#(this is for the post. there is smut in the fic) | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

aeyumicore · 22 hours ago

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one year older - caleb 夏以昼

you’ve been completely occupied during the week of caleb’s birthday—leaving caleb needy and jealous. he intends to make up for every lost moment. a birthday special for our dearest caleb. inspired by but NOT based on ‘no-return night.’ it will not follow the same plot or dialogue.

━ .ᐟ✧ PAIRING: caleb x female reader (afab)

━ ✧.˖ GENRE: smut, porn with very little plot, porn with feelings

━ .ᐟ✧ WORD COUNT: 6.9k

━ ✧.˖ WARNINGS: mdni, explicit sexual content, flirtatious use of ‘gege,’ drunk!caleb, jealous!caleb, possessive!caleb, mentions of alcohol consumption, oral sex m! and f!receiving, sex on the floor, unprotected sex, swallowing, tiddy sucking, possessive behavior, cum marking kinda, gideon is mentioned a lot, caleb is pouty and sulky, squirting, multiple orgasms, lots of petnames, no use of y/n

━ .ᐟ✧ LINKS: ao3 | original inspo | shot, shot, shot, shot! fic

━ ✧.˖ A/N: this is kinda caleb’s version of shot, shot, shot, shot! in which he is drunk and jealous and inspired by that one clip of that drunk asian guy drinking water. i may end up writing his own dedicated version—unsure as of now since this one basically is that + birthday twist.

again, inspired by but NOT based on ‘no-return night.’ it will not follow the same plot or dialogue.

happy birthday to our dearest xia yizhou. you are so unbelievably loved. i hope everyone’s been having fun celebrating caleb’s birthday! i will be pulling for no-return night tomorrow, wish me luck <3

THIS IS MY ONLY ACCOUNT. I WILL NEVER POST MY FICS ON OTHER TUMBLR BLOGS. I WILL ONLY POST ON THIS ACCOUNT AND ON AO3.

✦ . ˖ ✧ .ᐟ ˖ nsfw | minors dni | 18+ only | minors dni | nsfw ✦ . ˖ ✧ .ᐟ ˖

[17:31] Brat: i can’t come over tonight :-( gideon needed help picking ur gift. i’m sorry, ill see you tmw birthday boy! <3

Caleb sighs, typing a quick response—thumbs flying across the screen. Amidst the privacy of his Fleet office, he doesn’t bother to hide the disappointment or simmering jealousy from his breathy exhale.

[17:33] Caleb: Again? I’ve barely seen you this week :(

You’d come to Skyhaven, taking a whole week off, to spend his birthday with him. His first birthday since everything had become so complicated.

And Caleb was used to sharing his birthday. Growing up, he’d always found himself throwing joint birthday parties or forgoing his birthday altogether for summer sports events.

But it was different now. Spending nearly an entire year playing dead—living without you, altered his view on life. He wanted every milestone, every birthday, every little thing someone could have to look forward to.

And he wanted it with you.

Caleb’s jaw ticks dangerously when you don’t respond, pocketing his phone and turning back to the mission reports on his desk.

But he finds concentration elusive, too distracted by the irrational possessiveness bubbling inside of him. Swearing, he pulls his phone back out.

Nothing.

His chest aches with an emptiness that can only be attributed to your absence. The same dull throb he feels when he can’t touch you—when you’re not in his field of vision. Which, lately, seemed more often than not.

Even for his birthday week in Skyhaven it seemed like Gideon got your attention more than he did. He knew the two of you were friends. Beyond the silly nostalgic times the three of you had shared during his time at Skyhaven University and Aerospace Academy, Gideon had been there for you during the hardest time of your life.

Fucking Gideon.

Caleb sulks childishly to himself. The logical part of him knew that the two of you were probably meeting up to scheme something for his birthday. He trusted Gideon with his life, which wasn’t something he could say about many people these days.

He shouldn’t be jealous. Rationally, he knew that.

But, when it came to you, he tended to be anything but rational.

“Colonel? Sir?”

An unexpected voice cuts him out of his thoughts. He pockets his phone, quickly masking his expression. The pout he didn’t even realize he wore slides off, replaced by the calculated and authoritative Colonel’s mask. He snaps without even realizing it—much harsher and sharper than he normally was with his subordinates.

“What?!”

The lieutenant standing on the other side of the desk gulps nervously, bowing his head respectfully. In less than a fraction of a second, Caleb collects himself.

“Apologies. What do you need, Lieutenant?”

God, he could use a drink.

–

You adjust the string of twinkling lights you’d strung up on the couch in Caleb’s living room. Biting your lip, you fluff up the adorable apple shaped plushie that sat on the furniture.

Spinning around, you take one last quick once over of the space.

The countless wrapped presents you’d gotten for him were tastefully scattered about, the projector set up against the wall just how you wanted it, every balloon meticulously placed. His living room, albeit much homier now that you’d basically taken over his life like a tornado, was normally still a bit bare. But now, it looked like something out of a dream.

Perfect.

It was the first birthday you’d be celebrating with Caleb ever since the explosion. Now that things were finally somewhat settling down into a comfortable routine, you wanted to show Caleb just how much you’d missed him—cherished him. Starting with his birthday.

The first of a lifetime of birthdays you would share together. You’d make sure of that.

Your phone buzzes with a text, the screen lighting up with Gideon’s contact.

[8:15 PM] Gid: Let me know how Xia reacts! Good luck.

[8:15 PM] Me: i will! thank u for helping me set up again gideon!!

Your heart clenches as you catch the unread text message from the birthday boy himself. You’d been so excited to get the house ready that you’d completely forgotten to text him back.

Just as you’re typing out a response, you hear the familiar sound of the front door clicking unlocked. Eyes widening, you set your phone down, carefully picking up the birthday cake you’d made and positioning yourself in the entry way that connects to the foyer.

Seconds tick by, the faint sound of fumbling making you set the cake down on the console table in a mix of confusion and worry. As you’re about to reach for the handle, the door pushes open—revealing Caleb.

In the dim entryway you don’t see how slightly disheveled he is, a flush creeping up his neck. You probably wouldn’t have seen it even if the light had been flipped on, far too excited to see him. To celebrate him.

“Happy birthday, Caleb!” you squeal, all but forgetting the uncharacteristic fumbling, bounding up to him and wrapping your arms around the back of his neck and launching yourself into his arms.

Caleb grunts in surprise, completely taken aback but catching you by your waist all the same. His lengthy fingers spread to grip you tightly, securing you against his solid body. You’re so caught up in your excitement that you miss the odd way Caleb stumbles a step backward as he catches you.

“Well, early birthday,” you giggle, glancing at the clock.

8:37 PM. You hadn’t even noticed how late it’d gotten. You crinkle your brows slightly, wondering how Caleb hadn’t caught you in your little scheme. You were well behind schedule, considering Caleb always got home at 7:30 on the dot with his military-disciplined punctuality.

“I didn’t think I’d be seeing you,” Caleb murmurs into the top of your head, taking a deep inhale of your scent.

You laugh into his chest, the smooth leather of his uniform digging into your cheek. You sigh happily as his hands wander up, wrapping his arms around you entirely. The entire elaborate birthday surprise is briefly forgotten as you sink into his hold, missing him terribly after not seeing him much this week as you ran around scheming.

“Smell so damn good,” Caleb’s voice is so muffled, his breath warm against your scalp. With his words obscured against your hair, you can’t hear his slight slur.

Taking a small step backward, you peer up at him. Your knuckles brush gently across his cheek, grinning as he adorably leans into your touch.

”How was work? You feeling okay?”

Caleb bends down to brush his lips against your temple, “I am now.”

Your chest constricts, knowing you’d barely had time with him this week. Remembering why you’d had to avoid him all week, you eagerly tug him along to the living room that casts twinkling lights down the hallway like an absolute dream world. Caleb stumbles behind you, letting you pull him along.

Just as you’re almost in sight of the surprise you’d set up, you stop in your tracks.

”Wait, wait!” You run behind him, tiptoeing up to cover his eyes with your hands, his skin hot and flushed against your palms. Distracted by your excitement, you push him along with your hands covering his eyes like a blindfold.

Tripping against his heels due to the height difference, you whine and retract your hands, “Okay this isn't working. Close your eyes!”

Caleb chuckles breathily and complies, his violet eyes shutting, “Of course, pip-squeak.”

Once you’re sure his eyes are closed, waving your hands in front of him for good measure, you guide him the rest of the way into the once depressing living room, now a cozy paradise for just the two of you.

“Okay, open!”

Caleb’s eyes flutter open, hazy with a distinct sluggish fog that you’ve yet to fully notice. The mist clears in an instant as he takes in the scene before him.

His throat tightens at the transformation the Skyhaven house undergone. The only memories he used to have in this room were the gray storm clouds that floated just outside the floor to ceiling windows when he’d jolt awake from nightmares, covered in a cold sheen of sweat.

Until you came back into his life.

Now, only the most pleasant memories remain. Takeout on the coffee table as you fed him dumplings cross legged on the carpet, him drying your hair as you sat in front of the glass panes watching jets fly by, you curled against his chest on the couch as movies played into the night.

The same couch that was now covered in balloons, fairy lights, and perfectly wrapped presents.

Without a word, Caleb pulls you flush against his body, your back pressed firmly into his chest and his bicep wrapped securely around your shoulders. You burst into a fit of laughter as he buries his face into shoulder, nuzzling his nose into the side of your face. You hold onto his arm that’s around your chest, enjoying the way he leans into you.

“So this is what you were up to, hm?” His breath is warm as it tickles you, his skin hot even under the thick layers of his uniform.

“Yes,” you grin mischievously before turning to him with a question of your own, “What about you? You’re home late today.”

Now facing him, the warm glow from dozens of twinkling fairy lights illuminating his handsome face, you notice how red Caleb is.

His bright eyes finally flicker down, distracted by the picturesque scene behind you. His thumb brushes across your bottom lip, a familiar hungry glint in his violet eyes. Before wasting another second, he crashes his lips to yours and devours you like a man starved.

You moan as he gently demands entry—wanting more. His fingers hold you possessively, one gripping your hair and the other holding your chin as his tongue makes up for every minute he didn’t get to hold you this week.

But as you lose yourself in the kiss, the faint taste of alcohol snaps you back to the present. The flushed and clammy skin, the stumbling, the slight slur.

Pulling away, you take his face into your hands and look into his starry eyes,

“Caleb Xia, are you drunk?!”

Caleb blinks at you slowly, the tips of his ears pinkening at being caught red-handed.

“No, are you?”

You burst out laughing as his eyes try their best to focus on you, “You are!”

Caleb grins crookedly at you, “No. I’m—hicc—Caleb.”

You roll your eyes at his ill-timed hiccup, dragging him to the couch and gently pushing him down onto it. He flops onto it unceremoniously, his arm resting atop one of the apple cushions and his thighs spread wide to let you stand between them. With his other hand, he loosens his tie, his Adam’s apple bobbing thickly under his uniform.

You can’t help but dig your teeth into your lip at how unfairly attractive he’s always been, especially in a tie. The way he loosened it—the way he looked up at you with molten desire and longing flooding his features, nearly made your knees buckle under your own weight.

“Wait here, dummy,” you brush his hair out of his eyes before turning away from him, intending to grab some water from the kitchen.

Caleb’s fingers close clumsily around your wrist, yanking you back to face him.

”Stay.”

He looks up at you with expectant eyes, his voice coming out soft and breathless. The plea is vulnerable as it is demanding.

”Spend my birthday with me.”

You smile reassuringly at him, stepping back toward him to press a tender kiss to his parted lips, the alcohol still lingering on his tongue.

”I’m just going to get you some water, okay? I’m not going anywhere. It’s your birthday—you get anything you want.”

Caleb groans, almost a guttural growl, “Fuck. Don’t say things like that. N-Not when I’m like this.”

The heat in his voice is undeniable, making your skin crawl with burning anticipation.

“Water first,” you croak, “Then, whatever the birthday boy wants.”

The drunken colonel pouts with distaste but lets you slip your wrist out of his grasp. Before you change your mind, you quickly make your way to the kitchen and grab a glass out of the cupboard and fill it with cool filtered water.

When you get back to the couch, Caleb looks considerably more inebriated as he plays with the silver tag of his necklace, dangling it in front of his face. When he sees you, his eyes light up and a lopsided grin appears on his face. ”Finally,” he slurs, reaching out for you, “Missed you,”

You roll your eyes, letting him hook his arm around your waist, yanking you to him, “I was gone for like two minutes.”

Caleb’s eyes scrunch as he pulls you back into the space between his legs, both arms looping around you.

”Two minutes too—hicc—long.”

Biting your chuckle back, you take his jaw into your fingers and tilt his face up at you, bringing the water to his lips, “Open up,”

Caleb’s eyes shine with mischief, “Kiss first.”

This time your laugh escapes, amused and utterly infatuated with his adorable demands. You argue, “Water first so I can sober you up. Then you can have as many kisses as you’d like.”

Caleb grumbles unhappily but obeys, his lips parting slightly and looking up at you expectantly. His breath is warm against your skin as you raise the glass back to his mouth, gently guiding his chin with your fingers.

As he drinks, you gently stroke his burning skin with your thumb. Despite protesting, he gulps the water down hungrily.

But his sight is entirely trained onto you and not the cup, eyes flickering down the curves of your bare shoulder. In his heated appreciation, rivulets of cold liquid dribble down his chin, dripping tantalizingly down the bulge of his neck.

His thick eyelashes flutter back up, violet eyes meeting yours with unspoken heat and longing—compounded by the amount of times someone else had taken you from him this week.

With his face tilted up, drinking greedily from your hands, eyes wide and locked onto you with both appreciation and desperation, he looks unbelievably vulnerable. His thick arms still lock around your waist, refusing to let you go.

You swear you could stand there for an eternity just counting each of his long thick eyelashes as he looked up at you like his entire world revolved around you.

When he finishes, you twist around to set the glass on the coffee table behind you.

“So—”

You don’t get another word out before Caleb is pulling you down onto his lap and recapturing your lips in a passionate kiss. His touch is territorial and demanding, large palm cupping the small of your back, maneuvering you until you’re straddling him. His skin, damp from the spilt water, clings to yours as he picks up where he’d left off. His other hand squeezes the nape of your neck, leaving no room for escape.

The faint remnants of alcohol still linger on his tongue, but he tastes so distinctly Caleb that you can’t help but whimper and reciprocate with everything you have. His unrelenting hold makes you squirm, readjusting yourself more comfortably on his lap.

Caleb curses, fingers digging into the plush of your thighs, trying to keep you still while he begs into your lips, “Jesus princess, please stop moving like that.”

“Are you going to tell me why you’re drunk?” you counter, murmuring into his lips when he’s forced to let you go so he can hiccup.

Caleb kisses down your jaw until his breath is at your ear, “Went to get drinks with Liam.”

Your eyes widen in pleasant surprise, “Liam? But you guys don’t usually—”

“I thought that I wouldn’t see you ‘til tomorrow. Needed a distraction. So Liam offered,” he grumbles, sulking, “Gideon’s been taking all your time.”

Your heart throbs at his words.

He didn’t want to be alone.

“Gideon’s just been helping me plan and set up. Since he’s more familiar with Skyhaven than I am.”

Caleb’s eyes narrow at you, an adorable pout playing on his lips, words still slurred, ”Don’t tell me Gideon is going to pop out from behind the couch.”

Grinning, you shake your head, “Nope. It’s just us tonight.”

His thumb brushes across your bottom lip, a familiar hungry glint in his violet eyes.

“Good.”

With his lips still at the hollow of your neck, his lips latch gently onto your skin, sucking a blossoming red mark right where he was sure people would see.

“He told me to—ngh—tell you hah-happy birthday though.”

Caleb only grunts in response, face buried in your neck and fingers crawling up your thighs, playing with the lace seam of your panties.

“Also, Gideon is coming over tomorrow to—“

Caleb’s chest rumbles with a growl, his teeth nipping the forming hickey in warning, which elicits a yelp from you, “Say his name one more time, see what happens.”

You giggle at his ridiculousness, “Colonel Xia, you’re so demanding when you’re drunk.”

Caleb grips your chin roughly, forcing you to level with him, “You want to see demanding, pip-squeak?”

His voice is gravelly and completely serious, making your knees buckle, even as you straddled him. You’d almost think you were the one who was drunk.

“Demanding is what I should’ve been when someone else was stealing you away from me all week.”

His fingers tauntingly trace your jaw, eyes dilated as they drink in every morsel of your increasingly heavy breath.

“Demanding is when I remind you that I’m not a man who shares, not what’s mine.”

The heat that radiates off his body is palpable, the aura of drunken jealousy-fueled dominance and possession dripping off of him. It makes your core ache.

“Demanding is this,” Caleb takes your wrist into his hand, bringing it to the space between your bodies. He closes your finger over something warm, hard, and throbbing under his slacks.

Your breath catches in your throat as Caleb looks at you, his eyes darkened to a near indigo. His own breaths accelerate considerably with his bulge in your delicate hands, forcing himself not to thrust into your fingers.

“So?” he rasps, “Are you going to take responsibility for this?”

You gulp, tearing your eyes away from the way he strains against the confines of his pants, absolutely tented and bricked up.

“Anything you want. It’s your birthday.”

Caleb swears quietly, chest heaving as he watches your eyes flutter at him—seeing how utterly serious you are about serving him.

“On the floor then,” he croaks, fingers softening their hold on you so you can climb off his lap and onto the floor before him, right between his open thighs.

“Get on your knees for gege.”

The carpet is rough against your skin as you kneel before him, carefully undoing his belt and freeing his throbbing erection. As it springs free, nearly hitting you in the face, you press his burning wet skin into your palm.

Caleb groans as soon as you touch him, hips bucking off the couch involuntarily. He pants for air, unbearably sensitive from not only the alcohol, but from the simmering ache of jealousy that still lurks beneath his skin.

You give him a few firm pumps, mesmerized as your fingers catch pearly drops of his copious arousal. He was so pent up—leaking so much need—that you’d think he’d already cum.

“Fuck—take me in your mouth,” Caleb commands, guiding you just how he liked it. You giggle at his demands, darting your tongue out to catch the beads of precum making its way down his thick shaft.

Caleb groans, his fingers digging into the soft apple cushion, “God—that fucking tongue…”

When you finally sink him into the warm wet recesses of your mouth, Caleb threads his fingers into your hair, gripping tightly.

“More,” he croaks—your name spilling from his lips like a prayer, stroking your scalp, “Need more.”

You hum, slowly taking him deeper into your mouth and eventually your throat. Caleb unconsciously thrusts into you, unable to control himself when you take him this well, this obediently.

“Jesus, baby,” he grunts, his restraint hanging on by a thread, “The things you do to me…”

His chest heaves as you take him fully, your lips pressed against his pelvis. You can feel your panties becoming increasingly wet as he praises you. Wanting to hear more, more of his addicting noises, more of his filthy praises, you progressively go faster. Exactly how he liked it.

“F-Fuck—fuck!” Caleb throws his head back with his slurred cries of ecstasy, “Need to flood that perfect fucking throat.”

Whining, your enthusiasm soars, the prospect of his finish fueling your own excitement. Your tongue teases the throbbing vein that crawls up the underside of his girth, knowing how insane it always drives him.

Caleb’s pushing your head down now, his pleasure bursting the dam of restraint.

”Hah—close, princess,” he looks down at you with pleading hooded eyes, his cheeks red with both the flush of alcohol and the pleasure of your wicked tongue.

“Look at me.”

If it was one thing Caleb loved, it was making you look into his eyes as he filled you.

He lifts your chin just slightly, throbbing as you peer up at him through your wet eyelashes.

“God—you’re so damn beautiful. All fucking mine.”

At the sight of your teary eyes fluttering up at him, cheeks hollow as you devoured him, lips puffy and kiss bitten, Caleb explodes without a further warning. He coats every inch of your mouth, your throat, with himself.

You do your best to take every single drop, but it inevitably dribbles down your lips as you choke lightly.

“Swallow,” Caleb rasps, animalistic hunger dripping from his words. His thumb presses into your bottom lip, collecting rivulets that had escaped and popping his finger into your mouth, “All of it.”

Even without his demand, you would’ve done just that. With your eyes never leaving his, you dramatically gulp, letting your tongue caress his digit as you pull yourself off.

As soon as your lips leave him, he’s hoisting you up by your waist, throwing you under his body and onto the plush couch. He hovers above you, using his knee to part your thighs, nearly coming in contact with your soaking panties.

“So fucking good for me. My good girl.”

He doesn’t give you a chance to speak, his lips coming down to claim yours. You gasp as his tongue invades your mouth, giving him easy access to you. You’re still salty with the taste of his own finish, yet so unbearably sweet with your own unique taste, only making him more eager. Feverish. Frenzied.

His hands are everywhere, under your skirt, in your hair, gripping your chin. Every moan, every whimper—he consumes with desperation bordering on insanity.

Too lost in the passion of his lips, you hardly notice when the two of you roll off the couch. You can vaguely hear the clatter of something falling, feeling Caleb’s hand move against the back of your head and tailbone—shielding you from the impact.

“Oops,” Caleb grins, lips puffy, still hovering above you, “Got carried away.”

Laughing, your fingers reach up to take his face into your hands. He leans into your touch, turning his face so he can brush a wet kiss into your palm. The floor is hard against your back, the carpet giving you rugburn, but with Caleb above you, it feels perfect.

“How are you feeling now?”

Caleb’s eyes hungrily trail down your body, perfectly pinned under his. His eyes darken, hooded with desire that’d hardly been quelled.

His voice is a gravelly slur, “Feel like…unwrapping some presents.”

Your heart races as his fingers snake up your arm, finding the black straps of your dress.

“Caleb…”

With one gentle tug, he unravels the neatly tied ribbons on your shoulders. His throat bobs hungrily as he takes you in, fingers tracing heated paths down your skin while he pulls the bodice of your dress down slightly to expose more of you to his ravenous eyes.

“You wrapped yourself up so beautifully for me,” he swears under his breath when he unveils your intricate lingerie, your nipple visible just beneath the lace.

“Fuck.”

He can’t stop himself from dipping down, capturing your breast even through the sheer fabric of your bra.

“Caleb–w-wait!” you cry, not convincing even yourself. Your eyes roll heavenward, arching into his hot demanding tongue even through the uncomfortably feeling of wet fabric.

He nips playfully at your sensitive peaks, looking up at you through his eyelashes, eyebrows hooded with hunger.

His breath is so hot it makes you writhe with need as he speaks into your skin, “Wait for what, princess? I’ve been waiting all week.”

You chuckle breathily before peeling into a pleasured squeal when he bites down, gently but firmly, “F-Fine. Only because it’s your—mmngh—birthday!”

Caleb chuckles darkly, releasing your other nipple with a wet pop, “Are you sure about that, sweets?”

He makes a show of raising the skirt of your dress, the rug fibers tickling your thighs. Drinking in each and every one of your delicious mewls, he smirks, “If I recall correctly, you’re always good at taking orders from your Colonel.”

You’re about to retort, fiery sass on the tip of your tongue, when Caleb flicks your swollen clit—precise and intentional. Your cry is sharp as it is pleasured, your fingernails digging painfully into the carpet, thighs closing against Caleb's solid body.

“Caleb!”

He grins, “Yeah, baby?”

“You know what—ngh fuck!” You’re cut off again when he lowers his head to lick a hot wet stripe down your slit, all the way to your throbbing clit, right through the fabric of the lace panties.

“Fuuuck, did you get this wet just from sucking gege’s cock?” he groans, breath hot against your trembling sensitive lips, “You spoil me.”

As soon as the pleasure comes, it disappears, Caleb withdrawing with a crazed look of mischief in his galaxy eyes.

“Say it.”

You whine, your hips bucking up—instinctively chasing Caleb’s touch. He pushes you back down, his palm flat against your stomach and lips latched into the soft skin of your inner thigh. So close to where you need him most.

“Say it.”

Caleb is drunk off something entirely different now, making little to no sense as his tongue darts out to sample you again.

“F-Fuck—say what?! What do you want me to—mmngh—say?”

He lifts your ruined panties to the side, eyes dilated with pure hunger. Unable to stop himself, even when he wants to tease you, he leans back in. His tongue parts your lips, teasing your entrance.

Words vibrating into your soul, he grunts, “Say you only take orders from me.”

Deciding to give in, lest he take away the pleasure just as it began, you sit up on your elbows, “Only you Caleb. Only ever t-take orders from my gege.”

Caleb’s fingers tighten around your thighs, his Adam’s apple bobbing with the weight of his desperate breaths. His eyes, delirious with hunger, lock onto yours as he leans back on—fully ready to devour you now.

“And you look so damn perfect doing it.”

You fall backward as Caleb tugs you forward, lifting you until your pussy was level with him as he sat up. You’re surprised when your head hits a soft apple plush, gut fluttering as you realize Caleb had used his Evol to position the pillow when he’d yanked you towards him.

He was always thinking of you—protecting you.

Just as your skull thumps gently into the cushion, he buries himself in you, so eagerly that his teeth nearly knock into your fevered skin. He’d spent so many hours which his tongue nestled inside you that he could practically draft blueprints on exactly how you liked it.

Slow. Attentive. Devoted.

And Caleb was always an over-achiever.

With you stretched out on his tongue, his nose brushing insistently into your hardened clit, he shows you the utmost reverence, worshiping you like the absolute perfection you were.

“O-Oh god Caaleb—! Just like that. Please don’t stop.”

He grunts in approval, letting his deep voice vibrate against your quivering skin. Diligently coaxing your orgasm from you, Caleb inserts one of his skilled fingers. Then two.

“Never going to stop,” he moans into your core, “That’s what I want for my birthday. To be inside of you forever.”

You whine at his words, his fingers easily finding your soft g-pot, “W-Want that too. Hah—please, gege.”

Caleb nearly snarls at your breathy words, fingers digging into your skin.

“That’s my fucking girl,” he growls into you, coaxing you deliberately, “You know exactly who you belong to, hm?”

You whimper, nodding eagerly as he purposely drags his nose against you. Caleb nearly goes feral at your intoxicating scent, needing your orgasm more than he needs his next breath.

“Cum for me, baby,” he murmurs, voice deep and velvety, “It’s my birthday, right? Show me how much you need me.”

His lips gently close over your aching nub, sucking hard. Your eyes widen when the pads of his fingertips, deep inside you, stroke demandingly against your most sensitive parts, all but ensuring your heavenly downfall.

Back arching deeply, the end of your spine digging painfully into the hard floor, your body gives him the thing he’d wanted above anything else, any other gift.

“Nnngh—feels so fucking good. I-I can’t—no more!…Cumming!”

Caleb’s chest rumbles as his tongue skillfully catches every drop of your climax, holding your thighs firmly as they quake uncontrollably against him.

You’re a whimpering mess, never quite able to get used to just how devotedly he tends to you. Your chest heaves as Caleb sets you back down, wiping his shiny lips with the back of his hand.

“Thank you, princess.”

Vision blurry, you sit up on shaky arms to watch him. He fists his cock slowly, already hard and wanting again.

“You did not just thank me for sex,” you laugh breathlessly, making a face at him.

Caleb grins, gently pinning you back to the floor. One hand restrains both of yours while the other tilts your chin up at him.

“Think of it as…thanking you for the best gift I’ve ever received.”

Caleb carefully chooses his words, fully intending for you to pick up on the double meaning behind them. You were the greatest thing in his life.

“More?” Caleb asks breathlessly, his wide violet eyes desperately pleading with yours, but fully prepared to stop if you needed a break.

“More. Don’t tell me the birthday boy is an old man already,” you grin at him playfully.

Caleb smirks, devastatingly handsome, leaning down to brush his lips tauntingly against yours.

“Brat.”

He firmly cups the back of your head and claims your lips—deliciously bruising and punishing.

With both his hands, he pins your wrists on either side of your head, rendering you completely pliant at his mercy.

“I might be one year older,” he murmurs as he kisses down your neck, selectively leaving hickeys on your most sensitive parts.

“But I am still perfectly capable of satisfying my girl.”

Caleb presses his lips to yours, consuming you entirely and irrevocably. The taste of alcohol had completely faded away, leaving only the taste of the man you’d loved all your life. The taste of excitement, desperation, longing, and possession.

You feel him use one hand to line himself up with your entrance, entering your with one measured thrust. He swallows your pleasured gasp, pinning your hands back down gently, fingers carefully intertwining with yours.

“Christ,” Caleb groans, his lips still brushing against yours as he gently rolls his hips into you, “Tight little cunt, s’all mine, right?”

“Caaleb,” you moan brokenly, a mix of your release and his saliva making it much easier to accommodate his thick girth, “Nngh—more. Please.”

Caleb growls, his pelvis hitting your thighs with a powerful pitched clap. It’s enough to fuck your breath out of you, your body sliding up against the rough rug painfully. The feeling of his leaking cockhead claiming every sensitive spot inside of you makes the pain of the friction fade away, your eyes rolling back deeply.

Your needy words go straight to Caleb’s cock, quelling the irrational jealousy that’d been brewing inside him and fueling the possessiveness he felt over you.

Caleb grabs a throw pillow off the couch, lifting you effortlessly to place it under your hips. The elevation gives him the perfect angle to repeatedly hit your g-spot as it brushed bruisingly into your cervix.

“So greedy,” he whispers, groaning at the way you wring his cock, “Pussy’s so damn needy. You should see how you’re sucking me in, baby.”

Caleb straightens up, one of your legs wrapped around his waist and the other resting straight against his shoulder as he grips it to his body. He presses tender kisses into your ankle, a sharp contrast to the way he bullies himself into your tight heat.

“Hah—hear that?” he murmurs, fingers finding your clit, making the sounds of wet sinful pleasure even more pronounced, “That’s how much you need me.”

For how self-assured Caleb was in his everyday life, he sounded very much like he was convincing himself and not you.

“Course I need you,” you moan, reassuring the side of him that you know has been hurting this week, “Mmmngh—I’ll a-always need you. Always want you.

He kisses down your calf, so absolutely devoted to worshipping you—to showing you how much he needs you. When he reaches your knee, he wraps your leg back around him, lowering himself to your flushed face. His rhythm is intentional and powerful, each stroke meant to pleasure you and not him.

With your chin softly in his fingers’ grip, he croaks with finality, “You’re mine.”

But this time it’s not demanding or possessive, but a desperate promise.

“Show me, Caleb,” you encourage, his urgency fueling your own orgasm. Caleb’s jaw tightens, the bulge in his neck bobbing thickly.

“Everyday,” he whispers into your mouth, nipping at your puffy lips, “I’ll show you, every fucking day.”

Closing the rest of the distance, Caleb captures you in a kiss that speaks volumes to how wholly you consumed him—how desperately he needs to be consumed by you.

You can tell he’s close, moaning unabashedly into your mouth, hips stuttering against your own trembling body. You can practically feel his cock throbbing as it tries to bury into your damn cervix, coating your walls in beads of precum. He’s pinned you by your wrists again, fingers stroking yours, needing the illusion of complete control over you.

Pulling away, saliva still connecting the two of you, Caleb groans as his balls tighten with that unmistakable tension, “Shit, you feel so good. I-I can’t stop.”

Your toes curl, digging into his back, “No–don’t stop, please don’t fucking stop.”

“Gonna—sh-shit—cum in you princess,” Caleb warns, “Need to fill you up. Haah—Need you to feel me for days.”

You cry out at his filthy promises, body tightening in excitement, his fingers releasing you in favor of finding both your hardened peaks, one hand at your clit and the other at your breast.

“Jesus—don't squeeze me like that,” he pleads darkly, forcefully being pushed to his precipice, “You like that idea baby?”

Caleb’s fingers press down, eliciting the most beautiful sounds he’s ever heard.

“Y-Yes!” you cry, so close to release you’d say anything if it meant you got to cum with his cock inside you.

His eyes darken, jaw ticking, your name a dangerous purr on his lips.

“I’m going to hold you to that.”

Caleb’s hips snap painfully into your ass, once. He collapses on top of you, catching himself by his palms on the floor framing both sides of your face.

“Fuck—you’re so fucking perfect. Feels like heaven inside of you.”

Twice.

“Gonna let gege cum inside you, right princess?”

A third time.

“Sh-shit—gonna be able to smell me on you. In you.”

A fourth, final, time.

“You can take it, right baby? My good fucking girl.”

You cum with a strangled cry of his name, back arching against the cushion, fingers digging roughly into Caleb’s hair. There’s an uncomfortable wet splash that accompanies your climax, your entire body shaking violently against his faltering thrusts.

“Christ—!” Caleb groans, “Did you just squirt for me?”

Your explosion of ecstasy thrusts Caleb into his own violent release, the thick cords of muscles in his abdomen twitching as his body unleashes into yours, powerful and mind numbing.

A bead of sweat falls from his skin to yours, his entire body strained with the force of his orgasm. Thick hot jets of his seed coat your aching walls, still pulsing insistently against his throbbing cock.

“F-Fuck I can’t…” Caleb’s groan is strangled, falling onto his elbows, careful not to crush you.

“What’s wrong?” you whisper quietly, voice weak, groaning as he twitches inside you.

“Ngh—can’t stop cumming,” Caleb grunts, his entire body shaking as he holds himself above you.

You look down at where your bodies are still connected, his hips still thrusting shallowly into you.

“Bear with me, princess,” he rasps apologetically. Your trembling hands reach up to gently hold his face, bringing it to yours.

You press a tender kiss to his parted lips, your tongue gently teasing his, encouraging him to ride out the waves of his orgasm.

Caleb’s cheeks are flushed adorably red as you let him go, his hips finally stilling. Carefully, he gathers you into his arms, flipping the two of you around so that you lay on top of him, his body shielding you from the floor now.

He brushes his lips to your temple, whispering softly, “Best fucking birthday.”

At the mention of his birthday, you’re reminded of the birthday cake that was left forgotten on the entryway console table. Sitting up suddenly, you gently extricate yourself from Caleb’s hold, much to his pouty dismay.

“Stay here, I’ll be right back!”

Caleb groans as he slips out of you against his will. If it was up to him, he’d spend his entire birthday buried inside of you.

But as you walk away on trembling legs, his cum drips down your thighs, giving Caleb the perfect view as he lays on the floor looking up at your retreating form.

He feels himself hardening at the thought of his claim running down your legs tomorrow, when Gideon—

“Happy birthday!”

Caleb sits up on the carpeted floor to watch you return with a lit birthday cake in your hands, singing happy birthday. The cake has lost its form, having melted when it was forgotten out in the warmth of the house, much of the toppers pitifully drooping against their own weight.

And yet, as you present it to him, beaming ear to ear, hair disheveled, dress hanging off your chest, thighs pressed together in an attempt to stop the sticky mess between your legs from dripping, serenading him…

He’d never seen anything more beautiful.

“Sorry,” you say sheepishly when you finish the song, “It kinda got ruined, but—”

Caleb cuts you off with a tender thumb to your lips.

“It’s perfect. You’re perfect.”

You blush, grinning up at him.

“Make a wish!”

Caleb smiles ever-so-slightly, just the corners of his lips turning up, his fingers moving to cup your chin and tilt your face up at him.

“What if I already have everything I’ve ever wanted?”

His violet eyes shine with a torrent of emotions that threatens to consume you whole, your own eyes stinging with feelings that threaten to escape.

You bite your lip as he strokes your jaw, “Doesn’t matter. You have to make a wish.”

You lift the cake so that it separates your bodies, the melting candle burning between your faces. Caleb chuckles before stepping back and closing his eyes.

When they finally open, he leans down to blow the candle out. His eyes flutter to yours as he extinguishes the flame, conveying the magnitude of his words—his wishes.

Every single one of them began and ended with you.

As he pulls away, you ask him the same question you asked him every birthday.

“What did you wish for?”

Caleb laughs, taking the cake from your hands to set down on the coffee table, “My lips are sealed, pip-squeak. If I say, it won’t come true. And I really need this one to pull through.”

Your eyes light up with unbridled curiosity, “Now you have to tell me!”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Nope.”

“Pleaaaaaase!”

“Quit it.”

“Please, please, please!”

Caleb turns to you as he pulls you down onto the couch with him, his amethyst irises bright with amusement and adoration. He couldn’t tell you what he really wished for—that in the next lifetime, he’d be able to find you and you’d let him take your hand again. If not that, then a seagull that could fly freely with you by his side, through the salty summer skies.

He chuckles, tucking your head under his chin, resting against your infinite warmth, “Fine”

You look up at him in surprise, listening attentively, practically boiling over with curiosity.

Caleb takes a deep breath, looking at you with seriousness that makes your heart hammer, “I wished that Gideon would stub his big toe on—“

Interrupting him by flicking his forehead, you tut playfully, “One year older and still a child.”

Caleb grins, capturing your wrist before you can pull away and bringing your fingers to his lips reverently.

“Good thing we have an entire lifetime of birthdays for me to grow up.”

.ᐟ✧ THIS IS MY ONLY ACCOUNT. I WILL ONLY POST ON THIS ACCOUNT AND AO3. i am not @/aeyumicores or @/aeyumiicore or any variations of my blog name.

✧.˖ i do not permit translations or reposts of my work on tumblr, ao3, or others. please do not reuse my blogpost headers, dividers, or layouts. these are original designs of my own.

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bueckersbitch · 22 hours ago

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i stayed there, dust collected on my pinned up hair.

an preview to right where you left me. a story by @bueckersbitch

future warnings : sexual content, injuries, mental health, alcohol, drugs.

characters : paige bueckers x anika malik

Paige Bueckers’ career in the WNBA has been nothing short of amazing, in her fourth year now, she has become the face of the Dallas Wings. Riding a high all season, breaking her own records. Crazy how everything can change in the blink of an eye. A familiar feeling of frustration and pain she had gone through in college. An ACL tear. It wasn’t anything Paige had expected, but neither was rekindling with her former high school rival; Anika Malik, who now plays for the Minnesota Lynx.

playlist. right where you left me : taylor swift, toronto 2014 : daniel caesar, race my mind : drake, seigfried : frank ocean, sidelines : phoebe bridgers, party 4 u : charli xcx, jealou$y : the neighbourhood, eventually : tame impala, pretty little birds : sza, always : daniel caesar, every breath you take : the police

tags. @pboogerswbb @thaatdigitaldiary @sierrale8ne @lupinqs @ohmybueckers @ohbueckers @vamptizm @lilpaigeyherbo

#alira’s works ⟡˖ ࣪⋆⭒˚#right where you left me #paige bueckers #uconn wbb #uconnwbb #uconn women’s basketball #paige bueckers x oc #paige bueckers angst #paige bueckers fic #paige bueckers fluff #paige bueckers smut #paige bueckers x reader #wlw smut #wlw post #wlw blog #lesbian

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zstartrixxx · 3 days ago

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𝐏𝐔𝐍𝐈𝐒𝐇𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝑨 𝑴𝑶𝑵𝑺𝑻𝑬𝑹. (𝒀𝑶𝑼'𝑽𝑬 𝑺𝑬𝑬𝑵 𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑩𝑼𝑻𝑪𝑯𝑬𝑹)

²⁰⁰⁰ˢꜝʳᵉᵐᵐᶦᶜᵏ ˣ ᶠᵉᵐꜝʳᵉᵃᵈᵉʳ

𝐑𝐄𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐒𝐓: 𝐘𝐄𝐒 | 𝐍𝐎

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: On a night of apparent peace, you answer the door of the rented house to a stranger who swears up and down that he also leased the very same property... It's not what you're imagining. 𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑'𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐒: TO CELEBRATE OUR 200 BILLION FOLLOWERS IN STYLE (kskskskskksks now seriously: tkysm for the 200 followers, it's been a little over a month since i created this blog with face, heart and courage to post my fanfics without any grand expectations, so everything that's happening is fucked up :)

i’m humbly offering this fic that i affectionately call a 'FUN-FANFICTION'—funnier, silly and way more chaotic than my usual smut-heavy or over-the-top dramatic plots. think of it as your post-chill pill after a long day!!! to everyone reading this: thank you for your time, your love, and for being here. i adore you as much as i adore jackie's chars. <3 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: +18 ADULT CONTENT. vampirism & gore (bite and blood), smut: oral (m!receive) and unproteced penetration, a lil' bite of monsterfucker; weirdo!remmick (he's a really freaky here idk :) lmk if i forget smt ;) 𝐖𝐂: 3.5k for whoever is going to read it, a great read! <3 likes, reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated :)

𝖱𝖤𝖬𝖬𝖨𝖢𝖪 𝖯𝖫𝖠𝖸𝖫𝖨𝖲𝖳 | 𝖬𝖠𝖲𝖳𝖤𝖱𝖫𝖨𝖲𝖳

"i wanna to watch the way, you creep across the night sky. you slowly enter, because you know my room; and then you crawl your knees off and then you shake my tomb..." (you've seen the butcher, deftones).

"A monster cannot be loved...

I always believed this with the same fervor as my faith in the saints and gods that surrounded me since childhood, when my parents took me on morning walks to the cemetery to honor those who came before me - from whom all wisdom originated. My great-grandmother's imposing marble mausoleum, with a winged guardian angel crushing a serpent's head, was my favorite place to be. That was a long time ago. My life changed when—"

A noise snapped you out of your trance.

You were surprised—you weren't expecting anyone at that house. You looked at your laptop clock: it was past nine in the evening. You raised your eyes to the window in front of you, facing the neighbor's house, the glass speckled with raindrops. The noise continued—someone was frantically twisting the doorknob, almost desperately, then stopping for a few seconds, making you think you were finally alone again—only for the noises to return, now more intense: fists pounding against the door, a deep voice in the background shouting "Hey!", completely breaking your concentration. You rolled your eyes, slamming your laptop shut, walking the short distance between the kitchen and living room, grabbing your fluffy white robe thrown over the back of the couch, to peer suspiciously through the peephole, trying to see who could be there at this hour on an ordinary Wednesday night in the middle of the rain.

A shadow passed by, obstructing your view. With no light on the porch, the faint glow from the quiet street only revealed outlines and shadows. With your palms flat against the door, you were startled by another violent shake, the deep, affected voice invading through the door crack:

"Hey! Open up! Let me in... Shit!"

You frowned, one hand on the metal doorknob and the other on the key, wondering if it was wise to open it for whoever was outside. You couldn't take another loud knock, long and insistent, turning the key in the lock with a click, twisting the knob, opening the door to find a drenched man just inches away from you. Holding onto the security chain that limited your field of vision, the man's face lit up with relief, arms crossed, raindrops falling from his brown almost black hair as he peered into the house with those dark blue eyes:

"Miss, sorry for the hour, but there must have been a mistake..."

"What mistake?" you asked, genuinely curious, looking him up and down: casual clothes, a black hoodie with the hood down, navy blue jeans, scuffed sneakers, and beside him a military-green camping backpack with what looked like a string instrument case leaning against it. You stared at him again, even more intrigued by the strange visitor, who was rubbing his hands together:

"Look, I don't want to sound weird or anything, miss, but this must be a mix-up! I rented this place for a few days to stay for a couple weeks, but when I got here, I couldn't find the key anywhere and, well... Now seeing you here, I think we've got a problem."

"Are you sure it's this house?" you asked, raising an eyebrow. He widened his eyes, nodding - pulling a worn leather wallet from his pants pocket, fishing out a crumpled piece of paper from between a wad of crumpled bills, extending his slightly trembling hand to you, likely from the cold. Behind him, the rain intensified, splashing onto the poor guy and onto you; the stranger pulled up his hood, casting his striking features into noisy darkness. You shrugged, taking the paper between your fingers, stepping back to smooth it out and read its contents under the indoor light, aloud:

"Blah-blah-blah... Temporary tenant Remmick... Blah-blah-blah, Zero-Six Street... Hmm, authorized stay from today until... Granted permission to occupy hereby..." You looked up at him, startled. The stranger—or rather, Remmick—raised his eyebrows at you:

"Believe me now?"

"Okay, fine... But what do we do?"

"Look, I don't want to be pessimistic, but this town is one of those weird ones where taxis only run at certain times and specific places, and the cabbie who dropped me off said I either walk back or find somewhere to stay... And with this rain, it'd be pretty shitty to leave me out here."

"Are you really sure you want to come in?"; Your voice came out dark, a glint passing through your eyes. An enigmatic little smile appeared at the corner of the man's lips as he lowered his hood again, putting on a pleading expression with puppy-dog eyes:

"Just one night, miss. Just so I don't catch a cold. One night—" He raised an index finger, flashing a convincing little smile: "—one night, and I promise I'll be a ghost to you. You won't even notice I'm here."

Your eyes shifted from him to the unrelenting rain behind him.

You glanced over your shoulder, where that empty house seemed to invite you to take in this poor guy, who wasn't to blame for his bad luck. In the end, you'd both come out ahead, right?

Convinced, you nodded affirmatively, unlatching the chain with a click. Before Remmick could enter, you stopped him once more, a hand extended, fingertips lightly brushing his chest, your eyes piercing into his, which gleamed with a hot-blue intensity as they locked onto you:

"Are you absolutely sure you want to come in?"

"Absolutely, miss. Don't ask me twice..." He shrugged as he stepped past you, carrying his things inside. Before closing the door, you took one last look at that street of houses with only a few lights on, a desolate place almost lost in that small town.

The night would be long.

Remmick didn't shut up for a single second. But it didn't bother you at all—quite the opposite. You were genuinely interested in what he had to say, the stories about failed gigs—while refilling another mug of cheap wine you'd found in the fridge—he told you about the time the band's car broke down in the middle of the highway:

"...I swear to God! There I was with the guys when boom!, the tire blew. We got out, in the middle of absolute nowhere, on one of those dirt roads connecting Nevada to California, you know? And the worst part..." He started laughing at the memory, the two of you sitting on the three-seater couch in the living room, the tube TV tuned to MTV, where nu-metal videos played. Remmick had showered, radiating warmth that smelled like chamomile and mint shampoo. He wore a simple black t-shirt that revealed a tattoo on his right inner bicep, gray sweatpants, barefoot—completely at ease, as if you were old friends reuniting after time apart.

He sipped his wine. You laughed:

"And the worst part was what?" Sitting beside him, you'd taken advantage of his shower time to change into your pajamas: an oversized band t-shirt, black cotton shorts, the robe still covering the more exposed areas. Even so, every now and then you caught a pair of ocean-blue eyes glancing at you, trying to catch a glimpse of skin through the robe's opening or your slightest movement. Remmick wiped a trickle of wine from his chin:

"The worst part was that we stopped right in front of one of those roadside motels. But not just any motel—one of those for couples, you know? And there must've been an orgy or something going on, because it was fucking awkward..."

You burst out laughing, trying to picture the scene.

Remmick joined in, his laugh open and booming, full-bodied. He was slightly drunk and an open book: in less than two music videos and two mugs of wine, he'd already told you why he was here, about trying to go on the road with his little band, but his day job got in the way—so he had to choose between the band or work. And there he was, about to play a series of shows that, according to him, would "change his whole career." He was excited, hopeful, his eyes gleaming as streaks of blood-yellow light reflected in his irises, his teeth glowing under the TV's anise-colored light during pauses, his black hair still shiny with dampness. He was too human to seem like a weirdo... Even if some of his stories sounded far-fetched.

Remmick finished shaking his shoulders, his laughter fading as he turned back to the TV, where the opening chords of Be Quiet and Drive (Far Away) began, Chino Moreno's face flashing on screen as the guitar riff exploded. Remmick started nodding his head slightly, humming along to the first lines. You smiled, half-admiring his spontaneity.

"Is this the kind of music you guys play?" you asked, drawing his attention back to you. Remmick grinned proudly, his eyes never losing their sparkle. He downed the rest of his wine in one gulp, setting the mug on the wooden coffee table cluttered with magazines and knickknacks:

"If I weren't so obvious and were more mysterious, it'd be cooler, huh...?"

"What do you mean?" You narrowed your eyes, mimicking his gesture, setting your own mug aside. Remmick glanced at it, commenting offhand:

"You haven't even touched your wine properly—scared of me?" He laughed, half-sarcastic, leaning back into the couch, his gaze heavy-lidded as you turned more toward him, knees pressed together, pointed in his direction. Your eyes traced the lines of his body—not muscular but defined, a subtle bulge between his legs making your throat go dry... Desire.

Remmick was fucking hot, and you were lucky this misfortune had happened with him.

His eyes were penetrating, and in that sepia light between pale yellow and steely blue, they were beautiful. His face was handsome, well-defined and masculine, his hair looked so soft—not to mention that prominent nose, large and slightly upturned, those full, kissable lips, and hands that, if they knew how to play an instrument, your mind concluded, would know how to touch anyone like no one else. And that desire burned through you—you were starved... for touch.

The man was still focused on the frenetic music, the singer's voice gently penetrating your ears. You answered him, your eyes never leaving his:

"It's not fear, it's just... thirst for something else."

"What... something?" he asked, his breath hitching slightly, watching you with curiosity. You pressed your lips together in a smile, stretching as you turned back to the TV, avoiding his gaze:

"A little something I'm not sure I should mention..." You played coy, wanting to provoke him. Remmick slowly adjusted himself on the couch, caught between curiosity and challenge, his lazy grin widening as he stared at you in that half-light from the kitchen lamp mixing with the TV's glow, replying in a teasing tone:

"You're a bold one, you know...? Don't even know me, don't know if I'm a potential serial killer." You laughed, disbelieving. Biting your lip, you shook your head:

"No, Remmick, I'm not afraid of you at all."

"Well, you should be!" he exclaimed, jumping up to stretch, yawning as he checked the digital clock in the kitchen: "Jesus, it's past midnight. Better hit the sack..." He shot you a look full of expectation: "...you too, 'I'm-Not-Afraid-Of-You-Remmick'!" He laughed mockingly, but with an air of suggestion: "Maybe I'll leave my door open... just in case I need something."

"Fine, Mr... 'You-Should-Be-Afraid-Of-Me'—" You made a face, matching his look, your smile widening further: "—maybe I'll come running under your covers, hide from the Boogeyman."

"Or from me..." He shrugged, already heading for the stairs leading to the bedrooms. You snorted a laugh, watching the next music video start. You threw a dangerous glance at the man already climbing the stairs, step by step, his eyes gleaming as his smile seemed to drip for you.

Calling you.

You looked away, keeping your eyes on the TV, pulsing and vibrating with the possibilities of this surprisingly eventful night. He flirted in a weird little way that got to you more than it should have.

Remmick did wait for you, awake in that narrow guest bed, between the closed window's sound of dripping rain and the noise of his own thoughts, hands resting on his chest as he lay in the dark room, thinking of you. Only a sliver of harsh yellow light came from the hallway through the slightly ajar door. Then he heard your footsteps, heavy, coming up the stairs—you'd taken about an hour to finally come up, whatever you'd been doing downstairs in complete silence—or maybe his thoughts were just too loud for him to notice.

Slowly, you stopped at his door, opening it with a soft creak that made him smirk, a small smile appearing on his lips as the warm light entered with you, leaving you both in that half-light where anything could be hidden. But he could still see your face, soft and relaxed, the way you wet your lips and shed your robe, revealing yourself completely naked to him. Remmick shuddered, his mouth watering with desire, already sitting up in bed as you slowly crawled toward him, across the sheets, the mattress springs squeaking, his heavy breathing louder than the rain outside. Then your voice came out, feline:

"You really waited for me, hmm? Really left your invitation open for me to come into your room..." You stopped in front of him, sitting on his knee, your hands beginning to trail up his shins to his knees. Remmick closed his eyes, lethargic, the wine's effect mixing with the arousal growing inside him. You laughed, climbing higher until you were face-to-face with him:

"Remmick, Remmick... What a pleasure to have you as my guest tonight!" you teased, wrapping your arms around his shoulders, his hands touching your skin, sending a shiver through him at the temperature contrast—maybe because you were naked in the cool air while he was in that furnace of a room—parting his lips and closing his eyes, asking for a kiss. But you didn't give him what he wanted. Instead, you licked him, laughing at the face he made, dragging yourself down his torso until you were between his legs:

"Will you let me suck you, Remmy?" The nickname came out casual, intimate, playful. The man didn't hesitate, nodding immediately. With a quick move, you were off the bed, pulling him toward you, kneeling, your sharp nails scratching at the waistband of his sweatpants, stripping him of both pants and white underwear, already wet with pre-cum, taking his soft, warm cock in your hands.

Never breaking eye contact, he eagerly pulled off his shirt in one motion, revealing a cross tattoo on the right side of his waist—a detail that made you even wetter—and you started low, sucking his balls with delight, watching him melt and moan, his hands gripping the mattress tightly as you licked from the base to the red, wet tip, begging for attention, thick and relatively large, stopping right at the head to ask:

"Is this how you like it, Remmy?" Then you took just the glans into your mouth, hearing him gasp heavily, your tongue swirling around it in circles. Remmick almost laughed from pleasure, nodding, one hand already buried in your hair guiding your movements, almost fucking your mouth with thrusts, which you opened and let him enjoy—because his pleasure was yours.

Laughing after he thrust deep, making you gag slightly, pulling back completely soaked and drooling over his cock, he said breathlessly:

"Fuck, woman, like this I'm gonna come too soon... What a magical little mouth!" He caressed your face with one hand as you stood up, pushing him back onto the bed:

"That's because you haven't seen anything yet, Remmy. Haven't seen anything."

He laughed, flirtatious, his hands already claiming your thighs as you, unhurried, positioned yourself over him, never breaking eye contact—Remmick was being very well served, groaning roughly:

"So fucking wet for me, holy shit," his face twisting in pleasure, eyebrows knitting together, lips parting in a broken smile, prominent canines showing. You laughed, grinding aggressively on top of him, grabbing his hands and pinning him down. He groaned beneath you: "So tight, shit, if you keep riding my cock like this I'm gonna come—"

"Then come, Remmy—" Desire was blinding you, your dominant hand going to his throat, watching his Adam's apple rise and fall, his eyes closed, breathing fast, a trail of saliva escaping the corner of his lips.

"Fuck..." Roughly, he thrust up into your pussy. You bent over him, loosening your grip slightly, licking his neck, whispering suggestively:

"Can I suck you here, Remmy?"

"Shit, yes, do whatever you want to me... Just let me come..." he begged, his hands now free from your grip holding your waist, his mouth latching onto the exposed side of your neck, yours doing the same where the arteries pulsed. Remmick felt all his lust spill into harsh thrusts into your pussy, long spurts, while his teeth bit into you.

And yours did the same.

You moaned, strangled by pain and pleasure, blood welling from the bite, flooding your mouth; Remmick let out a guttural cry, eyes closed, feeling that burning frenzy of orgasm, his mouth slack, tasting something... metallic, rancid-sweet, then back to the pungent tang of copper. When he opened his eyes, you were above him, your hands pinning his shoulders to the mattress, your mouth full of blood. Horror crossed his face as the burning intensified, throbbing.

It felt like blades plunging into his skin, deep, lacerating, metallic. Blood, the nauseating smell of it, sticky, and panic filling him as he thrashed beneath you—still inside you—as you laughed, mouth dripping with his blood, staining him further.

"What the fuck!? What kind of monster are you!?" he managed to choke out, trying to break free from your grip, which was stronger than his. When he looked at you again, in that yellow-blue light, the plastic warmth from the hallway mixing with the night's darkness, the rain outside growing heavier, seeming to drown out his screams:

"Well, I did ask you twice if you wanted to come in—" you whispered, putting on an innocent face, bending over his chewed jugular, which gushed bright red blood onto the white sheets and his pale skin, licking up that delicious liquor, spiced with his fear and pleasure: "—and twice you said you did. And you let me suck you, Remmy... Suck you! Oh, poor little thing..." You straightened up again as his eyes lost focus, dull at the edges, lips darkening, his convulsions becoming more random and spaced out.

You knew exactly what you were doing.

Remmick was dying as beautifully as he came, that much was certain. His flavor was rich and exquisite on your palate, sharpened by the fear that had shocked him, diluted in intense orgasm. Simply divine.

Monster.

Could a monster be worthy of love?

"Can a monster be loved?" The question was almost rhetorical.

The unhappy little laugh came from deep in your throat, hoarse and almost dry. In the background, a song played on the convertible's radio, wind whipping across your cold faces, sunglasses on despite the night, sharp smiles, your claw-like nails tapping the car door as Remmick drove, humming along to the lyrics:

"Pleased to meet you... Hope you guess my name, oh, yeah! But what's puzzling you... Is the nature of my game, oh, yeah!" He glanced at you over his sunglasses, his blue eyes glinting in that scarlet light just for you. He wore a leather jacket, corpse-pale hands on the wheel, a sly smile, while you admired the creature you'd created that night full of surprises. Remmick began to speak, his voice calm, his expression contemplative:

"Once, I was seduced by a monster, who punished me severely with the pain of death... But after taking what she craved—my blood and my pleasure—she offered me the greatest gift anyone could accept in this miserable life. Even if the hatred for death poorly announced catches up with us, darling, yes, I believe we can love... In our own way. We're punished by our desires, but whatever... In the end, it was worth giving you what you wanted."

"Blood?" you guessed, throwing a look past him, across that huge bridge full of cars, your suitcases and his guitar case in the backseat. Remmick gave a sly, self-satisfied smile, carefully adjusting his leather jacket sleeves, his hair blowing in the wind, exuding sex and bloody fury on this night that, for the two of you, was only beginning:

"No."

He stated, giving you a look, finally removing his sunglasses, revealing himself to you once more, fangs inviting:

"Eternity with a companion."

In the background, the radio's volume gradually rose...

"Tell me, baby, what's my name? Tell me, honey, can you guess my name?"

𝐅𝐎𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐒: as you've probably noticed, i got drunk on references to the ultimate classics—interview with the vampire—which is why this fic plays fast and loose with the movie's canon. that said: I LOVED writing this because there's something delicious about imagining a human, fragile remmick who—poor bastard—gets wrecked by his own desires.

#[★] zstartrixxx #remmick #remmick fanfic #remmick x reader #remmick x you #remmick smut #remmick imagine #remmick sinners #jack o'connell #jack o'connell fanfic #[⋆♱⋆] zstar fanfics #[🦇] zstar jack o'connell #Spotify

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citrustan · 2 days ago

Note

omg commissions open!! how about an E2L angsty fic? maybe with jungkook, where he hates the reader at first but is drawn to her and finds her fascinating?

yessirrr, you're speaking my language 😛 the moment i read this, a scenario instantly built in my mind!! thank you for messaging :D

killah (jjk)

pairing: managing partner!jungkook x spoiled brat!reader

genre: enemies to 😛 idk bec you irk him, angst, smut, like slight fluff

warnings: hinted emotional cheating, jungkook is a taken man but 🫵 you kinda want him and he sorta kinda wants you too??? but he's fighting it bec he's got a girl already, bratty behaviour from reader (that's all for thjs part, yes there will be a follow-up)

You were standing a few feet away from the hostess' table, scrolling through Pinterest, barely blinking while your brother whisper-bickered with the staff about a table.

You had been waiting at this reservation-only restaurant for almost thirty minutes now. If you don't get seated in the next ten minutes, you're going to start tearing up.

Logan would glare at you every other minute.

It was your fault, you had forgotten to reserve a table. But in your defence, you need to be told things at least thrice for it to stick. Logan knew that. So really, he's just as to blame.

He's trying to put some sense of responsibility in you but you're... persistent. Resistent.

Because why must you work when you don't absolutely have to?

You roll your eyes, trying to drown Logan out and switch apps to complete your daily NYT Wordle.

That’s when someone spotted you.

"_____?" The figure squealed, a little too loud for the atmosphere, “I didn’t know you’d be here!”

You glanced up and smiled automatically--- wide, sweet, a little rehearsed.

Who the hell is that? You can't seem to recognise her.

The girl leans in for a small hug, but you remain frozen, politely blocking her attempt to engulf you entirely.

She backs off immediately, probably embarrassed? You can't tell.

Clearing her throat, she reintroduces herself, "It's Hyewon!"

Oh! Now it clicks. And it shows on your face.

Hyewon smiles in victory. You remembered her.

"Heyy, I could not recognise you with the new hair!" You could've sworn she was a redhead the last time you saw her.

You had first interacted with her at a mutual friend's house party.

✿

You were seated on a faux-velvet couch, barefoot and yelling about how every colour had a personality.

"Blue is the friend who bails you out of jail," you smiled deviously at each of your friends as if you were attributing the colours to them.

"Yellow is the one who put you in there. Green is the innocent one that people suspect. And pink..." you pause to think, "Pink is who you did it for."

Everyone around you looked so engrossed.

Hyewon had never heard anyone talk like that. She had come across occasional shit-posts on Tumblr but never thought people actually had serious discussions this stuff out loud.

She didn’t even like you at first. You were too loud. Too much.

But she couldn’t look away.

After introducing herself to you, later that night, Hyewon requests to follow you on Instagram. You accept instantly but don't follow back.

What kind of weird power play was she being subjected to?

Then you two met coincidentally a few more times, still you hadn't followed her back.

✿

Tonight was the first time you came into contact with each other without any buffers around you.

She bit her lip in a shy smile, "Thanks." She seemed to have taken it as a compliment.

So you comment on her hair anyway, "I really like it, it frames your face well."

Your eyes fall on another figure behind her.

The first instinct you had was to stare. Because this was the sexiest man you'd ever seen. And you've seen a lot of those.

Cautiously, you look back at Hyewon, who seemed enthralled by the man too.

The man approaches you two and wraps his tattooed hand around hers.

Ah.

Whatever.

"_____, This is my boyfriend, Jeon Jungkook. Babe, this is _____ _____!"

You glance at him. “Oh. Hi.”

It’s barely a greeting. You’re more interested in your reflection in the glass.

Jungkook nods at you before looking back at his girlfriend, whispering to her about their table.

That only riles you up.

They have a table and you still don't. You feel a slight rush of entitlement taking over you.

Hyewon nods but then paused, "Oh, uh, are you leaving, _____?"

You shake your head, "Logan's trying to get us a table."

Hyewon sees this as an opportunity to get closer to you.

Just when she was about to extend an invitation to you and your brother, said brother calls out to you.

Finally. You weren't in the mood for any more small talk.

When Logan looks over at you, and in the same breath, his gaze lands on Jeon Jungkook, "Huh. Jeon, right?"

Jungkook, who had been sizing you up quietly with polite disinterest, raises a brow, "Yeah."

Then it clicks. Jungkook nods, resemblance flickering in his eyes. "Right. I’ve seen you in the elevators."

"Hard to miss a face like mine," Logan says dryly.

You roll your eyes at that.

Hyewon laughs. "I had no idea you two knew each other."

"We don’t, really," Jungkook replies. “Just hallway sightings.”

You swing your bag to your shoulder, ready to leave, when something fluffy drops to the floor. It's your bag charm.

You don't move, just stare at it.

Hyewon, without missing a beat, crouches and retrieves it for you.

"Aw, thank you," you say casually, this time sporting a genuine smile.

But Jungkook observes something else. He notices how you don't pick up after yourself. You didn’t even pretend to go for it. You just expected Hyewon to move for you.

He watched you struggle to clip it back on. You then pass it off to your brother, who successfully attaches the charm back on.

Jungkook's jaw ticks a little. As if he was holding back on telling you off.

Brat.

The hostess returns then, apologizing profusely as she attempts to guide you and your brother ahead of two other waiting couples.

No one says anything because you’re used to this kind of priority.

"I'm hungry, we're going to go in now," you announced, later adding, "See you around, Wony!"

You entangle your fingers in Hyewons, slightly swinging it as to bid goodbye, smiling cutely.

"Have fun, you guys," Hyewon says sweetly.

Logan awkwardly smiles and escorts you in.

Jungkook silently follows Hyewon to the hostess table.

Once they’re past the threshold and walking through the foyer, Hyewon peeks up at him, finding him usually quiet. "You okay?"

He shakes his head once. “Your friend’s kind of a brat.”

Hyewon snorted, "Okay."

She didn't think much of it.

.⁠｡⁠*⁠♡

Later that night, at Jungkook's apartment. He had just stepped out of the shower.

For some reason, he kept replaying the moment he met you over and over again. It angered him.

"She’s a little ridiculous," Jungkook suddenly mutters, annoyed. "Your friend."

Hyewon lifts a brow, "_____?"

"She didn’t even reach for her own bag charm."

Hyewon raises a brow, "You’re still thinking about that?" Why the fuck was he thinking about you in the shower?

"She just stood there. Expected you to do it." He continued.

"That's just how she is. I don't know, I don't think it's that big of a deal..." Hyewon treads lightly.

"It doesn't bother you to be treated like that by your friend?" Jungkook scrunched his brows.

He seemed very intrigued.

She considers for a second. It's not like you're friends. She doesn't think you're even acquaintances. "It... doesn't, I think it almost makes her a little charming. Like she's not faking anything."

Although, Jungkook does have Hyewon rethinking her perception of you in her mind.

She tries to rationalize it, "She doesn't try to be something she's not..."

Jungkook pulls a shirt over his head, "_____ doesn't try at all."

Hyewon smiles, "But that's what makes her fun. You just don't get it."

"No, I do get it," he argues, "She's rich and a spoilt brat because nobody's ever told her no. So now she treats everyone like they're made to serve her."

Hyewon patiently watches him for a second. He looked so riled up over you.

"Well, you're rich too," she weakly adds.

"I am now, but I wasn't always... It's not the same, it's... Whatever."

"You sound like you've given this a lot of thought." Hyewon frowns.

Jungkook doesn't answer right away, choosing to deflect and instead just calls for her to return to bed after her bath quickly.

Hyewon doesn't want to think too much of it. But then her phone dings.

You had requested to follow her back.

.｡⁠*⁠♡

Back at your shared penthouse with Logan, you conduct slight research of your own.

"Who is Jeon Jungkook?" You barge into your brother's room.

Logan stills for a second. "Why?"

You shrug, "It's just a question."

Logan squints, unconvinced, but answers anyway, "He's the managing partner at Jeon, Kim & Kim."

Ohhhh. Of course, he is. You've heard of him. He really does live up to his name. You'd heard he was almost unapproachable. How in the world did Hyewon end up with someone like him?

You nod slowly. Okay.

After returning to your floor, you waste no time and look up Hyewon's Instagram. To your surprise, she had already been following you.

Oops.

You click on the follow button and toss your phone away for the night.

the next installment: killah (jjk) 2

note: i was listening to killah by lady gaga hence the name, now, i know the song is super groovy and the vibes do not match but!! throw me a bone here, i think the song describes the situation fairly well. and as ush, please tell me what you think of this :) is it worth following up on or is it just predictable and whatever? thanks for reading :)

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lacedcompulsion · 11 hours ago

Text

FLATLANDS

Hotch sends you and Spencer to Iowa to conduct a death row interview with an inmate. Thing is, there's not much to do in Iowa but fuck.

pairing: spencer reid x bau!reader

tags/warnings: 18+, wc: 5.9k, whew, smut, porn w plot, piv sex, unprotected sex, drunk sex, oral sex (both receiving), fingering, soft-dom spencer ish, biting, praise kink, this is so self-indulgent muahahaha, discussions of a case, but nothing too bad it's canon typical stuff, iowa hate idgaf!! drinking/getting drunk, i think that's it!

notes: this is likeeee. one of my first times writing longer smut. also i did in fact say i would re-upload old re-worked fics before posting anything new but alas! i am a liar! here is something brand new! i spent like. 9 straight hours on this yesterday. and it is currently almost 8 am and i just spent all night finishing it up instead of sleeping. ALSO i am in fact a philosophy major (future barista moment) and my fics get soooo. philosophy-esque. like. every single time. i'm sorry... i am who i am.

If you had to remove one state from the contiguous union, it would be Iowa.

You’re standing in a rusty hotel room, which, according to Hotch, is the best they could do to accommodate you. And Spencer. He’s one room over. Your feet vibrate against the rug. You tell yourself it’s the thought of him, one wall over — thinking, sitting, reading, whatever he’s doing — and not some rare kind of bacteria you’re going to catch from the stink of this place.

Hotch sent you and Reid here for a death row interview. One of the inmates, having spent the past seventeen years as a self-proclaimed monk, decided he was done with silence. He answered the bureau’s request for an interview in a letter addressed to Hotch’s desk, written in red ink. It’s your first prison interview — you usually wear the bad guys down before they’re locked away forever — but Spencer has done one or two, he said. You think it might be more.

You’d never been to Iowa, never had a case here. You’re not great with time off, even worse with real vacations. You don’t look out your window for fear the corn fields have gotten closer since you last peeked through the curtains. You swear you can see twenty miles out; the flatness makes it easy to mistake the horizon for something that never, ever ends.

You’re picking at the skin of your fingernails, toes curled as they still rest but resist against the carpet, when there’s a knock at your door. You don’t check, because you’re not really fearful. It might make you a shitty FBI agent, but you doubt anyone is tracking you down in Iowa. (Iowa. It gets worse each time you think it.)

“Hi,” Spencer says, lips pulled flat. Flat. You think of fields. Corn. Emptiness. Your stomach churns then lurches when you think of your own bed in your own home in a state that has real hills and mountains and trees.

“Hi.”

“Thought you might want to look over the file before tomorrow?” He frames it like a question, and you offer a soft smile at his hesitancy before opening the door to let him in. He turns his body to the left to avoid making contact with you as he accepts the invitation and walks on through.

Your bed is still made, your suitcase resting on top of it. He scrunches his nose before recovering.

“I’m not a germaphobe, like someone we both know,” you mock.

“Maybe you should be.” You laugh. You’ve been his teammate for three years now, and it still gets you when he decides he can lighten up and make a joke.

He looks around, still awkward in the yellow tint of the hotel lamp, then decides to sit in the desk chair in the corner.

“You look so ominous,” you say, shaking your head as you pull the file out of the nightstand.

“Why is your casefile in there?”

“Where do you keep yours?”

“I never put it away.”

“Checks out,” you say, raising your eyebrows and sitting criss-crossed on the edge of your bed, facing him.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Gary Foster,” you read off the top of the page, ignoring his bait. “Killed twenty-three women in his basement. His wife never knew.”

“Or claims she didn’t know,” Spencer corrects.

“You think she did?”

He shrugs. “It doesn’t really matter what I think.”

You glance up at him to find him staring intently at the file in his hands. He’s gripping onto it like it’s all he knows. You store your observations away in your head under a tab titled Perhaps Ask Later.

You’ve gone over this file a dozen times. It’s virtually seared into your memory. Still, you let him tack off the rest of the information to you, compile the intensive profile Hotch gave you into a bullet point list.

“Do you think he’s gonna focus on me?” you ask once he reaches a lull in speech.

“Because you’re a woman?” he confirms. You nod. “Maybe.”

You tap the file a few times with your fingers as a yawn creeps up your throat, threatening to escape. Spencer seems to get the hint before you even let it out.

“We’ve got a long day tomorrow,” he says before standing. He takes a step forward before turning around and tucking the chair back into the desk. You smile at the politeness. “See you tomorrow?”

“Is that a question?” you tease as you lead him to the door. “I promise I won’t jump out of the window.”

“There’s not much out there.”

“No, there isn’t.” He fumbles with the key for the door across the hall. You wait for him to open it before you start to close yours, the way you would after driving a friend at home. “Night.”

“Night,” he says, though the latter half of the word is muffled by the shut of the door.

The room is barren again. You open the curtains now that it’s nearing total darkness outside.

It takes six more hours for you to drift off into sleep.

–

Your hand is immediately on your temple when you awake, rubbing at the budding headache you know will consume you once you get up. This is the punishment you get for allowing yourself only three hours of sleep.

The sunlight hits your bed in fluttering intervals of perfect warmth and scorching heat. This time, when the hindmost rolls around, you force yourself up and place your feet on the ground. You hold your tongue to refrain from releasing a long string of fucks and shits and realize your hand is still refusing to move from its spot rubbing circles in your face. When you make your way to the bathroom, you realize the bed is so hard you’ve left no indent.

The sting of the shower is pelting, boiling enough that it feels purifying. After a night spent in sheets you’re sure dozens have sweat through, it’s more than welcome. The heat is the perfect substrate for the anticipatory dread of today’s interview. Speaking to monsters as if there’s a hint of human behind the stitching has never pulled at you in the right way.

If anything, it’s slowly pulled you apart.

The outlet in your bathroom is broken so you’re forced to dry your hair sitting on the carpet of the room, right next to that window that stares out into nowhere. You feel itchy just sitting on it. You swear the fibers are pressing into your skin, merging with your skin.

The file is open on the floor in front of you, and you use your thumb to wipe the water falling from your damp hair. The pages already begin to curdle like the feeling in your stomach.

You put your hair in a ponytail, then worry it’s too sexual — because you’ve absorbed the profile and you know what earns a check on this guys list —- so you take it down and let it rest on your shoulders again. Your knees crack when you stand up and your hip tenses up like it might, too, when you slip your legs into your pants.

There’s a knock on your door and you mutter fuck as you balance your time between finishing the rest of the buttons on your blouse and stumbling to the door.

“I need a couple minutes,” you say, before you say hello. You leave the door open as you retreat farther into the room. “You can wait in here.”

You squeeze your feet into your heels — half a size too small, and in your head you call the saleslady who insisted on that being necessary for this brand a word that would make your grandmother sour — and peripherally watch him step into the room, hands stuffed in his pockets.

“You ready?” he asks. You can feel his eyes on your unmade bed.

“Mhm.” You glance in the square mirror facing the bed and smooth out your clothes.

“I mean for the interview,” he says after clearing his throat.

“My answer remains.”

“Cool.” He says it in the way that feels fraudulent, but is really just the way he speaks, you’ve come to realize.

“Are you ready?” you ask back, muffled by the file placed between your teeth as you fumble around your desk for your car keys and room card. You make eye contact with him as you head for the door.

“Don’t really have much of a choice, do I?”

“Stand up straight,” you say, holding the door open for him as you both step into the hallway.

“What?” he mutters. He does it anyway.

“He’s gonna zero in on you if you seem to lack confidence.”

“Right.”

It’s silence between you two in the hallway, the elevator, the lobby, and until you’re pulling out of the parking lot. There’s overgrown wheatgrass in the field to your left and plowed corn crop to your right. The furrows stretch on until the curve of the earth swallows them up.

The sky is dull, slate-colored, and bears striking resemblance to something that could wipe you clean. Grain silos whir by every couple of minutes. These people really own a lot of fucking land. Every few miles, a new one, along with a rusting tractor or collapsing barn or crop that looks about ready to dry up and blow away. It gets predictable after mile seven.

The prison doesn’t appear so much as it settles into your vision. It’s low to the ground, sprawling, gray. A scar pressed into the ground.

You feel like Spencer the way you’ve completely memorized the profile. You flash your badge at the gate, sign some kind of form and drive into a parking lot that feels as far from the prison as your hotel was.

Spencer lingers in the car two seconds after you get out. He’s nervous, and he’s trying not to show it. You don’t want to mention it, but you need to be on the same page, so you don’t stop your lips from unfurling.

“You’re doing that thing again.”

“What thing?”

“The anxious math,” you say. “You’re calculating the probability of saying the wrong thing before we even walk in.”

“That’s-” He seems to think better than arguing and redirects his sentence. “That’s not entirely inaccurate.”

You give him one of those closed lip smiles. “He’ll spot it in five seconds. He feeds on nerves like that. First, he’ll comment on your hands, because you fidget when you’re trying not to.”

“You sound like Hotch.”

You scoff out a half-laugh and choose to ignore the comment otherwise. “And he’ll ask how long you’ve known me. If we’re sleeping together. He won’t say it like that, of course. He’ll be crude. He wants to gauge what version of you shows up when you’re off-balance.”

“Why would that knock me off balance?” he asks. The hesitancy has stolen his tone again.

“You fluster easily.”

“Do I?”

“Mhm. You blink three times, touch your collar, and then deflect with statistics. You did it the first time I challenged you during a case.”

He tuts then holds the door of the prison open for you. “You’re profiling me.”

“Of course I am,” you say, then turn your head over your shoulder, waiting for him to walk back up beside you again. He’s close behind you, so close you can almost feel his breath on you. It makes you feel warm. “So will he.”

You greet two more guards inside before shaking hands with the warden. He thanks you for coming with that grim look on his face that everyone in this field seems to have permanently etched into the creases of their skin. The prison is colder inside than it has any right to be, as if the concrete has learned to hold onto every winter it’s ever survived.

“Still nervous?” you whisper to Spencer.

He smiles, shakes his head no.

Good, you mouth.

You pretend not to notice his eyes fixate for a beat longer than necessary on your lips. You lick them in response. When he meets your eyes again, you pretend not to notice that something undecipherable is hidden behind his lids, too.

—

Foster smiles when you walk in. He doesn’t look at Spencer. You let Spencer pull your chair out for you, which immediately catches the guy’s attention. You think of still water, use it as a guide for being calm.

“Well,” Foster says. He hasn’t dropped the smile from his face. “They sent a good-looking one.”

“We, the FBI, are really grateful you chose to cooperate with us,” you say. “You know, in your final days.”

“Hm.” He turns to Spencer, finally. “She yours?”

You don’t look at him, and you will him to ignore him, to start asking him the standard questions. What’s your name? What year were you born?

“She’s her own,” he says instead. It comes out even and flat.

“You hesitated,” Foster says. His smile shows his teeth, now. “I suppose that’s not a crime.”

“No,” you agree. You open your file and lay a picture of his mugshot on the table. You can tell he was expecting photos of one of the women whose life he stole away. “But murder is.”

Spencer clears his throat and nudges your ankle with the tip of his shoe. You give him no reaction, but the next time you reach for the file, you let your fingertips brush against his wrist.

—

“That wasn’t awful,” Spencer says when you step out, though he says it like he’s releasing one big breath born out of a collection of accumulated air trapped in his lungs.

Foster did say something crude. You’d prefer not to repeat it, mostly because you’re not sure if Spencer was blushing or if he was just hot.

The prison was freezing, you remind yourself. Then you shove the thought back down.

“It wasn’t great,” you say. “I wish I’d pushed him further about—”

“Stop,” he says. His hand is on your bicep now. “Don’t overthink it, you did great.”

“Okay,” you say. “Don’t profile me, now.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

The walk back to the car leaves you sticky and hot. You note, aimlessly, that Iowa gets hot enough if you let it — if you stay long enough to let it swelter.

“Our flight’s not till the morning,” you groan, slamming the car door shut.

“Not a fan of Iowa?”

“In how many languages do you know how to say fuck no?”

“Twelve," he says. His eyes flit to the ceiling. “No, fourteen.”

“Ridiculous.”

—

You crash as soon as you get back to your hotel room. You sleep for what feels like two hours but you know is way longer than that, and when you finally peel your eyes open you’re sweating. You’re clinging to your sheets, and you consider yourself bed-ridden as you roll over and check your phone. Hotch has sent you three messages asking for updates. Your stomach twinges with guilt for not answering, though you figure he probably moved on and texted Spencer.

Spencer.

You feel bad. You had ditched him, retreating to your hotel room the second you guys got back. You wonder what he did, if he got food, though there’s not much to do in Iowa. In fact, there’s nothing to do in Iowa.

You slip out of your clothes and take a quick rinse-off in the shower. Your hair is still wet when you adorn yourself in a gray t-shirt and sleep shorts and creep over across the hall. Your fist raps against the door three times, then twice more for good measure.

“Hi?”

“Hi,” you say, inviting yourself in as you push past him. It’s identical to yours, but everything’s on the opposite side. “Nice room.”

“Much nicer than yours.”

“Oh, for sure.” You clap your hands together, then flop down on the bed. “So, whatcha been up to?”

He nods his head at a book on the nightstand. You stretch over and pick it up. The History of Iowa’s Small Towns.

“Little on the nose, isn’t it, doctor?”

“It’s interesting.”

“Your mind amazes me,” you whisper, then place it back on the nightstand.

“Have you eaten?” he asks.

“I’m not really hungry,” you say. When he quirks his eyebrow, you add: “Really, I can’t eat for, like, at least two hours after I wake up.”

“You were asleep?”

You nod. “Couldn’t last night. You didn’t think I just ditched you, did you?”

He shrugs. “I wouldn’t have minded.”

You place a hand over your heart. “Well, doctor, I’m just plain offended.”

He smiles, real, genuine. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“How’d you mean it?” you ask. You move up on the bed, as if it’s your own, making space for him to sit next to you.

He sighs, like he really doesn’t want to indulge in this conversation, but his lips pry open and you know he will. “Morgan always says I ramble too much.”

You shrug. “What’s much, anyway?”

“Well, if you’re not hungry,” he starts, lifting himself off the bed and over to the mini fridge, “are you thirsty?”

“My, my.” You smile, teeth and all. “I didn’t know you drank on the job.”

“Not technically on the job anymore, am I?” He holds up a little bottle. “It’s not exactly a martini, but it’s all I’ve got unless you want lukewarm ginger ale.”

You accept the bottle with mock ceremony and open it the second it’s in your hands. “Guess federal per diems only cover motel whiskey. Honestly, this is probably the classiest thing happening in Iowa tonight.”

He laughs softly, twisting open his own cap. “From what I’ve read, and seen, that’s a low bar.”

You raise yours. “To meeting the bar.”

He tilts his head, scrunches his nose. “To stepping over the bar with minimal effort.”

You both take a sip. It’s terrible. You make a face.

He sees it and raises an eyebrow. “Too refined for hotel whiskey?”

“Just surprised it didn’t come with a warning label,” you say, setting the bottle down on the nightstand. “Or a tetanus shot.”

“Don’t worry,” he says, taking another sip of his. “I’m sure the Iowa Department of Health is on it.”

You nod solemnly. “They’re probably just as fast as the Wi-Fi.”

That gets a small smile from him. He sits on the edge of the bed, a little closer than before, but still careful. He’s always so careful.

There’s a lull, full of quiet until the nighttime air-conditioning kicks on and you’re too tired to pretend anything really matters for a while.

“You ever drink from the mini bar before? Like, during a case?” you ask eventually.

“Only when I expect to be stranded somewhere like this.”

“Smart,” you say.

He glances at you, amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Can’t profile your way out of a cornfield without it.”

You hum in agreement. “I’m not sure if that’s depressing.”

He shrugs, taking another sip. “Probably.” His hand falls to his side, dangerously close to your thigh.

You accept another one. And then another one. You’re sure he’s going shot for shot with you, but you can’t really tell because your head is full and everything’s hazy and suddenly this bed is so, so comfortable.

You lie back, legs still dangling off the edge, and stare up at the popcorn ceiling like it might reveal state secrets. “Did you know Iowa had one of the highest populations of covered bridges?”

Spencer blinks. “Iowa doesn’t.”

You squint. “It doesn’t?”

“No,” he says, amused. “That’s Madison County. Which is in Iowa. But it’s a specific — actually, nevermind. I’m not sure either of us are in a state for nuance.”

You wag a lazy finger at the ceiling. “I knew that.”

“Sure,” he says, and leans back beside you with a soft thud, hands crossed over his stomach. “Next you’ll tell me Iowa invented jazz.”

“It didn’t?” You cant your head to the side, a smile playing at your lips.

“God, no.”

You sigh dramatically. “And here I thought this trip was educational.”

He turns his head just slightly toward you. His breath is hot, hotter than it was earlier, and his words are all slurred. You think you might sound the same but don’t keep yourself in line long enough to actually check. “You’ve learned a lot. For example, you’ve learned not to trust the minibar.”

“And that your idea of a good time is reading municipal histories.”

“I sensed you were captivated.”

You pull an arm over your face. “Do you always get this cocky after drinking?”

He tilts his head like he’s genuinely thinking about it. “I think I just feel safe knowing I’m not the only one embarrassing myself.”

You haul a leg up to bend into the bed with you and nudge him with your knee. “You’re not embarrassing. You’re weird. Like, in the good way.”

He doesn’t say anything for a moment, but you can hear the smile in his voice when he finally says: “Thanks. You’re weird too.”

“Weird and drunk.” You repeat the word drunk a few more times, drawing out a different syllable each time. “Spencer?”

“Hm?”

“Don’t let me fall asleep here.”

“You say that like I have any control over you,” he murmurs. Your breath catches. Neither of you move.

You peek at him from under your arm. “Are you flirting with me?”

“What?”

“Whatever. Then don’t speak with that— that tone. Or I’ll start to think you’re flirting with me.”

“I’m not really flirting with you.”

You let the arm drop, but not to the mattress; it finds its way to the sleeve of his shirt, playing with the fabric. “Not really or not yet?”

“That depends,” he says, voice dropped low to a whisper. “Would yet be a problem?”

You roll onto your elbow, looming over him. “Guess we’ll have to find out.”

It lands like a match.

“What are you doing?” he asks. Your lips are the closest they’ve ever been.

“I don’t know.” Your eyes move to where his hand has started to creep onto your thigh. “What are you doing?”

He moves first, but only barely. His head tilts up, lips parting like he’s about to ask a question.

He gets his answer in the shape of your lips.

Your hand finds the edge of his jaw, fingers skimming up the side of his face. He’s warm. Still flushed from the whiskey or maybe just from you.

You’re kissing, you think. You. Spencer. Kissing. It should make you pull back. You work with him. This is strictly forbidden — that should definitely make you pull back.

But then his fingers press into your hips, grounding you, and you shift, and you’re straddling him before you’ve thought it through. It’s automatic, desperate, like the tension finally cracked open and all that’s left is the pull.

“Still not on the job?” you murmur between kisses, breath brushing his lips.

He shakes his head. “Not even a little.”

He starts to kiss you deeper, like he wants to memorize it. You wonder if he is. Your hands move up under his shirt, and his breath slips, just for a second. Just long enough to make you smile into his mouth.

There’s nothing quiet about any of this. Just heat. And want. And finally.

You roll your hips once as a test. When he tightens his grip on you, you have half the mind to do it again, and again, and again.

Suddenly, all you can think of are your clothes on the ground and him inside you.

“Fuck,” he mutters. You release his lips from yours.

“Fuck?”

“Shh,” he hushes, trying to silence you, but you’re already laughing.

“Oh my god, Dr. Spencer Reid, esteemed supervisory special agent, holder of three PhDs, just said fuck.” You whisper the last part, hand clutching at your chest.

“Will you please resume what we were just doing?”

“My fucking pleasure.”

“Jesus,” he squeezes out. Your hands remove themselves from where they were resting under his shirt and head to the waist of his pants. You watch his chest rise a little quicker, fall with a little more readiness. His hands release your hips and come up to grip your wrists. “I say fuck one time and I’ll never hear the end of it.”

“Maybe we can put it in another context.” You unhook your legs from their desired place around his hips and scooch yourself down his body. Your fingers, which were just barely, ever so delicately toying with his waistband, curl into both the cotton of his pants and his boxers and tug down at once. He helps you, hips coming off the bed just enough for you to drop them both to his ankles.

He’s already hard, and your mouth is already hollow, already anticipating something to fill a long-lasting void. You say his name, but it sounds off, because your mouth is already imagining itself wrapped around something far less innocent than words.

His hand comes up to your face, brushing your cheekbone, and the feeling is too soft to name but impossible to ignore. You feel as though all the heat in the room has gotten sucked between your legs, and it pools low, desire biting at the edges of restraint.

“You don’t have to,” he says, watching you spit in your hand. You roll your eyes before wrapping the newly wet hand around him.

“I’m going to. Just stay like that.”

You stroke him softly, just a few times before spitting on the tip and working it back down. He whispers your name like its wax, made to melt. You’re not thinking and your voice is velvet when you ask him how long it’s been since he’s been touched like this, the way he deserves to be. Too long, comes his response, and you vow to yourself to show him what he’s been missing.

The next time you bring your lips up to release more spit, you reach down and kiss it. Just the tip, and just ever-so-slightly. You’re not sure he noticed at first, so you do it again, this time more pronounced, and then he’s removing his hand from your face and bringing it up to your hair. His grip is firm enough to anchor, not enough to command.

When you open your lips more, he tightens his grip. When you make your way down, syrup-slick and mouth dripping of sin, he coils his want at the nape of your neck and pulls. You moan around him, which earns you another tug.

“That feels good,” he whispers. “So fucking good.”

You’re drunk enough that the praise feels more than trembling and temporary. You take it for more than it probably is and pick up your pace.

He lasts not a minute longer before he’s guiding you off of him, and you couch as you come up for air.

“I don’t want to finish yet,” he mumbles.

“No?”

“No.” He pulls you up off the ground, one hand on your wrist and the other still in your hair. “Wanna take care of you too. Do you want that? Yeah? Lie down for me.”

You do as you're told, nodding along the way, agreeing fervently and with little free will. You’re drooling, enough that it slips past your lips. He brings his index finger up to your face, collecting it on the pad of his finger and pushing it back into your mouth. Instinctively, you suck. He groans, low, a noise you never would have expected to hear from him, and it makes you shut your legs, thighs rubbing together slightly as you try to fight the feeling festering around your limbs.

He kneels before you, the same way you had with him. “Is this what you want?” You nod. “No, use your words.” He pries your legs open, blows between them.

Your back is coming up off the bed, enough for him to bring a hand up and grab your waist again. “Yes.”

He wastes little time attaching his mouth to you, tongue everywhere, while his fingers leave bruises in your side. One of your hands is gripping the sheets so hard you can feel your fingernails digging into your palm even through it. This can’t be real, you think, because nothing real feels this good. And this feels so, so good.

You feel fucked out and he hasn’t even put anything inside of you. It’s just his tongue swiping against you, swirling around your clit, sucking your clit, kissing your clit. You can’t think. At some time you stop being aware of what he’s doing and just let him do it.

His hand leaves your hip and you feel it pulse, throbbing at the loss of harsh connection. Then, he forces your fist to open, to release the white fabric, and he locks your fingers together. It feels intimate, more intimate than his mouth on you, and if you were sober you might have shrugged him away. But you’re not. You’re drunk. Very drunk. So instead you hold his hand harder.

His free hand is trailing along your thigh, and when you glance down at him his eyes are closed, and he looks content, satisfied, and you’re not sure you ever want to unfold from this position. He uses his other hand to trail up and down your thigh before his errant fingers find their way farther up your legs.

When he slips two inside you, both at once, no warning, you mewl.

He detaches his mouth from you, like he wants to focus solely on finger fucking you. When you glance down at him again, he gives you a perfunctory smile before focusing back at the task he’s chosen to take up. He’s practically gift-wrapping your orgasm.

“Right there,” you choke out when his fingers curl at the exact right moment in the exact right spot. You don’t announce that you’re coming, but Spencer is a genius. You’re sure he can figure it out. Everything comes undone in waves, the way seafoam spits back into the sand before dissipating, carrying itself back out into a vaster part of the water.

“Good job,” he says. He kisses you. You can taste your slick on his lips.

“Spencer.”

“You’ve said that already.” You’d laugh if you weren’t so unraveled. “I’m gonna fuck you now, okay?”

“Mhm.”

“What did we say about using our words?”

“To… use them?”

“You’re so smart,” he says, and you can hear him breathing in the way that means he’s trying not to laugh as he presses scattered kisses across your cheek, jaw, lips. “Can you speak up and show me how smart you are?”

“I want you to fuck me.”

“Knew you had it in you.” One of his hands is pressed into the mattress next to your head, and the other is absent from your body. When you finally open your eyes, you look down to see him lining himself up with you.

There’s a pinch in your throat as you feel him ease himself inside, slowly, deliberately, like he’s scared you might crumble and break beneath him. You won’t, which you assure him by using one hand to grab onto his bicep and the other to rest on his hip, guiding him all the way inside of you.

"I got so mad, earlier," he says. "When he was talking about you like that."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize," he whispers. "Don't fucking apologize."

The heat is back, swirling in your stomach, rushing up your chest like every vein you have has replaced blood with feverish fire. Spencer throws more gasoline on it when he slides almost all the way out, then pushes himself back in. You’re quiet, and even the air around you seems to have hushed itself.

When he finds a rhythm, he takes advantage of it. Fucks you a little harder, just enough that you can’t close your mouth, can’t quiet yourself even when you try. You’re trying to tread carefully, but you don’t have it in you to not tip your chin up and search for a kiss. You move your other hand to wrap around his forearm, the one right next to your head, and you can’t stop yourself from digging your nails into the skin when he gives you one particularly hard thrust.

“Do that again,” you whisper.

“This?” he asks, though it’s more of a mock. He does it again, this time a little slower. You feel like crying, because you have no other outlet for what exactly it is you’re currently feeling. When he does it again you have no choice but to squeeze your eyes shut. He kisses you again, idly, like you’ve got all the time in the world. You’re not sure you have more than five minutes in you before you pass out. “You feel so good.”

“Needed you.”

“Yeah?” he says. Your words seem to have made him snap his hips against yours a little harder.

He uses one of his hands to grab under your thigh, then pushes your leg up. You let out a broken moan you don’t even register as your own until he stretches you farther apart and you do it again. You’d be embarrassed if you weren’t clawing at an indescribable edge. You feel ripe. Nothing holy is coming for you. You arch your back like it might.

"Mine." He says it while looking down at you. He says it with his chest. He says it like it's an absolute.

You bring your hand to the back of his neck and make him kiss you. Once for the thrill, twice just to feel the burn of it really settle in.

Then you come. And everything else does, too. It’s unraveling. Not fingers but friction, not skin but static, not breath but flood. The room is slipping sideways, hips first, mouth second. you forget your name or maybe you give it away. There's no shape to anything, to the sting between your legs, only pulse — wet, reckless, existing in the hollows of your thighs. When he bends down and lets out a sound that sounds suspiciously like your name, your teeth catch on his shoulder like a warning. He doesn’t flinch. You bite down harder.

Nothing makes sense for a while except the sound of the air-conditioner.

Spencer says something. Then again. Then, he taps your cheek twice, says your name until you come to.

“Hm?”

“You okay?”

“‘m okay. Are you okay?”

He laughs. It’s quiet and hoarse and still warm. “Yes ma’am.”

“Hmmmm.”

“Hmm what?’

“I like that. We’ll use that ‘nother time.” You let out a heavy sigh as he chuckles. He slips out of you and you suck in a breath that catches in the pockets of your teeth, cold and shocking against the roof of your mouth.

“Sorry.” You shake your head and hope it conveys that he has nothing to apologize for. He rolls over next to you. “You should pee.”

“Pee schmee.”

“I think I’m gonna retract my previous statements about your high level of intelligence now.” You smack him with your hand and laugh, hearty and probably too loud.

“I’m still drunk,” you say after a few more moments of silence.

“I think that’s how that whole drinking thing works, yeah.”

“Do you regret it?”

“No.” His answer comes quicker than you were expecting.

“Okay. Me neither. Just checking.” You blow hair out of your face, and when that doesn’t work you bring a palm up and use the strength of four fingers to wipe it away from the sweat gathering in satin sheets across your skin. “I hate this room.”

“Me too.”

“I don’t hate you,” you whisper.

“Well,” he whispers back. “I don’t hate you either.”

“Do you wanna maybe… I don’t know. Not be on the job tomorrow morning?”

It might just be the alcohol, but his expression is soft and lush, like when dawn’s light shudders through early morning fog.

“I would like that.”

323 notes · View notes

storiesoflilies · 3 days ago

Text

𝐀 𝐒𝐎𝐅𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐕𝐄𝐒

synopsis: the lights of this city flicker like dying neon stars. between them, monsters live and breathe. some are hunting. some are waiting. w.c: 7.6k.

pairing: monster!sukuna x f!reader.

warnings: horror (at least, i tried)!! this is a disturbing fic with explicit gore and cannibalism. character death. EXPLICIT SMUT! monsterfucking (trueform!sukuna), biting, bum stuff (for you, alba), blood licking. MDNI! cyberpunk/bladerunner 2049 vibes.

a/n: my first attempt at a dark fic and sukuna smut eeeep! i hope you all enjoy this!! i also want to say a massive thankyou to @ariiadnes for trusting me with her oc! i hope you like 11E’s little cameos :3

divider / playlist / ao3

nobody knows what they are, only that they are.

you cannot see them, not really. they live somewhere in broken screens, flickering neon signs and still pothole puddles. they are something like a heat mirage. a pulse of something that makes you want to run, to breathe, to fight, to surrender.

an itch behind your teeth.

a pressure in your spine.

the sound between your heartbeat.

nobody knows if they had always been there or not, only that they will always be there now, and that they are not something to be understood.

but a part of you thinks that you do.

(intimately so,

in the way my marrow settled between puckered lips.)

when they first decided to become known, it started off small. little disappearances here and there. an inexplicable puddle of blood in an alleyway behind a bar, the odd story on the news of a gruesome murder. then, metal posts started to fill up with missing persons flyers. all of them tattered, each person placing their’s on top of the last one like their person was more important than the rest.

they weren’t.

they were all the same.

bodies of flesh, bodies full of iron water.

the scientists couldn’t begin to explain much. they said that the creatures resonated at a frequency outside the range of human perception. that they were invisible unless they choose to be seen, and that there was no way to begin to communicate with them unless it was on their terms. now, their existence was something to just live with. a virus always floating in the air, waiting and watching. their tendrils were quick to grab and infect you, to swallow you whole. and you can try to drag your nails down their throats until they bleed, or jam your fingers into their windpipe and make them choke on their own vomit, but you still wouldn’t live.

you knew that.

you had seen them kill, once before.

it was a day when the rain was more yellow than clear, sulphur in the air like the breath of the devil. you’d been staring at the misted window of a sex club, a woman’s hands pressed up against the glass. you remember hearing a steady thump thump thump, and that it took you far too long to realize that it wasn’t coming from inside the club.

you don’t know why you followed the sound.

the air was sour. there was no moon, only the fuzzy neon lights and a giant hologram of the then latest version of companion doll. 𝘓𝘖𝘝3-𝘝16’s hair was a glossy black, nails perfectly almond with a red french-tip manicure. as she swayed to and fro, the alleyway would go dark and then a hazy hot pink.

it made the blood on the floor look almost fluorescent.

thump, thump, thump!

there is something inherently strange about a humans fascination with the horrific, the grotesque. why couldn’t you tear your eyes away from the woman, that creature? it was smashing another person’s head into a wall again and again and again. it mimicked the figure of a woman, but it wasn’t… right. it wasn’t beautiful. it held nothing behind its empty pearl gaze, but you could feel it was staring at you as it grinned with too sharp teeth.

thump, thump, thump!

went the head in its hands against a dumpster.

thump, thump, thump!

you could see fragments of skull on the ground, little dark hairs still attached to thin flesh.

and then she was gone.

the alleyway was empty, except for the mess she had left behind. that was two years ago now, at the height of the killings. when there was no point in calling the police because there was nothing that could be done.

but you still remember its kill.

the smell of it.

iron and piss and something like rotten fruit.

you think about it now as you stand in your concrete box of an apartment that exists in the cracks between architectural efficiency and human desperation. up on the twenty-fourth floor, with a single rusty elevator, wedged in between two other buildings that were identical to it. there is an android factory just a few streets over that runs for twenty-four hours a day, and it makes the walls vibrate with a sporadic hum that was so loud it drilled into your molars.

but you had gotten used to it now.

you stand by your window that overlooks onto an airshaft. it’s filled with other people’s laundry lines, patched up clothes and worn underwear swaying on the thin metal, with the odd advertisement drone clicking its way between the buildings like a strange bird. you watch it move as you slowly chew your nutrition paste. it tastes like cardboard and salt, allegedly supposed to be exactly like a roast chicken.

you wouldn’t know if it really was or not.

(there is

something better, something sweeter.)

your forefinger twitches.

it had become apparent some time ago that the creatures that lived within a certain frequency also chose their victims by theirs. any excess of joy or fear, happiness or sadness, would ooze out at different frequencies. they were drawn to it like sharks to blood. and so, missing person flyers gradually evolved into warnings to control your emotions because they could sense it. the government initially released brain implants for emotional regulation, but the recipients usually ended up becoming killers themselves, and so they were quickly taken off the market.

₊˚⊹⋆ 𝘜𝘗𝘎𝘙𝘈𝘋𝘌 𝘠𝘖𝘜𝘙 𝘋𝘙𝘌𝘈𝘔𝘚.

the drone plays.

₊˚⊹⋆ 𝘕𝘌𝘜𝘙𝘖𝘗𝘈𝘟, 𝘞𝘏𝘌𝘕 𝘙𝘌𝘈𝘓𝘐𝘛𝘠 𝘐𝘚𝘕’𝘛

𝘌𝘕𝘖𝘜𝘎𝘏!

then, special androids were developed to both detect the creatures, and act as a deterrent by sending out vibrations at a frequency high enough to drown out a persons baseline range. of course, they weren’t available to everyone. offices and factories, public spaces like clubs and shops, had androids employed. because, of course, nobody wanted murders happening on company property anymore. but once you were outside, you were free game.

unless you could afford an android.

which most couldn’t.

including you.

you scrape the last of the synthetic meat from the container, pretending you could feel stringy chicken stuck between your teeth instead of the chalky film over your tongue. it feels wrong, but you force yourself to swallow, because hunger is an emotion far too close to desperation.

and that was not what you were.

you live in the space between emotions. perfectly balanced, only present in the now. your heart doesn’t skip a beat, your breath doesn’t catch in your throat. you don’t know how you do it, only that you do.

it keeps you neutral – invisible.

₊˚⊹⋆ 𝘉𝘌 𝘕𝘖𝘛𝘏𝘐𝘕𝘎, 𝘍𝘌𝘌𝘓 𝘌𝘝𝘌𝘙𝘠𝘛𝘏𝘐𝘕𝘎!

you throw your empty container into the recycling chute, where somewhere twenty-four floors down, it will be processed and used for tomorrow’s meal for someone else.

the walls hum.

you match your breath to the rhythm.

somewhere in the distance, a baby is crying, a car backfires. then, silence. then the incessant hum, then silence again. you check the lock on your door twice, and turn off your main lights. the room is bathed in a sickly blue light from the commercial playing on your television. a woman with too bright eyes smiles into the camera, clutching a bowl of steaming chemical broth.

₊˚⊹⋆ 𝘛𝘏𝘌 𝘍𝘜𝘛𝘜𝘙𝘌 𝘐𝘚 𝘊𝘓𝘌𝘈𝘕! 𝘛𝘈𝘚𝘛𝘌 𝘛𝘏𝘌 𝘙𝘌𝘈𝘓

𝘍𝘓𝘈𝘝𝘖𝘙 𝘞𝘐𝘛𝘏𝘖𝘜𝘛 𝘛𝘏𝘌 𝘙𝘌𝘈𝘓 𝘛𝘏𝘐𝘕𝘎!

you turn it off.

on the other side of the wall, someone laughs.

it cuts off halfway.

you crawl into your bedsheets, stare at the yellowed ceiling, and wait for nothing to come. the drone outside flickers signs and holograms, neon shapes of blues and a pulse of static pink. your fingers curl over your chest. you let your mind flatten just enough to blur the shape of yourself.

(this is not

what it means to sleep.)

`✦ ˑ ִֶ 𓂃⊹

your work numbs you.

twelve hours a day of sorting people’s data through predictive algorithms. twelve hours a day of deciding what people see in their neural feeds, on their phones, and on their televisions. what they want, crave, fear, forget. twelve hours a day of that blue light burning behind your eyes like a slow rot.

it’s perfectly routine.

beautifully neutral.

you glance at the woman in the cubicle next to yours, at station forty-seven. you don’t know her name, and you don’t care to know it. she was crying, tears falling down so perfectly over her cheeks and onto her desk and keyboard. her monitors pressure gauge chimes softly, and you know the android assigned to your floor would be watching her closely.

𝘠𝘖𝘙𝘏𝘈 𝘵𝘺𝘱𝘦 𝘌, 𝘯𝘶𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘳 11.

a shimmer of synthetic blonde hair, grey eyes like sterilized steel. only the best for your company’s employees, obviously. ruthless and ethereal, she opens her perfectly shaped lips.

“𝘦𝘮𝘱𝘭𝘰𝘺𝘦𝘦𝘴 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘣𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘥,” she announces with a voice balanced and monotone. “𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘢𝘥𝘷𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦𝘥 𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘢𝘭 𝘥𝘦𝘷𝘪𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘶𝘭𝘵 𝘪𝘯 𝘪𝘮𝘮𝘦𝘥𝘪𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘰𝘧 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘵.”

she turns towards station forty-seven.

and practically glides over.

you wonder if she was manufactured in the factory close to your apartment building. if the sound of her lungs calibrating is the same one that hums through your walls at night. her face hardly moves as she approaches. you look back at your screen.

you filter, you sort.

nothing.

empty.

when she reaches the woman, the android sighs in a pretty voice like velvet draped over metal, “𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘢𝘭 𝘥𝘦𝘷𝘪𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘥𝘦𝘵𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘦𝘥.”

the woman lets out a sob.

it’s ugly.

you keep typing, and finish another algorithm. 11𝘌 doesn’t make a sound as she escorts the woman from station forty-seven away from you and away from your building. when you submit your work, your screen lights green.

₊˚⊹⋆ 𝘊𝘖𝘕𝘎𝘙𝘈𝘛𝘜𝘓𝘈𝘛𝘐𝘖𝘕𝘚! 𝘠𝘖𝘜 𝘈𝘙𝘌 𝘕𝘖𝘞 𝘌𝘕𝘛𝘐𝘛𝘓𝘌𝘋 𝘛𝘖 𝘍𝘐𝘝𝘌 𝘔𝘐𝘕𝘜𝘛𝘌 𝘈𝘋 𝘉𝘙𝘌𝘈𝘒!

you decline it.

you always do.

these ads were tailor made for you by someone probably sitting next to you. user feedback loops and predictive metadata, behavioral sampling. they do to you what you do to the masses. you glance to your left. the woman in station forty-seven is gone now. her chair is empty and ready to be sterilized and wiped clean.

by lunch, there’s already a new worker in her place.

he doesn’t speak to you.

and you don’t speak to him.

when your shift ends, you take the slightly longer route home to stretch your muscles. the rain outside isn’t too acidic today, doesn’t sting you so much. it leaves streaks across the signs in the streets, a circulatory system of neon and concrete and steel. you pass by the sign for 24 𝘏𝘖𝘜𝘙 𝘗𝘓𝘌𝘈𝘚𝘜𝘙𝘌 𝘗𝘖𝘋𝘚! bathed in a lewd pink. the buildings overhead are so high up that they display artificial stars, because the real sky hadn’t been seen at this level in decades.

four blocks from your apartment, something shifts.

no footsteps.

no breathing.

but the sense of being followed roots itself in the back of your skull. something that makes the hair on your arms and neck stand up, phantom insects crawling across your eyelids and into your mouth. there is a flash of black and pink in your peripheral.

you don’t run.

something inside you begins to uncoil, cold and quiet and old.

it watches you from reflections around you. in touchscreen ads and raindrops, in puddles and the gleam of hover-car windows. it matches your pace, staying out of direct sight, toying with your senses. you catch the curve of a broad shoulder, a twisted grin that is never there when you try to look.

you keep going, past the vendor stall near your building.

₊˚⊹⋆ 𝘚𝘠𝘕𝘛𝘏𝘔𝘌𝘈𝘛!

𝘌𝘈𝘛 𝘞𝘏𝘈𝘛 𝘠𝘖𝘜 𝘞𝘌𝘙𝘌 𝘔𝘈𝘋𝘌 𝘍𝘖𝘙!

it is abandoned.

when you finally stop in front of your building, the hum of the factory reverberates through the ground. it travels through your feet and to your ribs. you breathe to its rhythm, steady and neutral. your eyes scan the windowpanes and the shimmering surface of the pleasure pods.

empty.

you exhale.

and something answers.

a voice, just behind your left ear. low and smooth and amused.

“found you.”

he speaks to you as a mirage from the pulsing cherry-red light of an occupied pleasure pod, smiles at you with too many teeth.

he is there and then gone the next.

“you’re so… empty.”

the hairs on your arms stay standing. you say nothing and wet your lips. the door to your building slides open with a quiet sigh as you enter. you can hear him humming as you walk through the sickly green light of the lobby. you press the button for the elevator, and avoid looking at the dirty, cracking mirror when you step inside.

but you know he is there.

he is already everywhere.

the elevator dings and the doors open to your apartment.

and he is there.

waiting for you.

he is more… solid now. his chest is bare and raw, skin dripping with rain. thick, violent black tattoos coil around him like chains made of ink. his hair is a light peach, slicked back like he’s run his bloody hands through it one too many times. he sits on your kitchen chair completely unbothered, his lips curled in a beastial smile. red eyes track you as you close the door behind you, slow and deliberate.

(prey being savored

from afar.)

two of your fingers twitch.

he tilts his head, his movements almost catlike, but far more dangerous and charged with energy. you felt if you blinked too slowly he would be on you like the end of the world.

you do wonder how he found you.

you had made it this far without any incidents. your neutrality was your survivability. unless, just like all humans are finite, so is the duration of balance. perhaps there was a minuscule tip in the scale, and therefore the end of your invisibility.

but you haven’t known anything else.

so, you time your breathing to the hum in your walls, and think of 11𝘌 calibrating her lungs.

“you are so waiting to be unmade.”

at this, he laughs. you watch the acid rain from his hair run over his mouth, catches on the tip of a fang. this voice feels real. it sounds like yours. nicer, even, like honey oozing between shattered pieces of glass.

“how did you find me?”

you don’t know why you opened your mouth to ask it, but you did. not that his answer mattered. you would probably be dead within the next thirty minutes.

his grin widens, too many teeth.

“you might not be interesting to feel, but i can still see you.”

you nod, slowly.

he stands. his height is immense, and when he moves towards you, you can tell that he is not like the creature you once saw. he is far different, stronger.

much stronger.

“what else do you want to ask?” he questions coyly as he circles you.

he is playing a game with you now, and you have no choice but to go along with it.

“your kind feed on energy.”

“hmm, something like that.”

“but you said you can’t feel me.”

“not a thing.”

you keep your face still. confusion is a brittle emotion that only ever leads to senseless fear.

“will you still kill me?”

he breaths in deeply into your hair, and makes a satisfied noise.

“naturally”

naturally.

this world isn’t natural, but here he is. a creature so raw and real and visceral that who is and what he does and who he kills are perhaps the only natural things left in this world. he is a living creature that is limitless and boundless, one that feels things and has urges. you think he might just me more human than you are. he circles you again, languidly, like a cat.

“don’t you want to know why?”

you did.

because you know he wants you to ask it.

you breathe out a quiet, “why?”

“because i want to break you.”

`✦ ˑ ִֶ 𓂃⊹

he doesn’t kill you that night.

not the next night.

and not the one after that either.

this was all part of the game, wasn’t it? a long, drawn-out hunt. he is a predator, and he is playing with his food before he eats it. the thought of your inevitable fate should terrify you.

but your days go on, and he only follows you.

you catch sight of him in places that exist in the edges – reflections, static, flashes. in the dull metal sheen of your elevator doors, in the half-second lag in your retinal display, and in the flicker of 𝘓𝘖𝘝3-𝘝27’s sensual hologram. he’s studying you, you realize. your routines, your patterns. where you go and what you do.

and he’s mocking you.

you catch him trying to change the frequency in the air around you. trying to incite fear in your spine or arousal in your hips or pain in your brain. none of it works on you. you notice the new employee at station forty-seven. how his parlor is almost ghostly white as he mutters to himself, beads of sweat collecting at his hairline like he’s stopping them from falling by sheer willpower. his algorithm filters into yours, coincidentally, and you see a sharp change in his displays from birdsong ambience for… whatever this was.

skin peeling.

eyeballs crunching.

your own voice crying out in ecstasy.

he doesn’t come back to work the next day, and you still don’t care.

on the fourth day after your first encounter with the creature, 11𝘌 approaches your desk.

you stop typing.

her hair catches the blue light from your monitor, and you tilt your head at her as she tilts hers at you. her face is so perfect, you think. a face perfect in its absence of warmth and life. there is a soft chiming sound from somewhere inside her chest, some sort of processing noise you’d never heard from her before.

“𝘦𝘮𝘱𝘭𝘰𝘺𝘦𝘦 𝘯𝘶𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘪𝘹𝘵𝘺-𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘦𝘦,” she says with a soft voice. “𝘪𝘳𝘳𝘦𝘨𝘶𝘭𝘢𝘳 𝘧𝘳𝘦𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘺 𝘥𝘦𝘵𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘦𝘥.”

nobody looks up at you as she says this.

they are all used to the coming and inevitable goings of people, like the tide coming in and out.

11𝘌’s eyes seem to focus and unfocus, pupils dilating and contracting as she scans you. you don’t feel anything as the processing sound gets louder.

“𝘴𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘤𝘦… 𝘶𝘯𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘧𝘪𝘦𝘥.”

something in her expression switches to something like confusion. you don’t think androids feel things like that.

“𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘥𝘦𝘷𝘪𝘢𝘯𝘵,” she says, and you know it’s not a question.

“no,” you agree.

she looks at you directly now. you think you see something flicker behind the expanse of grey and steel in her eyes. something like recognition. as if you and her are the same.

two perfect objects of neutrality.

two perfect machines.

the processing sound ends as 11𝘌 comes to a decision.

“𝘱𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦 𝘢𝘤𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘱𝘢𝘯𝘺 𝘮𝘦 𝘰𝘶𝘵𝘴𝘪𝘥𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘸𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘺 𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘶𝘵𝘦𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘢𝘭 𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘣𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯.”

you don’t protest.

you just gather your coat and bag from underneath your desk, and follow her outside your building. outside, the world chokes slowly beneath a smog-thick fog. holograms flicker overhead, men with open mouths and blackened eyes. a drone whirs just above your heads, trailing a pixelated ribbon.

₊˚⊹⋆ 𝘌𝘈𝘛 𝘉𝘌𝘛𝘛𝘌𝘙, 𝘉𝘌 𝘉𝘌𝘛𝘛𝘌𝘙!

11𝘌 stops just beside the vending machine outside your building, the one filled with pills and vials of immediate release dopamine. she faces forward, hands folded neatly behind your back.

you do the same.

the silence between you isn’t awkward. it is clinical, routine. you think you hear the timer in her skull ticking down to zero. this is only another task to her, and you are just a box she has to tick to follow her protocol.

you blink.

there is a rush of heat as a motorcycle flies past you, and you see a flash of the man from station forty-seven across the street. only the shape of him, just for a second. his skin stripped and spine exposed, propped up like a message on a wall, like a prayer.

your heart does not change rhythm.

11𝘌 turns to you, slowly.

“𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘣𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘱𝘭𝘦𝘵𝘦.”

you nod.

she walks away without saying goodbye, disappears back into the concrete building that is her world and her mission.

you know you will not see her again.

and then, you go home.

it’s late by the time you arrive. your building’s security drone hovers outside the doors to the lobby today. a false pretense of safety, as if it could protect you from is waiting for you inside. but your creature is not inside your apartment like you expected him to be. you can sense him. or rather, he is calling you to him. you push open the rusted latch to your window, and climb the ladder of the emergency stairwell.

the air on the roof is warm.

even this high up, the air still smells like metal and engine grease and electricity. there is no such thing as fresh air anymore. the skyline bleeds in neon colors. pinks and purples and blues that only bruise it.

and he sits there casually at the edge of it all, his legs spread wide.

a man, a creature.

a god.

he turns to you and his mouth stretches into something wide and unpleasant to look at. his large hand pats the space on the ledge just beside him in a gesture that you think is almost human of him. you move to him, a lamb to the maw of a wolf, and he places a small paper bundle onto your lap.

red stains leak through the paper.

“it’s for you,” he offers in a voice dripping with mock tenderness. “i saw it and thought of you.”

you say nothing, and unwrap the paper slowly. he watches your face more than your hands, eager to savor whatever reaction he thinks he is about to get from you.

“it’s a tongue!”

he says it like you didn’t already know. like he is announcing he’s presenting you with flowers from the far corners of the planet they still grew on. the little piece of pink flesh is slightly greyed, and its taste buds look like sanded down spikes. there is clotted blood at the base, and you know that it had been torn, not cut, from someone’s mouth.

“i pulled it out of someone who thought he was in love.”

he says this in an almost conversational way, like discussing the weather of the week.

“he kept saying this one woman’s name over and over again. oh, and of course he just kept begging me to let him tell her he loved her one last time.”

you pinch it gently between your fingers.

“so i made sure he’d never say anything again.”

his grin widens.

“how can you tell that it wasn’t real?” you ask.

“because love tastes like rot. it’s unbelievably pathetic, there’s no good flavor left anymore. but he… he tasted like a lie.”

you wonder what love tastes like. sweet and warm, maybe. honey-filled moons soft enough to swallow whole. but what are lies? perhaps it is chewy, bursting with juice that stains your teeth. maybe that is what your creature liked best.

so, you open your mouth.

and eat it slowly, methodically.

your face doesn’t change, and you don’t gag. his expression splits into something that could be pure ecstasy, pupils dilating like he’s watching the most beautiful thing.

(have mercy on the poor fly

that follows the smell of honey.)

your fingers twitch.

“fuck,” he breathes. “you’re perfect.”

he leans in close to you. so close that you can smell the static and copper and cold void of what he is made from. his breathing is rough, heavy like he’s just been running.

“perfect and filthy. you’re just like me, aren’t you?“

you tilt your head.

blood trickles from the corner of your mouth.

“and who are you?”

his laugher is pure delight.

“ryomen sukuna.”

`✦ ˑ ִֶ 𓂃⊹

you don’t come to this place often.

the light of the club throbs low and red, a heartbeat just on the edge of an arrhythmia. its walls are slick with sweat, and the air is thick with the smell of pheromones – engineered or otherwise real. sweet like candied rot, dull like subjugated metal. you walk through the crowd like a thread through fabric, and take your place at the bar.

the signs outside call this place 𝘛𝘏𝘌 𝘉𝘖𝘋𝘠.

you aren’t sure why you come here. this isn’t a place made for people like you. on the surface, it seems like just another club that sits in the underbelly of a bloated city. but really, it’s a chain of alters, bodies upon bodies. where bare flesh is presented to another to fuck in ways that feel like worship. there are rooms within rooms here, draped with sheer curtains that reveal more than they conceal.

but you know sukuna will still find you.

you order nothing, and wait.

in the center, two feminine androids provide the entertainment for the next ten minutes. these ones move slowly, ritualistic. they are not pornographic like most of the others you watch. it’s a performance, a mimicry of intimacy that has been long since forgotten.

“they move like insects.”

sukuna doesn’t appear beside you fully. he is behind your eyes, behind your bones. seeing what you see, moving as you do. his presence is like oil and smoke on your skin, clinging to the cracks between your ribs.

“do they?”

for a while, he watches them with you.

the androids part briefly, a break in their dance, and rejoin. the hips undulate and grind into each other in half motions, perhaps to invoke a sense of longing. their glassy eyes blink in slow alternations. it’s all too rehearsed, you think.

“do you like it when they fuck?”

“i don’t care.”

“liar. your indifference is a better performance than theirs.”

you take a sip of an abandoned drink, and sukuna smiles behind your teeth.

“oh, but this is so boring. is this all they do?”

“until the next one comes, yes.”

sukuna makes a disgusted sound. it vibrates through your throat like you made it.

“you’re very still, for a human.”

“i’m watching.”

“mhm.”

“do you not enjoy this?”

“hmph! this is pathetic to me, you know? they pretend this isn’t some desperate attempt at muscle memory for something your bodies will never remember.”

“and you understand it.”

“of course i do, it’s only another form of hunger.”

an ad flashes at you above the bar.

₊˚⊹⋆ 𝘚𝘜𝘉𝘚𝘊𝘙𝘐𝘉𝘌 𝘛𝘖 𝘚𝘠𝘕𝘛𝘏𝘔𝘌𝘈𝘛 𝘕𝘖𝘞!

“and you… you are so deliciously empty that you understand nothing.”

“you don’t understand it, then.”

his hold on your spine tightens considerably.

“i understand the mechanics,” he says, far too fast.

“that’s not the same.”

“isn’t it?”

“you sound like you’re trying to convince yourself.”

he doesn’t say anything, and his silence is heavy. you feel him watching the next dancers take the stage, made from real bones and flesh this time. his gaze isn’t lustful, or gleeful. it is detached, a killer watching his puppets bleed and break.

“i’ve fucked in plenty of bodies.”

you say nothing.

“it’s just rearranging lumps of meat, that’s all. bend a leg here, break a jaw, and someone always screams.”

“don’t you want it to be real?”

“i don’t need to, i take what i want when i want to.”

“taking doesn’t mean you know what it is.”

“i want to devour, not connect.”

“it’s not about connection.”

“well, it used to be. once.”

“once?”

“a thousand years ago, when you humans weren’t… this.”

“don’t you want to understand it?”

“you want to fuck me, little human? is that it?”

“yes.”

at this, he fully materializes beside you in a flash. all teeth and a moist, red grin.

“show me,” he orders.

his voice sounds the most human it ever has.

you feel a pressure in your hips, in your navel.

(oh mercy,

have mercy.)

your left hand spasms.

sukuna hums. “why do you want to do this?”

“because you want to understand something you were never built for, and you want it to be real.”

“real,” he savors the word on his tongue. “and that’s what you can give me?”

you take the time to really look at him. he is so beautiful, like a fever dream. he makes something in your hollow chest ache. he looks at you like you can give him the world. but you know he wants to be the one underneath your skin and wear you like a memory. to rip you open and drink your marrow so he can see how you tick. you wonder what it would feel like for ryomen sukuna to break you.

to let him in.

there is a hairline crack in the porcelain of your persona.

“i don’t know,” you say softly. “that’s the point.”

you offer him your hand.

and he takes it.

`✦ ˑ ִֶ 𓂃⊹

you bring sukuna to one of the pleasure pods outside your building.

it seals behind you both with a hiss. the air inside smells sterile at first, but you know it is being pumped full of sweet, synthetic pheromones. the walls are a pale pink, slick and almost fleshy, like a womb. it quivers faintly like a heartbeat. sukuna reaches out to touch it, and it responds to him like it is alive. you reach the middle of the pod, where the floor extends upwards and thickens into something softer, more pillowed.

“lie back,” sukuna huffs.

you don’t.

you wait.

before you can blink, your clothes and his are gone, swallowed into a void that eats everything he touches. sukuna stands there perfectly solid, perfectly constructed. pale skin taut over lethal muscle. his blood eyes are drinking you in greedily, watching your heart beat beneath your breast, all violence that is barely constrained. you know the only two things saving you right now are his curiosity and that he wants this from you.

and still, he comes to you.

“do you want to kiss me?” you ask, tilting your chin up to him.

sukuna holds your jaw in his hand. “do you even know what it means to ask me that?”

and his lips crashes into yours like thunder. messy, eager, hungry. his fangs immediately catch on your bottom lip, and you let out a groan. sukuna’s tongue catches your sound and bullies your mouth open. you feel him tasting you, feel your blood spreading over your lips and between his. he pushes you down, and your spine curves against the pods membrane. your legs wrap around his hips, and you are met with the thick, hot weight of him at your core.

you make sure he sees you.

you make sure that he feels you.

“this isn’t just meat,” you murmur, rocking your hips to rub yourself on his length. “this isn’t hunger.”

“you think you can teach me?” he snarls.

sukuna enters you like a challenge, like an angel hurtling down from the heavens full of intent. for a second, his form glitches. there is a stutter in your visual field, a crack in the mirror. a hot shard of pleasure whips your core, and you clench around him, arching into his chest.

the pod walls pulse faster, the lights dim.

your voice trembles, “do that again.”

“do what?”

he is not all there, he is something halfway. but here and now, ryomen sukuna has never been more real to you than he is now. but he is toying with you as he always does, because he knows exactly what it is you want.

sukuna blinks.

and smirks.

then, he pulls back from you. his body pulses and stretches above you, and you think you just might die from the pleasure of it all, or perhaps just from him. his face shifts, multiplies, and two eyes become four looking down on you. his markings embolden and become living, vicious things. you feel something else. something hot and heavy, against the curve of your ass, and it takes you far too long to register that he has another cock.

the pod groans beneath you.

“are you afraid yet?”

“i’m…”

what are you?

you don’t know.

(only a soft thing

that starves.)

your hands shake.

sukuna laughs, and the sound reverberates in your bones and core. you open up to him so easily.

and he splits you apart.

not just once, but twice. hit first cock fills you fast, familiar in its essence of him. the second is much slower, deliberate. the way he stretches both your holes open is utterly filthy and impossibly divine.

your mouth opens in a silent scream.

he is inside you twice.

it’s too much, it’s everything.

the pod pulses and flashes with a low light. his hands are everywhere on you at once, sometimes two and sometimes all four. on your throat, your breasts and waist, one spreading your legs even wider to pinch your clit. you moan prettily, your fingers clutching at the flesh bed. it reacts, throbbing under you like it is part of his building rhythm, that cruel and delicious rhythm. the hollowness in your chest is overflowing now, spilling wine and blood, and you can’t remember ever feeling so full.

you are absolutely ruined.

“do you feel y–?”

he cuts himself off. something is happening inside him. you pull sukuna’s face down to yours.

“this is real,” you pant against his wet, bloody mouth.

his head rolls forward into you, his pace is brutal as he fucks you like he’s losing his grip on what he is. a fist slams into the wall behind your head. you feel his lips on your neck, and he sinks his teeth in. not enough to kill you, but just enough to hurt. your pussy flutters wildly around him.

“i want to– rip you apart.”

“then do it after. feel this first.”

your eyes roll back.

sukuna kisses you again. it is messy, mixed with spit and iron. he presses into you like he’s trying to take something from you, like wants to steal all your memories. he lifts your hips lift to meet his every thrust, and you wrap your legs tightly around him, sucking him in even deeper.

this new angle wrecks you.

you feel everything.

each thick, hot drag of his cock inside your sopping wet cunt, every ridge, every vein, every merciless push of him in both holes. you are utterly helpless as you tumble towards the edge.

“fuck! what are you doing to me?”

his thrusts become erratic, desperate.

and he cums.

loudly, shaking, splintering. first one cock, then the other. they pulse and twitch inside as his cum floods both your holes, warm against your walls. sukuna’s body flickers in between forms as his breath coming out in hot, ragged huffs. he collapses over you, his arms locking tightly around you. his tongue finds your collarbone, lapping away at your trickling blood.

the pod pulses once, twice.

and goes still.

`✦ ˑ ִֶ 𓂃⊹

your tv screen flickers slightly.

it’s been on for three days straight, set at a volume too low to be heard if you weren’t paying attention.

“𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘴𝘦𝘦𝘮 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘥𝘦𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘯 𝘯𝘶𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘳.”

your spine aches. your skin stings where sukuna nipped at you and throbs where he gripped you. you are still swollen with the fullness he left inside you, and you don’t know what to do with it all.

it has been so long since you let yourself feel.

“𝘸𝘦 𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘢𝘨𝘦 𝘤𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘻𝘦𝘯𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘷𝘪𝘨𝘪𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘵, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘶𝘴𝘭𝘺 𝘰𝘱𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘤 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘥𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘭𝘰𝘱𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘴.”

you quietly sip your iron water.

the creature watches you from the ceiling.

it is wearing her face – 11𝘌. her perfect mouth and her perfect face and her perfect stillness. but it is also wrong. it has her fingers bent unnaturally, clutching at your walls like a spider, too many joints folding where there shouldn’t be any. its head is dementedly twisted at a sharp right angle.

it does not blink or breathe.

just watches.

you are not afraid.

but you are struck by the ache in your chest from how much you miss 11𝘌.

“𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝘀𝗺𝗲𝗹𝗹 𝗱𝗶𝗳𝗳𝗲𝗿𝗲𝗻𝘁.”

it whispers to you, tainting 11𝘌’s voice with static and mold.

“go away.”

you don’t look at it. your spine twinges as you shift on your couch. the android news anchor drones on in the background of your tv, but you are not really listening. a smile spreads over the creatures borrowed face.

it reaches out to you.

your apartment suddenly feels colder all at once.

sukuna is here.

“you have guests now?”

you blink.

the creature has scuttled out your open window.

“what a rude, little thing. not even a hello for me.”

“why was it afraid of you?”

he shrugs, and sits beside you. “it wasn’t. we don’t poach each other’s meals.”

“and i’m yours.”

“you’re my delicacy.”

your stomach turns. it’s a slow, rising sensation that travels from your gut to your throat. quiet and shapeless. it’s not fear, never that. it is hunger. but if it’s yours or his, you don’t know. you glance at sukuna.

you know the sex has changed him too.

he is more erratic, unhinged. his form glitches in small bursts. he is not as solid as he used to be, like his glamour is bleeding into the air.

“is it true?” you ask.

“hm?”

you nudge your head at the tv. “your kind is disappearing.”

“maybe.”

“you don’t seem concerned.”

“hah! you think i’m like them? like that insect that was just here?”

you feel the air shift again. sukuna’s body becomes something more unstable.

“i’m the strongest.”

“i know.”

“and you, you are my most perfect prey.”

“you don’t seem well, sukuna.”

“no, i’m starving for you. there’s a difference.”

you sip your water.

your tongue feels like it’s rusting.

“then, what are you waiting for?”

he grins with too many teeth, but it feels different than before. nothing human is left in it.

“for you to want it.”

“want what?”

“to be devoured.”

he says this reverently.

a beat passes, your walls hum.

“you were close,” sukuna murmurs, leaning into you. “when i was inside you. you broke, i could feel it.”

his tongue slides over his fangs.

“and now, i’m waiting for you to ripen. for your flesh to soften. when you let go, when you’re so full of feeling you burst in my mouth. i want the marrow in your bones to say yes, and that’s when i’ll eat you.”

he sighs, dreamlike.

“that’s the taste i’m after.”

(when the fly swims in honey,

it becomes sweeter.)

your hands shake violently, and you almost drop your glass.

sukuna smiles again, and his fingers splay across your chest.

“how will you do it?”

you ask him because you do actually want to know. his fingers flex, pressing against your sternum, testing the give of your ribs. he hums like he is considering a wine pairing.

“slowly.”

he taps your collarbone.

“i want to hear every crack you make. little by little. i’ll start at your edges, your fingers and thighs. these soft spaces in your ribs, right here.”

he presses between your ribs from over your shirt.

“and then i’ll go deeper. i want to use my teeth to tear your skin off. i want every part of you to spill out, and i want to eat your thoughts.”

you swallow.

“will it hurt?”

for a moment, sukuna looks bored at your question. “not at first.”

then his voice drops.

“but… eventually, yes. exquisitely so. i’ll make it last. you’ll be screaming with truth, realness. all of your performance will be gone, and there’ll be nothing left of you when i’m done.”

your heartbeat is no longer yours. it beats in time to his, rapid and greedy and so hungry. your body doesn’t know if it wants to lean into him and his touch, or run until the soles of your feet bleed. his palm lays flat over your chest, and it feels like fire.

you wonder if sukuna can feel it too.

the shift.

that slow leak of something inside you about to burst open.

`✦ ˑ ִֶ 𓂃⊹

it hunts in the night.

perched atop a rooftop, high above the crisscrossing metal beams and the world stitched together by neon gas below. it ticks its head to the side, and its fingers twitch.

it watches.

it waits.

(he is a stupid,

beautiful fool.)

the city breathes again. an inhalation of acid and pleasure, and an exhalation of fumes and polyester. this world is loud, it thinks. it is a slowly decaying, pathetic little world. it watches the humans behind its pearl-white eyes with an air of pride it knows it shouldn’t have. a predator does not have the right to take pride in its violation of life, and it knows this. it hovers over the edge, like an angel undone and dripping in sin. it spreads its arms like its prey, a king of old bones.

and falls.

it traverses the plane of half-existence. the wind does not break it, and gravity does not own it. it weaves between and through buildings as a phantom. there are shining windows and rippling puddles, holograms and corrupted billboards. this world has an abundance of them all. each one an opening from the world it was born into this one. the humans called for their own doom, and its kind simply answered.

but the humans didn’t matter.

not to it, at least.

(take the king!

to the king, kill the king!)

it can smell him.

it perceives everything about him. him and his arrogance. the king smells like metal and fire, but it has grown somewhat fond of the scent. it can see him now, and it stops high above him in the clouds. the king is not solid, wearing his more human form than natural, as he warps through a market, parting through the humans like an old god. it can see his effect on the humans. they are on edge, their world tilts and ripples when he passes, and they glance behind their shoulders like they could see the death cloud of red. the king is a blight on their existence, but he is not theirs to suffer.

not anymore.

(he is

ours.)

he turns into an alley, chasing the sound of someone broken. maybe a scream, or the call of snapping bones.

it is behind him now.

crouched atop a pale orange streetlight.

a hazy shimmer in the corner of his blood eyes. a light wind passes through his peach hair. the taste of dust and ash on his tongue where there should be iron.

he stops.

he is not afraid. he turns to face it with the slow delight of a creature who believes himself to be invincible. his lips pull back over his teeth in a wicked grin.

“come out. i don’t bite.”

it laughs like broken glass.

still, it waits. it watches him high above on a window sill, the way he moves so casually. careless and godlike. how little he fears death. his eyes flash like twin rubies. there is a shift in the air, and it knows that he has recognized the challenge.

a predator and a fellow beast.

but he doesn’t run.

he begins to walk again, an amorphous orb flashing between holographs and puddles. it follows, gliding after him and keeping close. it watches the back of his neck where the blood is sweet and warm. the king glows like a rotting sun in its perception.

it lets him feel it, just slightly.

a pain behind his eyes.

a trailing scratch along his spine.

a rising pressure in his lungs.

(peel him apart,

pull out his teeth and count them.)

the king comes to a halt.

his eyes narrows. he is really looking now, peering into the darkness between the neon signs. it never doubted he was clever, and it licks its teeth. he flickers, his body becoming alive and fully solid.

“who are you?”

he calls out lazily, bored even, his arms stretched behind his head.

“what a stupid question,” it replies, smiling.

it descends without a sound, an unraveling spool of air. it does not fully form, not yet. it adopts the outline of something more familiar to him, feminine but still inhuman. a constellation of truth and unfeeling memory.

he watches it, curious.

“you’re new.”

it circles him now. he is not alarmed, but it doesn’t expect him to be, not yet. he watched its outline move with a hunter’s grin. he is no longer alone in this game of his, he never was. the king is a fool who has never realized this.

(there were signs,

and more.)

the air becomes static and dry.

“no.”

the king hums, amused. “no?”

“i’m so much older than you.”

his pupils sharpen. there is a recognition creeping through the air like crawling ivy. but he doesn’t see it until it moves.

too fast.

too clean.

not like a woman.

and not like prey.

its body folds and unfolds and becomes alive with a click. ribs splinter and extend outward like jagged wings, white and wet. ready and devouring. its spine unlatches, vertebrae popping and bulging open like little doors. a creature, a starving goddess draped in a familiar, soft girl skin. it pins him to the asphalt in one fluid motion.

he doesn’t recognize it at first.

“get off–”

then, he blinks. his eyes widen in a beautiful horror as he understand what he has been playing with for all this time. his mouth twitches, and he snarls.

“it’s you.”

it smiles the same way he used to. “yes.”

the king stills.

his arms are caught, jaw forced open with its needle fingers. it presses its forehead to his like an old lover, and reminisces the feeling of fullness it had felt not too long ago.

it breaths him in, pinches his tongue.

(do not gloat,

we have won the game.)

and you feed.

`✦ ˑ ִֶ 𓂃⊹

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softestqueeen · 2 days ago

Text

✧*̥˚ spencer reid fic recs *̥˚✧ part 6

a/n: do i even have to say anything anymore?

part 1 I part 2 I part 3 I part 4 I part 5 I part 6 I my cm masterlist

✧*̥˚ smut *̥˚✧

practice makes perfect by @cuzxai

through the lens by -//-

busy woman by @it-was-summer

every first, yours by @mrsholmesreid

echo chamber by @whisperedmeg

counter service by -//-

fuck being subtle by @heavenlybodies333

taste by @keirareidss

free use blurb 3 by @trampleddoves

free use blurb 2 by -//-

love you more by @dudeitiskarev

let me love you by @raekensluver

sub!spencer blurb by @missarchive

✧*̥˚ fluff*̥˚✧

living with spencer reid by @girllblogging777

heart eyes... and hardcovers by -//-

modely by @fawnnlvr

spencer reid x shy reader (insta posts) by @mariasont

bombshell reader x s.r. by @luveline

milk, honey and metaphors by @mortic2n

blankets by @thoughtwriter

uniform by @cherrygarcia-07

hcs by @minswriting

hopelessly devoted to youuuu by @goofygubegubler

i wanna be yours by @push-the-heartbrake

season 1!spencer hcs by @seasprincess

something about him was made for somebody like me by @cerisereids

✧*̥˚ angst & hurt/comfort*̥˚✧

thump thump thump by @inkydelusions

sick as a dog by @rauspberries

to love is to care by @cherrygarcia-07

atonement by @matt-murdockk

standing in the steps of mine by @3verythingiknowaboutlove

every shade by @certaimromance

the sound of heartbreak by @reidsism

behind the ribcage by @spencersmopbucket

insecure by @gf2bellamy

proposal by -//-

youth by -//-

mri scan by -//-

anger by -//-

ride by @seasprincess

✧*̥˚ special mention*̥˚✧

heat lightning by @burymagdalene part one I part two

if you want your work removed, dm me!

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toomanystoriessolittletime · 1 day ago

Text

change of plans

Summary: Your plan of waking up Harry with breakfast in bed gets interrupted when Harry finds you in the kitchen wearing only his shirt.

Pairing: Harry Castillo x fem. reader

Wordcount: 2k

Rating: E

Warnings: established relationship, some domestic fluff, smut (unprotected sex), kitchen sex, a hint of breeding kink, fluff, making plans about the future (reversal of a vasectomy)

A/N: I haven't watched the movie since it doesn't come out here until august, but I don't care I love him lol

follow @toomanystoriessolittletime-fics and turn on notifications to get notified when I post new fics

Main Masterlist // Harry Castillo Masterlist

It wasn’t often that you were awake before Harry.

Usually he’d be up and out of bed before his alarm went off at 5:30. He’d check the stock market and his emails before he’d kiss your forehead and quietly got up to get ready for the day.

You’d usually wake up when he was about to get out, giving him a tired smile when he came back to bed to kiss you goodbye.

You’d been dating for almost a year, living together for the last two months after your the lease of your apartment ran out and your landlord wanted 1k more. Per week. For a shitty one room apartment that always smelt like Chinese foods from the restaurant in the same building.

And like it was nothing, Harry just offered his place. You had been spending most of the time here anyway but still. Your relationships never were like it was with Harry. You didn’t have to constantly proof your worth or walk around on tiptoes.

For the first time in your life you felt like you were in love with someone who loved you just as much, if not more back. And it felt wonderful.

Dating a billionaire was not on your agenda when you finally gave in and agreed on a blind date your sister wanted to arrange for you.

Only that the man she had set you up with never showed up. Fed up and warming up to the idea that maybe ending up as a single cat lady, you were about to leave when Harry sat down across from you with a warm smile and the question if he could invite you for a drink.

You had spend almost every single day together since then.

Now you were looking at him as he slept. He was laying on his stomach, his face squished into one of his pillows, the bedsheet almost up to his nose. He had come home pretty late, you’d already been asleep when he slipped into bed, cuddling against you and pretty much falling asleep immediately.

One of his biggest projects in Abu Dhabi finally had been signed and with that he could finally relax.

You fought the urge to reach out and run your fingers through his hair and instead slowly slipped out of bed, grabbing his shirt on your way towards the ensuite.

You grabbed the suit he had been wearing yesterday when you had freshened up, making sure to add them to the pile of the dry cleaning that would be picked up later today, before you walked slowly through the penthouse, towards the kitchen.

The view from so high up was still breathtaking every single time. The sun just so peaking over the clouds, as if you were floating above New York City which was hidden beneath the clouds.

Humming to yourself you walked towards the coffee machine, pressing the button for your favourite before you turned towards the screen that managed almost every device in the penthouse, turning on the radio on a low volume before you walked towards the enormous fridge, opening it.

You picked everything you’d need to make some pancakes, setting it down on the kitchen island before you grabbed your drink, taking a long sip, humming along to a song on the radio.

You wondered if you could surprise Harry with breakfast in bed.

You had taken some days off work, Harry telling you that he wanted to take you out of town to celebrate your upcoming anniversary.

Smiling to yourself you reached for a bowl before you began to add all the ingredients for the pancakes. Whisking them together as the news announced the successful deal Harry had made yesterday, making you smile like a proud mother.

Jumping when you felt arms wrap around you from behind you let yourself relax against his broad chest, Harrys face nuzzling against your neck, his lips pressing against your skin.

„Good morning,“ he hummed and you pouted with a smile.

„I wanted to make you breakfast in bed,“ you said, feeling him smile against your skin. His arms around you tightened and you sucked your bottom lip between your teeth when you felt him rub his hard on against your ass.

„How about a different kind of breakfast?“ He kissed up the side of your neck, his facial hair softly scratching over your skin. You were still slowly whisking the pancake mix when one of his hands slipped under your shirt, slowly up your stomach.

„Mhhhh and what do you have in mind?“ You smiled, tilting your head to the side to give him more access.

His hand found one of your breasts, giving it a gently squeeze as he moved his hips against yours, a low moan escaping your lips.

„How about I show you?“ He mumbled as his other hand slipped between your legs, groaning when he found you wearing nothing underneath.

You gave up on the pancakes when his fingers slipped through your folds, the whisk falling down on the marble island with a clang. Turning your head, his lips were on yours immediately, two of his fingers pushing inside of you.

He hummed against your lips, his tongue slipping between them, deepening the kiss all while his fingers moved inside of you, lazily working you up.You brought one arm up and behind you so your hands could reach him, your fingers slipping into his hair.

„More,“ you mumbled against his lips and and he grinned, his thumb rubbing over your clit and you gasped.

„Wanted to wake you up with my mouth on you,“ he said, voice hoarse. You let your head fall back next against him, his mouth on your jaw as your lips parted.

„Take my time with you,“ he said, his hand on your breast playing with your nipple.

„Been so busy with work lately, I missed you,“ your other hand came to hold on to his arm across your stomach.

„Missed your wet little pussy,“ he sucked on your earlobe and you moaned, already close to your orgasm.

„You fucked me in the shower yesterday,“ you reminded him, voice breathy and he chuckled.

„Not the same. When we get off the plane I intend to not leave the bed for at least three days,“ he whispered against your ear, his fingers finding the spot inside of you that made you shake, focusing his fingers on it. You came with a soft cry of his name, and Harry hummed a „good girl“ against your ear as he continued to pump his fingers into you.

When his fingers finally slipped out of you you release a long breath before you turned your head to kiss him again.

„Plane?“ You mumbled against his lips. He smiled, kissing your nose.

„Surprise,“ he winked, bringing his hand up, licking his fingers clean, his other hand still on your breast. Narrowing your eyes playfully you turned around, crossing your arms behind his neck.

„Where are we going?“ You asked and he hummed, shaking his head.

„All you need to know is that you don’t need any clothes, we’re gonna be alone for four full days,“ he grinned and you rolled your eyes, fighting unsuccessful against the smile that spread on your lips.

„Hmmm… Four days naked? Whatever are we going to do?“ You asked, letting your hand run down his chest, eyebrows raising in mock surprise when your hand slipped straight into his boxers and wrapped around his hard cock.

„I have a list,“ he grinned before he kissed you again. You chuckled against his lips, slowly pumping his cock.

„Oh yeah?“ You mumbled against his lips.

He moaned against your lips and you were about to get on your knees for him when his hands grabbed your hips and pulled you onto the kitchen island, making you giggle. You spread your legs as he got closer towards you.

„Oh yeah. I’ve been working on it during my super long and boring meetings,“ his hands pulled your shirt up until he could pull it over your head, throwing it to the floor, leaving you sitting naked with your legs spread in front of him.

„You mean the super long and boring meetings that made you 300 million dollars richer?“ You teased and he slipped his boxers down before both of his hands ran up your thighs. One hand wrapped around his cock and you parted your legs even wider as he slipped the tip though your folds.

„Those exactly,“ he nodded, notching against your entrance.

„Multitasking. I like it,“ you teased and he laughed, kissing you again while he slowly pushed into you, both of you moaning. You let yourself fall back, both of your hands on the counter behind you, arching your back.

„You’re so fucking beautiful,“ he shook his head slightly and you moaned deeply when he began to slowly fuck into you, filling you deeper and deeper until finally his cock was fully inside of you. He set a slow pace, both of his hands coming down to lean against the kitchen island, his head dropping down to kiss the soft skin on top of one of your tits before he softly sucked your nipple into his mouth.

„Oh fuck,“ you moaned, your head falling backwards, arching your back even more to get closer to him. You slowly moved your hips to meet his thrusts.

„So my plan is a lot of hits,“ he mumbled against your tit and you actually laughed. The skin around his eyes crinkled as he looked up at you, before he let go and came to stand to his full height, hands pulling you closer to the edge, towards him.

He moved faster, pumping his cock into you, his skin slapping against yours. You moaned.

"A little bit of that,“ he groaned and you smiled out of breath.

One of his hands slipped between your bodies, his fingers playing with your clit as his thrusts intensified.

„And fuck. Yeah definitely this,“ he said with a moan and you crossed your legs behind his ass, pulling him even closer as he pumped into you in quick, hard thrusts.

„Oh shit baby,“ you pushed yourself up, hands coming to rest on each side of his neck, both of you looking down to where he was fucking into you, while continuing to rub your clit.

„Look how wet you are for me,“ he mumbled against your ear, kissing your shoulder.

„Just for you baby,“ you slipped one hand into his hair and he leaned in to kiss you. It only took a few more seconds until you came, wave after wave washing over you as you moaned against his mouth.

He let his forehead fall against yours, now chasing his own orgasm.

„Cum for me baby,“ you whimpered, lightly pulling his hair and he groaned.

„Gonna cum. Gonna fuck, pump all my cum inside of you until….“ He stopped himself and you tilted his head up so you could look at him.

„Until what? Until you get me pregnant?“ You asked and he nodded with a moan, twitching inside of you.

„Do it. Fuck me full of you. Fuck a baby into me Harry,“ you whined and his lips parted, moaning as you felt him cum, fucking his cum into you until he stilled, his cock deep inside of you.

He wrapped his arms around you, pulling you against his chest. He kissed your temple until you looked at him.

„I’ve been thinking…“ he began and you raised your eyebrows.

„More on your list?“ You asked and he chuckled, shaking his head.

„Not on the sex list. On… our future list,“ he said softly and you smiled, interested. A few weeks ago you had dreamed about your future together. How you wanted to grow old together. And maybe start a family.

But Harry had a vasectomy almost fifteen years ago.

„I made a appointment to reverse the vasectomy,“ he said and your eyes widened.

„Really?“ You asked and he nodded.

„How do you feel about that?“ He asked and you smiled up at him.

„Ecstatic,“ you grinned before you kissed him.

#my fic #harry castillo #harry Castillo x fem. reader #pedro pascal #fanfiction #fanfic #fan fiction #pedro pascal characters

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writingfics-passingtime · 3 days ago

Text

Empty Threats

synopsis: stranded in a one-room safe house overnight with Loki, you learn the consequences of teasing him.

pairing: Loki x female reader (sexual / romantic)

word count: ~6700

cw: swearing, tickling, making out, closed-door sex, innuendo and other sexually-charged exchanges, light bondage (with magic), less romance more fwb vibe? you be the judge

minors dni: this fic does not contain smut, but does contain steamy moments and closed-door sex between the reader and an adult-aged character. I am not comfortable with engagement from anyone under the age of 18. Thank you for your understanding and respect.

note: horniest I'll ever be on main. future smut will be posted on nevermath.tumblr.com

The escape craft was some older thing. Ancient and rickety, by SHIELD standards. Definitely not built for an ice-storm.

You can't remember the last time you felt so unsafe in the air - and that included a handful of situations involving heat-seeking missiles, plummeting free-falls, and one especially memorable brush with a Chitauri cannon.

The turbulence knocks the controls hard to the left, you wrestle them back with a grunt, jaw tight, adrenaline burning under your skin. A flick of your eyes towards your passenger seat makes your blood pressure spike for an entirely different reason.

Loki looks bored.

Actually... worse; he looks vaguely amused.

He's lounging, one leg crossed over the other, hands steepled in his lap. Not a single hair out of place, nor muscle braced. Whether that means he trusts you to fly safely out of this storm, or simply doesn't care whether the damn thing goes down in flames, you're not sure. You don't ask.

You don't want the answer.

So when the radar pings a safe-house just a hundred clicks off-course, you make a hard turn toward it with zero apology.

The landing is rough. Metal groans as the craft slams down on a barely-visible patch of ice-washed earth. But she holds. Barely.

You unbuckle fast, tossing Loki a look over your shoulder. "Hope your highness can handle a night in a little mountain shack."

His brow raises. His smirk is slow, knowing.

You don't give him the satisfaction of looking flustered. You just shove the hatch open and duck out into the freezing sleet with a scoff.

You'd never usually leave a craft in the open like this, but the visibility is shit and the airspace is fucked; no one will be flying overhead - not even the combatants that'd been pursuing you fifty-odd clicks back.

The safe-house cabin appears like a ghost out of the storm, flickering through thick sheets of sideways rain. You reach the door, slap your hand on the bio scanner, and hear the click of the lock just as Loki falls into step and you both slip out of the weather.

The door shuts with a solid thud - and for the first time in hours, silence rings.

Peace. Safety.

Both of you stand still, breathing hard. You're not sure if it's the cold or the tension. Maybe both.

But it’s tranquil in here. Nice, even. Far from a little mountain shack.

You step further in, the dim lights automatically fading on, and you glance at the windows, which seem to be holding tight against the icy rain lashing against them. Wind howls through the trees and scratches at the glass like a leopard's claws, but the place seems solid.

No sooner had you stepped in further did thunder crack so close it felt like the gods were arguing just over the mountain-

Wait...

"That's not your brother, is it?" You look at Loki over your shoulder, half-joking.

"No," Loki's low, rich voice chuckles behind you. "Not nearly dramatic enough."

You're almost soaked-through from the dash, a chill threatening to settle into your bones, but you notice that, though isolated, the safe-house isn't freezing. The lights are low and warm, casting the room in comforting haze. It feels luxurious; hardwood floors, thick rugs, a fireplace in the centre of the wall, opposite to the kingsized bed draped in earth-coloured linens and furs and- wait. Fuck.

Bed. Singular.

You look around and quickly confirm the sheepish feeling sinking into you. This is a studio. Designed for one. Or for a couple.

Who... the fuck decided that only one bed was appropriate for safe house?

Instead of making it a big deal, you declare, "I'm going to shower to warm up."

Loki looks to the stone mantle and says "I'll make a fire."

But as soon as the word fire leaves his lips, the empty cavity hisses to life, flames beginning to spark and build. You bite your lip as Loki scowls.

"Spooky," you tease, twirling your finger to the ceiling. "The cabin must be haunted by helpful ghosts."

Loki swings that scowl on you, but softens it. "We do also have technology on Asgard, you smug little goblin."

You smirk and turn on your heel. "You keep calling me things like that and I'm gonna think you’re flirting."

"I am," he calls after you.

You don't dignify it with a reply. You also don't stop smiling as you close the bathroom door.

The bathroom, and the shower itself, match the quiet wealth of the rest of the place. Such a shame, you think as you let your shoulders ease under the spray, that this place must be empty most of the time. It's exactly the kind of place you can imagine yourself... being. Just relaxing, letting go. Preferably alone, considering the one-bed situation.

Your stomach pings in a cluster of nerves as you lather the fig and sandalwood suds over your skin, trying to scrub the tension from your shoulders - tension that, annoyingly, has less to do with the mission and more to do with the god in the other room.

Loki is… a menace. Not just in the field. Not just in battle. But here. In the quiet. In the glances. In the way he looks at you like he’s already peeled your thoughts apart and likes what he sees.

The bed is big, and it's not like you'd mind sharing it with Loki - you'd known since the first time you worked with the God of Mischief that you'd likely fall into bed together at some point or another - but this... it feels forced. Like two dolls some child is guiding into a kiss.

Soon you're standing in front of the mirror, brushing your teeth, wiping a path through the fog on the glass to look yourself in the eye and coach yourself mentally, as if you were a child: just because you're under the same covers does not mean you will have sex with him.

You feel your cheeks warm as you realise that Loki probably isn't thinking about any of this. At all. Even though he makes no efforts to hide his physical attraction to you, that doesn't mean he's... wanting, in the same way you are.

Besides, he's your mission partner. Your headache. Your shadow in the field. The beautiful thorn in your side when you're not under fire. Taking it further could make it messy.

You throw on some standard-issue lounge clothes; socks, underwear, sweat shorts, tank top, and a cloud-soft sweatshirt, all found in the bathroom's linen cupboard that must contain at least two dozen different size options.

When you walk back into the main area, the warmth instantly seeps into your skin like a gentle summer evening. One deep breath, and you've eased further.

Loki looks up from the couch where he's lounged with his head against the headrest, hands folded over his stomach. He's still in his tac gear.

"There's a change of clothes in there," you nod to the bathroom.

Loki's eyebrow lifts. In a slow pulse of green, his clothes change into a softer, yet seemingly still tailored, all-black set that covers his limbs entirely. It looks too good for something summoned out of spite. "Over my dead body," his eyes rake over you, critical on the surface, heated underneath.

With a roll of your eyes you make your way to the bed. "I'm tired," you say, seeing it in his eyelids. "Ready to sleep?"

"I'll tend to my needs and then take my rest here." He stands and heads towards the bathroom.

"Loki," you put a little casual laugh in your voice. He stops and turns his head. "The bed's huge. We can share it."

He doesn't say anything for a moment, and you're worried you've fucked it. That you've been presumptuous. That he's going to say something about how he'd rather die than share sheets with the likes of-

"Very well," he tilts his head in agreement, barely looking at you before he closes the bathroom door.

Internally, you're screaming. Outwardly, you're pressing the heels of your hands to your eyes, wondering if there was any possible way you could've made it more awkward.

You hear the shower spray and try to think about anything other than him in here.

Whatever. Whatever. You take a breath through your nose and slip under the sheets. The lights are still dim. You narrow your eyes, and test the cabin, saying "it's time to sleep."

The lights dim to nothing, the fire pulls back from roaring to gently crackling, creating a cozy atmosphere that's calling you to sleep. But the second you settle in, you get that sinking gut feeling that sleep isn't going to come easy. Your limbs are tired, your eyelids heavy, but your mind is still buzzing with adrenaline.

You're staring at the ceiling when Loki reenters, crosses the room, and slides into the sheets on the other side of the bed. And sure, the bed is big, but he's still less than an arm's length away. You didn't realise how close you'd feel until he was there.

"Sweet dreams," you say with a subtle teasing lilt to try and disguise your nerves, eyes still on the ceiling, fingers playing with the hem of your sweatshirt.

You hear his head turn to look at you. Hear a small, faintly amused puff of air through his nose. "Try not to dream about me too vividly. I don’t want to wake to you whimpering." He turns, back to you, and settles in.

You bite your lip, the heat returning tenfold, but you chuckle. “Who's the smug little goblin now."

In an effort to get the adrenaline out, to help your mind complete whatever it feels it needs to, you start replaying the mission in your head. Every bullet, every chase, every snarky little jab Loki threw at you in that seductive voice, every- ... oh shit.

You almost forgot.

You press your smiling lips together, suppressing the giggle threatening to betray you. But it slips out anyway - a little puff of laughter in the dark.

That moment. The one that sent you over the edge.

Loki shifts beside you. "Don’t start," he warns. His words are a blade being drawn from its sheath.

“I didn’t say anything," you retort, now openly grinning at the ceiling.

"You thought it," he snips. He knows exactly what you're thinking about and hates it already.

You roll onto your side to face him, arm tucked under your head. "I'm just remembering a moment from today. A glorious one."

He exhales through his nose. "You truly have a death wish."

You grin wider. "You ate shit so hard on that slippery boulder."

The silence between you stretches like wire. Taut. Dangerous.

You keep going anyway.

"One second you’re monologuing, all broody Asgardian menace - 'You dare challenge me?' - and the next? Boom. Legs in the air. Splashdown."

You can feel the heat rising from his side of the bed. His magic pulses just faintly through the room. Static before a lightning strike.

"If you were wise you'd shut your mouth," he says darkly, "before I'm forced to shut it for you."

You laugh again - quieter this time, taunting. "Oh yeah? What’s the plan - another lecture about respect?" You prop yourself up on an elbow, searching the air for more sass. "Or... just another bout of empty threats and semi-inappropriate workplace banter?"

Loki turns. Slowly. He shifts to mirror you - rising on one elbow, lifting his face so you can see him in the flicker of firelight.

And fuck... he looks dangerous like this. Hot and dangerous. Hair damp and curling at the ends, shadows cutting beneath his cheekbones, pale blue eyes locked on you like you’re something he’s actively backing into a corner.

He tilts his head, and, with a devastating sweetness, he says, slowly, "Tease me again, and I’ll put you on your back and tickle you until you sob."

You blink. "Huh-what?"

Loki leans in just slightly - close enough that his breath ghosts over your mouth. "You heard me. One more snide little comment and I'll have you writhing. I will take my time. And you will not know mercy."

Your brain flatlines. Your mouth parts. You should say something sharp - should snap back, keep the banter going - but your body betrays you with a single thud of heat low in your stomach.

He sees it.

Of course he fucking sees it.

Loki's eyes narrow and you know - you know he’s cataloging every flinch, every breath. "It's the perfect punishment, wouldn't you agree?" he continues softly, dangerously. "Intimate, humiliating… leaves no mark. You won’t run to your beloved Captain Rogers with bruises. Just memories you can’t scrub off."

Your throat’s dry. You manage a single nervous chuckle. "You wouldn’t."

He smirks like the mischief he is. "We both know I would."

You go quiet.

Dead quiet.

Because the worst part is, you don't know whether you want him to or not.

And Loki - bastard that he is - sees that, too. He leans back slowly, satisfaction dripping from every hard line of his body as he settles into the pillow again.

You lie there, heart pounding, every nerve on fire. The storm still rages outside, but now it's got competition.

Loki chuckles deep and low, and it feels like thunder cracking beneath your skin.

"Wise choice," he murmurs.

And fuck, you hate him.

You hate him.

Well... no.

You don't hate him.

And you hate that you don't hate him.

You shift under the covers, giving an exaggerated sigh as you turn away from him. "Jeez. You're so fucking dramatic," you mutter under your breath.

A mistake.

"Oh, you poor little fool."

A catastrophic mistake.

Before you can even suck in another breath, his magic crackles through the air. It's an electric, humming snap that raises the fine hairs on your arms a second before you feel it.

The pillowcase under your head moves. It slides off the cushion with a treacherous slither, wrapping itself around your wrists with a speed and precision that makes your stomach drop. You jerk instinctively, but it's too late - your hands are caught, ensnared, pinned above your head, wrists bound together tight enough to be secure but loose enough to tell you this is a game.

His game.

You barely manage a grunt of protest before Loki’s hands are on you - turning you onto your back in a fluid, almost lazy motion, like he’s not even trying. His fingers are wickedly strong around your waist, holding you down just long enough for him to shift, knee pressing between your legs, swinging himself up until he straddles your hips.

You struggle, wild and panicked, kicking your legs and jerking your torso, but you’re half-covered in blankets and utterly unprepared for a fight - in soft sleepwear, no armour - and he’s bigger, heavier, faster, magical.

You buck hard, trying to dislodge him, but all it earns you is a low, infuriating chuckle from above.

"Is this truly the best you can fight?" he purrs, tightening his grip just enough to remind you who’s in charge.

"Fuck you," you scowl, jerking your hands against the bonds.

"Rude." He tsks, smirking down at you, his hips pinning yours to the bed with effortless control. "And after I warned you so nicely."

You twist again, but it's useless. You’re stuck. Fully at his mercy.

And the worst part?

You can feel the slow, deliberate shift of his body against yours - his thigh pressing against your bare skin, the long line of him caging you in - and it sparks heat low in your gut that has nothing to do with rage.

"You can’t seriously - Loki, come on," you start, trying to wriggle your wrists free, but the enchanted fabric tightens at his will, dragging a frustrated, helpless sound from your throat. "This is stupid and dramatic. You proved your point, now let me go."

He just tilts his head, studying you like a cat might study a bird fluttering with a broken wing.

"Tell me," he murmurs, voice dangerously low as he settles further, "did you really think that would go unpunished?"

His hands start inching forward.

You glare. "I really think you’re a dickhead."

His eyes gleam, a spark of delight dancing at the edges. "Mm. Defiant. I expected nothing less."

His fingers descend like vipers, darting straight for your sides, and the second they make contact... fuck.

You jerk so violently the bed frame gives a protesting creak.

You arch instinctively, breath hitching, but you refuse to laugh. Refused to give him the satisfaction.

"Nothing?" he muses, leaning closer, eyes flaring in delight. "Oh, you’re going to be so fun."

You twist under him, trying to wriggle free. The pillowcase tightens slightly in response. You grit your teeth as he drags his fingers up and down your ribs with merciless precision.

You hold on, digging your heels into the mattress, biting your bottom lip hard. His touch is devastating. Too practiced. Light one moment, firm the next, zeroing in on your most sensitive spots with surgical precision.

And still, you don't laugh.

Until-

"Ah," Loki says softly. His fingers found it - a spot just beneath your left rib, sensitive as hell, one you hadn’t even known would betray you.

Your body jolts. A tiny gasp escapes your throat. Then, like a damn cracking, a laugh punches from your lungs.

Triumphant, Loki’s smirk deepens - not cruel, not quite - something darker, warmer. Endeared, even. And utterly smug.

"There it is," he whispers, tilting his head. "I knew you’d be a screamer."

You flush, full-body and furious. "I hate you," you huff through gritted teeth, breath coming fast.

He clicks his tongue. "Then you’ll loathe what comes next."

And then he really begins.

You couldn’t hold it in anymore. You burst with laughter, loud and sharp, your body trembling wildly beneath his tickling hands.

And gods, he’s good at it - depravedly good. His fingers dance, spider-light one moment, then digging mercilessly the next, zeroing in on every little vulnerable spot like he’s been studying you for months.

Which he probably has, the bastard.

You shriek again, trying to twist away, but his weight on your hips keeps you absolutely pinned.

"You should’ve held your tongue," Loki drawls, his voice maddeningly calm over your frantic squirming. His voice drops. "Gods, you’re responsive."

"I swear I'm gonna get you for this- SHIT!" you gasp out between bursts of helpless, writhing laughter, but the threats fall flat - your voice breaking with each choked, humiliating giggle he wrings from you.

"You’re welcome to try," he murmurs, dragging one hand from your side up under your sweatshirt to your underarm, circling lightly where the skin’s thinnest, most sensitive.

You convulse so hard under him you nearly tip him sideways, but Loki handles it easily, smirking like this is all beneath him - like your thrashing and desperate yelps are just entertainment.

He skims the pads of his fingers lightly over your stomach, watching with lazy amusement as you shudder uncontrollably.

You kick your legs, trying to knee him, but he just rides out the bucking like he’s enjoying it, settling heavier against you with a rough grind of his hips that makes your brain white out for a second - makes you way too aware of how warm he is. How solid.

"You are such a dick," you gasp, breathless.

"No," he grins. "I’m your reckoning."

You whimper - actually whimper - as he attacks your sides again, fast and brutal, forcing desperate laughter out of you until you’re gasping between giggles, your whole body arching and twisting under him.

Loki only hums thoughtfully, shifting his weight slightly so his hips press more firmly against yours - deliberately - and the new friction is a whole fresh hell you’re not prepared for.

Heat spikes through you, brutal and wanted, mixing with the overwhelming sensation of his hands tormenting your skin.

He sees it.

Of course he fucking sees everything.

And the bastard has the audacity to smile wider. Slow, wolfish, knowing. His fingers skitter up your sides again, sending you into another fit of helpless, humiliating giggles.

"Fuck! This is so messed up-"

"You could have avoided this," he drawls, utterly unbothered. "All you had to do was keep that clever little mouth shut."

You grit your teeth, trying to focus. "This- this is petty. This is some villain-ass shit. No wonder Thor used to kick your ass when you were younger."

"Oh?" he says, digging his fingers against the fabric covering the soft space under your arms, dragging a laugh straight from your lungs. "You want to talk about childhood trauma now? In the middle of this? How very Avenger of you."

You throw your head back and laugh through gritted teeth, managing a whiny: "I really hate you."

He laughs. "You wish." His hands dive back to your sides.

"I wait- Loki- okay please!" you gasp, twisting hard, but the pillowcase tightens again, holding your wrists captive.

"Oh, now you beg?" Loki teases, fingers squeezing at your waist until your whole body bucks. "Where was this charming submission before?"

You shake your head wildly, laughing so hard your ribs hurt, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes. Every time you think he’s about to let up, he switches tactics - light teasing along your stomach, a wicked squeeze at your hips, brutal tickling up your ribs again until you’re choking on helpless giggles.

He finds the hollow just above your hip bone and presses - firm and slow.

You squeal. Actually squeal.

He grins wider.

"Oh, you sweet thing," he purrs. "I could do this all night."

You swear at him in every language you know.

He just chuckles darkly, slow and satisfied, like he’s feasting on your misery.

"Say you’re sorry."

You growl through clenched teeth, body trembling from the effort to wrench free.

"Never."

He pauses. Cocks a brow.

Then he leans down. Slowly. Until his nose brushes yours.

You take a shuddering breath in, still panting, now caught in a frantic freeze state. Like your base animal instincts are twisted into some weird belief that if you don't move he won't see you.

"Never?"

Your heart flutters at his low, commanding voice. The pure heat in it, so obviously intentional.

The pads of his fingertips and the faint graze of his blunt nails tease along the bare skin where your tank has ridden up. Your fingers tighten around the pillow case.

"Then I suppose..." he starts, sliding his hands higher. Palms smoothing against your sides, fingers trailing, taunting.

"You and I..." You feel the curve of his grin in his voice. "...will be here a very… very long time.”

You gasp when you feel his fingers press against the bare skin of your lowest ribs. "N-n-no-nnn-!"

But your protests are swallowed in laughter. Drowned in gasps and cackles. You're out of breath, out of threats, out of any form of resistance.

Loki's dark chuckle sings against your ear. Sends tiny sparks of pleasure down the skin of your neck.

And he keeps going - meticulous and devastating - drawing it out until you’re breathless, boneless, wrists still trapped high above your head, body burning with exertion and heat and something darker, something hotter, curling low in your belly and spreading like wildfire.

"Okay- okay okay!" You squeak, some high and helpless whine in the back of your throat. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry- please stop it!"

Loki finally slows, dragging one last, maddening trail up your side that makes you jerk involuntarily.

He sits back, straddling your hips lazily, surveying you. Admiring his work. His hair is wild around his face, his eyes bright with wicked satisfaction, incandescent with smug delight. His gaze stays locked on you, drinking in every breathless tremor.

You glare up at him, chest heaving, cheeks burning, completely at his mercy - and the way he looks at you, the way you feel under his hands... you can't show it.

"That..." you pant, "was an egregious HR violation."

"Oh dear," Loki rolls his eyes. "The paperwork."

"Oh, I'll show you fuckin' paperwork-"

"What shall it say, darling? How will you explain this? I'm so terribly fascinated by the prospect of our little tryst becoming immortalised in public record."

"That was not a tryst that was an attack and - hey, fuck you, untie me - it was uncalled for."

Perfectly in time with the raising of his brow, the pillowcase around your wrists loosen. But Loki makes no effort to get off you.

And you make no effort to push him off, even as you prop yourself up by the elbows, chin tilted back to look him in the eye.

"Poor thing," he soothes. And with that teasing edge, there's a softness. A devastatingly gentle thread of temptation laced through his voice. His smirk. His sheer fucking audacity.

He cocks his head to one side, pushing the damp curls back from his face, regarding you with a lazy challenge. "Was the big bad God of Mischief too hard on you?"

You lower your brow and pout, "Yes."

His head turns the other way. His smirk is devastating. "Do you need me to kiss it better?"

Every bit of heat in your over-exerted body goes to one of two places, and your lips part with a puff of air, almost like you'd been winded.

That small, insecure part of you whispers that this is a cruel trick. That he's having you on. He doesn't mean it, he-

Fuck.

Your breath hitches when the back of his hand finds your lower stomach. Your fists tighten as he trails his knuckles along the soft, exposed skin, his eyes not leaving yours. You swallow. He lifts a brow. A quiet question.

Your tongue slips out to wet your drying lips. "Maybe."

It's pitiful, but it's the only word you think you can say without it wobbling and-

Loki's shaking his head, shifting backward, lower. "I need a yes."

"Yes, then."

"And a please."

"Go fuck yourself."

He chuckles. "So sulky. What am I going to do with you?"

But before you can answer, his lips meet bare skin. Your back arches when his mouth brushes low across your stomach, just above the waistband of your shorts. He’s barely kissing - it's more breath than lips - but every exhale is warm and deliberate, as if he's savouring the feel of your skin against his mouth.

"You’re far too brazen for someone so soft," he murmurs. His fingers press just beside your hipbone, not quite pinching, not quite tickling, just enough to make your thighs twitch and your breath catch. "So easily undone, and still mouthing off."

His lips trail a slow line across your abdomen, kissing deliberately, as if each inch deserves reverence. Then- a single puff of air against your navel, followed by a nip of his teeth that makes your hips jerk.

You yelp. "Hey!"

He grins against your skin. "Thought you'd lost your voice for a moment."

The muscles of his shoulders dance under his shirt as he slowly pulls himself higher, chest brushing yours, hands planted by your head as he mouths a trail down your neck, grazing his teeth along the slope of your collar. Just enough to make your skin sing.

He lowers himself onto you carefully, hands dragging down your sides again, this time with full intention. His palms cup your waist, pulling you up into him.

The friction is electric.

Your chest heaves, thighs trembling under the weight of him - and he takes his sweet, unhurried time, moving over you like a storm in slow motion. He kisses the erratic pulse beneath your ear, nips, soothes, nudges his nose against your neck as your fists curl in his hair.

Your breath stutters when he finally pulls back enough to look at you.

Hair wild, breath shallow, eyes locked on yours like he wants to memorise every flicker of thought passing behind them.

He dips lower.

This time, his lips ghost over yours.

Once.

Twice.

Not kissing you. Not yet. Just tasting the shape of your mouth with his breath, taunting the final inches that separate you.

"Ask me," he murmurs, so soft you almost miss it.

Your jaw flexes.

"No."

He gives a dark chuckle. The sound brushes your lips. "Still so proud. Even now."

You glare, but the heat in your cheeks betrays you.

He leans in again, mouth brushing yours. "You want me."

Your breath catches.

"You want me," you retort.

He smirks. Hums. Kisses the corner of your mouth.

Just once.

Then the other.

Teasing. Gentle. Laying claim with infuriating grace.

You feel your eyes flutter.

He lingers. Breath to breath. Lips agonising close to yours.

"Say it," he breathes.

And you can’t anymore.

You’re done pretending.

"Just-... kiss me," you rasp.

And Loki does.

Not rough. Not possessive.

Deep. Measured. Devastatingly thorough.

His mouth moves over yours with patience, with precision, like he wants to map every gasp you give him and drag them out for his own pleasure.

You groan into it before you even know it’s happening.

Your hands twist in his hair as he deepens the kiss, tongue teasing your bottom lip before claiming more, drawing it out, savouring the moment like a rare vintage.

You kiss him back harder.

Because gods help you, you’ve wanted this. For too long. Through too many missions and almost-maybes and can’t-haves and don’t-even-think-about-its.

And now he’s everywhere.

His hands are under your tank top, resting against your waist as he keeps you under him. His body presses down, moulding into yours, every inch of him demanding and anchoring and terrifying in the way it feels so right.

You gasp into his mouth when his hand skims higher, palm dragging heat up your side, sliding beneath the edge of your top without hurry. Not groping. Just... feeling. Claiming space.

Your hips lift without your permission, chasing friction, chasing him.

He groans softly into your mouth. You swallow it greedily.

Loki pulls back just slightly, breathing hard. His forehead rests against yours, both of you straining against the gravity of the moment.

Still not enough.

His hands tense with the last dregs of his self-control, his body pressing down as if to imprint the shape of you onto his bones.

"You want this?" He pants. “You want me?”

"Yes," you gutter out. "Gods, yes."

He smirks against your lips. "Swearing to gods now, are we?" One hand slides back down your waist, hooking under your thigh, hitching it up over his hip. "How flattering."

When the radio on your tac vest wakes you with an alert of incoming comms, the first thing you register is the cold.

Then the ache - deep, lazy, sated - a bruised exhaustion thrumming through every muscle. Your brain struggles up from a black ocean of sleep just as the radio, somewhere across the room, starts crackling to life.

Loki groans low beside you. You feel the movement - sheets slipping off marble skin, the faint stretch of long limbs - and you grunt, rolling onto your stomach, grinding your forehead into the pillow. Everything hurts in a way that makes your mouth curl into a smug little smile against the linen.

The night comes back in flashes. Sharp. Shattering.

Claws-in, teeth-bared, breathless destruction of all the tension that had simmered between you for months. You hadn't so much fallen into bed with him as wrecked each other - over and over again - until your bodies finally gave out, tangled in the wreckage.

Maybe an hour of sleep. Maybe two. Not enough to be functional.

You groan as you push yourself upright, the blanket sliding off your bare back.

Loki sits at the other edge of the bed, dragging a hand through his wild, tangled black hair. The dim morning light coming through the frosted windows slices across his bare shoulders, illuminating the faint, red half-moon marks you left raked into his skin.

You'd be smug about it if your legs would fucking work.

The radio then crackles with the pilot's message:

"Seven minutes out. Chopper can't land. Buckle in for hover extraction."

You swear under your breath, shivering as the cold air hits you. You stagger toward the pile of tactical gear you’d dumped near the fireplace, yanking on your thermals, combat pants, boots, shirt, jacket, ignoring the way Loki watches you, one arm braced casually on his knee, the other draped over his thigh.

Comfortable. Loose. Dangerous.

You grab your tactical vest and the climbing harness slung over it, trying to move quickly, but your hands are clumsy, your joints stiff and sleep-starved. The straps tangle. You hiss in frustration, tugging at them.

Then, you hear the bed creak.

You feel him stand.

You don't turn.

Loki approaches with slow, measured, deliberate steps across the wooden floor. Each one a promise.

The air crackles between you, sharp and bright.

By the time he stops behind you, you’re holding the harness out in front of you like an fool, still wrestling it into some recognisable shape. You can practically hear the smirk in his silence.

He reaches out and, without a word, takes the harness from your fingers.

You lift your chin, refusing to look at him.

His knuckles brush yours. Not an accident.

You glare at the wall in front of you as he circles, slow and lazy.

Then he kneels. Right in front of you.

Looking up, lazy and wicked, his hair falling forward like a curtain of night sky. His body is bruised, unbothered, utterly relaxed. It should be illegal for anyone to look that composed after what the two of you did.

His hands move to your thigh, looping the first strap around it with maddening care. He doesn't rush. Just smooths it in place and gives it a slow, tightening pull. You feel it bite into your skin, feel his fingers curl with precision.

"You seem... compromised," Loki says lightly, his fingers brushing against your bare skin where your pants gap slightly at the hip.

You narrow your eyes.

Another strap glides between your thighs. His hands are firm, his thumbs brushing near places he has no business touching right now, not unless he wants round two on the cold floor. Maybe he does.

"Compromised?" you repeat, voice scratchy with lack of sleep and and too many hours of sinning.

He flashes a slow grin, wicked and pleased with himself, fingers tightening the strap until it bites your hip.

"Fatigued. Shaky. Thoroughly plundered," he drawls. "Tell me, darling - whoever could be responsible for that?"

You snort, pressing your lips together hard to bite back the traitorous smile twitching there.

"Self-satisfied bastard."

He smirks. "I do take pride in my work."

He pulls another strap between your legs, adjusting the belt with slow, taunting movements that are absolutely unnecessary and make you grind your teeth.

You narrow your eyes. “You’re doing this on purpose.”

"Doing what?" His voice is all innocence, but his hands are anything but. "Making sure you don’t fall out of your harness mid-air? You're welcome."

His fingers ghost under the hem of your top, smoothing the waistband flat against your belly. Every touch is too much. Too slow. You hold perfectly still, trying not to tremble.

"You’re not subtle," you mutter, raising a brow as you feel your lips flush.

"Ironic," he muses in satisfied purr, "coming from someone who, not four hours ago, was screaming herself hoarse begging for-"

You kick him lightly in the shin. He catches your ankle with lightning speed, holding it aloft for a second, grinning up at you like the absolute bastard he is.

"Temper," he tuts, releasing you.

He finishes the rest methodically, hands sliding around you with the same precision he uses when breaking into a vault - like he already knows where you’re most vulnerable.

"You know," he says lightly, eyes fixed on the buckles, "I should do this more often. Watching you squirm while I dress you. It’s…" He clicks the buckle shut with a soft snap. "Endearing."

You refuse to shiver. Refuse to give him the satisfaction. But you're admittedly speechless.

When he finally sits back on his heels, looking up at you, his eyes are molten as he whispers:

“Perfect.”

You roll your eyes and lean down to grab the carabiner clips, but Loki beats you to it.

He stands.

One slow movement - shoulders rising, body unfolding to full height - and you suddenly feel too small in his shadow, the air sucked clean from your lungs.

He steps in close, smooths a hand over the centre strap down your chest, fingers dragging slowly. Then he reaches for the buckle at your waist and snaps it into place with a decisive click.

You feel the strength of it reverberate through you, far more intimate than it has any right to be.

And he doesn’t let go.

Instead, he curls his fingers around the central loop, just above your navel, and lifts.

Effortlessly.

You don’t even have time to react before your boots leave the floor. Your breath hitches. Your hands scramble for balance, but he just stands there - arm slightly bent, muscles slack, holding you aloft with casual strength, like you weigh nothing at all.

Your eyes snap to his.

He doesn’t smirk. Doesn’t leer.

He just watches you - dark and still, like he’s waiting to see what you’ll do. His grip is unbreakable, his expression unreadable.

The air between you goes molten.

He holds you there for a full, punishing heartbeat. Then another. And another.

Then, finally - finally - he lowers you, so slow you swear he’s savouring every inch of contact as your body slides back into place.

Your boots touch the floor. Barely.

"Perfect," he murmurs again. "Safe and sound."

Your breath stutters. You feel warm all over. Unmoored.

"You done?" you rasp, not trusting your voice.

He chuckles, quiet and pleased. "Oh, not even close."

You exhale through your nose, clenching your fists at your sides to keep from grabbing him.

The radio crackles again: "On approach. Be ready. Thirty seconds."

You tighten your shoulder straps brutally, trying to focus. Trying not to think about how he still smells like smoke and sweat and you.

Loki finally magics on his gear, lazy and unconcerned, buckling himself in with casual grace. You want to slap him. Or straddle him again. It's really fucking hard to tell.

The storm had eased a little - less hectic wind but still smatterings of icy rain. The helicopter blades whir louder, slicing the air like a knife through satin, as you reluctantly leave the cabin behind and run, side-by-side with Loki, the short distance to the pickup point.

You clip yourself and him to the main retrieval cable, double-checking the lines with stiff, professional efficiency.

Your hands brush at the connection point. He catches your fingers in his and holds them just long enough to make your pulse stutter.

"You're trembling," he says barely over the wind, eyes glinting.

"Shut up," you mutter, clicking the radio twice to signal all is good. Pushing his hands away from the line so his skin doesn’t catch.

He chuckles, deep and low.

Above you, the cable jerks taut, the winch starting to pull.

You and Loki are yanked upward together, slammed chest-to-chest, bodies colliding with force as you're hauled into the storm-torn sky.

Your breath catches. Loki grins down at you, devilish.

"Another round when we get back?" he calls into your ear over the wind.

You narrow your eyes, baring your teeth in a wicked smile.

"Only if you leave your harness on."

He throws his head back and laughs - a wild, delighted sound ripped away by the screaming wind - as the two of you disappear into the storm.

#loki x reader #no y/n #loki x you #marvel fanfiction #marvel reader insert #marvel one shot #mcu reader insert #mcu x reader #loki laufesyon x reader #loki tickle #ticklish!loki

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gracie-eilish · 3 days ago

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roommate!billie au [actual pt 4]

roommate billie masterlist

warnings: mention of being drunk/potentially getting sick. this part is lowkey long again

no smut, bc these two lovebirds are still teenagers and that makes me uncomfy to write.

an: this is the most fun i’ve had writing a fic/series in so long🥹 thank you for all the love and encouragement, makes me so giddy🤭

song included in fic:

roommate!billie, who always helped shovel our your car once she was done with her own.

roommate!billie, who also scraped all the ice from your windows for you, while you sat warm and cozy in the drivers seat waiting for her.

roommate!billie, who had completely ditched her flirty, party girl persona since her birthday. opting now for an arm around your waist, and a soft smile, watching you adoringly.

roommate!billie, who noticed you slowly gravitating towards her more physically. more than before.. but she still remained respectful knowing you were still figuring things out.

roommate!you, who started grabbing billie’s hand when a guy would flirt with you at a party.

roommate!you, who would tipsily hold billie from behind, resting your cheek between her shoulder blades, while billie chatted with friends at a party.

roommate!billie, who would grab your hands on her tummy, a silent reminder that she’s still here with you.

“no that’s what i said too!! like who the fuck grades a paper like that?! who am i, emily dickinson?? no fucker!!” billie and her friend from class cackled, both venting playfully about a crazy paper they had due last week.

you stood nearby, having a convo of your own with a friend, bidding them goodnight before making your way over to your roommate. it was starting to get late and you were feeling the alcohol, but you didn’t want to rush her.

without startling her, you walked up behind her, snaking your arms around her waist, resting your head between her shoulder blades, letting your eyes flutter closed. her perfume filled your senses like a sleeping potion, making you feel warm and fuzzy and safe.

you felt billie grab your hands softly, just resting overtop of your own, softly rubbing her thumb down the side of your wrist. she continued her conversation without a beat, now a little flushed, but mainly enjoying your company.

“omg wait im so sorry to interrupt, it’s tyler!!!” her friend squealed, showing billie the caller id of her longtime english class crush.

“GIRL!! go get your mans!!! i’ll see you on monday!! tell me everything!” she waved her friend towards the door, where she giddily answered the phone before stepping outside. billie then turned her attention to you.

“hi sleepy girl, you tired?” she cooed at your melty presence, a mixture of drowsiness and tipsy energy.

you just nodded on her back, making her giggle a bit, her cheeks flushing at the close contact.

“we can go soon if you want, can go right now really.”

“wanna go home,” you slurred, not whining or pouting, just sleepy. billie smiled, bringing a hand to her lips, kissing your knuckles.

“lemme call an uber and then we can go, okay baby?”

roommate!billie, who held you in her arms that night in her bed; a post party ritual you both started this semester, and neither of you minded one bit.

roommate!billie, who stayed awake for a while, making sure you were truly asleep… and didn’t need to yack or something.

roommate!billie, who never rushed you out of her bed. sometimes leaving early to go to the gym before it got busy… heart fluttering seeing you still cozy and tucked in when she got back.

roommate!billie, who watched you like you hung the moon, as you drove the two of you to the meal hall for whatever was left of breakfast on saturday mornings. hair thrown in a messy claw clip, glasses on, only changing your sweats so you didn’t smell like sweat and sleep.

“here bub,” she bumped your hip, pulling you from your daze while you waited for the nice cooks to make your waffle.

“hm?” you looked up at her, then down at her hand, holding a chocolate chip muffin.

“it was the last one, grabbed it for you.” she placed it down onto a napkin on your tray, before making her way over to the little fruit/yogurt station. you looked down at the muffin and blushed a little bit, completely distracted, until the cook yelled “plain waffle!” for about the fifth time in your direction, trying to find whoever ordered it.

you apologized and grabbed the plate from them, before heading over to grab a drink… a sheepish smile on your face.

roommate!billie, who convinced you to stop at the dollar store so you two could pick up your valentines decorations. after all, the fake tree on her desk was collecting dust, and the snowflakes hanging from your fairy lights were starting to fall down.

roommate!billie, who rounded the corner of an aisle to come show you something when she found you looking at all the little faux wood signs that you can hang up. they were all different valentines pride colors and sayings. she hid around the corner, watching you look at all the different color combinations. you grabbed a pink, blue, and purple one. then swapped it for a pink, blue, and yellow one. you went to grab the pink, orange, and purple one when someone turned the opposite corner, excusing themselves to see something behind you. you moved to look at the other valentines signs in the display next to the pride ones.

roommate!billie, who peeped the cute little muted pastel classic rainbow in your basket, with some cheesy love is love saying on it.

roommate!billie, who insisted on putting on some cheesy, lovey dovey playlist while you two swapped the winter decor for the valentines later that night.

the opening bars of “true” by spandau ballet, floated out of billie’s speaker sitting on her desk. you were stringing a line of heart shaped twinkle lights across your window, when you felt two cheeky hands on your hips. you clicked the line in place quickly, before turning around seeing billie with a teasing smirk on her face, moving her hips softly to the beat.

her hands moved a bit on your sides, and she wiggled her eyebrows at you, making you snort you were laughing is hard.

“c’mon baby, dance with me,” she purred. and who were you to deny her. good things always came from dancing with billie.

the two of you giggled through dramatic spins, and dips, and holding each other close. neither of you knew the words to any part of the song except for the intro, that thankfully repeated a few times.

eventually you two just swayed together, your head on her shoulder, holding each other close.

scared shitless, billie used her free hand to tilt your head up, fingers under your chin. you two searched each others eyes for bit, the warm twinkles lights reflecting in them like little sparkles. the lyrics had begun to repeat, and the song started to slowly fade to its end but neither of you noticed.

you let your hand leave billie’s shoulder, pushing some stray hair behind her ear. before either of you could stop yourselves, you were kissing.

roommate!billie, who finally took you out on a date that next weekend. nothing overly expensive, but it was definitely not the applebees one of your exes took you took last fall. [an: no hate to applebees, fucking love that place]

roommate!billie, who pulled out all the stops. pretending to “pick you up at 8”, knocking at your (shared) dorm door, standing outside with a bouquet of your favorite flowers, complimenting your outfit, holding your hand, opening doors and pushing out chairs

roommate!billie, who let you hang on her arm while you two walked around downtown, window shopping, enjoying a clear night.

roommate!billie, who insisted you two get some cocoa or coffee or something before going home.

the little coffee shop was walk up style, with a cute little patio set up right in front. tables and chairs, and a few little benches. there were cute little fire pits and space heaters littered around the patio, keeping it as warm as it could be.

you sat people watching for a moment while billie brought back two steaming cups of cocoa. you scooted over a bit making room for her while she handed you your cup.

“you warm enough?” her voice was soft and caring.

“perfect,” you replied with a dreamy smile. billie leaned over and kissed your cheek. when she pulled back, she held her cup out to you to ‘cheers’ before you both took a sip. the warm liquid dribbled down, warming your body up. however that didn’t stop you from snuggling into billie’s side, resting your head on her shoulder.

roommate!billie, who spoiled you rotten now that you two had been on a few dates. changing out the flowers on your windowsill so they were always fresh, getting your favorite snacks whenever she stopped at the store, cute little trinkets that made her think of you, and of course you were spoiledddd with kisses and cuddles… and never sleeping alone in your bed.

roommate!billie, who held you close every night regardless of how you two slept. she loved being the big spoon, and would never admit she loved being the little spoon more. she slept better when you had your head on her chest, the weight of your body relaxing her.

roommate!you, who had secret plans for valentine’s day. you were terrified, but you were ready.

you had sent some of your mutual friends on a mission to keep her distracted all day so you could plan. they went to the gym, then starbucks to work on some homework, a usual saturday routine. but she missed you, especially being such a lovey dovey day.

after some crappy meal hall dinner, the girls finally dropped billie off at your dorm building, giddy with excitement about what was to happen when billie got upstairs.

your heart sped up when you heard billie’s key in the door, smoothing out your hair and dress one last time before billie walked in. her jaw dropped.

the room was bathed in a soft pink light from your little sunset lamp, there were rose petals on the floor, and a gift basket stuffed to the brim sitting on billie’s bed. most importantly, there was a boxed cake sitting in your hands. the clear top reflecting the light a bit.

“happy valentine’s day, bub.” your voice was shaky, but soft as you smiled at the girl walking towards you.

“happy valentine’s day, to you too. did you.. did you do all this for me?” she slowly set her bag down and started to remove her jacket. you nodded sheepishly.

“i got you um.. i got you a cake, it’s vegan everything!” you lifted the cake a tiny bit so she could come look at it. expecting the frills of roses and some cheesy love saying on it- but no.

you held your breath, watching her face shift from genuine intrigue, to surprise and adoration.

“will you be my girlfriend?” was piped onto the cake, surrounded by yes, roses and other icing flowers but who cares about the damn flowers.

billie looked up at you with wide, sparkly, glossy eyes, before she nodded softly, her smile growing.

“baby,” she started, her brows furrowing in awe. “yeah, baby. yes of course.”

you let out the breath you were holding before practically squealing. quickly billie took the cake from your hands placing it on your desk before it got dropped.

“c’mere,” she engulfed you in a tight hug, kissing your cheek on the way.

“so, does this mean you’re.. are you..” she started, not wanting to push something onto you.

“i like girls. and maybe i still like guys, i have no clue.” billie nodded in validation and pride for her best friend making this next step. “all i know is that i like you. like, i really, really like you. i’ve liked you since i fell asleep on you after talking about my first kiss on halloween, and i liked you even more when jack told me you had told him all about how i wanted my first kiss to go. and god don’t even get me started on how down bad i’ve been since you kissed me on your birthday billie eilish,” billie shuddered, billie eilish is the name she had been tinkering with as her professional name for the music industry, that only you know about. “i’m falling so hard for you.” you added with a whisper, before she finally closed the gap with a kiss.

a kiss so perfect, early 2000’s rom coms called and wanted their tropes back.

“thank fucking god,” billie let out making you giggle. “finneas is like, one story away from sewing my mouth shut so i don’t talk about you anymore.”

“really? you.. you talk about me at home?” your eyes grew wide and your smile sheepish.

“baby… you think halloween was a long time ago?? i had butterflies the whole time you explained why blue light is bad for sleep but red is too aggressive for you so that’s why you use purple. yeah i fucking talk about you at home. i am so down bad for you, baby.”

your face flushed, “i love it when you call me that,”

“what, ‘baby’??” you nodded giddily.

“well then good thing you’re my baby now.”

#gracie eilish #billie eilish #wlw #fanfiction #billie eilish x reader #billie eilish fluff #billie eilish fic #billie eilish x fem!reader #billie x you #billie eilish x you #billie eilish fanfiction #billie eilish smut #billie x reader #billie eilish x y/n #billie eilish x female reader #billie x y/n #billie x fem reader #billie eilish x smut

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mattslilies · 2 days ago

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Disrupting The Class - M.S.

"you were distracting me." or... the one where a simple fidgeting habit distracts professor!matt from his lecture, and he takes it out on you afterwards. warnings: suggestive comments/texts, oral (m receiving), unprotected sex(do not do), teacher/student dynamic, both characters are 21+, kinda vanilla smut tbh! word count: 1.4k a/n: i do not own any sort of professor/teacher!matt au! i am unsure who did this first, but all credit goes to them! if you know, please tell me so i can tag them for credit! divider credit goes to @cursed-carmine! also, a tag for the lovely @viviansturns who asked for more prof!matt fics!

you had a habit of putting things in your mouth. it's how you'd always been. it was a bit of an oral fixation, if you were being completely honest, but it was your way of self soothing. chewing on something helped your brain focus, making sure that you weren't searching for outside stimulation while getting whatever you needed to done.

hence why you were currently chewing on the end of your pen, paused in your process of scribbling down notes in lecture. you'd already gotten ahead and had typed them all down on your laptop the evening before, but following along in class with handwritten notes helped keep you memorize the information better, and kept you engaged with class.

not like you needed any help to stay engaged in this class, though.

your professor was strikingly beautiful. handsome didn't cover it. his facial structure was sharp, a gorgeous jawline that was currently covered in a thin layer of facial hair that drove you absolutely insane.

you had quite the interesting relationship with professor sturniolo. the late nights in his office, the consistent glances at each other, the texts that lived on your phone... you needed no extra motivation to be paying attention in his class.

however, you'd zoned out, not realizing that the nub of the pen had made it's way between your lips. but matt realized, and watching you was starting to drive him crazy. he stumbled over one of his slides before pulling himself together, instructing the class to begin working on an assignment that was posted.

completely oblivious to the fact that you were the cause of his distress, you took out your phone, pulling up his contact and beginning to type.

"you look pretty flustered, you okay?"

his phone vibrated in his pocket, and he pointedly ignored it, not making eye contact with you. you shrugged it off, it being common for matt to text you back later. starting your assignment, you didn't think anything of it, watching him slowly circle the room and answer questions.

he made his way towards your side of the classroom, taking an agonizingly long time to end up beside your seat, glancing over at your work. he nodded in approval before speaking, pointing at a part in your typing.

"try to explain this in a little more depth. otherwise, you're doing great. good job."

he knew what simple praise did to you, especially coming from him. but that didn't stop him from walking away, not sparing you another look. you spared him many looks, noticing that he was half-hard in his pants. anyone who didn't know him wouldn't realize, but since you had been the cause of many of those bulges, you noticed immediately.

you smiled to yourself, knowing something must've been bothering him, but you still hadn't connected the dots as to what. you finished your assignment, pen in your mouth the entire time, before class wrapped up.

packing up your things, you grabbed your bag and stood to let the other people in your row exit before you, finding reasons to stall and leave the lecture hall last. you had to capitalize on this opportunity to mess with matt.

as everyone quickly filed out, leaving for their next classes or going to find something to eat for lunch, you wandered down to matt's desk, leaning over it and giving him the most innocent smile you could muster.

"you okay, baby? you struggled a bit today."

he slid a file back into his drawer, closing it before looking up at you. his eyes were filled with arousal, but a slight bit of amusement, and a little bit of dominance. you might think you had the upper hand, but he was definitely planning on showing you that you did not.

"you were distracting me."

you walked around his desk, grabbing his tie and playing with it between your hands.

"was i? i wasn't even doing anything. i don't know how i could've possibly distracted you so much for you to be stuttering over your lecture."

he removed his tie from your hands, turning in his chair to face his computer as he scrolled through the assignment submissions.

"you kept chewing on that damn pen."

you laughed, not expecting that to have been the reason that matt was so out of it. something so small couldn't have been such a big deal to him, right?

wrong.

he turned back to face you, his face firm.

"what, you think it's funny to distract me from my lectures? to keep me from successfully doing my job?"

you paused your next giggle, shaking your head.

"no."

he raised an eyebrow, an expectant look on his face. you swallowed before answering again.

"no, sir."

he hummed, nodding as he reached his hand down to undo his belt buckle.

"you clearly like having things in your mouth so much. help me out with this."

he motioned for you to move between his legs, and you dropped to your knees obediently, mouth nearly watering at the idea. anyone could walk in and see you desperate to suck off you professor, but the thought only made you more excited, arousal pooling in your underwear.

helping him shove his pants down, you immediately wrapped your hand around him, spitting on his tip before stroking it over his shaft. sealing your lips around him, you suckled around his tip, causing his head to fall back against the top of his chair, a sigh escaping his mouth.

"that's it- shit, mhm, perfect-"

you worked him quickly as he moaned above you, his hand fisting your hair and beginning to fuck your mouth. he let you work him right to the edge, thighs shaking around your head and lower stomach tensing, before stopping you.

"fuck, baby."

he pulled you off of him, gasping.

"you're way too good at that."

you smiled, lips red, swollen, and glossy, his precum glistening on them, and he could've cum right there and then just from looking at you.

"get up."

his words were quick but not sharp, straight to the point as he bent you over his desk, shoving things out of the way before roughly tugging down your clothes, kicking them somewhere behind you both.

slowly pushing in, a low groan escaped him as the warmth of you surrounded him, squeezing him so tight he couldn't breathe. you whimpered, head falling forward onto the desk as you processed the stretch of him. no matter how many times you did this with him, it always felt like he was going to split you open.

s-so full!"

you cried out as he snapped his hips into you, beginning to piston them at an angle that made you start to moan consistently, body trembling underneath him. as you grew louder in volume, he quickly reached a hand around towards your face, pushing two fingers into your mouth, pressing them down onto your tongue.

"you've got a little oral fixation, huh, baby? suck, and keep your mouth shut."

you quickly wrapped your mouth around him, grateful for something to suck on, but also something to keep you quiet, because while the thought of being caught made you soak matt's cock, you didn't want that to actually happen.

muffled whines and moans escaped your lips as matt continued to ruin you, filthy words falling from his lips.

"squeezin' me so tight, sweetheart, fuck, doing so good for me-"

your arms had gone completely boneless, no longer holding you up, the only thing keeping you from collapsing being matt's hand on your hip.

"go on, baby, cum for me. i can feel you're close, your legs are shaking, honey."

after being granted permission, it didn't take long for you to spill, clenching tight around matt's shaft and sobbing onto his fingers as your entire body went limp.

matt fucked you through it, a moan of immense euphoria leaving his lips as he thrusted in a few more times, pulsing inside of you as he spurted his load before stilling.

slowly pulling out as to not overstimulate you, he gently wiped up the mixture of both of your cum that had started leaking down your legs with napkins he kept in his desk drawer. he helped you off the desk, grabbing your clothes and helping you put them back on as he softly comforted you, praise spilling throughout the room.

as you sat in his lap, straddling his waist, a firm hand caressed your back.

"don't disrupt my class again, sweetheart."

taglist <3

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if you would like to be added to my taglist, click here!

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xylatox · 3 days ago

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oh my god Yun, I swear anytime I read a Beomgyu fic of yours I become closer to adding him to my bias line (I'm trying my best to stay strong)

Crave || Choi Beomgyu

Craving the touch you hadn’t given all day, Beomgyu slipped a strawberry candy past your lips—hoping you'd start craving him instead.

Choi Beomgyu x afab!reader

⊹₊⟡⋆ 1.4k

warning: suggestive, kissing, foodplay (?) passing of candies from mouth to mouth lol, dry humping, [probably missed some i'm sleep deprived]

i actually despise strawberry candies mannn :// Reblogging/feedbacks will be much appreciated!

Beomgyu was an unpredictable man.

Even after years of being in this relationship, he still managed to surprise you—sometimes with his words, often with his thoughtfulness, and most times with the way he touched you like he hadn’t memorized you already. And honestly, you liked this part of him. The spontaneity. The refusal to ever let things settle into anything close to boring.

You placed the last piece of silverware on the table and stepped away, rubbing your palm with a napkin as you turned back toward the kitchen. The counter was cluttered with serving platters and utensils from the dinner preparations, and you focused on organizing them. Tonight was a dinner party you were hosting for your friends.

You were so focused on your work that you didn’t hear the soft padding of footsteps behind you, didn’t register his presence until two arms slipped around your waist from behind and pulled you back into a firm chest.

His mouth was on your shoulder before you could even say his name, warm and full and pressing into the curve of your skin. You felt him exhale, the sound brushing your ear as his nose nudged at the base of your neck.

“I couldn’t get you to myself the entire evening,” he muttered, voice muffled as he kissed along the junction between your neck and shoulder. “I missed you, love.”

There was a familiar pout to his tone, that same whine he sometimes used when you were too busy or distracted to focus on him. Beomgyu had always been clingy when it came to you. He never liked being in the same room and not being able to reach you. And you understood this part of him too—how much he craved time with you, how affection made him feel more than any word could.

But whatever thought was formulating earlier in your mind disappeared the moment his lips found the pulse point. He bit down softly before pressing a warm open-mouthed kiss like he meant to taste every inch of skin he could reach without you stopping him. Your head tilted back against his shoulder involuntarily, the movement giving him more access, and he took it without hesitation, his tongue darting out to trace a path up to your ear. His breath was warm, and the soft sounds he made sent a pulse through your entire frame.

Your fingers gripped the counter instinctively, grounding yourself against the marble’s chill, but the rest of you was melting fast.

“Gyu…” you whispered, voice caught between a sigh and a plea. You turned your head slightly, just enough to let him catch a glimpse of the mess he was making of you without even trying.

Beomgyu’s eyes were dark and heady, and it only fueled the fire that was building inside you. His hand wrapped around the side of your jaw, holding your face in place as his lips caught yours. His teeth caught your bottom lip, and when you groaned, soft and muffled, his mind went completely blank except for one thought.

He wants to absolutely devour you.

With a silent curse, he grabbed your waist and spun you to face him as he backed you up against the counter. The marble was cold against your lower back, but it was the heat of his mouth that stole your breath. His lips crashed into yours with a force that knocked every coherent thought from your head. Your eyes flew open when his tongue pressed insistently between your lips, feeling him pushing something solid—a candy into your mouth, slick and sweet as it rolled over your tongue. The sharp taste of strawberry burst across your senses, catching you so off guard that you moaned into him.

“B-Beomgyu, please—” you gasped between breaths, barely able to form the words, but he didn’t let up. One of his hands slid behind your head, cradling it with surprising tenderness even as his kiss grew more intense.

The candy melted from the heat between you, a slow dissolve that mirrored the state inside your chest.

You could barely keep your balance with the way your knees buckled, and Beomgyu—sensing it without needing to look—gripped your hip with one hand and held you up with the sheer steadiness of his body against yours. The kiss turned messier as he sucked on your tongue, drawing a low moan from your throat that vibrated against his mouth.

He pulled back slightly, just enough to let you gulp down some air, and the smirk that lifted one corner of his lips looked downright devious.

In one swift movement, he hooked his arms beneath your thighs and lifted you onto the counter as though you weighed nothing, the force of his desire slipping through the cracks of his restraint. He stood between your legs, palms running along your thighs, guiding you closer to the edge until you were pressed against him.

You wanted to warn him that the guests might be arriving any moment now, but you couldn't find the will nor the strength in you to tell him to stop.

“Missed you, so fucking much,” he murmured against your neck. The low timbre of his voice sent a shiver down your spine as his lips found the sensitive curve beneath your jaw, kissing, nipping, mouthing his way to every place he remembered made you lose your breath. He lingered there, listening to your reactions like they were a melody, pleased every time he found a new sound.

The room had faded around you both. You didn’t even notice when your back met the couch cushions. The lighting from the nearby lamp brushed your skin in soft pools of glow, casting the heat in your cheeks in dusky pinks and golds. Beomgyu hovered above you, one arm braced beside your head, his gaze fixed on you like he couldn’t afford to blink. His fingers dipped beneath your shirt at the waist, resting on your bare skin, his thumb tracing mindless patterns that sent goosebumps everywhere.

Your chest rose and fell unevenly, your lips kiss-swollen and parted, still tasting the remains of strawberry on your tongue. Your mind, fogged and reeling, could only focus on the need curling deep inside your belly.

You wanted more—of his hands, his mouth, the way his touch unraveled every nerve in your body. You don't know how he even thought of the idea to kiss you with a candy, but it did the work and now that you got a taste of it, you simply didn't want to stop.

You reached for him, fingers bunching at the front of his shirt and tugging him down to you. “Please,” you whispered, voice rough and worn from all the breathless moans he’d pulled from you. “I need you.”

Beomgyu froze for a heartbeat, and then something snapped in him. His eyes darkened, the softness in them drowned by a far more visceral kind of want. He didn’t look away as he leaned in, breathing you in as he slid a hand under the small of your back to pull you even closer as if he couldn’t stand even a breath of space between you.

“I’ve got you,” he said lowly, his nose brushing against yours. “Let me take care of you.”

He positioned himself above you, one leg slipping between yours. He pushed forward with his hips, gently nudging your thighs apart until your legs wrapped around him instinctively. He fit there like a puzzle, the lines of his body molding to yours in perfect sync. Your breath hitched, chest brushing his with each inhale, your arms wound around his shoulders.

The slow rolls of his hips against your core sent jolts of pleasure coursing through you. The barrier of your clothes didn’t get in the way, rather the friction only heightened the need to chase the high for both of you.

His lips hovered over yours, nearly touching—

—and then, the doorbell rang.

The sound sliced through the haze like ice water.

No, no, no, this can’t be happening.

Beomgyu stopped mid-motion, his body taut above yours, caught between disbelief and raw, fraying restraint. You almost whimpered, chasing his mouth with yours, head lifting in desperate protest. But he drew back just slightly, and it felt like the world tilted the wrong way.

The sound you let out made him stare down at you, jaw clenched so tightly you could see the flicker of muscle near his ear, his chest heaving against yours. He took a deep breath, tongue prodding the inside of his cheek.

He dipped his head down again and took your hand instead, pressing a kiss to your fingers while a breathless laugh escaped his throat.

“I promise you, I'm going to give you the best time of your life later tonight.”

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