemies to lovers? Warnings: Allusions to death and murder

You and Alastor can't stand each other, but your shadows beg to differ (1.1K)

~~~~~

In life, I was a mastermind of manipulation. A con woman who could sweet talk anyone into anything. I had money, I had influence, I had control. People came to me when they wanted something, but it always came with a price. For some, their lives. Some people just have no respect for the hand that feeds them. They called me the Shadower because they could always feel me watching. I had eyes and ears everywhere. It was only a matter of time before someone else got the upper hand, and shot me right between the eyes. The circumstances of my death make me so angry, I choose not to think of it much.

When I arrived in Hell, my surprise was brief. No doubt that I belonged here, but I didn't expect it all to be real. I didn't expect to have such dramatic changes in my appearance. My teeth became sharp, my eyes crocodilian, my nails became claws. I looked scary, and I liked it. Was I supposed to give my old ways up? Ha! As if. I built my empire from the ground up before, I could easily do it it again with all my knowledge. And now, I had real magic power, and I could really be a shadow. I was accompanied by a sentient shadow, a helpful friend in my business. I had a quick rise to power, becoming one amongst the Overlords.

They didn't seem to know what to make of me, and I was addicted to their intrigue and fear. Who could be next? They didn't dare cross me and find out. I didn't care much for the others besides a general sense of respect for each other's strength. But there was one, Alastor, who I could not stand. His smug smile, his stupid static voice, his ego. He always had to be the center of attention, and just couldn't stand that he was no longer the talk of the town.

"You don't even have your own gimmick."

"Just mad I do it better, Smiles?"

"Ha! Are cheap words the best you've got?"

"Ha ha, at least my words are audible. And I'm not the one with a tacky bow tie."

"Ha ha ha! I hate you."

Despite our animosity, there was one thing we could agree on. It's infuriating how much our shadow creatures love each other. The first time we'd met, our shadows bounded for each other as if they were old friends. His eyes widened in shock, but his smile never faltered. I hardly quirked my eye brows at the scene. It was like two dogs playing at the park. The red demon tilted his head at an awkward angle as he inspected me. "My, my! What a playful friend you have. You must be the new arrival everyone is just buzzing about. I am Alastor, the Radio Demon. I'm sure you've heard of me." He introduced, offering his hand. "Not in the slightest." I said, shaking it. His eye twitched, but his smile widened.

Ever since then, at every meeting, we had to pretend our shadows didn't fly together like magnets. It almost would be amusing if it weren't attached to that piece of shit. I simply don't understand it. Is it comfort in knowing there is another like them? Or is it all just a game to piss us off further? It's hard to tell. Sometimes it seems like they don't notice anyone else in the room, but sometimes they seem like they're sat together, gossiping about us like old ladies. Every time we left each other's presence, they seemed to reach for each other, not wanting to be torn apart. I have no idea if Alastor has noticed it. That would require him to have half a brain.

One night I decided to go to a speakeasy I frequent. I sat at the bar alone, but I could feel the fearful eyes on me. I smile behind my drink. I thought tonight was going to be a good night, but I was wrong. I didn't even know Radio Boy was around until I felt my shadow slipping away. They were dancing freely to the upbeat swing music, having the time of their lives. I scowl, and flag the bar tender for another drink. Maybe if I turn around, I can pretend it's not happening. Alas, the radio static fills the room, overlaying the music. I feel a presence behind me, but I already know who it is. "Alastor." I say, still facing away. "Why (Y/n), I never expected you to have enough class to visit to such an establishment."

"You came all the way over just to say that? You must be more obsessed with me then I thought." I say calmly, refusing to give him the satisfaction of me turning towards him. I can feel the comment burning up inside him. I smirk. "I could say the same. It's almost as if you were following me. You must admit, this does seem more my style." Finally I turn around with a shrug. "Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer."

His eyes narrow. "An interesting turn of phrase." Our shadows join us, seemingly swirling around people us excitedly. My shadow forces me out of my seat. My glass falls to the floor, shattering, and my body collides with the deer. "Watch it!" I growl at the two incorporeal beings. Alastor seems just as angry, his static getting louder and his limbs growing. I hiss with hostility at the act, letting my claws out. In the blink of an eye he returns to normal. "Coward?" I ask. "No. I simply came here for a relaxing night, not a fight. I can't be ruining my favorite place after all." I notice the bar has mostly cleared out save the employees and musicians. When it looks like two Overlords are about to have a turf war, you don't want to be around if you're the little guy.

The shadows begin dancing along the walls as the music returns. "Hm. Perhaps we should follow their lead." Alastor suggests, holding a hand out in a gentlemanly fashion. "What's your play?" I ask skeptically. "I'm simply suggesting to have a little fun amongst our banter. After all, it's been awhile since I've had a worthy dance partner." I smile coyly at his words, and take his hand. "Alright, but I think this proves who's obsessed with who."

"Keep dreaming, my dear." He says, twirling me to the beat. "Are you sure you can keep up with me?" I ask, matching his rhythmic kicks and skips. "Don't forget who grew up doing this. You don't know everything." For once, our words aren't laced with so much hostility. I guess tonight will be a good night after all.