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loveinhawkins · 8 months ago

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ao3

About twenty minutes into the hike, Steve hears Eddie’s breathing change.

They’re bringing up the rear, but they’re still close enough for some of the group’s conversations to be within earshot—Robin and Nancy leading in a silently agreed upon formation, despite Dustin holding the compass. That way, no matter what, the kids are shielded.

Speaking of the kids, they’re currently having a passionate discussion about who among them will reach the Gate the fastest—and yeah, there’s not a chance in hell that’s happening, Steve thinks, but they don’t need to know that yet.

It’s when the debate specifically turns to who’s the best swimmer that he notices the switch in Eddie’s breathing, air sucked in through clenched teeth. A glance behind confirms Steve’s suspicions; Eddie’s breaking away from the party, his face white, eyes steadfastly on the forest floor.

Steve leaves him be, doesn’t draw any attention to it—but he keeps watch in his peripheral, so he spots exactly when Eddie staggers off, soon swallowed up by the trees. He can still hear his footsteps, though, which is reassuring.

Slowly, making sure it seems casual, Steve bends down and picks up the smallest rock he can find, rubs his thumb across it to make sure the edges are smooth enough.

He throws, hits his target: the back of Dustin’s head.

Predictably, Dustin whirls around, mouth already open to voice his indignation.

Steve quickly puts a finger to his lips.

While Dustin doesn’t look all that thrilled about it, he obligingly stays silent. He’s damn quick on the uptake, of course; Steve can see the spark of understanding in his eyes when he notices that Eddie is missing.

He steps forward with urgency, but Steve’s just as quick to shake his head.

No, it’s okay. I’m on it.

He knows it’s not a coincidence that Eddie left so quietly—that having the kids see him in another moment of vulnerability is probably too much to handle on top of the ongoing nightmare he’s found himself in. Steve gets it; God, if he were in Eddie’s shoes, he’d be taking any opportunity that he could to get some privacy.

Even without words, it’s obvious that Dustin wants to protest, frowning hard.

Steve raises an eyebrow meaningfully. Dude, trust me.

Dustin heaves a silent, dramatic sigh, but he nods all the same.

Steve gestures for the water bottle Dustin’s got in his backpack. Mimes for Dustin to throw it to him.

Dustin brings out the bottle, but doesn’t throw it immediately, like he’s doubtful Steve will make the catch.

Steve rolls his eyes. Seriously? Dickhead.

Dustin rolls his eyes right back.

When he throws the bottle, Steve catches it one-handed as a point of pride.

Dustin’s theatrics grow: he gasps, all slack-jawed, wide-eyed disbelief; Steve flips him off.

Then Dustin taps his watch deliberately.

Steve softens, gives him a brief thumbs up before following where Eddie went. He looks back a couple of times, reassured by the sight of Robin and Nancy stopping and rearranging themselves so the group formation is kept up in his absence.

It doesn’t take long to find Eddie. He hears him first, harsh, bitten off retching—and while that’s not exactly a surprise, the sound still makes Steve’s heart sink.

Eddie’s doubled over, leaning against a tree with one hand. Steve feels a sudden impulse to pull his hair back for him but resists it—remembers Eddie violently flinching away from any touch in the boathouse.

So he just makes sure his presence is nice and obvious without being overwhelming—takes leisurely, even footsteps. He sits down opposite, just close enough that Eddie could reach out if he needed to.

But he doesn’t. He’s barely stopped retching before he’s trying to straighten up, grip slipping against the bark. Steve winces at the thought of splinters digging into his palm.

“Woah, man, take it easy—”

“M’fine,” Eddie mutters. He scoffs harshly, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. He’s shaking. “This is kinda normal for me now.”

His head’s still half bowed, hair falling across his face like he doesn’t want to be seen. It doesn’t stop Steve from noticing the evidence of tears on his face; he thinks they’re simply from the exertion of throwing up, but he can’t be sure.

“Just—just give yourself a minute,” Steve says. “We’ve got time.”

He stretches out right there on the ground, slow and deliberate. It takes a second or two before Eddie—after another wobbly attempt at standing—mirrors him: sinking down until he’s sat, back pressed up against the tree trunk.

Steve listens to his breathing. It’s lost that nauseated gritted teeth sound, but it hitches once, twice, and then—

“I can’t stop—” Eddie covers his face with his hands.

Steve shuffles closer. “You’re okay.”

But Eddie shakes his head. He drops his hands, leans his head back against the tree. His eyes are distant. Haunted. Steve doesn’t need to guess about what he’s seeing.

“Eddie—”

“You know the funniest thing?” Eddie gasps out, like it isn’t funny at all. “I keep thinking if—if only I hadn’t ditched swimming lessons, I might’ve l-learned something fucking useful.”

At a loss for what to say, Steve tries for something normal. Thinks back to high school, something far away from all of this…

“You showed up to swimming,” he says. “I remember.”

He does, though it’s faint.

Honestly, he spent as little time as he could changing in the showers, wanting to make the most out of time in the pool. He didn’t even goof off with Tommy H or any of the other guys, preferring to do solo laps in the deep end. It was repetitive, calming; he treated it like a vacation from the adrenaline of being on the swim team.

Then came that November, and the whole routine became an escape from much more.

Eddie gives him a look that might’ve passed for amusement at one point, if his breathing wasn’t still so shallow.

“Yeah, I—I showed up for, like, the first week, Harrington. Fucking Lewinsky stole my clothes, you only let that kinda thing happen once.”

“I’m sorry,” Steve says sincerely. “I didn’t know.”

A wan flicker of a smile passes across Eddie’s face. “Of course you didn’t,” he says. It’s not an accusation. “You were, like, way too busy being part fish.”

Steve huffs a laugh through his nose, but Eddie doesn’t join in. Instead his breathing quickens, like the distraction of high school hasn’t been nearly enough.

“It’s just—I should’ve been more—should’ve known h-how to—” He shakes his head again. Swallows. “After Chr—”

He chokes on her name.

Steve reaches out, only to hesitate and leave his hand hovering in the air between them. “Hey, man, there’s nothing you could’ve—”

“What if it’s not a coincidence?” Eddie whispers. “What if there’s—there’s a… there’s gotta be a reason that—that it’s me.”

Steve moves closer still. Draws back at the last second; Eddie’s still trembling.

“That’s bullshit,” Steve says firmly.

Eddie laughs bitterly. “Is it? D-don’t fucking kid yourself, Harrington, s’not exactly looking good. Two people died r-right in front of me, and I just…” He presses the heels of his hands to his eyes. “I’d arrest me.”

“Stop, would you just—”

“Come on, man. You’ve gotta know, even if Wheeler and Buckley are still too polite to say it.” Eddie’s voice is soft in resignation. “I’m just wasting your time.”

It’s Steve’s turn to scoff. “Do you seriously think we’d be doing all of this if we thought you were a lost cause?”

Eddie shrugs, the sleeves of his leather jacket scraping against the bark. “There’s only so many signs a guy can ignore, right? Hell, even my watch has stopped, like I’m literally outta fucking time.”

“Okay, no wonder you failed English,” Steve says, “that is overwrought as shit, dude.”

The jab doesn’t quite land—his barely concealed worry just makes him sound sharp. Fraught.

But Eddie’s eyes widen in surprise, and he finally seems speechless, and this is it, Steve realises, the one chance he has to get through to him.

“Nothing prepares you for this shit, Eddie,” he says—thinks of 1983, of seeing the impossible. Terrified out of his mind. “I mean it, there’s nothing you could’ve done. Nothing,” he adds pointedly, when it looks like Eddie might protest. “Chrissy, Patrick, it’s fucking awful what they—but it’s not—not a, um. Not a reflection on—it’s not your fault.”

It’s not enough, Steve knows it—feels acutely like a shitty school guidance counsellor, only able to parrot empty platitudes. He has to dig deeper.

He looks at Eddie directly, unflinching. Can read the fear lurking in his eyes, the one he keeps dancing around.

A fierce emotion floods Steve’s chest—like being flung into the deep end without warning, the water already over your head before you can take a breath.

He’s felt it before, mixed up in a wave of anger as he watched Powell raise that goddamn picture to the camera.

Don’t you go believing a word this town says about you, Eddie Munson. Don’t you dare.

Steve braves a touch, places a hand on Eddie’s knee. Eddie doesn’t move.

“You’re not the curse, Eddie. There’s nothing wrong with you.”

Eddie shudders. He looks away, but not quick enough to hide the definite tears this time.

Steve waits. He doesn’t move his hand for a long moment.

When Eddie’s finished roughly wiping at his face with his sleeve, Steve hands over the water bottle. He’s silently relieved that Eddie takes it without a fight, like accepting even this smallest amount of help means there’s still a part of him that hasn’t given up yet.

There’s still hope.

After a few sips, Eddie sets the water bottle aside. He’s breathing deeper now, and when he looks up, his eyes have that keen, almost analytical gaze.

“What’s…?” he murmurs, and then he’s the one that’s reaching out, as if without thinking, fingertips lightly brushing against Steve’s forehead.

He feels cold, Steve thinks. Like he’s still half frozen from falling into the lake.

“Did you… cut yourself on something?” Eddie says.

Steve’s about to say no automatically before he remembers.

“Right, yeah. Um, our flashlights kinda… exploded when…”

He trails off. Watches with sympathy as Eddie fills in the gaps.

“Oh,” Eddie says very quietly.

He keeps following the trail of the cut—Steve can still feel the chill of him: the light pressure travelling across his skin, like Eddie needs the motion to stay calm.

“Ow,” Eddie says, hushed, almost as if it happened to him, too. “You’re lucky you didn’t get glass in your eye, dude.”

Steve doesn’t say what he’s thinking—that he’d have dealt with it, that he would’ve been fine—because he thinks he understands: that maybe by focusing on something small, it helps keep Eddie here, temporarily blocks out the sight of Chrissy and Patrick’s deaths.

He checks his watch. They’re just creeping up on fifteen minutes; they’d better make tracks soon.

He stands but not abruptly, conscious of not rushing Eddie unnecessarily.

“If we cut across, uh, this way,” he demonstrates with one hand as Eddie gets to his feet, “we’ll catch up pretty quick. Don’t need Henderson’s compass to tell me the way. Honestly, he acts like he knows places better than me when I’ve known them, like, all my life. He does it all the damn time.”

Eddie lets out a laugh that still sounds slightly wet; he sniffs as if to cover up the sound. His smile is shaky at best, but it seems genuine.

“Man, he does that to me, too. What is up with that? Last week, he swore he found some shortcut to the Hellfire room that I’d be totally unaware of, like I’ve not spent forever in the damn building.”

He falls into step with Steve as they walk on, and Steve catches the very slight grimace he makes as he swallows.

Steve checks his jeans pocket. It turns out luck is on his side, at least for this: he’s got a couple of mints, still unwrapped.

When he offers some to Eddie, he gets a heartfelt thanks in reply. But at the same time, Eddie also looks suspiciously close to fighting a smirk.

“What?”

“Nothing!” But the smirk’s definitely won; Eddie tucks the mint into the corner of his mouth as he says, “Just didn’t realise I was getting the full Skull Rock experience.”

It takes a second for Steve to catch on. “The experience—?”

Eddie’s smirk grows. “Your reputation precedes you.”

Steve snorts. “Fuck off, are you twelve?”

“Maybe,” Eddie says, halfway to singsong.

Steve shakes his head, half in amusement, half in thought. Sharing juvenile kisses with girls at Skull Rock feels a world away, almost like it happened to someone else. That’s not even why the mints were in his pocket in the first place—not that he’s gonna put a dampener on Eddie’s teasing or anything. In truth, the habit began the night after Starcourt, using a mint—despite his stinging mouth—to help keep himself awake.

Of course he doesn’t say all of that. Chooses instead to nudge Eddie in the side, fighting a smirk of his own.

Eddie acts like he’s been dramatically winded in response, makes a crack about how that move wouldn’t fall under the Skull Rock experience.

Steve thinks he’s getting a handle on how to read him, charting the improvement of his mood through just how stupid he sounds—when smiling no longer seems like it’ll fracture his face from the strain.

By the time they catch up with the others, they’re both stifling laughter (Steve keeps having to remind himself that this is technically a stealth mission), Eddie reaching across to mess with Steve’s hair in retaliation for being repeatedly nudged in the ribs. His hands feel warmer now, Steve realises with a smile, as he pushes Eddie back with a forearm against his chest.

For the most part, it looks like their disappearances haven’t been noticed—Nancy quietly moving to rejoin Robin at the front as if by chance. Steve knows better, knows everything has been carefully coordinated to look that way; as Eddie relaxes at his side, he feels a rush of gratitude for the group’s tact.

Granted, Dustin kind of breaks the illusion when he turns around and starts walking backwards—but what he lacks in subtlety he makes up for in entertainment: using needlessly big, questioning gestures, brow furrowed in concentration.

When Dustin widens his eyes impatiently, Steve relents and nudges Eddie again. “He’s not gonna stop til you respond, trust me.”

“Hmm? Oh.”

Eddie lifts up Dustin’s water bottle with a grin and gives a thumbs up with his free hand.

Dustin brightens, replying with a thumbs up of his own—still stubbornly walking backwards like it’s simply his preferred way to travel.

“Gonna bet on how long it takes for him to fall flat on his face?” Steve says in an undertone.

Eddie snorts in a way that can’t be disguised as anything else, though he gives it a shot with the world’s least convincing cough. He gives up in the next breath, chuckling through a, “Steve,” in joking disapproval, like Steve’s such a terrible influence, which just sets them both off again.

Dustin’s probably too far away to hear them properly, but he’s clearly got the gist, eyes narrowing in suspicion. He does a series of emphatic gestures that Steve can’t make sense of; it just looks like he’s doing a complicated mime for charades.

Eddie must get the same impression because he soon calls out with a shit-eating grin, “Book or movie?”

Dustin flips them both off, but he can’t quite pull off the deadpan expression, his lips twitching, and Steve knows for sure that he’s hiding a laugh when he turns back around to walk with Max and Lucas.

Eddie smiles as if he’s noticed the same thing. He jostles their shoulders one last time, and it feels like there’s something more intentional behind it. A touch that lingers.

It’s easy when there’s still a long walk ahead of them—when there’s still daylight—to be convinced that they’ve got all the time in the world. Steve’s become kind of an expert at it: in his head, he could make swimming lessons last forever.

But even that old trick doesn’t last; he feels the clock restart as soon as that damn vine wraps around his ankle, cold and unyielding.

In the split second before being dragged under the lake, all he can think is thank God the kids aren’t here.

The thought follows him all the way into The Upside Down—later joined by the fervent wish that he could somehow summon up Dustin’s water bottle, as his head spins through the hopefully staunched bat bites.

“Christ, Harrington,” Eddie says when the dizziness persists, and Steve barely catches himself before falling against a vineless tree. “D’you ever take your own advice?”

“What?” Steve says faintly.

He screws up his eyes, forces himself to blink until his vision doesn’t waver—braces his weight against the tree with a sigh, ready to push himself up—

But Eddie’s hand is suddenly on top of his, halting him.

“Just… wait,” Eddie says. “Just a minute.”

Steve doesn’t know if it is a minute; he tries to keep track in his head, but the seconds slip away from him, and all he can focus on is each breath he takes, until they lose that gasping edge, grow deeper. Slower.

The world sharpens around him, like he’s been underwater without realising and has finally broken through to the surface. He feels the muted scratch of damp wood beneath his palm. The pressure of Eddie’s hand—not enough to hurt, but enough for Steve to tell that he’s still freaked out.

“I’m okay,” he says, looking Eddie in the eye. Does his best to silently project the sentiment of I’m not gonna collapse on you, I promise. “We’re not far from Nancy’s place.”

He can see a flicker of light just ahead, off to the side—thankfully not spots in his vision, just the flashlight he gave to Robin and Nancy; he’d tried to make it sound like he was doing them a favour when he actually thought it’d be best to leave both his hands free, just in case he did end up collapsing. At least he’d have a chance to brace for a fall.

There’s an uncertain air to how the girls are walking, and Steve suspects they feel a little like him: at a loss without the kids sandwiched between them. Now the usual priorities are thrown to the wind; what do you do when you want to shield everyone, all at once?

Eddie’s surveying him like he’s far from convinced by his definition of ‘okay.’

Still, he laughs weakly and says, “Good to know your navigating skills still work in this fucking hellhole.”

Steve’s hand shifts beneath Eddie’s as he stands up properly; it’s only then that Eddie moves away.

“Not far, not far,” he’s muttering under his breath, like he’s trying to reassure himself. His voice cracks in quiet desperation, “God, how long have we even been down here?”

Steve glances down to his wrist. He’s met with a watch face that’s smashed, jagged cracks running through it so he can’t even read the time it must’ve stopped at.

“Hey,” Steve says wryly, tilting his wrist so Eddie can see, “we match.”

Eddie doesn’t laugh, doesn’t even crack a smile. His eyes just go all big and dismayed, like he’s looking at something far worse than a broken watch.

Steve suddenly wants to tell him that it’s fine, to cover up his wrist like it’s somehow more gruesome than the wounds on his stomach—maybe it is, because Eddie keeps staring like he’s bleeding out right in front of him.

“Shit, Steve,” Eddie whispers with this horrible, helpless little laugh—almost like he’s on the verge of tears. He sounds like he did after throwing up, trying to say that something was funny when it was anything but. “You’ve had that forever.”

And Steve feels a rush of something still too big and complex to name, flickers of emotion too rapid to keep track of: the initial pang of sadness he’d pushed aside because the watch had been his grandfather’s, after all; wondering faintly what classes Eddie had shared with him, that would allow him enough time to notice something so small, you’ve had that forever—

So what? Steve thinks. So what, what does it fucking matter?

He’d rip the watch off if it’d help, Eddie’s too, stamp and grind them down until they’re indistinguishable from the ash in this place, and who gives a shit if it’s overwrought, it doesn’t have to mean anything—they still have time; they’re owed it.

He doesn’t do any of that, because the ground shakes again, and he’s ready—anticipates the stumble Eddie makes and reaches out to correct it.

They land safely away from any vines.

Eddie’s hand is clamped around his wrist, right at the part where the watch strap used to rub against his skin—back in sophomore year, when he’d always put it on too tight in fear of losing it; “Sorry, sorry,” Eddie’s mouthing, out of breath from the fall, but Steve’s holding on just as tightly, can feel Eddie’s pulse thundering beneath his fingertips.

And it’s so fast and frantic that Steve thinks he can hear it, too, a sound that he can’t get away from, in spite of it all: like a clock ticking. Counting down.

WRIST WATCH The explosive time shackle That never goes off Eternal zero Synchronize your deaths —Philip Murray

#s4 missing scenes we are so back baby #the hike from Skull Rock to Lover’s Lake #pre steddie #steddie #steddie fic #steve and dustin #eddie and dustin #steve harrington #eddie munson #steve x eddie

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stillmonsterz · 9 months ago

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10th Street

pairing: jake sim x reader, jay park x reader kind of (one-sided genre: raw sex with jake :/ summary: you go on a date with jay and it's looking bleak, but the bartender comes around to save the day. warnings: alcohol, unprotected sex, drug mentions, crypto mentions, jay is annoying and rich, oral sex.... word count: 5.4k and unproofread.

“What really gets me about these rug pulls,” Jay says, steepling his fingers and placing them under his clean-shaven chin, “is that they’re so damn predictable. Any asshole with an ounce of intelligence could immediately spot that an anonymous crypto project is obviously going to rug. I mean, it’s fucking ridiculous, right?”

“Right,” you say. Your eyes flicker across his face, taking in his features. You wonder if the sex will be worth this, but the cursory glances you’ve taken at his trousers have told you that it probably won’t.

Your date is Jay Park, this entrepreneur who has made a name for himself in your area’s tech scene. When he had initially met you in a bookstore, skulking out of the philosophy section to not so much as introduce himself as to remind you of his name and status, you had assumed that he would have taken you someplace nicer. Instead, he drove you in his McLaren just outside of 10th Street. He had paid for 4 hours parking and had jostled you down the cluttered sidewalk, his Ferragamos clattering. Jay had gripped your elbow as he navigated you past drunkards, children wandering the streets without parents, and women with glassy eyes.

Your voice was joking but belied some of your concern. “Where are you taking me, a traphouse?”

“That’s date number two,” Jay had replied jovially, looking back at you in the light of the setting sun, “if I decide that you’re worth the effort.”

You had bitten back a groan and continued following him down the street. Finally, he had stopped you outside of a seedy dive bar, with a hole in the glass boarded up with cheap planks. The planks themselves had been tagged with obscene phrases written in spray paint and Sharpie. Jay had pointed to one word and smiled at you with childish glee. “I wrote that one,” he had said proudly. “

“You have awful writing,” you had said flatly, crossing your arms. “And this place looks like a crack den.”

“That’s exactly why we’re here,” Jay replied in a wheedling tone, his grip on your elbow sliding down to your hand. He had interlaced your fingers together. “Come on, don’t you wish to shed the trappings of the social strata? Doesn’t this excite you?”

A protest had begun to rise in your throat, but Jay had already pushed the door open, pulling you along. The bar was dimly lit, the lightbulbs flickering in the grimy lamps. Stains cover the cheap plywood flooring, and as Jay led you to a table the planks made harsh squeaking noises. Industrial metal was playing from a tinny radio, and the one LCD TV mounted in the corner was displaying grainy footage of a football game. The patrons crowding around the bar and littering the pool table are what you would expect. Loud, raucous, with hunched backs, jerky movements, and thinning hair. The glances that some of the men situated by the pool table gave you were reason enough to flee, but Jay’s grip is as tight as a viper.

“Don’t mind them,” Jay had whispered, his face nothing short of elated. His head had surveyed the room, and a slow smirk settled onto his lips. His well-coiffed hair, youthful face, and understated yet expensive clothes had set him apart, something that greatly pleased him. He had turned back to you. “You’re probably the most beautiful woman they’ve seen in months.”

“That’s not hard,” you had mumbled, crossing your arms. Your seat was sticky and the table separating you and Jay was riddled with dents and chips.

“Oh, come on,” Jay had whined, spreading his arms widely. “Don’t be such a little princess. Isn’t this nice? This stripping of artifice, this beautiful and vulgar display of Americana? It’s exciting, isn’t it? Gets you kind of…turned on, right?”

You had raised an eyebrow. “Are you?”

“I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t sporting a half-chub, yeah.”

You had groaned. “You’re disgusting, Jay.”

“Stop,” he had muttered, holding up his hand. “I might go full mast….” Jay had stood up hurriedly. “I’m going to get us drinks before I inelegantly bust all over the table. What do you want, like a Cosmopolitan or some shit?”

“No…I kind of wanted a vodka cranberry?”

Jay had scoffed, opening his wallet in a way that showed you his black card. “What, are you someone’s fucking grandmother? Christ.” He had stalked towards the bar, and you had sat there, trying not to make eye contact with any of the barflies. Finally, your gaze had fallen upon Jay talking to the bartender, at whom he was wildly gesticulating. The bartender was nodding patiently, taking a slow swig of a clear liquid in a tumbler. His apron was stained, his plain black V-neck exposed his thin arms and chest, and his eyes sparkled with a youthfulness one wouldn’t expect to find in a place like this.

As you had watched the two of them, the bartender’s eyes had briefly slid towards you. His eyes had widened, then narrowed playfully before he went to prepare the drinks. Your chest had felt warm, but you stifled your smile as Jay had stalked back towards your table.

“I feel bad for that poor bastard,” he had said, sidling into his chair and slinging his arm on the back of it. “Imagine being shackled to this shithole.”

“I thought you liked this shithole.”

“Yeah, as a brief recourse from the ardors of being really fucking rich,” Jay had retorted. “Not for the rest of my life. I mean, goddamn. Look at that prick.”

Jay didn’t have to tell you twice. You took in his messy brown hair, his wide smile, his deft fingers. Then he had walked away from the counter, holding your vodka cranberry and an old-fashioned for Jay. His stride was sure, and he was only looking at you.

“Here you are,” the bartender had said lowly. “Here’s your old-fashioned-“ he had set the drink in front of Jay with little fanfare- “and here’s your vodka cranberry.” He had slid the drink towards you, making brief eye contact with you. He had been so close to you, you could finally make out his name tag – Jake, written in careful capital letters- and you could smell the moonshine on his breath.

“Yeah, thanks,” Jay had muttered.

“Thank you,” you had added softly.

Jake leaned away slowly, his eyes still lingering on you, before politely nodding. “Let me know if you need anything,” he had drawled before walking away.

Jay had taken a long swig of his old-fashioned and takes a look at the retreating figure of Jake before groaning. “He should have made it even more obvious that he wanted you. He should have just shoved his cock into your old-lady drink and swirled it around so we really got the picture. Fuck me, I guess.”

You had sipped your vodka cranberry and laughed. “Oh, come on. You’re reading too much into it.”

“I’m not,” Jay had insisted, pointing at you with an accusatory glare. “He was checking you out in this lascivious manner. It was disgusting. He was looking at you like you were some piece of ass.” He had taken another long drink of his old-fashioned, barely wincing at the burn.

“As opposed to you,” you had said sarcastically, “who only has pure intentions for me, right?”

Jay had laughed. “Hey, it’s different when I objectify you. It’s kind of like when a homeless guy calls you sexy on the sidewalk compared to when an apex predator like me calls you sexy. The point is, that bartender wants you, and it’s revolting.”

You had dared another glance at the bartender, who was blatantly staring at you while sipping his moonshine. “Relax. I’m probably just the first woman with a full set of teeth he’s seen in a while.”

Jay had snickered again. “That’s probably true.” Only a few moments of silence had passed before his voice took on a mischievous, almost playful lilt. “You know, you could probably get something from him…”

You had wiped the corner of your mouth with your thumbs. “What do you mean?”

“You know,” Jay had said with a shrug, “you could get some free drinks out of him if you flirted a little, take advantage of him. You could probably get him to bequeath his life savings, which could maybe buy you a used microwave or a footlong.”

Your mouth had gaped open. “Are you openly encouraging me to flirt with him?”

“Yeah?”

“Are you a cuck or something?”

Jay had laughed again, slapping the table. “Ah, you slay me.” He had reached over and pinched your cheek, an action that made you want to bite his fingers off. “Come on, just shove your cute little ass in his face and flirt. It’ll be funny to make him think that he has a chance with you.”

“I’ll pass,” you had replied. “I mean, it’s not really my thing to just play around with other peoples’ emotions.”

He had sighed and shook his head in disappointment. “Oh, what am I going to do with you? You’re so goddamn innocent. You’re saying that you’ll feel some modicum of guilt if you fuck around with him?”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

Jay had downed the rest of his old-fashioned. “Recalcitrance is for bitches and pussies.”

You had rolled her eyes. “Fine, so I’m a pussy.”

Once again, that finger had found its way into your line of sight. “You know who’s really a pussy? This asshole who had invested in this obvious pump and dump…”

As Jay rambles about crypto, you can’t help but look at the bartender. He’s behind the counter, cleaning a cloudy glass with a rag. When he notices that you’re looking at him, he smiles at you warmly before he looks at Jay and returns his attention to the glass.

Jay corrals you into having another drink, and you listen to his sophomoric opinions on modern society, the current film industry, his tech predictions, and his opinions on right-wing pundits. The only thing stymying your boredom from overtaking you are your furtive glances at the bartender- Jake, you remind yourself. Jake.

Finally, the two of you leave the shady bar, and Jay makes out with you as he presses you against his car. You close your eyes and think about Jake as his tongue probes inside of your mouth with little grace.

“Listen,” you murmur, pulling away from his lips, “I have a presentation early in the morning to give, so I’m going to have to cut this date short…”

“Oh, bullshit,” Jay says, groping your ass on the sidewalk, “you just don’t want to fuck me, is that it? Can you say that for me? Say that you don’t want to fuck me.”

You sigh. “I don’t want to fuck you.”

His hands comes off of your ass and he pulls away from you, shaking his head. “That’s all you had to say. I don’t get women. They’re always like, ‘Men never listen to us!’ Then they don’t explicitly tell us anything, we have to parse through their shit...” As Jay talks, he opens the passenger door. “Get in. Please.”

You slide inside of his car and he closes the door, even buckling your seatbelt for you. Then he walks over to the driver’s seat and drives to your place. He calls you a cock-tease and a winsome harlot and some other choice terms you can barely hear.

When he finally arrives at your place, he begs you for one last kiss. You oblige, he bemoans that he’ll never get to pound that tight strange, and he drives off, presumably to coerce someone into his bed for the night.

Against your better judgement, you take an Uber and walk into that bar on 10th Street alone. This time, the lustful eyes of the barflies are less disgusting than they are frightening. Thankfully, the bar area has been just about cleared out, and you take a seat on a stool with a peeled cover.

Jake is busy cleaning up a spill on the far end of the counter, but when he looks up and sees you his face brightens. He drops the cloth on the table and walks towards you with a goofy smile.

“Hey, babydoll,” he says lowly, eyes sparkling. He doesn’t bother masking the fact that he’s openly checking you out, his eyes lingering on your breasts before meeting your own stare again. “Was your date that boring?”

“He was…nice,” you reply, resting your head on your hand.

Jake laughs. “Yeah, nice, sure.” He shakes his head slightly, like he can’t believe his good fortune. “You want something to drink, babe?”

“Yeah, could you make me something nice and sweet? Nothing too alcoholic.”

Jake points at you, cocking his head. “I’ve got just the thing for you.” He busies himself behind the bar, pouring this and that into a shaker. As he does, he can’t stop stealing glances at you. Every time he does, he smiles and bites his lip before looking away. Finally, he pours a light-yellow drink into a cocktail glass, carefully affixing a lemon wedge to the side before gently sliding it to you. “It’s a lemon drop,” he explains in his slow drawl.

“Thank you.” You pull your wallet out of your purse. “How much is this?”

Jake shakes his head. “Nah, for a pretty girl like you, it’s on the house.”

A smile spreads across your face, and that warmth in your chest spreads. “Are you sure?”

“Surer than anything, babe.” He gestures for you to try it, pushing his mop of hair back.

You take a sip, and your eyes widen. “This is great.” You hold the glass by the stem as you drink it.

“Thank you,” Jake says almost shyly. “Glad that I picked up something useful from bartending this shithole.”

“How long have you been here?”

“Been working here for…ten years? Owned it for three.” Jake takes a long sip of his moonshine, resting his elbows on the counter. “Not my first choice of job, but when you’re an addict and you need money, you’ll take anything.”

Your mouth opens, but Jake quickly answers your question. “I’m clean now. Been clean for five years. My only vice is this.” He holds up his tumbler and shakes it before taking another sip.

“Do you make that yourself?”

Jake nods. “I make it myself, in the back,” he says, a tinge of pride in his voice. “This must be about…80% pure alcohol, I figure.”

“Can I try some?” you ask tentatively.

Jake laughs, his face contorting in disbelief. “Are you sure, babydoll? This could knock a grown man on his feet.”

“Oh, I’m sure,” you say. You hate to back down from a challenge.

With another laugh, he walks over to you, coming around the counter. He holds his glass out to you, and as you wrap your hand around the tumbler he tilts the liquid into your mouth. Jake’s eyes are fixed on your lips, awaiting your reaction.

At first, it does little to you, and you’re about to say something snarky. Then the burning starts, flames licking at your throat, and you double over coughing. Your eyes are screwed up, filled with tears, and your hands clutch the edge of the counter.

You can feel a hand rubbing your back, the other hand gently stroking your arm. “Aw, damn. You took that like a champ.”

Through hacking coughs, you eke out, “I don’t feel like a champ.”

Jake continues rubbing comforting circles on your back. “I’ve seen men collapse to their feet from a shot of moonshine. You’re a little firecracker, ain’t you?”

“Thanks,” you mutter, turning to look at him through watery eyes.

“No problem. You want some water, babydoll?”

You nod, and Jake reluctantly lets go of you to retrieve some water for you. He returns to your side with a glass, holding it up to your lips. The water is like a soothing balm for your throat, and after a long drink you sigh. “Damn.”

Jake sets the glass down and picks up his own tumbler of moonshine, taking a long swig. “That’s moonshine for you.”

Your eyes widen. “How are you drinking that so…so…”

“Like it’s water?” Jake smiles at you cheekily, leaning against the counter next to you so that his elbows are on the edge and he’s facing you. “First of all, I’ve put shit up my nose that burned more than this. Second of all, I’m used to it. When you’re dealing with this day in and day out-“ he gestures widely at the bar- “you need something good and strong to get through it.”

“Your liver must be strong as hell.”

Jake laughs, setting his tumbler down. “It must be pickled at this point.”

You can’t help but laugh, and he playfully pokes your shoulder. “Don’t laugh at my liver. It’s the only reason why I’m still standing.” Then he stills, appraising you with a careful gaze. “I never got your name, babydoll.”

You tell him your name, holding your hand out.

He takes it and shakes it firmly. “Lovely name. Suits you perfectly. My name’s Jake. Jake Sim.”

He’s still holding your hand. “Pleased to meet you.”

“Pleasure’s all mine,” he murmurs. Jake holds your hand to his lips and kisses it, traces of moonshine wetting your hand. He flattens your hand and idly starts tracing your palm, his other hand circling your wrist. “You’ve got nice hands. Real nice.”

“Thank you,” you reply softly. “Yours are very rough.”

Jake laughs somewhat self-consciously. He stops drawing on your palm with his index finger. “Yeah, well, you don’t work at a place like this for damn near a decade without getting a few calluses and cuts.”

Your voice comes out as a whisper. “I like it.” You reach out and gently squeeze the tip of his finger, feeling the callus for yourself, before dropping it.

Jake smiles, but his eyes take on a dangerous glint. His finger trails from the palm of your hand to your wrist, his fingertips gliding over your veins. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

For a moment, both of you continued smiling at each other. Then Jake licks his lips, and he lets go of your wrist. His other hand now strokes your forearm. “Why’d you come back here, baby? Coming to this shithole once is one thing, but twice in the same night…”

You don’t see a point in playing games. “I wanted to see you.”

The smile drops off of Jake’s face, and he leans in towards you. “Yeah? No bullshit?”

“No bullshit.”

His other hand moves to rest on your knee, and his thumb strokes it through your jeans. “Your date didn’t do it for you?”

You shrug, picking up your lemon drop again and sipping it. “He was okay, I guess. He was weird.”

Jake’s voice is becoming low, his eyes serious. His eyes flicker over your body, settling on your thighs. This time, he doesn’t bother looking back up at you. “You don’t like weird?”

“Not that kind of weird,” you reply, your voice catching.

“You don’t like rich prick typa weird?” His voice is amused, and his hand creeps up your knee. “You prefer broke bartender at a shit bar typa weird?”

You lean in, your eyes locked onto his full, plush lips. The smell of moonshine has become less of a deterrent and more intoxicating. “Is that a problem?”

“The opposite,” Jake replies in a husky voice. His lips brush your cheek as he moves to whisper in your ear. “I’m flattered that a gorgeous lady like you has interest in me.” His right hand is now caressing your thigh slowly, intentionally. The other touches your face with his thumb.

“I’m surprised you’re flattered,” you reply, leaning into his touch slightly. “Women here must love you.”

“They love me to get free drinks out of me,” he says dismissively. “Besides…most women who come here aren’t a fraction as pretty as you are. You’re like a gem in a pigsty, you know that?” When you don’t say anything, Jake continues, running his finger along your jaw. “Your date must’ve been as stupid as hell to let you go.” He pulls away from your ear so he can look you in your eyes.

“He couldn’t do anything about it. I just didn’t want him the way-“

Jake’s eyes narrow, and he comes impossibly closer. “The way what?”

“The way I want you.”

There’s a pause, and Jake’s face is unreadable. When he does talk, his voice is strained, “Tell me you aren’t fucking with me. Tell me you’re serious. Say the word, and I’ll shut this place down and kick all these junkies out.”

You swallow, need and desire building up in the pit of your stomach. “I’m serious.”

Jake pulls away from you and walks over to the barflies, telling them to get their drunk asses out. They complain and groan, but they leave without much of a fight. Once they’re all gone, Jake locks the door. “Come here,” he says, beckoning you with his finger.

You walk towards him as if in a trance, and when you’re close he spins you around by the waist and kisses you. You readily kiss him back, your hands resting on his chest. His mouth tastes like moonshine, and you can even taste a hint of his sharp aftershave. Jake presses you up against the door, placing his knee in between your legs to trap you. The kiss starts off playful, but it grows hungry, and Jake seems as though he would swallow you if he could.

When he pulls away from your lips, a string of saliva in between your mouths, his eyes dart all over your face. Then he nods slightly, as if he’s come to some grand conclusion.

“What?” you ask, your hands snaking up to his cheek. “What is it?”

Jake pecks your lips gently and smiles. “I just realized…I’m not going to be able to take my time with you.” Before you can say anything, he wraps his arm around your waist and guides you behind the counter to a wooden door that looks liable to give one splinters.

When he opens the door, the smell of alcohol is almost staggering, and Jake’s grip tightens on your waist as if he had anticipated that reaction. Bottles of alcohol are stacked in crates on wooden shelves on the far wall. To the right rests three DIY pot stills, all using dented kegs. To the left, there’s a small faux-leather couch with chunks of it peeling off. You think back to Jay’s words about the artifice or whatever the fuck, and suddenly you wish there was at least a bit of pretense. But when you turn to Jake, he’s smiling at you like you had hung the moon in the sky yourself. “I know it’s no Hilton,�� he begins sheepishly, but you shut him up by kissing him squarely on the mouth.

“It works for me,” you say, biting your lips.

Jake’s grin widens. “Shit, okay.”

You tumble together on the couch with Jake, your mouths connecting sloppily and wetly. You suck his tongue into your mouth hungrily, causing you to choke slightly. This only spurs Jake on further, and he grinds his crotch into you. Your hips rise to meet his, and you hump each other desperately and almost painfully. His hand crawls up your stomach, and he gropes at your breasts. Finally, he pushes himself off of you, settling into a kneeling position. Through the dim light filtering in through the cracks of the door, you can see that Jake’s lips are swollen, his hair messy, and his eyes wild.

“Take it off,” he grunts. “Everything. Now.”

Your hands fumble with the zipper of your jeans, excitement clogging throat. As you tug your jeans down, Jake unbuckles his belt, throwing it to the side. You kick your shoes off, shimmy your jeans off, and toss your shirt away, leaving you in only your bra and panties. When you’re suitably undressed, you look up at Jake.

Jake’s shirt is off, revealing a dark mass of skin you recognize as tattoos. One of his hands has slipped into his boxers, and he’s staring at you. A moan escapes his lips as his eyes wander your body. “So fucking perfect,” he says, voice strained as he plays with his cock. “So goddamn beautiful. Play with yourself for me, baby.”

You tentatively tug your underwear down, collecting your arousal to coat your clit before stroking it with two fingers. You’re so sensitive that just the first touches cause you to whine in pleasure.

“Spread your legs,” Jake hisses. “Nice and wide…”

You oblige, widening your legs so that Jake gets a full view of your pearly pussy. He moans again, his mouth watering at the sight of it, at the hot, sweet smell. “Let me taste it. Let me taste it,” he begs, dipping his head down.

As his wide tongue touches your clit, you cry out in pleasure. Jake laps at your clit with fervor, his hands pushing your legs apart as he licks wide stripes. His mouth makes obscene smacking noises, and when he briefly pulls away to catch his breath, his entire lower face is slick with your arousal. “So good,” he mutters before diving back in. You squirm, knowing that you’ll cum quickly if he doesn’t stop, but Jake’s nails dig into your fleshy thighs, holding you in place.

“Oh, Jake, Jake,” you pant out, head leaning back. “Jake, I’m so close, Jake…”

Seemingly encouraged by your words, Jake continues attacking your clit, and two of his bony fingers slip into your vaginal walls, spreading you open. They pump themselves in and out, in and out, like the undulations of the ocean. Like that, he rips an orgasm from you, continuing to lick the arousal spilling from you as you ride out the wave of pleasure.

You lean your head back on the armrest of the couch, trying to catch your breath. Jake gently caresses your thigh as you come down from your high, peppering your neck with kisses. “Tasted amazing,” he says, voice ragged. “Tasted like paradise.”

Your brain is so fuzzy you can hardly piece together a coherent sentence. “That was so good, Jake.”

Jake smiles at you and gives you a kiss on the mouth, slow and gentle. You greedily lick your own juices off of his lips, even sucking it off of his tongue. As you kiss, you can feel the head of his cock poking at your entrance. “Sorry,” Jake says blithely, “but I need to fuck you right now.”

You nod. “Please.”

To his credit, he takes his time. He fucks into you slowly and carefully, wanting you to adjust. He’s not long, but he’s girthy and fills you well. He feeds you his cock inch by inch, moving in and out as so not to hurt you. Once you seem at ease, he pushes your thighs up so that your knees touch your breasts and fucks you at a faster pace. After a minute or so of that position, he seemingly gets tired of it, opting to place your legs over his shoulder. This allows him to hit a sweet angle, one that has you moaning.

He’s fucking you so quickly that your breasts begin to hurt, so you cover them with your hands. Jake swats your fingers with his free hand, the other wrapped around your legs. “Stop that,” he huffs out. “Let your tits bounce.” You let go of your breasts, and he licks his finger to swirl it around your nipples, marveling at their stiffness. He kneads your breasts as he pounds into you with grunts of effort.

Jake pulls out of you, and the loss causes you to cry out. He grabs you by your shoulders and pulls you around so that your head is lolling over the edge of the armrest. He hovers over you, one hand prying your mouth open. “Need to fuck this mouth of yours. Will you let me, babydoll?”

You pant out your assent, and he slides his wet cock into your mouth. First you kitten-lick the head, tasting your own hot arousal, then he presses his cock further down, treating your mouth like a pussy. As you gag around his dick, you play with his balls, fondling them with one hand. With the other, you play with your engorged, reddened clit. This doesn’t go unnoticed by him. “You’re amazing,” Jake pants out. “Playing with yourself while you get facefucked.”

You tap his stomach, and he pulls his cock out, stroking your cheek gently. “All good?” he asks tentatively.

You nod and spit somewhere on his floor before taking him back into your mouth. “So good to me,” Jake praises. “So, so good.” Once he’s done fucking your mouth, he pulls out and his cock on your cheek, almost playfully. Then he pulls you over so that you’re flat on your stomach, your head still hanging over the edge of the couch. He spanks your ass once, twice, then slips his wet, stiff cock into your folds, moaning as he does.

This time, his pace isn’t furious, but moderate. He pulls you up so that your back rests on his chest. He’s on his knees, fucking his cock into you upright. Your hips meet Jake’s, so that you’re bouncing on his dick. He kneads your breast with one hand, the other hand holding your waist. Your lips meet in a sloppy, rushed kiss before he pushes you down and grips your hips. He pounds into you with strangled moans, sounding more animalistic than anything else.

“You like this?” he asks, the question sounding less like dirty talk and more like a desperate need for assurance.

“I like it!” Your voice is tremulous, shaking as he thrusts harder and harder into you.

“That rich prick you were with couldn’t fuck you like this, right?” He punctuates his sentence by pulling out of you before slamming himself back inside with a groan.

You moan loudly, trying to clutch the armrest for support. “No, he couldn’t. He’s nothing like you.”

“That’s right,” Jake says, closing his eyes. “He couldn’t. He couldn’t make you purr like I do.” His thrusts become sloppier and faster, and you slip your hand down so you can rub your clit to chase your own orgasm.

Peals of moans spill from your lips. “I’ve never been fucked like this before, Jake.”

“I thought so.” Jake flips you over so he can enter you from the front, pushing one of your legs to the side. He slides in and out of you with ease, your juices having pooled on the couch. “You need to be fucked like this, don’t you?”

“I need it,” you choke out, your stomach desperately burning. “I need it, Jake.”

As he comes close to orgasm, you can feel his cock twitch inside of you. “Fuck, a girl like you just begs to be treated like this.”

“That’s right,” you babble.

Jake doesn’t talk anymore, instead letting out low grunts as he comes close. Your second orgasm hits you first, and you scream out his name. The tightening of your vaginal walls is enough to bring him to climax, and with a final grunt and a low, “Fuck!” he spills into you. He pulls out of you and weakly rubs his cock to spill his last few spurts of hot cum on your stomach. Then he wearily collapses, leaning back on the opposite side of the couch.

Both of you recover from the heated session, and you gasp for air. After a while, you feel Jake’s hand on yours, and he pulls you onto him. He strokes your hair and kisses both of your cheeks. You wrap your arms around him and rest your cheek on his chest.

“I can’t just let you go,” he murmurs, fingers tangling in your hair. “I’m going to need you again soon.”

You look up at him, surprised. “Again? Soon?”

Jake laughs, his playfulness returning. “We’re going to rest up for a little, and then I’m going to take you again. We need two more rounds, at minimum. What do you say?”

“I say you’re insane,” you reply, any snark momentarily eviscerated by the residual pleasure spreading in your body.

“You like it.”

“Shut up.”

With another laugh, Jake kisses the top of your head. “You’re cute.”

You allow your eyes to flutter shut as you revel in his embrace, taking in Jake’s scent and comfort.

#jake sim smut #enhypen smut #jake x reader #enha smut #kpop smut #kpop fanfiction #jay park smut #jake sim x reader

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alphabetboyluvr · 1 year ago

Text

PALLADIUM - MYG

title credit: palladium- greyson chance

pairing: dilf!yoongi x reader // friends to lovers, slowburn, eventual smut

synopsis:

min yoongi is urgent. in the way he bites his nails down to the bed, and the way his sore fingers type out desperate sentences just minutes before deadlines, he is urgent. how he prepares jaehyun’s day bag before grandma comes by, and how he double checks everything is packed, he is urgent. the requests for you to watch over jaehyun each and every deadline day are, always, predictably, urgent. but the way min yoongi falls in love with you is slow. gradual. tepid. until, like everything with min yoongi, it becomes urgent.

wordcount: 3.2K

note from holly: this was a prompt from a winner of one of my kofi quizzes! was supposed to be a drabble but now we are looking at a lil three parter. no smut in this part, just setting up our dynamics <3 yoongi is a boy dad! idc! argue with the wall!!!!

PART TWO // PART THREE

minors dni // cross posted to wattpad

"I wouldn't ask if it wasn't urgent," Yoongi pleads across the bakery counter. Nails bitten down to the bed, he's got bags underneath his eyes. Hasn't been sleeping well these days. Hasn't really been sleeping at all.

"I told you last time—"

"I know, I know," he sighs, pushing off of the countertop and pacing a few steps away, raking a stressed palm through his long, dark hair. Dishevelled, he hasn't had it cut in a while. You'll never tell him, but you think it looks better this way. "Look, it's the last time. I promise. I just really fucked it this time."

With a raised brow, you fold your arms over your chest. The apron beneath you bunches a little awkwardly, but you've never cared much for composure around Yoongi. Have simply known him too long and seen him through too many clumsy stages of life to be bothered.

Tipping your head back, you exhale a sharp breath from the very depths of your lungs.

"You are so lucky Jaehyun is an angel baby," you eventually say, shaking your head as you reluctantly agree. "What time do you need me?"

"Deadline is at midnight," Yoongi says, "So whenever you can get to mine, really. Mum has him till seven, but then she's got Bitch'n'Stitch—"

"Hey," you scold. "My mum goes to that knitting group, too."

"I'm not calling her a bitch—but I've heard their conversations," Yoongi reminds you. He swears they don't actually do any knitting (as if they haven't handmade half of Jaehyun's closet). Thinks they spend the entire time gossiping. And while yes, they do do a lot of gossiping, they can multitask. Unlike him, apparently. "But fine. She has her knitting group at seven."

Yoongi will never simply call it a knitting group, if he can help it.

Bitch'n'Stitch is his go-to, but he's also partial to Stitching Hour.

Last week, you'd just gone on a rant about how it's inappropriate to insinuate that all women of a certain age from your small town are witches—"Women used to get burned at the stake, Yoongi. Burned!"—so he knows better than to say it out loud today, even if it makes him laugh whenever he thinks about them knitting on broomsticks.

"I'll probably be outta here at just gone six," you tell him.

It's the late shift, so you're responsible for closing and cleaning up, but after two years of part-time work alongside your studies, you're a dab hand. Can action off every item on the to-do list in record time, and to a standard even your boss can't achieve.

You're wasted on a small town like this, but someone's gotta do it.

"That's fine," Yoongi nods. "I just need to straighten this essay out and get my citations done. You can go as soon as I'm finished—and hey, you can order takeout. I'll pay."

Knowing Yoongi, he's probably surviving on instant noodles, and spending all of his money on Red Bull and Jaehyun's meticulously planned diet.

Jaehyun's been off formula for about two months, now, and Yoongi is terrified of feeding him the wrong thing. By the looks of his slightly skinnier-than-usual frame, he's the one in need of a good meal.

And so, as you're doing your final tasks of the day, you don't bin the breads that need to be chucked. Instead, you bag them up. All of them. The pastries, too. Will just have to hope Yoongi has freezer space.

By the time you make it home, you've only got ten minutes to spare for a quick shower before you need to rush to Yoongi's. You'll be a little after seven, but it's fine. You've resigned yourself to staying at Yoongi's until midnight, now.

It's how it usually goes.

He'll work up until his deadline, rewriting and revising paragraphs that are perfectly fine and need no alterations. His own worst critic, you know that he really doesn't need to stress himself out like this.

Still, he does. You think he'll always be this way—at least, he was in high school, and he remains to be this way, even in university. Too much of a habit has been formed. It's ingrained in the ridges of his brain. Pink and permanent—just like the pout on his lips as he opens his apartment door for you later that evening.

Forearm tucked under Jaehyun's pudgy thighs, Yoongi cradles his son into his side, as a look of relief relaxes onto his face. It's a stark reminder of why Yoongi stresses himself out so much.

You can afford to make mistakes. The only person you have to answer to is yourself.

Yoongi doesn't have that luxury anymore. Hasn't done for a while, now. Won't ever get it again—or at least, not for another seventeen years.

"Hey," he whispers, then casts his eyes down to Jaehyun's sleepy head. Nestling into Yoongi's shoulder, Jaehyun's dark hair now has a little length to it. Much like his own, Yoongi is refusing to cut it. Another thing he's scared of getting wrong.

The subtle nod Yoongi gestures towards Jaehyun is a request for you to be quiet.

You're familiar with his paternal habits by now; the behaviours he exhibits only when he's wearing his invisible 'Dad' hat.

He tucks back against the door, letting you walk on through and into his apartment.

Shoes off by the door, Yoongi locks up as you shake off your jacket, and hook it on the empty peg in the middle of the rack.

Small and a little dark, Yoongi hates his home. Is strapped for cash, so turned the open plan kitchen and sitting room into a studio-type set-up. Has his bed where a sofa should be, and manages to cram everything somewhere. His desk, his small keyboard, his clothing rail that he really needs to reorganise. A bunch of his things are in storage.

Jaehyun's room is what once was Yoongi's. It's got the most natural light, thanks to the window placement, not that it matters at this time of night. The curtains are drawn, playmat full of yellows and oranges scattered across the floor. Beside it, is Yoongi's laptop. The screensaver is running, and it's pretty obvious he'd been playing with the little toy octopus sprawled across the keyboard instead, when you had arrived.

"Bit late for nap time?" You question quietly as you pop your phone on the charging pad Yoongi keeps on the dresser.

Nodding, Yoongi gently rests his son down in his crib. These past couple of days, everything has been a little out of sync. He feels guilty—like he's failing—but the pressures he's been putting on himself are just getting far too great. He's doing the best he can, but it always feels like it's not enough.

But Jaehyun is loved, and sheltered, and provided for. Yoongi is doing all he can. He just still isn't sure he knows how to be a dad.

Which is silly, because as you watch him stroke across the dark hair that sits flat to Jaehyun's scalp, quietly monitoring his condition, you think that Yoongi was made for this. Is far more paternal than you are maternal.

Truth be told, you don't like kids all that much.

Your idea of a fun evening doesn't typically involve hanging out with an infant, and yet you'll do it for Yoongi. Of course, you will. Have known him for too long and have been through too much with him to not help him.

Plus, you really do adore Jaehyun. Sweet as can be when he sleeps, he really does look just like Yoongi at that age—or so you gather from the baby pictures you've seen a dozen times over at his parents' place. It's easier to count which features they don't share. Saves ever needing to do a paternity test, not that Yoongi would do one anyway.

Jaehyun is his kid. A little bit of DNA wouldn't change this fact, not in his eyes.

It worries you. Not because you think Yoongi isn't his father—again, they're too alike to not be related—but in case his mother decides she wants to play an active role in Jaehyun's life. You fear that the 1% of doubt could come true and tear any legal right away from Yoongi. You're not really sure how the courts would work it all out, but you doubt they'd side with him.

Yoongi was never meant to be a father. Not now, at least. The outcome of a one-night-stand, Jaehyun's biological mother didn't realise she was pregnant until it was too late. Had no real choice in the matter. Was also nearing the end of her tenure in law school. A kid was not—and remains to not be—a part of her plan.

You know the documents were signed. Legal rights, shit like that. Know that she must have an understanding of the law far greater than Yoongi. Just hope she hasn't done anything that will fuck him over in the future.

Still, it's not a topic of conversation Yoongi likes indulging in, and so you don't push, no matter how much you'd like to know the details.

"Let him sleep," Yoongi eventually sighs, before sinking down to lie on the rug. "Better he rests while I'm working—and plus, he slept through till five-thirty this morning."

"Till sunrise?" You chirp, a little surprised but conscious of keeping your voice down.

Yoongi nods, face rubbing against the carpet. "He's basically a teenager."

Rolling your eyes, you reach down for his wrist to drag him to his feet. He's got an essay to finish.

"Shut up," you smile. "You've barely stopped being a teenager."

Sometimes, it makes you a little sad to think that Yoongi is missing out on his early twenties—but then you glance across to Jaehyun and know that he's not missing anything. Just experiencing different things. That's all.

"Don't remind me," he grunts, lamely getting to his feet, letting you pull him down the hallway as you swipe the baby monitor that lives next to the charging pad. You'll come back for your phone later.

"C'mon, gotta finish your essay. Can't be a DILF unless you get this degree."

"Untrue."

"You'll just be a D without a good job," you tell him. "DILF's are always suited up."

"That's simply not true," he doubles down. "I've been told I'm a DILF at least, like, six times. Maybe more."

Definitely more. If he knew the way girls on campus spoke about him? God, his head would be so big he wouldn't be able to walk through doors.

But for now, you shoo him back through Jaehyun's bedroom door and to his sitting room-come-bedroom. The apartment isn't large. A baby monitor isn't needed, yet one is set up by Yoongi's bed, regardless.

And so, as Yoongi knuckles down with his work, you flop onto his bed, and take prime babysitting position—though you're pretty sure you'd get fired if you ever got under anyone else's sheets on the job.

But it's late, and you've worked a long shift. You're only gonna rest your eyes for a moment. A second. A fraction of one, even. Just to hydrate them a little. Replenish your—

You're out like a light.

The curse of Min Yoongi's bedsheets. You really should have known better. It happens every damn time. You know this. He knows this.

Yet when he eventually wakes you, neither of you mention it.

"Hey," Yoongi mumbles as he gently nudges your sleepy body. Flopping down beside you on top of the duvet, his exhausted eyes close instantaneously.

"I'm going, I'm going," you grumble into his duvet, half asleep but knowing that you should go and check on Jaehyun.

The baby monitor hasn't made any noise to wake you, and Yoongi's just been with him for the last twenty minutes, quietly watching on as he slept. Is pretty confident he's gonna sleep through again tonight.

Reaching out to pat you down, Yoongi doesn't really acknowledge the way he accidentally taps your ass. Nor do you. Just sort of pretend that he didn't. Pretend that it didn't make your heart race a little.

"S'fine," he says, voice muffled by his need for rest. "He's still sleeping. Just checked on him."

"Sure?"

"Mhm," Yoongi nods, the sound of his hair smooth against his sheets. "You gonna crash here?"

"You all done?" You question right back. Shuffle, and his hand lazily moves with you. His wrist now rests on your hip, and you both pretend like it's normal.

"All done," he confirms. "Was late, so I've lost ten percent, but whatever."

For someone who stresses himself out as much as Yoongi does over his grades, as soon as he's hit the submission button, he just ceases to care. Has a 'what'll be, will be' attitude towards it all. Part of you wishes he would adopt that mentality when he's actually writing his essays.

What you don't realise is that it manifests from the same fear.

He panics and panics and panics before a deadline—and then is so worried about his grade that he just pretends like they don't exist.

Too sleepy to care at this moment in time, Yoongi's placement of his wrist on your hip becomes more intentional. Deliberate.

It's not like you're a stranger to the weight of Yoongi's arms draped over your body. Not like it's the first time—it's just every time it does happen, you swear it'll be the last.

It never is.

And it's not like it's anything illicit. Not anything you shouldn't be doing. Nothing that takes you beyond the realms of friendship—but it does threaten the integrity of your oldest connection to another human outside of familial ties.

So every time Yoongi gets a little too close, or you find yourself lingering a little long on his words, you tell yourself to stop. That this is just a symptom of the dry spell you've been going through.

"Are you staying here tonight?" He asks.

Again, it wouldn't be the first time. Have been having sleepovers with him since you were kids. Ghost stories, midnight feasts. Sneaking out to the park to find UFOs and stopping by the corner shop for snacks.

Once high school hit, it was deemed unwise by your parents. Open door policy.

You'd been furious. Outraged that your privacy was being taken from you, and being told it was for your own good.

And so sneaking out the park became sneaking in windows; films watched with headphones on, dinner eaten in your bedroom under the guise of a melodramatic teenage strop, but actually shared with the boy from two doors down who knew better than to deceive your parents.

All innocent. Nothing that required a closed door. Those escapades were saved for—or wasted on—other people. Either, or. Neither you nor Yoongi gave it much thought. Why would you?

Friends, is what you were. What you are. What you always have been.

Which begs the question: why the fuck is Yoongi looking at you like that?

But then the wrist of Yoongi's resting on your hip becomes his hand. The grip becomes intentional. The stillness of your body comes not from tiredness, but from trepidation.

"Do you want me to?"

"It's late," he husks, thumb stroking against your hip as if that's what friends do. "You're off tomorrow, right? Don't need to go home?"

"Right."

"Well, then stay," he shrugs, loosening his grip to roll onto his back. The ceiling is far less interesting than you are, but he has to stop looking at your lips and wondering if they taste like the strawberry lip balm you'd tossed on the side cabinet earlier. "Makes sense."

"Stay?" You question as if he still needs to clearly outline that, yes, he'd like you to stay. "And do what?"

"Sleep," he dryly replies, because it's the obvious answer. Because it's what you should do. You're tired. He's tired. Jaehyun is asleep in the next room over.

"Sleep," you nod. "Sounds good."

Domestication becomes you in times like these. A toothbrush sits in an old glass on the top shelf of Yoongi's mirrored bathroom cabinet. The rest of the shelves are pretty much empty, but he always puts it up there. Says it annoys him anywhere else.

"Surely it's more annoying having to get it down for me every time I crash here?" You banter with him as you lean against the back wall of his bathroom, waiting for him to retrieve it.

Plucking it from the glass, Yoongi is swift with his movements, and the way he wets the brush, puts a pearl of toothpaste on the bristles, then hands it back over to you.

"Doesn't bother me," he shrugs, turning back around to shut the cabinet. When he does, he's greeted with your eyes in the mirror, and a feeling in his stomach that should bother him.

See, the D in Yoongi's DILF actually stands for dependable (although occasionally dickhead also fits). He likes being asked to do things. Likes being helpful. Useful. Knows that he depends on you far more than you do him, and so he does this to settle the score.

You help him pass his exams, and he helps you keep good dental hygiene habits. A win-win situation.

Leaving you to finish washing up, Yoongi does the final checks of his apartment. Bolts the door. Turns out the lights. Makes sure Jaehyun's day bag is packed for tomorrow with his Grandma. Adds the day's clothes to the laundry pile. Stands in the doorframe of Jaehyun's room to just simply watch his son exist for a little while longer.

He loses track of time doing this. It's a nightly routine, so you think he'd get used to it, but he never does. Still can't fully comprehend that a living, breathing creature relies on him for basic survival.

Sure, he hides your toothbrush away, and puts things out of reach for you just to get you asking him for help, but this is different. He cares about nothing more than making sure Jaehyun is surrounded by abundance: love, shelter, food. Everything the world has to offer, Yoongi wants for his son—and that's why he's working so damn hard to make sure it happens.

There's a tenderness to how Yoongi strokes your back when you stand beside him. He's far gentler than he used to be. Benevolent with age. Isn't the same kid who used to chase you around his parent's yard with a worm in one hand, and a pile of mud in the other.

"C'mon," you whisper, walking away because you know you need to break the contact. "Let's rest."

Yoongi nods. Is slow as he tears his gaze from his son, but just as stoic as he watches you saunter down the hallway and into your bedroom for the night. His bedroom.

You slip out of sight, just in time for Yoongi to exhale the air in his lungs. His sigh is full of unspoken words. Uncertain terms—and as he follows you down, he wonders how many more secrets will bloat his lungs throughout the night.

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salparadiselost · 1 month ago

Text

Just something I wrote up. I had this scene in my head and I couldn’t not write it. It’s based on a New Gods AU which I’m not sure I’ve talked about but it exists in the group chat.

*****

“Fetch your brothers. Return to the Manor immediately.”

---

Dick hummed all of the top 40 tracks under his breath as he walked along the edge of a highway. He believed he was somewhere in the Pacific Northwest, given the trees, the mountains, and the slight tinge of magic that wasn’t his. There were old beings sleeping under him, older than humans and the concepts that they had used to create godlings like him.

They weren’t the reason he came here, though.

He was here for a much newer god.

He sniffed the air like a hunting hound and stopped abruptly.

A truck clattered past him, not stopping, not seeing.

Dick searched along the grass and found his telltale, a small roadside memorial in the form of a white wooden cross was tipped over to the side. Its paint was peeling off, sloughing off in fat chunks. The wood underneath it was molding into black. The forgotten husk of a teddy bear decomposed into the ground beside it. Artificially coloured flowers that would never get the blessing of decomposure lay partially buried in the dirt. A faded picture of a girl, brown-haired and big-smiling, was nailed to the cross, and it fluttered slightly when another car passed. Written on the photo, in faded pen and running ink, the second half of a sentence could just barely be read: ��-was last seen here”.

Dick snorted.

Tim was nothing if not predictable.

He turned off of the road and went into the forest beyond it.

He doesn’t know what happened here; it wasn’t his jurisdiction. Tim could probably tell you. Talk to you about how that girl’s car had been broken down, or maybe she had stopped to help an ‘innocent’ bystander, or maybe she had met a secret boyfriend for a drive. He could tell you about the days before, how she was in life before it was cut short, what innocuous things were the dominoes stacking up before the whole thing tipped over.

It was a conversation that Dick had had with Tim before, but not one that interested him much, given that she hadn’t become the center of America’s media circus. Instead, her story ended here. In a forest, with a wooden cross and a cold case sitting in some podunk town somewhere.

Dick’s gaze flicked through the foliage, across a tattered piece of fabric caught in a bush’s branches, across the loose threads from torn clothes that would have been too small for the human eye.

Around him, the forest chattered and whispered, quietly saying what had happened in a way that he couldn’t quite hear. It told the entire story if you knew how to listen. Tim did. Bruce did. But Dick didn’t. He only knew the clues enough to follow them to the edge of a lake.

The bright blue lake was like a hole in the forest’s coat. Trees parted to make room for it, and it reflected the sky back on itself. It was a pristine blue, except for a blotch out in its middle.

There, amongst the endless sky water and the sparkling ripple of waves, was a body.

It floated in the suspended reality of the water, bobbing with restless motion despite the stillness in its limp form. It was completely naked, revealing pale and pasty skin to the world. The colour was greyer than any living human should be and unnaturally mottled with green and blue. All the warmth of life had been leached out by its watery grave, leaving only a grisly shadow of what it had been. The knobby ridges of its spine jutted into the air. Its neck stuck at an unnatural angle, and there was an occasional peek at a slash of raw, exposed flesh. Little chunks of meat, bitten and pulled off by fish and birds, floated next to the corpse.

Dick waited, his foot tapping against the shore of the beach.

The body kept floating there, buoyant from the bloat of gasses captured in its stomach. Long hair rippled with the waves.

He sighed, put two fingers up to his mouth, and whistled. The sound pierced across the lake and hung in the air for a few seconds.

Then, the body twitched, limbs locking back into physical control. It shook and then moved its arms to sit itself up, raising up on the water like someone awakening from a nap. It sat up, and Dick could see the remnants of her face. It was torn, like someone had dragged it, and let pieces of it come off like ribbons to then be eaten by the water. Skin hung. The eyes were gone. Her jawbone was visible through a large gaping hole in her cheek. Flesh had been picked apart by fishes and other creatures. It was a portrait of a death. Her death, he supposes.

The face of her stared at him until suddenly it wasn’t her’s anymore.

In between two of his breaths, the figure on the lake had changed into something Dick recognised much more.

“What?” Tim snapped from his seat on the water, legs tucked close and looking very much like a teenage that had been interrupted from his twin bed. Waves lapped at the edges of him, but they might have well been blankets and sheets. Dick is pretty sure he’s seen Tim in this exact position at the Manor, comforter knotted up all around his legs with his laptop balanced on his lap.

He gave Dick the same annoyed, haughty, ‘you’re bothering me’, look that every younger sibling seemed to have mastered.

“I’m here to pick you up,’ said Dick, his tone bouncing. “Dad wants us. It’s time to come back.”

Tim’s eyes narrowed, and the temperature of the air turned down a few degrees. “I’m not a kid that needs to get fetched from his room.”

Dick snorted and shrugged. “Trust me. I’ve been trying to use that argument for centuries. A millennium before you were even thought up. It doesn’t work.”

Tim stayed staring for a few moments before he groaned and collapsed back into the water. The movement exposed a weeping gash on the body’s side, the flash of her ribs was poking out from the meat. There were bruises on her belly and up her chest. Tim laid on his back, staring up at the sky and rocking with the slight ripple of the lake.

“I guess telling him I’m busy won’t dissuade him?”

“Nope.”

Tim sighed and rolled to hop off of his makeshift bed. His legs splashed into the water, but only raised halfway up his thighs. He trudged his way towards Dick, and as he did, the memory of the dead girl shed off of him. His body healed over the gashes. His neck clicked into the right place. A baggy hoody and jeans manifested onto himself. His hair dried, shortened, and any caught leaves or twigs fell out of it. By the time he reached the shore, the only remnant left of the girl was the slight corpse tinge on Tim’s skin. It was a little too pale to be alive, a little too blue and green not to suggest decomposition, but even that was being erased away.

“You figure out your little mystery?” Dick asked, watched Tim shake the last of the lake and the girl off of him. ‘You’ve been out here for a few weeks.”

“Not really,” said Tim, as he grabbed an Airpod out of his hoodie pocket and shoved it into one of his ears. “Finding the body is easy. Filling in the holes in the middle is always harder.”

He also drew a maroon beanie from his hoodie pocket and stuck it on his head.

“And floating out there in the middle of the lake is essential?” Dick teased and Tim gave him a venomous frown. It wasn’t the first time Dick had found him in a rather deathly position despite Bruce trying to ban it multiple centuries ago.

Tim drew a beat-up white sneaker from the hoodie pocket and then another. “Living through the last moments is very informative.”

Dick grinned and Tim’s glare dropped. “Wait, you’re not telling Dad are you?”

Dick hummed with a smirk, and Tim looked like he wanted to throw something at Dick’s head. “I hate you, you know.”

��Alright, alright, maybe I won’t tell him.” He raised his hands in surrender and gave Tim a smile that usually made people fall in love with him. Usually. But Tim wasn’t people, and he sure as hell knew that behind all the pretty grins, Dick’s teeth were sharpened and his tongue could give the most beautiful lie.

His gaze remained suspicious, but eventually he shook his head and changed the subject, apparently done with Dick’s game.

“What the hell are you wearing anyways?”

Dick blinked, taking a second to remember exactly how he was appearing at the moment. It was his normal body in its normal shape. He double checked to confirm he was male, and yep, in the male configuration. All of this was stuff Tim had seen a million times before, so it wasn’t something with the body.

It must be the outfit.

It took a second but he remembered he was wearing a glittery, blue sequined leotard that cut high up on his hips and had large hearts emblazoned on it. Matching the leotard, he wore a glittery cowboy hat and a pair of heart-shaped glasses that did little to hide the bright blue shadow on his lids. He also had on gold cowboy boots that went to his thigh and gloves that stretched toward his elbows. A row of beaded tassels hung from the leotard and this shimmered when he breathed.

He had been at a concert when he saw the text from Bruce to retrieve Tim.

Concerts were more his speed than all of Tim’s moody floating in the woods. Modern concerts were a spectacle and he lived for spectacle. He didn’t really care about the music or the artistry; he always found those to be the most boring parts, but he loved the sheer grandeur of their shows. He adored the way the pulse of the crowd rocked into his bones and filled his lungs. He reveled in how the thrum consumed you into a part of itself. He drank the fizzy pop of power that came from a thousand people all chanting the same sounds. It was intoxicating. It was thrilling. It was a vestige of him.

How he was.

Back when humans filled coliseums and circuses were the center of the world.

It came close to satisfying the vicious yearning he still had for blood sprayed across Roman sands and the clatter of chariot wheels.

No more though. He had to get his fill from a different type of spectacle now.

“I was at a music thing,” Dick said with a waved hand. “Some little Missouri girl is calling herself a princess and people are eating it up.”

Tim raised a curious eyebrow, eyes going over Dick’s outfit. He knew the rules of Dick’s god hood, generally the bigger, the flashier, and the more flash in the pan, the better. “That seems like a boon for you.”

“It’s fast,” said Dick with a shrug. “It’s fun. But it's music, which always means it's only half a meal for me.”

After all, he wasn’t a god of music. He didn’t care about the melody or the words, if anything it was competition for what he truly wanted. He wanted something much more primal. Much more ancient.

Ironic that most of it lived in the moments and flashes of social media. The newest technologies to satisfy the most basic of needs.

He had to adapt if he wanted to live, and this is where that got him. He knew Tim understood because he wanted something similar. Something that was ugly to most of the modern world, and yet survived with each new revolution.

Sure enough, Tim nodded and walked towards Dick’s side.

“Are we going straight to the Manor?” He asked, eyes looking forward and momentarily tabling the mystery in the lake. His mind was already turning on something new, trying to figure out why Bruce had called them all back.

It wasn’t… unusual for Bruce to call them all together back to the Manor but the timing was odd.

They had mostly recently been called back a few months ago and Bruce usually let them have a couple years in the field before he was itching to have them back again. It was a deviation of their pattern and given that Bruce was an ancient god with ancient habits, it took a lot to break their patterns.

Something was up.

Something that required all of them to be home.

“We have to go get Jason,” said Dick, the world already changing around them. “Then we will go home.”

#kay speaks #kay writes #new gods au #dick grayson #tim drake #bruce wayne #in the background

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uhzuku · 10 months ago

Text

╰─▸ ❝ 𝐅𝐈𝐗 𝐘𝐎𝐔. ❞ ──── 𝐟𝐭. 𝐒. 𝐆𝐎𝐉𝐎.

𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: ‘lights will guide you home, and ignite your bones … and i will try to fix you.’

𝐟𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐦: | 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: gojo satoru/reader | 𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠: nsfw ; minors dni | 𝐰/��: 1.1k.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: soft satoru, sleepy satoru, he’s had a long week and all he wants is you okay, cuddling, mentions of being shirtless, fluffy and sticky sweet like when cotton candy is half-melted in your mouth, his hair’s grown out some so say hello to long-haired satoru, kissing, hand-holding.

— 𝐬𝐮𝐩𝐩𝐨𝐫𝐭 𝐦𝐞 !!

it’s warm, and there’s a heavy weight pressing you into the couch cushions that wasn’t there when you dozed off in front of a lowly-crackling fire.

blearily you blink awake, eyes slowly adjusting to the low lighting. the fire still burns away (though smaller than before, having almost burnt through all of its wood) beside you. you don’t bother checking what’s weighing you down, already knowing deep in your bones what and who it is; this isn’t a first time occurrence after all.

“how did i know before you came home tonight that this is where you’d end up?” you ask teasingly, amusement coating your quiet voice as you run your fingers through satoru’s hair. he’s laying with his full weight on top of you, freshly showered and smelling of your body-wash and shampoo (the thief) with his hair still half-damp from being lazily toweled dry. your own body heat has melted into him, warming him up from how cold he’d been after being out in the cold all night working, before seeping right back into you, then continuing in an endless cycle.

you feel him grin sleepily into your bare chest, his wind-bitten cheeks warming a little. “am i really so predictable?” he asks, voice muffled, and you chuckle lightly, bringing a hand up to the back of his head to play with the hair at the nape of his neck as he moves slightly and his chin digs a bit into your breastbone; it was getting long again, longer than usual. you wonder if he’d ask you to cut it like he always does, or if he’d decide to grow it out. he’d be gorgeous with long hair.

“maybe just to me,” you say through a fond smile, and he hides the eyes that had been peering up at you through white hair.

“… always to you,” he admits quietly, then says, “especially just to you.”

the room is suddenly charged with something just the slightest bit uncomfortable as he softens so easily, pliant in your arms like a bowl of mush and heart fond like lovers having been reunited after being forcefully parted for war.

“satoru…” you murmur softly, lacing your other hand through his as your brow furrows in concern, “is everything okay?”

he’s quiet for a moment, pondering you think, but only for a moment before saying, “yes. no? i missed you… a lot,” while taking up a tight grip on your hand, clinging to it like a lifeline. the worry you’d been feeling slightly melts away into something more warm and fond, and you lightly squeeze him against you as he tries to bury himself in you at the same time as an attempt to escape all worldly things but you.

“i missed you too,” you reply softly, eyes gooey in the near-darkness. he makes a wordless noise of acknowledgement before whining a little and trying to burrow further against you. “i always miss you.”

he’s quiet for a long while again, then quietly whispers out, “i’m sorry.” your heart aches.

“don’t be,” you reply in a hushed voice, pressing a gentle kiss to the crown of his head. “how did things go?”

“they took forever,” he complains quietly, hunching his shoulders a bit and craning ever so gently into your feather-light touch. “stupid thing kept acting like we were playing hide and seek. i’m tired and i’m hungry and my back hurts — the damn curse threw me into a wall, can you believe that?”

“what audacity!” you exclaim softly, playing along, and he huffs in annoyance. the puff of breath is warm against your skin, reminding you that he isn’t cold and alone and gone but here and alive, with you. he may be bruised and scratched up, and his back may be aching, but he was completely enveloped in the warmth and safety of you and your shared home now, and nothing from the outside world — curse or fellow sorcerer — would be able to harm him now; you’d make sure of it.

“it must’ve been the one supplying all the men with it,” satoru mutters grumpily, and you actually bark out a laugh at that.

“definitely,” you say as he tilts his head up to look at you. he’s pouting, and you can’t resist dropping a quick, soft kiss against his lips. he lays there slightly stunned and lax for a while like he always did when you kissed him out of nowhere (“it’s like you make him blue-screen or something,” suguru had said once before he’d left the two of you. the three of you had gone out to the mall and were eating ice cream, and you’d gently kissed a bit off of satoru’s lips; he’d frozen like always, and suguru had teased him for it. that had been an amazing day.).

blinking once, then twice, his brow furrows a little as you dodge his attempt to kiss you back. “gimme another kiss,” he whines plaintively, and you acquiesce with a sweet smile. he leans up into you, his eyes fluttering shut as he allows the feeling of kissing you to envelop him fully, and his grip on your hand loosens ever so slightly while his other props him up so he’s not pressing down on you so much. his hair brushes across your face, almost tickling you before you move your hand from the back of his neck to brush it behind his ear before putting your hand back where it was before.

satoru moans lightly into your mouth, and you can feel his breathing quicken as he moves to deepen the kiss, but you pull away slowly. he whines wordlessly, upset that you've denied him, but you shake your head and gaze up at him with soft eyes. “you need rest first,” you say, gentle and firm all at once, and he stares at you for a moment before sighing (what a performance) and laying back down with his head on your chest.

“you gonna hold me ‘til i fall asleep?” he asks, and you smile against his hair.

you reply, “i will,” and he snorts.

“y’gonna rock me too? sing me a lullaby?” he’s teasing now, clearly feeling better, and you’re happy he is. you hated when he got all in his head like he was before, thinking about old times even if he’d not said it out loud.

“any requests? although i have to say first that my ‘twinkle, twinkle, little star’ is unmatched,” you say playfully, and he groans against your breastbone and you laugh.

“you’re so dumb,” he mumbles, his voice half-fond, half-drowsy.

“you love it,” you murmur, and he hums sleepily, nuzzling against you and holding you tight like some life-sized teddy bear.

“… yeah… i do…” his voice tapers off as he eases into resting, and finally, he sleeps.

𝐜𝐨𝐩𝐲𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 © { 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟒 } 𝐛𝐲 𝟒𝐈𝐙𝐀𝐖𝐀𝐒. 𝐝𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐦𝐨𝐝𝐢𝐟𝐲, 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐞, 𝐨𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐭.

#satoru gojo x reader #gojo satoru x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk x reader #satoru gojo x you #gojo satoru x you #jujutsu kaisen x you #jjk x you

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lundenloves · 1 year ago

Note

You’re proficient in angst and I love angst, so maybe:

Ghost and his wife working through a miscarriage after or before their first child is born?

ALWAYS READ THE WARNINGS!

you anon, you are a brave one. *finger wag* knowing fine fucking well i’d pick this one out above others, and no, it wasn’t the compliment that did it. i’m sorry for the therapy bills. what’s that? i said i’d pay? i said that? me? never.

disclaimer before i get my head bitten off: this is a reader insert, though without the use of ‘you’ and rather mentioned as his wife. i didn’t want to put people directly into it. a third narrative? is that wrong? idfk.

masterlist | taglist | request info | therapy

↳ warnings: loss of baby, angst | 1k

Simon knew. He knew before the five words had been spoken, before the doctor had taken a breath and before she had made eye contact with his wife who hadn’t quite caught on. He didn’t mean to distance himself, but that he did, pushing even further back from the bed and scratching at the back of his neck. Head hung low and his nose scrunching briefly when she had reached for his arm. An arm he pulled away. Right as the words were delivered like a punch to the gut.

“I can’t find a pulse.”

He looked to the floor, completely denying his wife of her reaction and his leg had begun bouncing erratically. Untouched by her warmth when she had gripped his knee, silently begging for his eyes that remained on the door. “What.” She shook her head, blinking once, hard, as if she had heard incorrectly.

But she hadn’t.

Simon teethed at the skin around his nails, dropping an elbow to his knee and rubbing his neck. The doctor quietly spoke her apologies and thousands of thoughts rushed his mind at once, guilty relief yet also swirling darkness. “There’s nothing you can do?” She cleared her throat, keen in maintaining composure that Simon knew was a front. Her hand began to fidget with the seams of his jeans, the threads picked out over years from his own anxieties.

The doctor repeated her apologies, handing over a few documents on next steps. Coloured cards at best, she spoke through the overwhelming information with a quietness to her voice, an accompanied hand placed on her patients’ shoulder. One with the intent of comfort though it felt bitter and Simon stood from the chair, picking up her bag and watching as she gathered her jacket after handing him the car keys.

He held every door open for her, walking a few strides behind as she sped walk to the car that was on the far end of the car park. She would’ve ran if she could, knees weak upon reaching the drive that felt like another obstacle. Ten minutes of silence.

“Is that it?” She had mumbled once the door was shut behind her, bottom lip sucked inward and hands dropping to her thighs. “You’re just—“ She paused, her gaze absent in forward staring. “You’re not going to say anything?” Her voice was toneless.

Simon adjusted the rearview mirror purely to occupy himself. His elbow rests on the window edge, fingers rubbing at his upper lip. “I don’t know what you want me to say.” It came off as a mumble.

She nodded vacantly, crossing her arms over her chest in a self pacifying hug. The news had struck her energy, killing off any ounce she had left to decipher Simon’s feelings, any words from here would surely manifest into an argument of sorts.

And her tears were slow, a singular one turned to two, to three and four — each one falling longer than the other and Simon’s eyes fixed onto the dash. His answer was avoidance, turning the car on and fidgeting with radio dials to simultaneously ignore her tears and distract himself.

Otherwise, the silence was loud.

Her nostrils flared, sleeves gently rubbing at her cheeks and pressing her head back against the seat. Shoes discarded and knees pulled up to her chest, body facing away from her husband and toward the window where rain had begun its predictable downpour. The whine that left her mouth wasn’t anything other than devastating, one that ironically cried for help upon holding heavier tears back, though it was ineffective.

Her chest dipped in and out of exasperated breaths, short and quick in their successions with fingers balled into a fist that hit at her knees for any alleviation. “She’s gone, she’s fuck—“

Simon then felt the weight on his chest. The weight of his lacking. He bit down on his bottom lip and put the car into gear, his hand sinking from his hair and across his cheek, down the back of his neck as he pulled out of the car park.

The rest of the car ride was silent. The only noises filling the space being her occasional deep breaths and whines, the indicator and Simon’s nervous habit of clearing his throat. She could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his spine was hiked downward and his shoulders collapsed in on themselves. “Are we just not going to talk about it?”

Her words landed right as he had shut the door behind him, back pressed against it to hear the click of the lock. She dropped her arms to her sides, taking a step backward and into the main space of their shared flat. “Because I can’t deal with your silence. Not now.”

He nodded slowly, his back remaining against the door as if he couldn’t move. His fight or flight triggered by her forcing of the topic, “I don’t know what to say.” It was honest. The crack in his voice said that much, his eyes fixed to hers as if to scope her as a threat or not.

And christ, she looked anything but a threat. Her blotchy face and tear stained cheeks made her look so much smaller than she was, reduced to a mourning mess that Simon wasn’t equipped to put back together. “Anything.” She shook her head, voice stripped to a whisper for him to tilt his head at, inner brows risen in defeat as words point blank refused to leave him.

“I can’t.” He stuttered on his emotion, holding his fist in the opposite hand before dropping it.

Being unable to cry was so much more upsetting than the act of crying itself, a point that Simon existed to prove. His silence around sensitive matters, the way he stared with dead eyes and his minimal expressions that seemed to be so much more devastating than those who could properly communicate their feelings.

“Anything Simon.”

Words were still stuck in his throat and only allowed for a mere shrug with an extended palm to take her to his chest. “C’mere.” Was all he could say, one hand on her back with the other pushing hair from her face as she slowly but surely collapsed to a blubbering mess in his arms. “I’m sorry.”

no, i’m sorry.

the anon did, it not me. it’s unedited but i’m too scunnered to look over this again so take it with a grain of salt. please let this flop. my followers are unwell enough.

simon ‘ghost’ riley taglist: @vamppxncess @crowbird @misshoneypaper @tallrock35 @fluffmonster @islanderr @blueoorchid @lea3773 @coldflapjack @rayhawk05 @han11dh @liishook @melovetitties @fallonx @rvjaa @fuckmelifesucks @bhayatsara @takeomisbitch @local-spidey @konigsblog @penutjuice @babychoi03 @sheluvzeren @sparklingtragedy @maviee @wiserebelpartypie @daddylorianisastateofmind @bhayatsara @mistydeyes @writingmysanity @johfaam0 @idkbbyx3 @gressseyy @fwibblefwobble @shibble @maladaptivedaydreamingbum @airghostlyfox @hotgirlsshareaccounts @simpxinnie @dilfdotgov @cliosunshine

i’m going to my mind palace.

#simon ghost riley #cod mwii #cod mw2 #cod mw fanfiction #ghost mw2 #simon riley #simon riley x reader #cod mw2 x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley fanfic #simon riley x female reader #simon riley x f!reader #cod ghost

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chocourse · 3 months ago

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𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐁𝐈𝐓𝐄𝐒 (𝓁𝒾𝓀𝑒 𝓈𝓃𝒶𝓀𝑒𝓈 𝒹𝑜)

➶ poly! ineffable husbands x angel! fem!reader ｡˚ °

-ˏ` ✎﹏ The Egyptians built one of the seven wonders of the world, the Greeks discovered philosophy, but make-up was invented by a desperate angel during the construction of the Tower of Babel, when people spoke the same language and wanted to settle in a city after the great flood. That angel was you. And you really needed the make-up when the first bite happened.

➴ genre: fluff, polyamory, falling in love

: ̗̀➛ warnings: references to christian religion & lore, fashion and make-up lore, love bites/hickeys, mentions of snake poison, corruption i think

⌨ :: 2.2K words ♡ ︵ . .

⁀➷ special thanks to @honeytwo for helping me translate this into english, correcting my grammar and other mistakes. thank you for everything! °♡̷•.

⁀➷ a/n: Hi, dears! I am happy that I took the time to publish this story here after Ao3. I wrote it in January when I watched Good Omens and was looking for comfort after bawling my eyes out. Alright, that's all I wanted to say. Go and enjoy your unique history with the ineffable husbands! <3

➳ good omens masterlist

A FAIRLY LONG TIME AGO

As much as possible, you wanted to blend in with the people. You were too attracted by their nature to spend the rest of your time until Armageddon up there, among snow-white washed columns, in empty halls where nothing really interesting happens. You can deliver the reports even if you’re living on Earth and watching the humans work, you reassured yourself.

You've enjoyed watching the mortals ant-like, feverishly at work, creating wonders like the Tower of Babel.

“Upon my word, what a masterly job,” said Aziraphale, when the tower was already very high.

Aziraphale agreed with you about your intentions on earth, and you used to talk about the exciting things people can do and how exciting it will be to learn about their work and future generations.

When you were particularly engrossed in reciting your predictions, and explaining them to each other with sparkling eyes, Crowley would just roll his eyes and do it with relish, as if it was his natural reaction to your enthusiasm. He decided he'd rather be with the two of you instead of in the company of damned souls and stake-ridden demons when there was no one to tempt and lead into sin. It wasn't boring at all, especially with the fairs they held back then, the intoxicating people, the musical instruments, the delicious food.

His favorite events were the celebrations. When the men working on the tower would take a break from work and gather in town to drink and sing. They fanned his fire, his desire to do something underhanded. Not evil, just something genuinely bad. Like what he did to the apples and Eve at the tree.

He thought deeply about the ways in which he could make others sin. That's when he heard you laugh. You were amazed at what Aziraphale had said. You sipped flushedly into your alcohol jar. You weren't wearing your halo or spreading your wings, but you looked just like an angel. Beautiful, ethereal, uncorrupted, even when you were indulging in human pleasures and getting drunk at an easy pace.

Bingo.

Crowley smiled, his eyes gleaming under his black sunglasses. He headed towards you.

“Did you try everything?” he asked.

“The dates are heavenly ,” Aziraphale agreed, putting another piece in his mouth. “You must try one, Crowley.”

“I will,” the demon promised. “Later. But first, I'm going to taste something that's inviting to my imagination…”

His fingers brushed over your shoulder. His fingertips touched your sensitive skin, then...

“Ow !" you squeaked in surprise as he sank his canines into the exposed skin of your neck.

When an angel wants to fit in with humans, she can't walk around with a snake-bitten neck like she's fine. So you tried to use a miracle to make it disappear, but as it turns out, miracles don't work on demonic bites, which is kind of unfair, but part of the Incomprehensible Plan, so you had to resort to some other method, without blaming the Almighty for creating the demon bite the way it is.

You used paint to cover it up. It was the first make-up experiment in history. Cleopatra will use your method in dark red, but it will be a long time before then, your injury will heal and heal many times over.

In any case, Crowley grinned as he watched you walk around for weeks, neck covered in paint. He was very pleased with himself, and you often caught him looking at you with his yellow snake eyes, grinning like he was planning to do it again.

When God confused the tongues of men, you were grateful to Him.

Now, you could send the demon to Hell in countless languages.

IN THE 16TH CENTURY

Garbo.

Garbos everywhere.

Lace, frills, colours, fancy fabrics. You were very fond of the English Renaissance under Queen Elizabeth I. Mainly because of the full turtlenecks, which usually covered your neck magnificently. You could even forgive the low-cut dresses and corsets - although when silk scarves came along, looking back, the wide turtlenecks you once wore would have looked like clown costumes.

It was further satisfying to know that Crowley hated rules by default, let alone about fashion. He really despised the Sumptuary Laws, and cursed that he hadn't invented them, because they were truly demonic. In contrast, Aziraphale, who always put a lot of effort into his appearance, was fine with the expected attire, and always looked elegant with a pleasant smile.

Sometimes, though, his smile faltered when his turtleneck grazed the bite marks on his neck. You stroked his upper arm sympathetically at such times, and yet: neither of you told Crowley to stop what he was doing on your necks.

You had no problem with early medieval times. The tight, plain dresses were simple and, importantly, the neck was not visible, only the back of the hands and the face, and after marriage, the hair - not that you married, it was just the fashion among married women. On the other hand, the pale ideal of the early Middle Ages, when women had blood drained to make them white as doves, was disappointing. Then came arsenical powders, the cause of many women's deaths. At the time, you were ashamed of inventing make-up, and so women wanted to tamper with their natural beauty with all sorts of talc fads. You have to suffer to be beautiful, they said, and they didn't realize that there was no need for any suffering because they were beautiful from creation.

Your determination was only further strengthened when it was discovered that Elizabeth I died of blood poisoning from using white lead on her face. And you thought the sixteenth century would bring radical changes…

Actually, there has been a radical change, but not in make-up.

Crowley invented the suction mark, which didn't swell up like a snake venom-infused wound and came in a variety of colours depending on how much time Crowley put into creating them. They made him feel like an artist, so he liked to tinker with them. He'd been paying devoted attention to your necks for a very long time, so you're actually used to it, it's become a tradition.

In fact, you both kind of loved it.

IN THE 19TH CENTURY

The rice powder is made from natural ingredients. We're finally back here, you peacefully acknowledged at every social gathering. Usually you only powdered the back of your neck, but richly. The fashions of the 1800s called for ruffles, corsets, a relatively modest neckline, no turtlenecks or neck-covering. But a thorough, ornate make-up look was something every self-respecting woman had to create, and because you only covered your neck, you were often the victim of gossip.

When Aziraphale opened his bookshop and held a small gathering to celebrate with champagne, snacks and a ball, the ladies whispered a great deal about you, hiding behind their fans. They sized up your clothes, your make-up, yourself. They guessed how much of a goer you must be. It made them angry that even though you don't wear normal makeup, men still seek your company because you're witty and good, not jealous like them.

Crowley was annoyed by the women who belittled you, the men who complimented you, the fact that you had been hiding the fact that you were his for centuries. Just like Aziraphale, only he didn't seem as desperate as you to cover his marks. Although his top hat usually shaded them well, where it was appropriate to remove the headgear, nothing covered them.

Aziraphale looked at Crowley more and more often as if he knew perfectly well what the marks meant, just as he knew that Crowley was a cruel, unrelenting demon and would not say it.

When Crowley asked you to stop covering your neck, he was actually saying it. With his eyes shining mysteriously in the moonlight through the window, when Crowley took off his glasses and all the guests had gone, leaving only the three of you and the empty glasses and the crumbs.

Tenderness and love. This is what his words would have tasted like if you had eaten them.

It was the same way Aziraphale looked at you when you caught him gazing at you, silent and dreamy, or when you simply spoke to him enthusiastically about something that interested and excited you as people once did when the Tower of Babel was raised, and he listened patiently, as if he had nothing better to do.

When you said all right to Crowley with a smile, that meant you loved him, too.

Them, too.

NOWADAYS

“Um, are you–” Gabriel furrows his eyebrows and tries to decipher you with a polite smile. “What is this?”

You're wearing the purest white, as befits a visit to Heaven. Obviously Gabriel would not object to that. He wears mostly white, with a faint hint of blue. What he can't make out is the fluffy white scarf wrapped tightly around your neck, right up to your nose. You stand before him like a polar bear with a neck brace. Or an almost completely covered, ethereal mummy.

Or maybe a spool of toilet paper.

You pull the material slightly in front of your mouth to answer.

“I'm cold,” you report with a blush.

“It must be exciting.” Gabriel admits that you've probably spent too much time on Earth, among humans, and its somewhat dulled your angelic senses. He clears his throat. “Well, we can get down to business then, let's not waste each other's precious time.”

You nod. He is absolutely right.

In the empty, snow-white-plastered heavenly hall, a table, a folder and a pen with wings - not a bijou, strictly used for official signatures - appear. Sighing, you take a comfortable seat, and as you take the pen, you give thanks that now women can wear comfortable and practical pants too.

And, you add with even deeper satisfaction, great scarves.

...

Ignoring the closed sign, you rip open the door and burst into the bookshop.

“Sorry, but we’re closed– Oh, it's you.” Aziraphale smiles a greeting, then notices the upset on your face. “What happened, darling?”

“It was embarrassing to show myself like this in front of Gabriel,” you reply as you begin to unravel the fuzzy covering around your neck.

Aziraphale pats your upper arm piteously, presses a kiss to your temple and promises to bring you a mug of hot chocolate to help you relax.

Long time ago you promised Crowley you wouldn't cover his marks, but when you meet your angelic bosses, it's a different story. If they find out what's between you and him, they'll make hell in heaven. That doesn't impress Crowley, especially not today. Before you left, he had so covered your neck with his special love marks that a simple scarf wouldn't have been enough to cover it. Especially since he's recently returned to biting.

You'll find him on the sofa at the back of the shop. He's got a real proud smile that makes you want to throw a scarf at him. You throw the scarf at him. He catches it easily.

"You little..." you grit your teeth.

“Idiot? Shit? Asshole? The lowest of demons? Bitter of your eternal life?” He's playing with the scarf. He doesn't look up, doesn't admire the colorful patchwork he's created on your neck. Even better. If he would do it, throwing a scarf at him would not be enough.

"Lovely sweet creature," you say in a voice dripping with sarcasm.

“Bleh.” Crowley scowls. “That's a thousand times worse than you swearing.”

“I know. That's why I do it.” You sit down in the armchair furthest away from him and continue to stare at him harshly.

He sighs.

“My love, you're too beautiful with my marks on your neck. I cannot help it. And every man should know those are mine. Even the angels up there.”

Except Aziraphale. He already knows full well that if the blobs on your skin were to be exhibited as paintings, the artist's name would clearly be Crowley.

And you know what these marks are called these days, and that makes you happy. You ask, a little more lightly, if he knows. Crowley shakes his head.

“Love bites,” you tell him.

“It's only natural that they call it that. I invented it, and for thousands of years you and Aziraphale have been the only ones to get it. What else could it be?” Crowley gets up, comes over to you and squats down in front of you, taking your hand in his. He’s not wearing his sunglasses. His eyes are vivid, the sky glowing yellow behind the black sliver of the moon. "It's not something I give as punishment or temptation. It is exactly what it is called. Humans are smart enough to give it such a good name.”

“Well, well, you're praising the humans.” Aziraphale arrives balancing a tray on the low coffee table next to his open book and a stack of newspapers.

“Have you heard what my creations are called?”

“I don’t think so.”

The demon tells him. The angel blushes and starts passing out mugs. Crowley admires him, then turns to you.

“Will you sit with me?”

Luckily for him, you're not overly resentful. You nod, and you’d be lying if you said you weren't warmed by the sight of his smile and his hand reaching out for yours. You end up on the soft couch, his arm around your shoulders, your hot chocolate in your hand.

And love bites on your neck.

#good omens x reader #ineffable husbands x reader #poly ineffable husbands #aziraphale x crowley x reader #aziraphale x crowley #aziraphale x reader #crowley x reader #good omens fanfiction #good omens #good omens fluff #ineffable husbands #cross posted on ao3 #polyamory #x female reader #x fem!reader #x female y/n

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saint-ajax · 2 months ago

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༒︎︎︎︎ OCT. 04 | MIGUEL O’HARA

༒︎︎︎︎ KINKTOBER

Your story goes predictable. A hot headed mafia boss kidnaps a beautiful woman who can't escape him. As time passes you become his sex slave, the apple of his eye, the queen of the empire he built, the woman he is willing to burn the world for.

As much as you may try to deny it, you fell for the man who stole your freedom.

But it just so happens that this particular mafia is an Irish-Latino, spider-bitten, with a vampire dentistry, topping it off with a muscular big build. Also, a caring, sweetest person as much as an aggressive man. That's the Miguel O'Hara you love. The man you know, worshiped, hated, and was forced to marry.

You hate yourself as much as you hate him for taking your dreams away. You despise how much you love him. Unable to be repulsed by a dangerous, dangerous, man.

Yet, not always. You still get mad at him. A lot of times. But that's just your dynamic. You're mad at him so he eats you out, and you're all lovey-dovey again. Although, not this time around.

You planned to surprise him at work today, bringing his favorite meal that you took the time to cook for, in spite of being a clueless damsel in the kitchen.

Only for you to find a woman with her tight skimpy skirt lifted up to her hips, exposing more than enough skin of her thighs to anger you. She was in the move to sit on Miguel's thighs. While he, the man in the sharp black suit comfortably sitting on his office chair, was only letting the woman do as she pleases.

You've spent enough time in this office alone to memorize where the hidden guns were. A black leathered chair beside you has one on it. Since they didn't hear or feel your presence, you snatched it without hesitation.

They didn't even give a damn at the sound of the gun clocking. It was the perfect timing, she was sitting on his lap, leaning in to reach his face. And just as their faces close? You shot the space in between them. The window received the bullet you released, sticking to the first layer, an effective bulletproof window.

The woman screamed. She covered her ears as she was startled. While Miguel didn't even blink. The moment you stepped inside the building, his spider sense tingled in the presence of his woman.

“Oh my gosh! What was that?!”

She looked around until she found you with your hands in air, index flat on the side of the trigger, eyes drained of emotion.

“Gosh, woman! You could've shot me! Miguel, do something!”

“Who… are you?” you mutter, eyes squinting at the oblivious woman.

She was frustrated that Miguel was just watching the scene while she stood properly, fixed her clothes, mad and confused at your presence, identity, and actions.

“Who are you? ”

She threw back the question as if you're the one who needs to be known.

“I’m his wife. And, you? What's your name putita?”

Miguel couldn't help but smirk at the insult you threw, proud of your Spanish.

“What did you just call me?!” she asks in a totally offended tone with her hand on her chest.

“Little whore.” You clarify. She gasps dramatically before marching towards you.

“How dare you!” She yells before cocking her hand in position to slap you.

“You touch her and you're dead.”

Miguel's threat interrupted her. She looks at him as if she couldn't believe him while you just stare at her with one brow lifted.

“You’ve spent enough time in my company. You’re fired.”

“What?! You’re siding with her?!”

You and Miguel frowned confusedly at her.

“Did you not hear her? Ella es mi esposa, puta.”

“You got a lot of nerve,” you state it to her.

She looks at you and back at Miguel before frustratingly leaving the room. “Ugh!”

You walk towards his table, to drop the bag. “What the fuck was that?”

You confront him. “You’re a cheater now?”

“No. She's a flirt, so I let you handle her.”

You nod simply, dropping the gun on his table. “I could've killed her.”

“But you didn't.”

“No, I didn't…” you agree. You walk over to his side while he swivels the chair to face you. You reach the spot of the window where your bullet stuck. You pull it to study it around your fingers.

He reaches for your waist, but you catch his hand, opening his palm to place the bullet. “You have to understand the weight of this, Miguel.” He raised a brow at you, asking what you meant.

“De qué estás hablando, mi esposa?”

“I didn't kill her. But I would have.”

“I do not see the problem.”

“I'm not as innocent as you first took me.”

He glares at you for the word you used. You smirk inside your head, knowing the guilt it brought him. “You’ve made me crazier. I’ve adapted to your dangerous life. You have to be careful with your actions. Or else who knows what I could've done to her?”

“I’d prefer if you killed her.” You glare at him.

“That's not very nice.”

“I'm not very nice.”

“I won't be very nice to you too if I catch another woman latching on to you. Understood?”

“Si, mami.”

You lean into his face, caressing on his cheeks, tracing his strong jaw with your thumb. You let your hands roam down his abdomen to his crotch, after your speech, you made him hard. You smile at him, and act as if about to kiss him, when he opens his mouth to receive your lips, you mutter:

“Don't get too cocky, I'm still mad at you.”

He opens his eyes, to see your sharp glare.

𖤐

“Where’s mi princesa?!” He barges in his own mansion, fuming in anger at everyone who crosses his path.

“S- señor Miguel, señora O’Hara is in the masters bedroom.” Frightened maids bow at him as he marches past them in rage.

He barges in your room only to find you sleeping soundly in the bed you both share.

He eyes you down while he loosen his tie. He stands in front of the footboard as he takes off his suit jacket. His white long sleeves could barely seal his brawny chest and ripped muscles.

He flings off the comforter keeping you warm as it reveals you in your cotton shirt and shorts that covers almost nothing.

He crawls down the bed as his big, rough, palm creeps up your legs. Until his hand lands on the band of your shorts, he effortlessly rips it off along with the thong, pieces of fabric landing across the floor. The icy atmosphere makes you squirm, while he forcibly opens your legs wide open. He dips his nose down to your core, inhaling your addictive scent.

From there, he devours you like a starved man. Licking your insides like he owns you. As if you're his last meal. He holds down your squirming legs to fuck your pussy with his violent tongue. Shamelessly latching on your clit, dragging his tongue slowly and deeply from your gooey walls up to your silky clit.

He flicks his tongue rapidly, he hardens it and to shove it inside you and lap your sopping walls drenched in your divine juices.

He kept slurping you. Munch your pussy repeatedly which makes you whimper. Bringing you to consciousness as he ate you like he's starved.

His intensive feasting doesn't falter. He adds his thick fingers, enough to make your tight pussy feel full. As he curls his fingers inside your slit, he pumps them in and out. This causes you to push his face deeper, legs shaking, and trapping his head in between you.

Your mouth falls open as your back arch, feeling the sting of the few pricks of ecstasy.

Your legs shake as he helps you climb your high. Chewing on your clit, molesting your hole with his skilled tongue and fingers. As your walls clench around him, you shudder and moan at the climax he delivers you.

Pleasure spreading through your veins as he keeps on worshiping your drench cunt.

Your chest rises and falls as you calm down from the high while he laps you, cleaning your glistening pussy from your creamy sap.

While he gets up, lips, chin and jaw dripping from your cunt.

He pulls his zipper down, pulling out his heavy, full of load balls, stiff cock. Before the base of his dick touches your swollen clit, you grab him. You sit up and glare up at him.

“You do not get to touch me, Miguel.”

He glares back at you, eyes narrowing at your behavior. “You don't tell me what to do. I touch what's mine.”

“This pussy isn't yours, is it?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Unless it's attached to you, it's not yours. Get the hell out of my way.”

He narrows his eyes at you and the act you're pulling.

“Ahh… my hypocrite queen, cumming first before protesting from being fucked.”

“You've taught me well.”

You smirk at him before leaving the bed. As you open the door, just as you step outside, he has you pinned on the walls of the hallway.

“Stop being such a fucking tease, Mrs. O’Hara.”

He growls at you. You roll your eyes as you moan in disgust. “God, I fucking hate that title.”

“You're getting on my fucking nerves, woman.”

He shoots his web to bind your wrists, you gasp audibly. “Get this filthy thing off me!”

He smirks and scoffs at your words. “You really testing me, huh?” He shoots another web on the ceiling and ties your bound wrists on it. He made you hang like a punching bag.

“Put me down!” Soon he shoots another web to shut your mouth. Then he rips your thin shirt apart. Now bare naked hanging off the ceiling.

“Now you look perfect.”

He pulls down your hips, smacking your plump ass on the back before spreading them apart. He shoves in his long, thick, cock. You moan inaudibly now as he push in your slit. Stretching your delicate walls, reaching your gooey cervix as he pull down your waist. As if you're his own life-size fleshlight.

While his dick drag a pleasurable sensation in you, it was still an uncomfortable position to be fucked in the air. While his strong, tall, build gives him the access to suck on your tits while pumping his cock with your pussy.

His paces starts to get rocky. He tightens his grip on your waist as your cunt meets his thrusts. “Fucking delicious.” He groans each time your wet pussy engulfed his beefy cock.

He smacks your ass, spanking them equally hard. He grips on your red cheeks marked with his palm, grabbing onto them to slam his tight balls deeper and harder into your core.

You couldn't do anything but take his rough pounding. While you moan inaudibly, crying, whimpering, and shaking as he ram into you.

He rests his face in-between your bouncing breasts, focusing his mouth on sucking on your hard nipples as he moan from the euphoric warmth your cunt delivers.

“Your perfect cunt will be fucking full of my cum, esposa.”

He mutters as he both of your mounds.

“Fuck this pussy. I own this.”

There's nothing stronger than the sense of ownership washing over him everytime he sees you, he fucks you, or kiss you. “Mrs. O’Hara’s all mine.”

He buries his dick deep in your, reaching into your womb to finally shoot his another kind of warm web. While your legs shake, tears falling from the mix of pain, discomfort, and insane orgasm.

He fills you up of his creamy load before continuing to thrust in and out, savoring the bliss of fucking your tight cunt. Then he traps the proof of sin inside you. Before he pulls out and kneels to watch your pussy drip the mix of your cum and his.

He smiles at his masterpiece, dipping a finger to see the consistency of your mixed syrup.

“Buckle up, brat. I'm gonna fuck you dumb. You hear me, mi hermosa putita?”

You nod helplessly as you hang with your wrists above your head, tears falling down your flustered cheeks.

#ajax saint #st. ajax's kinktober 2024 #kinktober #wh0re house #wh0re house by ajax #marvel novelty universe #marvel cinematic universe #across the spiderverse #alternate universe #mafia au #miguel o'hara #miguel spiderverse #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara x you #miguel o'hara x fem!reader

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babydollmarauders · 2 years ago

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GAME WINNER — NICO HISCHIER

nico hischier x fem!reader

summary: in which Nico gets rewarded for his game winning goal

warnings: MATURE CONTENT! oral (m receiving), nico having a “captain” kink, praise, not a lot of dialogue, not proofread.

notes: this could quite literally be trash, i’ve never written any kind of smut before, so if it’s horrible then please never expect smut from me again

it’s not often that i attend road games with my boyfriend. really, i’ve only been to three previously, but i had a long weekend off work and i was missing Nico. so, can anyone really blame me for giving into my temptations and buying an impulsive flight ticket to Arizona?

now here i sit, on the edge of my seat in Mullett Arena, waiting for the puck to drop again in overtime. i watch through the glass as my boyfriend switches places with Erik Haula for the faceoff, the puck drops and Nico wins it, sliding it back to Dougie.

Dougie passes the puck back to Nico, and my leg starts bouncing anxiously as he skates down the ice into the Coyotes defensive zone. Nico makes quick work of wristing the puck past the goalie and straight into the net, and i jump to my feet, clapping for him.

“YES! NEEKS!” i cheer, observing as he celebrates the win with his teammates. my thighs clench at the sight of his smirk, his cocky attitude more of a turn on than i’d like to admit.

the arena starts to empty out and i follow behind, due to meet with Nico back at his hotel. my mind races with thoughts that i hope nobody can read across my face; my plans for the night have been solidified.

the hotel room is empty when i arrive, which by no means surprises me. i estimate at least another half hour before Nico walks through the door, giving me plenty of time. i ruffle through Nico’s bag, pulling out one of his t-shirts, slipping my own off and unclasping my bra to leave me bare, i pull his shirt down over my head. i kick my shoes off and my jeans follow, being yanked off and shoved into my own bag, leaving my ass clad in red lace.

leaving my hair and makeup, i take a seat on the bed, scrolling through social media as i wait for my boyfriend to enter. as i predicted, it’s not until thirty minutes later that i hear the beep of the key card being scanned and the door opens to reveal Nico. his hair appears slightly damp from his post-game shower, and he’s switched back into his arrival suit.

he’s captivating.

“hi, darling.” he grins, walking over and dropping his phone, wallet, and airpods onto the nightstand. he leans down, dropping a chaste kiss to my lips, but i thread my hands into his hair, pulling him closer in an attempt to deepen it. he pulls back, a smirk spread across his lips once again tonight. “what was that for?”

“i’m so proud of you, captain.” my voice is sultry, dropped low in a seductive tone. his hands grip my waist as i rise from the bed. “you did so good tonight.”

“yeah?” smirk still painted onto his face, he pulls me flush against his body, his still hardening bulge pressing against me. “you’re proud, baby?”

“yeah.” i reiterate. it takes all my willpower to pull my body away from his, distancing myself. “let me show you how much.”

my hands push against his shoulders, and he allows my weak shove to knock him back onto the mattress, sitting at the edge of the bed. i drop to my knees slowly, placing my hands on his thighs as i do so, and look up at him through doe eyes and a bitten lip.

i let my touch graze up to his length, cupping it through his suit pants, and his hand comes up to roughly cup the back of my neck, using his grip to pull my lips to his in a dominant kiss. a moan escapes my throat as he sucks my lower lip, nipping gently at it in the heat of the moment. i smile into the kiss, allowing my fingers to wander down to button of his dress pants, undoing it before slipping my hand past the waistline of his underwear to palm him.

he stiffens for a moment at the cold touch before melting back into the kiss, relaxing into my contact. i part our lips, stroking him a few more times before i glide my hand free to pull his pants down. he assists me in my endeavor, letting his now fully erect cock spring free. my hand returns to it, stroking hard and slow as my tongue slips out to wet my lips.

Nico let’s out a shaky breath and i snake my other hand up to push his shirt up, watching with intrigue as his abs flex. noticing my gaze, he makes quick work of stripping off his suit jacket, unbuttoning his shirt and letting it hang open as he falls back onto his hands. i feel my core growing slick with want as i take in the erotic scene of my making, but push my own needs to the side.

tonight is about him.

leaning over, my tongue licks against his tip, making him shudder. i hollow out my cheeks as i go down, letting his cock slip past my lips just slightly. Nico brings one hand back to caress my cheek before using it to grip my hair in a makeshift ponytail, barely able to contain himself from thrusting into my mouth. peeking up at him through my lashes, his eyes are squeezed shut, his head dropped back as his chest rises and falls in a quick rhythm with shallow breaths, and it spurs me on to take him farther. i gag as his tip hits my throat, bobbing my head as i watch his reactions.

“y/n.” my name falls from his lips like a prayer, delighting my ears as he exhales it between groans. “fuck. you’re such a good girl.”

his praise causes my heart to pound in my chest, a moan bubbling up my throat. the vibrations of it reaching his cock, urging him to finally let loose and thrust into my throat. i gag once more, but power through it, breathing through my nose as he uses his grip on my hair to start guiding my head back and forth on his length. flattening my tongue along the underside of his shaft, i reach up to grip whatever can’t fit in my mouth, timing my strokes to match the bobs of my head.

Nico mutters some curses in german, his breathing picking up as his abdomen tightens again.

“i’m not gonna last long if you keep doing this, darling.” my lips lift as i smile around his dick, peeking up again to see him watching me as he bites his lip. my jaw starts to ache but i urge on, taking him as far as i can. i continue tugging at his cock as i pull back back to inhale a deep breath through my mouth, grinning up at him.

“i want you to come, captain.” my voice is hoarse from the violation of my throat, but my words still do the trick, making him moan and push my head back down towards his erection. i lick my lips once more before pushing his cock back past them, taking him as deep as i can muster, bobbing my head up and down as i suck around him.

i can feel his pull on my hair get tighter, hear his breath being held for longer, his tell that he’s about to tip over the edge, and i reach my free hand up to trail over his bare stomach, lightly grazing my fingertip down his abs. he groans out more german curses before i finally feel him come undone, ropes of cum coating my mouth as i continue through his climax. when he’s done, he pulls my lips off of his quickly softening cock, his hand dropping my hair and making its way to my cheek as he watches me swallow.

i stay seated on the floor as i watch him tuck himself back into his pants before i climb back up onto the bed.

“that proud, huh?” he teases, gripping my thigh as he pulls me to straddle his waist.

“probably prouder than that.” i whisper, leaning in to press a kiss to his lips.

“i love you.” he mumbles, his hand gliding up and down my spine.

“i love you more, game winning goal scorer.” he chuckles at my words before flipping us over so he hovers above me, his hand trailing to my front and down to my core.

“now how should i take care of you?”

#nico hischier #nico hischier smut #nico hischier imagine #nico hischier x reader #nico hischier blurb #nico hischier fic #nj devils #nhl smut #nhl blurb #nhl fic #nhl imagine #faithlynn’s writings <3

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f1crecs · 9 months ago

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Fic Rec List - Sex Worker AUs

if your fic is on this list and you don’t want it to be, please let me know and we will remove it immediately, no questions asked. we have contacted most of the authors on this list, but sometimes people fall through the gaps - just pop us a message🤍

have a pairing you want us to do next? please read the faqs and then head to the inbox.

don’t forget to give the authors featured on this list some love in the form of kudos, bookmarks, and comments!

Lando/Oscar

nsfw: dancing on quicksand by @tearstrung | E | 3.3k Lando is outrageous, and Oscar struggles to understand what's a joke and what isn't - until he sees a link on Twitter. This fic is red hot, very funny, and perfectly characterised! Oscar's special brand of bamboozlement is especially wonderful here, as he comes to terms with Lando's job on the side. The ending is like a beautiful punch to the gut. Love it!

'Though, the guy’s skin is similar in color to Lando’s—olivey, the natural tan Lando wears year-round, even if he’s barely been in the sun with his shirt off. The same big hands, which don’t really match up with his small stature, rippled with lithe muscle; followed by a wide ribcage that slips down into a tiny, tapered waist. Nipples, shades darker and always hard from what Oscar can see from a long scroll. At the tips of the guy’s fingers, Oscar notices leftover chew marks, the skin pulled back, nails bitten short into nubs.'

Carlos/Lando

nsfw: when the time comes by @venerat | E | 7.6k Lando asks his friend Carlos, an escort, to arrange an appointment with another male escort for him. Lando has never been with a man and wants to have the experience. When Pierre falls ill and has to cancel, Carlos decides to go in his stead. Only one problem, though - Carlos is in love with Lando. Will he be able to keep his emotions in check? This situation could have been awkward but Lando is nothing but sweet and kind with Carlos. The encounter results in a lot of revelations for them both, and although they seem to start the next phase of their relationship a bit backwards, they clearly have a future together.

Time doesn’t seem to be very real. Carlos thinks. He thought it would be different than this, that’s all. Different from the way it’s—happening. Because the way it’s happening feels like sex. Real sex. It doesn’t feel like work. It doesn’t feel like a transaction. It feels like—trite; cliche, of course, but—it feels like passion.

Charles/Pierre

nsfw: pièce de résistance by @capsize (copenhagenborn) | E | 14.5k Pierre, a sex worker, is approached one night by the assistant of someone calling himself Marc. Marc, it turns out, is really Prince Charles of Monaco and is looking for an arrangement. This is quite low-angst for a royalty AU (don't get me wrong, I love my angst) but this fic just has them slot together so easily. Pierre is rather happy as a sex worker, which is actually a nice change when it comes to sex work fic. The relationship side of things is slow burn and even the inevitable miscommunication part of the story is done so well I enjoyed it.

'Pierre does spend the night. He sends Charles a picture of his gateau marcel and soaks in the tub as he finishes the bottle of wine they were supposed to share. The house is predictably a mess when he gets home: George is crying on the couch with his eyes glued to the television, a small Union Jack pulled from somewhere and now proudly displayed in front of him. Alex is sitting by his feet, badly hiding his laughter as he scrolls through what Pierre can only imagine being memes. Lando is passed out in the corner, a bottle of vodka close to his hand, while Oscar stares at him with an oddly closed-off look in his eyes. Pierre isn’t quite up to date on the current geopolitical relationship between Australia and the rest of the commonwealth. Pierre sits down next to Max at the dining table, sips his water and goes, “What does it mean if someone has to be summoned after the death of dear old Lizzy?”'

nsfw: cause baby, I'd be satisfied forever by @wolfiemcwolferson | E | 88.5k Pierre, retired from racing after a career-ending injury, is closer to 40 than 30 now and has reinvented himself as a designer. He's also venturing out of the closet. He is put in touch with Charles, who gets by as a sugar baby, and decides this is a perfect way to get some experience dating another man. Pierre finds himself developing feelings for Charles. I'm at a point now with @wolfiemcwolferson fic where I just gesture wildly at whatever they've written and make vague noises but in the interests of trying to sound like the sane person I pretend to be, this fic is a perfect distillation of the Pierre/Charles relationship. What if they didn't meet until later in life? What if Charles never went beyond karting? What if the age gap was larger? All of these, and yet, it's still them. There is a "soulmates in ever universe" theme in the Piarles fandom and this story absolutely embodies it.

'He’s beautiful and he smells like cologne and something fresh and he’s still not let go of Pierre’s hand - the cool leather underneath Pierre’s hand seems so…foreign. So flipped. Pierre considers all the time he touched other people’s hands while wearing leather gloves. “I hope I am not late,” Charles smiles at him still. “I missed my train and I -” “Charles,” Pierre says, realizing that Charles seems a bit nervous - a bit ruffled. “I only just arrived. “Come and let’s go inside. We can get warm.” His smile makes his perfect face less so - a mere mortal instead of the god he is and Pierre gets it immediately.'

Charles/Sebastian

nsfw: Be Snoozing That Lust In The Morning by @sebchalex & @meova101 | E | 14.5k When Formula 1 decides to clean up their sponsors, teams are left scrambling to find money. Ferrari finds an unconventional way to get more budget – Charles starts an OnlyFans. The initial premise of Charles having to get an OnlyFans to help Ferrari is just unhinged enough that it could be real – but this fic has a lot more to offer than just comedy. The way it follows Charles personal growth from not believing he could actually make money of OF, being embarrassed when Seb subscribes, to them working together to produce record breaking content and falling for eachother in between – its like a modern day fairytale, if Cinderella had to sell nudes to help the evil stepmom with money.

"This was the only way," Charles says. "I know this could tarnish the Ferrari legacy and everything, but I want to help my team. I will do anything to make them stay on top." Once he finishes his sentence, he looks straight at Sebastian. It's already disgraceful enough that he had to do this in the first place, but this type of rejection coming from Sebastian is making him feel worse. Finally, Sebastian raises his hands in a yielding gesture. "Fine," he says, sending a breath of relief through Charles. "I still have a problem with it." "Seb, I know. I wish there was another way as well, but—" "It's not about that," Sebastian says, looking even more pissed. "Have you realised that your pictures are terrible?" Well. Charles certainly hadn’t expected that. "What?" "Charles, if you are charging that much in the first place, then you should at least put in a little bit more effort," Sebastian explains, extending his hands out. "Your lighting was horrible, and it was blurry. Why did no one offer help?"

nsfw: With you I'm in real danger by @jean----ralphio | E | 55.5k Charles, a well-known porn actor, shelters from a mob of fans by hiding in a rare books shop. The bookseller recognises him but is too considerate to say anything about it. Charles notices and they strike up a friendship, and more. Charles and Seb are from such very different worlds. Charles is accustomed to sometimes being judged for his line of work but Seb treats him with utmost respect at all times, which should be a low bar but isn't. Things get a bit rocky for them in true romance story fashion, but all is well by the end.

Sebastian feels himself go bright red, as Charles’ mischievous smile turns gleeful. “I can tell the instant I meet someone whether they know who I am or not,” he explains. “So I knew right away that you know of me.” “Ah. Sorry.” Sebastian feels foolish, guilt settling over him for not having been honest about it from the beginning.

Pierre/Yuki

nsfw: your mouth makes me reconsider where my heart lies by @yukierres | E | 10.4k Pierre, still an F1 driver, discovers a streamer who plays video games while using sex toys and is immediately fascinated (and hugely turned on). He lavishes gifts and money on the man on his screen, and finds himself falling in love with someone he hasn't even met. The guys are so well characterised. Yuki is unashamed, he loves what he does, is brilliant at it and gets well paid for it too. You can see why Pierre couldn't resist. Pierre is confused and ashamed as hell to begin with (that darned Catholic guilt again) but can't stay away. The author grows the relationship to a point where it seems inevitable that Yuki will one day feel comfortable enough meeting Pierre in real life.

"That was -" Pierre says around breaths, a laugh in his voice, disbelief in what has just happened. Yuki himself has flopped back on the bed, laptop now beside him as he lies against the pillows. His eyes are wet and pink looking, a content sheen in them. "That was something else." A pleased cat-like expression forms on his mouth. "You enjoyed that Pierre?" He says with a blissed-out face, attempting to bat his eyes temptingly at the camera before yawning tiredly, the whole face scrunching up. It is more cute than seductive in the end, but it doesn’t matter because Pierre is head over heels either way.

Daniel/Max

nsfw: chemical highs and clear blue skies by @yekoc | E | 43.5k Daniel is a porn actor, which is where he meets newbie Max. Max, along with his cats, crash on Daniel’s couch whilst they continue to shoot various scenes together. They get to know each other and get to miscommunicate on the way to comfort. The pacing of the plot was really pleasant to read, as was the dialogue. Max is flippant but also careful and cautious at the same time. Daniel is self assured and kind and perhaps a little too trusting. Both of them keep their cards close and all of it makes for a very gratifying read.

'Max laughs, just a little bit, something that in someone else you might call a giggle. Daniel hasn’t seen him laugh before. He’s seen him come—in person, and then over and over again on video that one night, which he should probably forget about really quickly. Max laughing is oddly similar; it breaks something hard about him all to pieces.'

nsfw: Fly Fast (With Broken Wings) by @mysticalbreadcollective | E | 44.2k (ongoing) Max is an escort who turned to sex work due to lack of options. Daniel is an F1 driver, and Max's first ever customer. Daniel quickly becomes obsessed with Max - but the Max that Daniel first knows is a construct - the real Max guards his feelings out of necessity and can't afford to go all in with Daniel. Daniel doesn't understand the precariousness of Max's situation, or why Max would choose to keep working and earning his own money - keeping his independence - rather than agree to become Daniel's kept man. This fic digs deeply into the power imbalance and dubious consent issues of sex work, the necessary artifice of it and the need for emotional armour and distance on the part of the worker. Daniel, sadly, proves Max right with some of his behaviour - he can be selfish and spoiled, and sometimes outright cruel. There is love on both sides, but this relationship is a minefield they each misstep in more than once.

'“You think you are saving me, but it will be someone else. And maybe they will not be so nice.” Emilian says, and oh fuck, his voice is cracking a little at the end and Daniel can’t stand it. Because Daniel knows. He knows the types of clients, can imagine them, the ones that would pay extortionate amounts of money for Emilian. He feels sick hearing Emilian’s voice shake a little, wonders how nervous Emilian has been for this. What he was expecting, who he was expecting. When the agency told him that he was meeting someone who’d pay extra for him. If Emilian had built it all up in his head what he’d be asked to do. And then to say he’d been hopeful that it had been Daniel. Shit.'

Daniel/Lando

nsfw: asunder, asunder by @ladyeggplant | E | 53.3k Lando is very socially awkward, highly intelligent and cashed up. He decides the best way to lose his virginity is to hire an escort. The progression of the relationship here from transactional to something more is not smooth. Lando really doesn’t have much of an understanding about how a relationship should work and makes a few big missteps, especially later in the story as the emotional stakes get higher. Daniel is professional and gentle as he gradually figures out exactly what Lando needs. Lando is physically inexperienced and emotionally awkward and nothing about it is easy.

Silence settles over steeping tea and half-eaten fruit, and he wishes he’d left the music on, because at least it would make this awkwardness bearable. He’s had super wealthy clients before, but none of them this young, and none of them this achingly insecure where it was practically bleeding out of them. Everyone who has ever booked him as wanted him there, obviously—it feels like Lando would rather eat glass than sit in the same room as him. Daniel clears his throat. “So, first time, huh?” Lando chokes mid sip.

Carlos/Charles

In for a penny, in for a pound by @f1-stuff | M | 7k (ongoing) Charles, smarting after being unceremoniously dumped by his girlfriend, hires an escort to take as his plus one to Arthur's wedding. A dashingly handsome man turns up to the rendezvous, and they figure out Charles checked the wrong box when he was making the appointment. He's spent the money, Carlos is easy company, so he decides to roll with it. This fic is amusing and sweet. Carlos is wonderful at his job - perceptive and empathetic and kind, and is probably way ahead in understanding of Charles's sexuality than Charles is himself.

“Charles...listen,” he says, shifting slightly in his chair. He looks self-assured and confident with one leg crossed over the other, hands loosely clasped over his knee. Charles is annoyed and jealous of him all at once. “I probably shouldn’t say this, considering why you hired me. But you are trying to prove to your ex that you aren’t sad and lonely by hiring someone to pretend to be in love with you...” The man raises his brows at him. “You do see the irony, no?” Charles scoffs, shaking his head down at his lap. But he can’t deny that this guy sort of, possibly, has a point. Great, even the escort he’s paying to not make him feel so pitiful is calling him out.

Mark/Seb

nsfw: pleaser by @alltimecharlo | E | 34.6k Seb is a student struggling to make rent, and Mark is a very successful lawyer. They enter a mutually beneficial agreement. This story is fantastic - the author characterises them both beautifully, and they are the perfect balance of sweet and hot and funny. I particularly loved Sebastian's first trip to Mark's house... A gorgeous story, with lots to love.

Mark’s sitting right there. Like, directly in front of the changing room in one of the extremely comfy-looking armchairs, his eyes latching directly onto his form once it’s revealed and lingering there so heavily that Sebastian almost feels the need to hide his entirely clothed body. The older’s green eyes flick up and down his lithe frame so intensely that Seb can feel his stomach doing flips and a burning heat instilling under his skin. It only worsens when he watches Mark’s tongue dart outwards to wet at his lips.

In order to keep this list organised we have chosen to categorise it as 'Sex Worker AUs'– note that we understand that some tropes here are not always sexual in nature nor are they always categorised as sex work. We respect any and all sex workers and non sex workers alike!

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thana-topsy · 6 months ago

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WIP Wednesday - Baldur's Gate Edition

I haven't shared a wip in god knows how long, and even though I've been working on my other fics in the background, I was bitten with the Bloodweave Bug and have been indulging myself a little bit here and there. So if it's your thing, have some... well. Have whatever this is shaping into:

[Context - Gale and Astarion attempt to get frisky after relentlessly flirting for two acts. NSFW warning: sexy and not-so-sexy postulating, but nothing too graphic. CW: descriptions of dissociation.]

“You really are a gorgeous creature,” Gale said, running his hand back down Astarion’s chest, across his stomach. “But I’m sure you already know that.”

“Never hurts to hear it again. And again.” He arched into Gale’s touch. “So, do go on.”

Gale finally tugged the shirt up and over Astarion’s head, tossing it to the floor before bending low to speak into his ear. “You’re gorgeous.”

“I know,” Astarion replied with a sigh as Gale placed kiss after kiss along his jawline before capturing his lips once more.

Their pants remained on and were becoming increasingly more uncomfortable. Gale licked his way between Astarion’s lips, sucking and nipping. For all his enthusiasm and verve, it was, unfortunately, a rather predictable escalation. Gale groaned into his mouth and Astarion felt himself begin to detach, eyes half-open, gaze drifting unfocused to the upper left hand side of the ceiling.

He wondered what kind of fuck Gale preferred. He seemed like the type to want to get Astarion off first before fucking him raw—the type to pride himself on getting his lover to cum before using their spent body for his own pleasure. Astarion knew the type. And there was something so incredibly wretched about having to pantomime pleasure for an unwanted orgasm–

“You still with me, ‘starion?”

“Hmm?” Astarion jerked his gaze from the ceiling to focus on Gale’s face. He couldn’t actually recall when they’d stopped kissing. “Sorry, I was just…” He paused, momentarily at a loss, then affected his best flirtatious smile, brow furrowing coyly. “I was just thinking of all the filthy things I want you to do to me.”

Gale sat back on his heels from where he knelt between Astarion’s legs, brow drawn. “Right… Listen, if you’d rather not–”

“Don’t be ridiculous, darling.” Astarion reached down and curled his fingers around the hem of Gale’s trousers. “Of course I want…” His gaze went unfocused once more, staring past the cut of Gale’s hip at the shimmer of the arcane lock on the door. “I want…” Whatever he’d intended to say, the words refused to surface, and his resolve was withering on the vine.

Gale slid his hands beneath Astarion’s, gently uncurling his fingers. “As I said, I consider myself to be an agreeable lover, which means recognizing when I’m not wanted.”

“But I want–” Astarion’s throat seized as the panic set in. This wasn’t how things were supposed to go. “I want you,” he finally managed to squeeze out. “I just don’t… I don’t want…” As his desire, his true desire, solidified, it felt so ridiculous that he wasn’t sure if he could utter it aloud.

“What don’t you want?”

“I don’t want to be touched. Like… that.” He covered his face with his hands and groaned. “Hells below. I’ve had sex more times than probably half of Baldur’s Gate combined. You’d think I’d be a little more articulate on the matter.” He sighed, letting his hands fall to rest against Gale’s knees. “But rarely did I want it, and even more rarely did I enjoy it. Now that I’m—well, now that I’m not compelled, I just…” He let out another heaving sigh, eyes trained on the ceiling, on the far corner, the window, the crack in the wall. Anywhere but on Gale. “I don’t know if I remember how it should be. How to… enjoy it.”

Gale made a noise of understanding, shifting to extricate himself from between Astarion’s legs. “Well,” he said, grunting with exertion as he lay down next to him on the bed. “It would be neither the first nor the last time I’ve had these kinds of activities halted abruptly. And, to be clear, I’d rather they be halted than to have you carry on as if I’m some…” He made a swirling gesture at the ceiling, as though attempting to conjure the word, but left the silence unfilled.

“It’s pathetic,” Astarion said. Hatred and misery roiled in his gut. “He ruined me.”

“He didn’t,” Gale assured, as if it were that simple a claim to dismiss. “Give it time.” He reached down between his own legs and palmed himself through his pants with a groan. “Besides, I’ve more than enough practice with my own hand to find satisfaction if I need it.”

Astarion felt something stir in his loins, something that overrode the simmering bitterness. He turned onto his side, propping his head against one palm. “What if… What if I watched you?”

Gale looked at him with a raised brow, still cupping himself. “Watched me have a wank?”

“I was thinking of it more in terms of ‘pleasuring yourself’, but sure. Be crude. Have a wank.”

“A titillating proposition,” Gale said with a breathy laugh, tipping his head back with a hiss as he squeezed himself. “Why not?”

#topsy writes #bloodweave #bg3 #bg3 fanfiction #astarion #gale of waterdeep #astarion x gale #wip wednesday #writeblr #nsft #cw: suggestive #cw: dissociation

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btnclmrttn · 2 years ago

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I didn't proofread shit (drabble)

N/SFW warning: vague sexual mentions, vaginal sex, vaginal fingering, hinted oral

Gently(Saitama x Reader NSFW)

~~~~

It weird to think how, sometimes, couples and partners have some sort of sixth sense for each other. Could be just from being around long enough to be able to read your special one like a book.

From the smallest things like knowing your partner probably forgot to grab something, or how they're definitely going to need their favorite snack with the way their acting, to even more of intimate needs.

It just happens. No questions are hardly asked, you just know. But you don't know when or how your clothes and his clothes started coming off, but you both just knew. That weird sixth sense. Played out like it's rehearsed with the way your bodies move in sync to each other's responses and touches.

Then there's just some things you can't predict, even for yourself. Like today. How much more his touch affected you. How little effort it was taking to get you riled up.

Almost too much. His lips, his hands, down your stomach, between your legs. His fingers slipping inside, so needily sucking him in and coating them in your creamy juices.

"S-Sai, please be gentle."

His concentrated gaze breaks when he hears your pleading whine, shifting to a different gaze of focus beneath him.

"Gentle? I thought I was..."

With a firmer curling thrust of his fingers, a cry escapes your throat as your back arches by reflex. A stunned look takes over his soft face.

"What's with you?" He asks, "Sensitive or something today?"

"I guess..."

He tilts his head in thought, keeping eye contact, "I dunno ___, you looking like that doesn't make me wanna be more gentle."

His fingers circle deeply inside of you, drawing a lip-bitten moan from your chest. He raises your leg and pins it to your chest, his intentions clear he wants more of you.

"Sai!" You huff, "Chill!"

"Alright alright, don't whine at me. Geez." He groans, letting your leg down.

"Be nice to me."

As he lowers himself between your legs, he plants tender kisses on your tummy, then on your thighs, "You know I won't hurt you. I'll take good care of you."

You almost believe it. He'd never bring you pain, but definitely to tears. And by the way he has himself propped up, it's in a way you can't close your legs or squirm away...he's trapped you like this before.

"Saitama, I swear!"

He's got a grin on his face as his fingers start working again, very little difference from before, "Hey, I said I'd take good care of you! Relax."

"I know what you're...planning."

"Nahhh no ya don't."

Oh, but you do. Just one of those things you know, without second thought.

#one punch man #opm #opm season 3 #saitama #saitama hcs #saitama x reader #saitama/reader #saitama n/sfw #saitama smut #genos #garou #opm hcs #reader has a vag #imagine fr getting dicked down by saitama #if people knew what he was capable of #he'd have bitches for days #unappreciated dick game

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aconflagrationofmyown · 1 year ago

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but then…Gigi

An Elvis fanfic -chapter 3

Notes: finally a little update! There’s more coming up behind it I just needed to break it up a bit. Thank y’all for all the asks and the continued enthusiasm! Hope y’all enjoy! 💗

18+ content, sexual content, age gap and poor self esteem, parental neglect

Chapter Three

It’s stuffy inside the Stutz, humid air trapped inside it and in the garage; even Elvis Presley’s garage smells like mildew on this oppressive, stormy summer day. Her perspiration gluing her bare legs to his leather seats, Gigi tries in vain to pace her gasping breaths in the thick air.

Raising a jittery hand from its place balled in a fist on her thigh, she touches her lips in an effort either to relive or soothe the memory -she doesn’t know.

Elvis had kissed her.

Acting on her dare, he had kissed her. And it was no solitary peck or showy tongue plunge, it was a kiss so wanting and yearning and adoring as to make her feel it in her toes. Even now they were still tingling and her blood was roaring in her ears and if she wasn’t so overwhelmed with sensation and emotion, she might have found it in herself to touch herself to some completion just to make this pounding want for him moderate itself before the man himself appeared. Each passing second tore her between fretting over the unpleasant scenes that must be occurring inside the house and unadulterated glee over the thought of him finally helping himself to a portion of her.

She liked him a little selfish. It made her feel wanted, and it was a woozy, drippy, woolen headed feeling to be wanted by a real, red blooded man. Gigi hadn’t much experience with that, with the barrel chested, raspy voiced, brandy tempered men in their 40’s. Like a shot of whiskey after so many fruit drinks, his seasoned appraisals were flattering and dizzying all at once.

Her pulse roars and her thighs smack against each other with each shift against leather and helplessly Gigi closes her eyes and relives the feeling of his hands buried in her hair, cradling her face, thumbs anchored at her jaw, bending her to his kisses as his weight crushes her to the floor.

He’d been so large, so sturdy, so sure, ungiving yet plush all in the right mix. And she had felt him hanging low and prodding. The memory zaps her right where she had felt him thick and firm in his soft track bottoms and with a gasp tumbling from bitten lips she sneaks a hand beneath the hem of his jacket and into her sodden panties. As the time wears on she has some strange presentment that he’ll have lost the mood they were in and it’s out of a sort of despair that she chafes her slippery little hood in a quick bid for relief. She thinks about those thighs of his, sturdy and toned and furred as she’d seen them when in his swim shorts, she thinks about rubbing herself raw on them.

Her feet make a squeaking noise where they’re propped up against the glove box, her legs trembling from the sparks, widening as the feeling mounts. A quick squeak of friction and she catches herself and sucks on her lip, repositions those long legs to a sturdier stance and speeds up her hand in her knickers as the sweat pours down her neck, wets the back of her hair where it drapes down her back and his seats. Suffocated she yanks the zipper away from her neck, undoing the jacket down the glistening hollow of her navel. She flaps the edges to get a breeze.

Almost there, almost there.

What Elvis had not anticipated to find waiting for him in his Stutz after a predictably miserable finale with Ginger and Co. was the leggy beauty of his deepest, darkest, most far fetched daydreams fingering herself with unabashed gusto in the passenger seat.

Childlike in her concentration, with eyes closed and legs splayed so wide the entire windshield was like a projector for the damn show happening beneath a tiny nylon scrap, Gigi all bowed up under his unzipped jacket like a bowstring, teetering towards a damn good crescendo by the looks of her vibrating legs.

It was obscene.

Made more so by those fat titties of hers barely covered by his unzipped jacket, glistening with every heaving breath. All in stark constant to that angelic face. It was infuriating.

Something akin to jealousy animated Elvis enough to send him stumbling down the remaining step to land his bejeweled hands heavily enough on the car’s door frame to cause a clatter and frighten the daylights outta his lil nymphomaniac.

He’s not sure who’s blushing worse when those blue eyes fly open and she gasps,

“Elvis.”

in acknowledgement of his presence while doing nothing to remove the offending hand from between her legs. He had been able to hear the sopping wet mess between them and it takes him aback a little, this tangible proof of her carnal interest. He’d been doing a damned good job with Ginger, settling in for the quiet life of reading and tennis, no heady first encounters and only his stupid bouts of yearning causing him to commission stupidly erotic tokens of bygone potency like that welded belt with his name on it. A burdensome gift for an unwilling recipient.

Guess he’s gonna have to run by the jeweler and cancel that trinket, Ginger hasn’t any use for it now. But this, this is better than any of that. This is old fashioned and nasty, this way of Gigi’s cunt makin’ a sound like stirring Macaroni and Cheese between her legs. It’s both flattering and terrifying and his blood rushes to meet the challenge just as it had when he first found a woman lying in wait for him in his car after the hayride in ‘56. She’d had a husband, that lady, and a wet snatch that had dripped down to her very calves watching him put on a show. Elvis had put his whole fist up there and got fondled real nice for it before ending up with a busted face.

It’s been awhile since anyone laid in wait for him.

Finding such raw need for him oughta make him smile. Instead he finds it makes him pause, hand on the door handle. He didn’t think she was this sort.

“Lord forgive ya, you enjoyin’ yourself lil girl?” he mumbles with an edge to his tone as Gigi just sits there and shakes, teetering on the edge and not even ashamed, although her hand has stilled. He hates it, for one fierce second he’s irreparably cross with this virginal little harpy for having deceived him, for being so randy when he’d been so sure she needed protection and guidance.

He’s sick of being wrong about women, sick to death of it.

“Yessir, I am -was.” she whispers back to him, eyes wide and guileless, “I’m so glad you’re here.” she says with such obvious relief in her breathy voice and faith in his good intentions to satisfy her that he’s reminded suddenly what a baby she is, like a punch to the gut and kick to the conscience. He’s still leaning on the doorframe when she takes her hand outta those panties and he wants to be relieved until she stretches it towards him with all the pleading grace of a damsel in great distress, “I need you real bad.” she explains plaintively and all that well entrenched nonsense about how ladies oughta behave themselves when in public spaces like garages or pools, suddenly gets a little murky in Elvis’ head. Sorta floaty and fuzzy when met with the sticky, perfect, nectarine sweet smell of her want for him glistening on the tips of her fingers.

“The hell are ya, the serpent himself?” he grumbles even as he wrenches open the car door and heaves himself in alongside her, his belly wedged behind the wheel in a regretfully inelegant bulge. “Get that fuckin’ temptation outta my face, we’ve buisness to discuss. We ain’t primates, we’re adults and we’ll dee-s-cuss the various matters at hand like adults.”

Elvis slaps her hand away from his nose as he says this and Gigi clutches it to her chest as if his sharp words had scorched the soft flesh of it. He tries to ignore the way the whole car smells of thunderstorm trapped pussy musk. The way her eyes are brimming with tears over his refusal to suck the sticky strings of her horniness off her digits. And the way he feels so pressed to keep things sedate between them initially, simply because he knows “adults” is a kind word for them both.

He’s a dirty old man with what he wants and will eventually get around to doing with this fawnish young thing if she lets him. And holy lord!

- ‘Adults’-

it ain’t a lie in respect to her, they’re both adults, but it’s rather reaffirming of how shoddy that excuse is when he has to say it a million times to comfort himself and this over excitable girl who has her legs wide open and her thighs shiny from fingering herself to the memory of a make out session.

God, what he could do with such sensitivity…

“Alright, listen here, lil one-” He makes an effort to clear his throat and in a bid to make her eyes stop watering with unshed tears from his tone, Elvis tries to lighten the mood by aiming a little slap at the offending place between her still splayed legs.

It has a slightly more stimulating effect than he anticipated.

Gigi’s eyes fly wide in cerulean disks of joy at the ringing pain of his rings smacking against her petals, right before her body goes rigid and his hand gets trapped between two spasming thighs as an unmistakable little peak rips it’s way through her, taking its sweet time to zap her and compress her lungs. The sight is heavenly and it gives him a little prelude of what it would be like to make her lose her mind.

His irritation fades away at the sight of her trusting pleasure and the melted look of loneliness that flashes across her face as she endures it with ample room between them on the seats, no embrace to catch the slumping after effects. He’s a cruel man and his hand defends himself by rubbing at her soothingly, asking for forgiveness with fumbling swipes of the pads of his fingers along her inner thigh. His hand is drenched when he yanks it out and grabs at a knee, hauling her over across the bench seat, scraping her thighs over sticky leather, nearer to him.

She looks like she needs a hug after what he just did to her.

What had he done? Fucked if he knows, he had pussy slapped her…err, ok he made out with her on his floor…no, he led her on before that but it was all in good fun…he’d held her in the pool…no law against that…he’d made her a burger as any hopeless romanti-

-as any good host would do.

He takes out his confusion on the hapless gear shift, tucking this suggestively foldable girl into his side and reaching round her shoulders to yank at the jewel studded stick, desperate to get outta this garage before someone witnesses him losing his mind in there.

He gets the gear shift tacky from her traces on his hand. He should've guessed that, strings of slick connecting them still even as she calms down from the feel of him against her in the seat, just as he suspected, hoped, needed. No words as the car revs out and into the drive, just her little moans still bubbling up as the car moves and her legs jostle her.

“Baby, tuck yourself down beside me,” he pleads, “don’t want no one to see your precious self.”

Gigi wastes no time in getting offended over his secrecy. Instead she somehow folds further, head nearly between her legs and face smushed into the crease where his belly meets his thigh. It’s not what he meant, it’s not what he wanted. The bottom of the steering wheel is liable to knock her little nose with each spin. And his fat gut is folded against her forehead.

It’s not what he’d wanted.

But today seems to be going that sorta way. The screwed up, make a fool outta his hopes sorta day.

He still manages to be polite to his boy in the gate shack and it’s gratifying that there are a few folks outside the gate, loitering mostly but they animate when he drives out, happy and waving and caring whether he lives or dies or never drives outta there again. Gratifying, it’s real gratifying. He protectively lays his hand on Gigi’s head to keep her low, to keep her steady in her curled up position as the voices of his fans rise outside the automobile and the car spins out into the boulevard with enough force to send a frailer girl straight to the floor boards.

Instead Gigi just clutches at his leg and throws a tanned leg out to catch herself against the console, takes the turn like a champ and stays down as he asked. Her hand warms him like some forbidden shit coursing lava-like through his veins, pounding in that artery under her palm, there beneath his squishy inner thigh, so close to where he can feel himself getting heavy -if not hard- right there in the baggy tracksuit. He thinks he must be dreaming, that it’s just an action of readjustment, but no.

No.

God it can’t be, no but, he could swear she was nuzzling that crease of his. The one that used to be lean and cut during his army days, chiseled and contoured in the movies and always at least a little defined even as a boy but now -now it’s a soft roll of flesh dropping onto bulky thighs and she’s -

Fuck. She’s definitely nuzzling it.

Gigi’s head is foggy and fuzzy with the old terror of having messed up somehow and somewhere and not knowing what it was. It makes her pulse race and her eyes burn in that old crybaby way until she thinks she can’t take it anymore and just might pass out like an overwrought little maiden -until she feels him tuck her into the security of his warm side, until she hears his pleading command to hunker down, until his hand cradles her head as he presses her lower into the bulk of his soft belly: and then she is warm and safe.

Fuzzy and foggy then in a way only her silliest daydreams have ever promised her. The ones where she’s loved and permitted to be a little too soft for it all. One where her forehead is pressed against warm flesh beneath a tracksuit, her lips puckered out to feel the material glide against them, straining for the feel of his wiry curls beneath. She feels compelled to cradle herself in every nook and cleft of him, her arms winding around him as he takes a turn and her hand anchoring to his thigh, her cheek atop it. Her nose buried in that scrumptious fold of his that is as burnin’ hot and sticky to her senses as a Tupelo hothouse in august.

It makes her moan, a hot and puffy gust of appreciation, her thighs still smashed together. She could cry this time from gratitude at how close he is to her, how commanding the weight of his hand is on her head. She’d happily let him push her face into his crotch in payment for having messed up all his arrangements today. She’s never given a blowjob before, not properly at least, and maybe he’d be a little angry about it but she thinks she could take it. She wouldn’t like him angry but as long as she was near him and he was down her throat and gripping her jaw and pulling her hair -well, he’d have to touch her to do all that and she wanted that. She needed that. That would be ok. It would be kinda hot. She just needed him to stay close. Forever.

She’d never felt so safe as she did now, tucked under his arm with his hand spanning her whole skull and likely driving straight to a speedy deflowering. Nothing about that gave her pause. She was sure she could love him to some sort of compromise -one involving her being his pet and he her daddy for ever and a day. It was simple really. So simple it felt like it had already begun and that silly adult conversation he needed to have with her had been worked out and now they were off into the sunset.

Gigi feels a wash of contentment at this. Simple really, she thinks again to herself and acts on it as she feels him suck in his stomach in response to her nosing at his fold. It had made the hem of his jacket gape and she takes full advantage of that by discreetly sticking her whole face up in that musky little tent and peppering his soft belly with heartfelt smooches. His belly is still wet, maybe from his shower after the pool.

Kiss, kiss, just a little peppering of pecks.

She licks her lips. It’s salty. She pecks at him again. This time open mouthed. Definitely salty.

Kiss kiss kiss. Just little kisses. Little thank you’s.

Each one saying “we’re gonna be so happy.” It was simple really. They could make each other happy. Isn’t that how kids form their friendships? You make me laugh, you share your toys, you like my food. Let’s love each other.

Kiss kiss kiss.

The brakes squeal and the wheel bonks her head and maybe she wasn’t being as subtle as she intended with her affections but those were all minor distractions. They were gonna be happy together.

“Sweet merciful baby Jesus on the cross—“ she hears Elvis saying above her instead, muffled by his jacket and a few pounds of prime memphian beefcake.

“What is it?” she asks, yanking her head out from under his jacket to get some perspective on why they’ve stopped, all she can see is at endearing little extra bit of fleshy padding under his chin and the curve of his lips and maybe beyond that there appears to be an awning outside the window, like at a gas station. They must be low on fuel.

“What is it?” he mimics with a lifted eyebrow and a silly expression that just enhances his adorable double chin, a goofy little move she recognizes from his movies but likes it better from this vantage point. “The “it” is you, lil girl, as usual,” he laughs in disbelief, “and the “what” is that you’re gonna give this ole man a heart attack goin on like that while he’s navigatin’ a public roadway. Ain’t safe, ain’t sensible.”

“Oh, sorry ‘bout that.” she says and it’s so honest and accepting he melts right away at it. That and the fact she’s still laying down all shiny and golden across his lap with her hair pooling in the V of his legs and her smile lookin’ so fond at what she must consider a portly, middle-aged fussbudget.

Since when did he start soundin’ like fuckin’ Gingerbread? Whinin’ bout safety when he coulda been spurtin’ down an untried throat.

“You’re just so cuddly, Elvis, wanted to snuggle right in. Way you were drivin’ I figured I needed an airbag if things went wrong.” She explains teasingly and there goes that smile again and he’s so confused and so in love… “We low on fuel, Elvis?” she asks without missing a beat.

“Wha-?” he glances around and realizes he has peeled the car up next to a Seven Eleven’s dingy pumps. “No, I’s just tryin’ to get away from a lil snail that burrowed under my damn jacket.”

Gigi giggles at that and so he does too. Goes so far as to take his hand off the idle wheel and cup the sharp underside of her chin. He feels it again, that thrumming, electric, shocking and sedating connection all at once, everything that oughta be felt when you touch another’s soul, everything full of good intentions.

“I just wanted to kiss on ya some more.” she explains herself so very softly to him as her eyes flutter shut from his touches and her legs draw up and together unconsciously on the bench seat. “I do know givin’ road head’s illegal.” she says next with a laugh and it jars him, “And you’re a cop!” she feigns a little horror. “But since you’ve got us parked…” she trails off before opening those glittery eyes again and lifting her head just a little as she turns back on her side, intimating some intention to make good on her jokes.

Elvis would rather go to hell than face fuck so sweet an Angel, much as his leg twitches from want for it. Her face is so close, so, so close. He’d rather go to hell.

She ducks her head and her hair covers the revolting scene as he feels rather than sees Gigi nuzzle beneath his belly and press a wide open kiss to his (pretty neglected of late) ball sack, aiming at random, he thinks, from the way she just open-mouth-smooches him. His toes curl from it.

That’s all the reaction she’s gonna get from his useless body, those pills he took for the migraine this morning are gonna keep him as limp as those goddamn seaweed noodles Ginger tried to feed him in Hawaii. Just a couple of years ago he coulda easily choked this little thing to death with his firm meat but now she’s gonna find out he can’t even twitch when he’s this sedated. Ballsack smmotching and pussy slaps, regardless.

He’d rather go to hell.

“Don’t be crass, lil girl, that sorta act ain’t becomin’ on you.” he says it as gently as he can, in a fatherly way if he thinks about it, weaving his hand into her hair and savoring that visual ecstasy for just a moment before he pulls her head the opposite direction his body really wants, pulls her up and away from him. She’s surprised and saddened enough by the rejection that she jerks her head up faster than he’s guiding it and it bonks into the steering wheel again.

The blast of the car horn makes them both yelp.

She scrambles to sit up, doubly wounded.

There’s those tears forming again.

She’s frustrating in that way but he can’t manage to let it out on her, and that’s puzzling as only Yissa has ever elicited this amount of indulgence from him and he feels exhausted at that implication. He involuntarily shuts his eyes and he sighs and reaches over to pat her leg assuringly.

“You’re tired.” she deduces and there’s not a hint of judgment or disappointment in that voice.

“Yeah, and I gotta think.” he says, “All my thinkin’ spots are currently takin’ up by assholes.” he realizes, “And we’re gonna get caught out in the open here.”

She hums understandingly and he keeps petting that silky smooth leg, relishing how muscular those calves are, fingers itching to play with that anklet. He rubs his palm higher to get away from the dangly temptation, higher and in between her legs. He might as well give in a little. He rubs over the wet crotch of her panties and she sighs happily, leaning her head back and closing her eyes. Same position he’s in, mirroring him, as he keeps his eyes closed and rubs. He spreads his index and middle finger, catches those outer lips and traps them together, rubs her that way with her wet petals gliding together and her moans go up a notch. They just breathe and he rubs, the sound of the car idling a heavy bass to her breathy percussion.

“I’m sorry everybody is taking up your space.” Gigi makes conversation while he’s at it, and somehow it just feels right to chat while he pets her.

In the dark of his closed eyelids Elvis has regained a little peace and he lets his fingers drift to her pantyline, flirting with the idea of going under the fabric. “S’alright. ‘M’used to it.” he slurs, “Where d’ya go when you gotta get away?”

Gigi hasn’t got any fans or a legion of family members but somehow he knows, just knows she’s like him and has to get away. Someone’s always got something to get away from, or least the sensitive ones do.

“I've usually got the track.” she answers

“Hmm.”

“But they don’t bother me. They might bother you.”

“Yeah, s’no to the track. Though I’d like to watch ya run sometime.”

“Really?!”

“Don’t be silly, ‘course I would.”

“I haven’t had anyone come watch me run before.”

“I doubt that, honey.”

“No! Really!”

“Bleachers cleared out whenever you’re up?”

“No! No I mean anyone I know, besides the footballers.”

“Yeah, I bet they show. That’s shitty though, baby. I’m sorry for ya.”

“It’s alright.” she is the one who says it this time, “It’ll be like nothing at all if you really come! Please, please!”

“I done said I would. I will!”

“Aww thank you!”

“Honey, I wanna.” he insists, it’s very important she understand that if her folks haven’t ever once made her feel special like that. Even if he’ll be more like the footballers, come to watch her jugs and tight lil ass bounce down the track. Unlike them though, he’ll make sure to make her know he’s proud of her. He'll reward her real good for it afterwards, too.

His fingers slip under the panty seam. Calloused fingertips swiping along bare and slimy skin, she’s pooling and her slick’s working against gravity she’s so hungry for him. But that ain’t the troubling bit.

“Lord baby, where’s your hair?” he asks her in concern, finding a perfectly bald mound the more he rummages in her drawers. “You not grown any yet?”

Gigi laughs so hard he can feel her belly sucking in with each giggle beneath his forearm. “I shave it, silly. Isn’t it nice?”

“Baby you oughta have hair.” he insists, his hand quite stalled from this development. “Just damn weird for a woman to be posin’ like a lil girl.” Maybe that’s his conscience over the age gap talkin’ but he’s really a bit flustered by it.

“I’ll grow it out for you.” she whimpers, stung again by his rejections and -he really can’t seem to stop hurting her feelings, can he?

“Ok.” he says softly, going back to rubbing her and seeing that it has the intended comforting effect on her, “I’d preee-fer that, Gigi.”

“Ok.”

“Good girl.” Her eyes open at that and if his were too he’d see how happy he just made her, telling her something he’d like, something she can give him, guiding her. It’s new and soothing and thrilling to her all at once and she whines as she starts to thrust her hips up to meet his hand, quickly getting worked up.

“Can we go to your place?” he asks her softly and realizes it's been absolute ages since he had to ask someone that. Usually he’s always got a place to take them, usually they’re inviting him to theirs right away after the initial chit chat about names and weather. That feeling of being young and normal takes over again and it’s saddening how foreign it is.

“Yeah, yeah of course, Tammy’s out too, so we’ll be alone.” Gigi explains through heaving breaths as she doesn’t stop riding his hand as best she can with her leverage disadvantage.

He wants to see her place, he wants to see those records of his that Tammy says she’s got littering her room. He wants to see what Gigi does with a space when it’s hers. He wants to devour her stupid little bald beaver on her college dorm bed.

“Alrigh’ let’s go to yours.”

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#elvis fanfiction #elvis presley #elvis fanfic #elvis imagine #elvis x reader #but then…gigi #Marina’s #elvis smut #austin elvis smut #elvisaaronpresley #elvis one shot #elvis austin butler #elvis movie #elvis x y/n #Elvis

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boyneptunee · 1 month ago

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we made universes out of bitten lips and broken hands on AO3

37,958 words, ongoing (7/13), time travel, seer!Harry

Harry is a point between very observant and very tired with life. Oh, and he keeps accidentally predicting the Future.

sneak peek at Chapter 8

The two white haired boys were enjoying a cup of hot chocolate in a secluded corner of the Kitchens, warm and accompanied by the smell of freshly baked bread when something occured to Harry.

"Hey, Brax."

"Yes, Harry dearest?" His friend answered, eyes closed and leaning back in his chair. The day had stretched on forever, between essay's and classes and practical exams he was cooked.

"D'you think Orion would marry Walburga?" Harry asked from behind the rim of his cup. Some cream lingered in his top lip.

Abraxas though for a long second, trying to place the name to a face, eyes still closed and head leaning back.

"Black? His cousin?"

"Yeah."

"That'd be dammed weird. Why?" When he didn't get an immediate response out of Harry, he jolted in his seat, eyes wide open and expression wild. "Merlin's left tit, are you serious?"

"Pretty, uh." An awkward laugh left his lips. "Pretty serious."

"We have to prevent that. God's be good Walburga is fucking insane. She would cook Orion alive with a single glare!" Harry's face scrunched up, lips pulling into a frown.

"And they are cousins."

"Yes, that too." Abraxas sat back, long fingered hand to his lips, thinking. "How do we do it?" A long silence followed. Finally, Abraxas locked eyes with Harry.

"It's not that simple." Harry said gently, a sad look about his features. "I've tried changing the course of the Future several times. It always finds a way around in the most unexpected ways. If it's meant to happen it'll happen."

Abraxas took a long drink of the hot chocolate, turning ideas in his mind.

"We should kill Walburga, then."

"Brax!" A startled laugh left Harry's lungs, his expression entertained.

"What? That'll solve the problem right away."

"You're insufferable."

#ao3 #soulseeker #tom riddle #tomarry #fanfic #update soon #hopefully

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star-railfanboy · 1 year ago

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His Hero Pt 1

|Hello Everyone who comes across this. I saw some fan art drawing Dan Heng as Spider-Man and my brain refuses to let go of the thought. Dan Heng is my Favorite Star Rail character and Spider-Man is my favorite superhero so I'm mixing the two in this au. It will be more than one part. The reader will be shorter than Dan Heng. Anyways as always feel free to change the pronouns to fit you own. Enjoy and I hope you have a wonderful day or night.

Scenario: He got bitten by a radio active spider. Before that happened he was a standard college book nerd. He was working on his biology degree. He has a high moral obligation when it comes to people in need. That is if he is able to do something. He somehow manages to find a balance between his life and his life as a vigilante. Though getting closer to his crush is a bonus to the chaos that is his life.

Dan Heng x A Male Reader

Warnings: minor spoilers for Dan Heng and Blade's lore as well as the main story quest, mentions of death, injuries, minor angst, and very long|

Dan Heng:

Dan Heng had gotten injured during his last battle. He never expected he'd get into that situation. He was against a new organization that had arisen in his city recently. They claimed their leader could predict the future.

He was against the person named Blade from the group. He looked familiar to Dan Heng. The hero couldnt place his finger on the familiarity until he said something. The thing happened to catch him off guard. Blade called him by his dead brother who caused a lot of problems for him. It made his blood run cold and muddled his mind for a moment which lead him arm getting cut.

His late brother was the reason he wasn't living a normal life. He was the one that raised Dan Heng. He had cause a lot of issues for a lot of people. Dan Heng unfortunately looked similar to his brother that many mistook him for the other. He did a lot of things that upset a lot of people. However before things went down hill he was considered a hero and highly respected. He wished to not be his brother's shadow anymore.

His brother was the original Spider-Man. He bitten and relied on two of his friends. They were named Yingxing and Jiang Yuan. Dan Heng sort of remembered them but somethings happened when his brother had his down fall and his memories were scattered about.

He never met the two as he always hid in his room when they were over. He had seen them a couple of times when he peaked out of his room to see if they had left yet but they never saw him. With Yingxing he never saw the other's face while once or twice he caught a glimpse of Jiang Yuan's face. His brother also never mentioned him as they had a rocky relationship.

Dan Heng only found out about his brother being a hero because he came home injured. He took care of the wound. Though he had no clue about the experiments his brother was conducting until he found himself bitten by a radioactive spider that bit his brother. He remembered not wishing to even be in his brother's lab but Yinyue Jun forgot something important at home. He brought to his brother. His sort of remembered Yingxing being there but he doesnt trust his memory of the incident. After all his mind became hazy and memories fragmented.

He hadn't seen nor heard anything involving Yingxing since Yinyue Jun had died. Which happened not soon after he visited the lab. While Jiang Yuan mistook Dan Heng for his brother and arrested him for a short period of time. The arrest was removed off his record when they discovered that he was Dan Heng not Yinyue Jun. Jiang Yuan is kind and wished to help Dan Heng if he needed but the dark haired male was always mistaken as his brother.

Dan Heng also sense the white haired male held guilt for anything that happened involving his brother. He remembered everyone talking about his brother at the funeral. So many mixed emotions and opinions that he couldn't make heads or tails about. With his memories scattered it was hard to sort his thoughts and memories about the other. He choose to separate himself from his brother but people still claimed he was just living in Yinyue Jun's shadow.

He managed to make it out of the fight just fine. He had taken Blade down though he figured it wouldn't be for long as one of his comrades showed up. He had left quickly as Kafka was one of their group he didnt like messing with. He was safe from the two but he was still shaken up. Dan Heng hadn't changed out of his suit just yet. He just found himself in an alleyway hidden from sight trying to calm himself. He was trying to organize his thoughts. While he didn't sense any danger he heard footsteps approaching.

Dan Heng gave a sigh just what he needed. It was bad enough his vigilante side gig was exposed cause he ran into March 7th one night. Of course she thought he was Yinyue Jun as he reused his brother's suit design. He was now the same height as his brother once was. The general public minus Jiang Yuan thought he was still the original Spider-Man. The only difference was he refused to work during the day to avoid being seen. His brother was once again the original hero.

He wanted to leave before he was seen by this new person. He readied himself to swing out of there bracing himself for the sting that will occur. "Wait a second!" The person called out. He mentally cursed to himself.

For the second time that night his blood when cold. He'd recognize that voice anywhere. It was someone he holds dear. They met because of group project the shorter male had to work on with his roommates. Stelle and Caelus had fought over who was his friend. March wasn't home that day. They got acquainted then but didn't become close until he started his job at the local library. They were studying science and history. Which was very fitting for the other.

While he was reminiscing at how they met he felt a hand on his wrist. (Eye colored) eyes staring at him. "Look I'm sure you prefer not to be touched but I noticed a gash on your arm. My friends are constantly talking about you. You saved two of them once so I dont think youre a bad person. I know you're a hero and most likely wish to keep your identity hidden which I fully respect. Just hear me out please. I want take you to my home to patch you up. It's not far from here. I just worry about you swinging about with that wound Spider-Man." The shorter male said with a worried look. His eyes staring at the gash with a frown.

Dan Heng started thinking about everything. He knew (Name) was trustworthy. After the two became friends he learned the shorter of the two was very kind and gentle. He was also someone the hero would trust his life to if the situation called for it. Dan Heng thought it would best to just nod. He knew the other would lose sleep from worry. He saw relief flood into the other's eyes.

He was lead to (Name)'s home. It wasn't far and he was positive no one saw them. Dan Heng became a bit red under his mask due to the fact (Name) hadn't let go of his hand yet. The smaller male had sat him down. "Make yourself at home while I go get my first aid kit. Is it also possible to pull your arm out of your suit? If so pull it out please. I don't wish to damage your suit further but I want to make sure your arm is properly wrapped." (Name) said letting go and

"Caelus and Stelle are going to kill me if they find out about this. It'll be even worse for me if they tell Dan Heng." Dan Heng heard him mutter to himself while grabbing the first aid kit from the bathroom. While he was grabbing it Dan Heng pulled his arm out of his suit. It was made with the mask and body suit were separate. Had he not ran into (Name) then he'd be in that alleyway still.

He was rather nervous about this. (Name) came back and accessed the wound. He quickly began tending to the wound. "It may sting for a second. I'm going fo clean it." His soft voice said. The hero thought his voice had eased his mind a bit. He winced slightly from the disinfectant.

"If this happens again feel free to come here to get taken care of. Both of my parents are both in the medical field. I learned a lot from them. They taught me since some of my friends were constantly getting hurt when we were kids." (Name) couldn't believe he just offered that.

The (eye colored) male knew his friends would yell at him for this but he couldn't help it. The hero saved March and Caelus both in the past. His identity was a secret so getting help must be hard. It must be so lonely and hard. He had no interest in prying at all. He took care of his wound with ease. The hero was gone quickly after with a soft thanks.

What he just offered had finally sunk in what he offered. The adrenaline of seeing the wound and his need to help others died down. He pulled out his phone and opened his chat with Himiko. 'Hey Himiko I may have done something extremely dumb.' He quickly typed out. He couldn't go to his other friends after all. They'd make a trip this late to come scold him.

'Is everything alright? Do you need me to send Welt to stay over for a bit?' Himiko quickly replied as he cleaned everything up. This was going to be stuck in his mind for awhile. He just hoped making a deal to aide the hero wouldn't come to bite him in the butt. He chatted with Himiko for awhile until he was able to relax about the situation.

Dan Heng swung through the city until he snuck his way back home. His other three roommates didn't know about him being Spider-Man. In fact the only ones who did know were the oldest of the friend group. Himiko and Welt helped him immensely from making his suit to improving his gear.

After he got changed out of the suit he leaned on a wall. He had tossed his phone on his bed to not think about it. He covered his now extremely red face. There's no possible way he'd actually take (Name) on his offer to patched up as much as he yearned for it. It would put the smaller male at risk if anyone saw him heading there to get help.

He was trying to calm his racing heart when he noticed his phone light up signaling a message. He picked it up to check who could be messaging him. His eyes widened when he saw Himiko asking if he was ok. It was as if she had a second sense. 'I am fine you don't need to worry about me.' He responded.

'Glad you are ok.

A little birdy told me our dear (Name) patched up your wound and offered for you to come to him in the future. Though you did make him worry and freak out afterwards.

He messaged me freaking out because he offered to help a certain hero.

He was worried because he knows nothing about the hero but had a run in with him being injured tonight. I am relieved he patched you up regardless. Anyways get some rest and good night Dan Heng.' Himiko messaged.

Dan Heng gave a sigh. The smaller male was too kind for his own good. He'd be extremely worried had it been anyone else that was Spider-Man. He should plan something as his hero alter ego to thank him for patching him up. He also makes a mental note to persuaded him to not offer that. It could very much put him into dangers sights.

His hand subconsciously went to the bandages on his arm. He remembered the soft tone and gentle hands. His heart sped up once again for that night. He'd just realized he'd never been at the other's home. His face started heating up. He hoped he wouldn't have any late night knocks on his door from his roommates.

Needless to say the two males were up for the rest of the night. Dan Heng thinking about the shorter male. While (Name) was thinking of him without knowing know it. The following day started off normal for Dan Heng which was nice after a night of fighting crime.

His roommates had left their shared home earlier for classes or work. Making him the only one home. He didn't have any classes to attend that day which he was happy about. It also meant his arm would be able to heal more easily. At least for one day. He replaced the bandages on his arm carefully

All Dan Heng had to do was work his shift at the library. Which was a relief for him considering how much sitting in a lecture hall coping notes may irritate his cut. He heard a small knock on the door. Which he went to go answer. He looked slightly surprised seeing (Name) upon opening the door. His expression went back to his typical stoic one.

"Hey Dan Heng is Stelle here? She left something at my house the other day. I wanted to meet up with her but she hasn't been answering my texts. I think she's mad at me after Caelus made me draw for him in their gatcha game. Caelus got the character she wanted. She got a duplicate and blamed it on me rolling for the other." The shorter male said with a smile. Dan Heng shook his head.

"She has already left for her classes. Would you like me to put it on the counter for her? You also might have to roll for her later. Next time tell them both anything that happens isn't your fault." He said knowing how those two are. The shorter male nods. He gave a smile glad to have ran into Dan Heng. He was invited in for a moment. "Do you work today? If so and our shifts align we should walk there together." His gentle voice said.

"I am closing tonight so I won't be in until later. However I am happy to walk you there if you work earlier." Dan Heng answered setting the notebook on the counter and leaving a quick note for Stelle. It just meant more time they can spend together. He looked into shining (eye color) eyes. Dan Heng had a fond look in his eyes. He would deny it if anyone asked but he could get lost in those eyes.

"That would be appreciated. I am a mid shift today so when you clock in I'll be clocking out. If it's no hassle for you." The shorter male answered rubbing his neck. Dan Heng noticed his posture seemed timid. He tiled his head concerned. The other had a habit of not liking to bother others. He was worried someone was harassing his friend.

"Is everything ok?" The taller male asked with a worried look. His ocean eyes watched the other look away. "You know you can tell me whatever is troubling you. I'm always willing to lend an ear if you need one." He said softly. The other gave a sigh. His tone make the shorter male's heart skip a beat. "Promise not to get angry?" The response caught the hero off guard.

"If you're in danger or anything I won't be angry just worried. I can arrange for myself Caelus or Stelle to pick you up and walk you to work if you need. If none of us are available we can ask Mr. Yang." Dan Heng answered coming closer to the other. He was observing any movements that might spark concern.

The shorter male shook his head. "I'm not in danger I promise. It's just I have been feeling as though someone is watching me lately. Plus I want to spend more time with you as I haven't seen you very much." He lied for the first half of his sentence. It felt like something was amiss but Dan Heng couldn't place a finger on it.

Dan Heng frowned hearing his response. "If you have that feeling why didn't you ask sooner? I am happy to walk you. After you get off come here someone should be home. Wait for me here and we'll talk with the rest of our friends if we can work something out until the feeling is gone alright?" He offered a reassuring look.

"I'm fine with waiting at the library until you get off. I have some exams to study for anyways." (Name) said. He was happy go be around the dark haired male. His presence soothed him for some reason. He loved being around the young biologist. He was glad they met. He gave a nod in agreement.

"I am happy to help. It's better safe than sorry in this kind of situation. If it's just a feeling it should subside soon. Let me get ready and I'll stay with you for the rest of the day. I don't have any classes today and wasn't planning on doing much." Dan Heng got a nod in response. He'd make sure nothing would happen to the other.

"Also if the feeling is truly nothing then that's ok as well. I'd rather you feel safe. I can also teach you some self defense just in case if you want." Dan Heng stated. The other quickly shook his head no. His face was slightly pink. "Though it wouldn't hurt to learn I don't think we need to go that far." (Name) said looking away.

The two walked to the library chatting a bit. There was periods of silence but it was very comfortable. The two walked together as if it's was natural for them to be by each other's side. It has always been this way since they became close. As they were walking Dan Heng sensed danger and pulled the shorter male closer to him.

He winced and gave a sharp breath. He grabbed the other with his injured arm. "Dan Heng?" The shorter male asked worried. He felt safe in the other's arms but that sharp breath worried him. "Don't worry about me." He said still holding the other close. He looked around trying to find the danger it was in the middle of the day so there wasn't many people around.

He got slapped on his injured arm. He took another sharp breath. "What are you so on guard about Dan Heng?" March asked while looking at him holding (Name). She quickly took a picture. "You both are together and didn't tell me? How rude!" She shouted. She watched the shorter male go super red. While her stoic roommate had a faint blush. He quickly let go of the other.

"You're misunderstanding March. I am just walking him to work. I felt something was off and then you appeared. Also delete that picture" Dan Heng said. He shook his head at March 7th. While (Name) looked concerned. "Did you injure your arm? I can look at it if you need." The shorter male quickly asked grabbing his hand which made his blush darker slightly. He couldn't let the other see his arm since the other may piece together his identity.

"Some of my books fell on me last night while I was organizing my shelves. Which bruised my arm a bit. I am fine. Again dont worry about me." He stated. There was the worry in the his friends' eyes. "It'll heal soon I'm ok I promise." He reiterated. He didn't need March seeing it too. He was still high alert and his senses were going crazy. He wanted to ensure his friends safety.

The shorter two started walking. They were barely in front of the taller male. March wrapped her arm around (Name)'s basically dragging him. Dan Heng followed and out of there corner of his eye he spotted long black hair disappearing into an nearby alleyway. He knew it belonged to as well. A frown appeared on his face.

He heard a creaking sound and reacted quickly by pulling his two friends back into his chest. "Hey what's the big idea!?" March yelled. She was about to go off more until a very old looking sign fell onto the ground. Had he not pulled them back it would've fell on the shorter two. March immediately looked at him wide eyed. "Do you have super powers or something?" She asked.

Dan Heng looked at the building. It was very old and looked abandoned which is probably why the sign fell. "I just have a good intuition. Are you both alright?" He asked letting go of them both. (Name) just looked at the crumbled sign in shock for a moment. "Dan Heng you're amazing for saving us. You're always so reliable!" He said turning to his dark haired friend. His eyes shining in awe.

Dan Heng looked away his face a bit pink. "Let's get you to work and talk about this later. I don't want you being late." He mumbled. March stared at the other. She started plotting in her mind since these two obviously liked each other. They were about to start walking again when a police car pulled over. "Are you three alright?" The cop asked getting out and coming over.

Dan Heng recognized that voice and sighed. "We are fine Jiang Yuan. Do you need a statement from us?" He asked glancing at the other. March looked between the two in surprise. She was shocked Dan Heng new this person at all. He was so anti social she thought he only knew those of their little friend group.

The white haired man shook his head no. "I saw everything that happened so no need as long as you're all fine." He stated with a relaxed smile. Dan Heng gave a quick nod ready to leave. "How do you know Dan Heng?" March asked before they were able to leave.

Jiang Yuan gave a small head tilt and another smile. "I was long time friends with his older brother. How have you been doing by the way? You ignore my messages so much that I worry." He said. Dan Heng sighed. "I'm fine and March before you ask I don't wish to talk about my brother. Now if you'll excuse us we'll be off." He said quickly. Which cause Jiang Yuan to frown a bit.

"I'll talk to you later Jiang Yuan." Dan Heng said as they started walking off towards the library. He should ask the other if there was anyone other than him and Yingxing that knew who Spider-Man was before him. That would help him when dealing with Blade and may lead to the stellaron hunters' fall.

They made it to the library without further delay. After the sign fell Dan Heng's sense stopped sending warning signals. When (Name) was safely in the library he dropped March off where she needed to go. She had tried pestering him to learn information about his brother until dropping it when he said nothing.

When he was alone he pulled his phone out and called Jiang Yuan. Who to his surprise answered immediately. "Dan Heng I didn't think you'd actually talk with me. This is a pleasant surprise. I had gotten off work not that long ago so I can chat for as long as you need." He said in his usual tone. Dan Heng just listened for a bit. "Could we meet up I have some questions involving your old group with Yinyue Jun?" He asked.

"Certainly. Where would you like to meet? I am free for the rest of the day. It sounds serious though. If I may be so bold to ask. Is everything ok?" He answered. "I am unsure at the moment. You know Himiko's coffee shop? Let's meet there." Was the response he got back.

Dan Heng felt himself grow anxious at this meeting. He wondered if he was actually going to get the answers to some of the questions that have been on his mind for awhile. He ordered himself a coffee and sat in the corner of the shop waiting for the other. He had started texting Caelus while waiting.

After 15 minutes Jiang Yuan showed up. He ordered a tea and then came over and sat across Dan Heng. "So what do you need to ask?" He said giving his full attention to the younger male.

Dan Heng sent a quick got to go message to Caelus before putting his phone away. "Did anyone know about my brother's side gig other than you and Yingxing?" He asked. His eyes watched golden ones look surprised. He must've caught the other off guard with his question.

"How did you find out about his side gig? As far as I was aware he kept it a secret from everyone but Yingxing and I." Jiang Yuan said. He placed his arms on the table and rested his face on his palm. He thought that Dan Heng had no clue who he was when they met for the first time. Much less Yingxing.

"I knew cause he messed up and came home bloody. Before his passing I got bit by a spider like him. As I'm sure you're aware from reports the hero is still active." Dan Heng said. Even though they plus Himiko were the only ones in the shop they were still in public. Which made Dan Heng keep things as vague as he could.

Jiang Yuan gave a nod and an understanding look. "Only Yingxing and I knew. Yingxing was the one who made all of his tools and I'd help him stay out of trouble with the law. Your brother didn't trust our other two friends with the information. Even I wasnt given all of the details. Yingxing was the one that every secret was entrusted to and the same goes for vice versa. Anything else you wish to know?" He explained.

He watched the younger male frown and go into a deep thought. Jiang Yuan grabbed his cup and took a sip waiting for the other to process the information. Dan Heng wondered if Jiang Yuan knew of Yingxing's where abouts. "Where is he now?" Dan Heng asked when the older male placed his cup down.

"He's presumably dead. With Yinyue Jun being his murder. Which is why our first meeting was less than Ideal. I had no clue he even had any living relatives after all." Jiang Yuan answered. Dan Heng's stoic expression changed to a perplexed one for a second. "What's the matter?"

"Did my older brother fight a bad guy with red eyes and long hair? He goes by the name Blade." Dan Heng asked. He was trying to make sense how Blade knew his brother's name while he was suited up. Jiang Yuan put a hand to his chin to think for a moment. "That description doesn't fit any of the villains he fought. Why do you ask?" The white haired male tilted his head again.

"I fought him last night and in the middle of battle he called out my brother's name. He laughed like a mad man while lunging at me with cracked sword. It looked as if it had been repaired with gold." Dan Heng explained. Jiang Yuan frowned.

"I wonder if my old friend is still alive. Which would make me more curious about what happened when your brother died. Yingxing had several conditions and was nearing his death bed when your brother started to fall from his title as a hero. Unfortunately I am unable to provide any more details as I dont know them." Jiang Yuan said. He noticed the younger male going back into a deep thought.

"Looks like it's time to permanently change my suit. If I encounter Blade again I'll try taking a picture for you to confirm or deny. I wish to right the wrongs caused by my brother if possible. Would you mind if I worked with you for a bit?" Dan Heng asked. Jiang Yuan agreed happily. He seemed fine with the idea of being relied on.

After the older male left. He spoke with Himiko about them working on a new suit design that fits him better with Welt. She seemed to agree eager to dress him up in different styles. He looked at the time and noticed it was close to his shift so he made his way back to the library. He quickly clocked in for work greeting his coworkers who just got off. He was working the front desk today.

When he arrived to the front desk he was an unhappy Stelle standing at the front desk with her friend Gepard from one of her classes. "Why didn't you tell anyone that you brought an injured super hero home last night? Then you chose not to tell any of us? I only found out because Gepard had seen you with Spider-Man in an alleyway while he was picking something up for his sister." They asked crossing their arms.

"Because you and the other over protective members of our group would scold me. He was injured and I couldn't just leave him to bleed out." (Name) said quietly looking away. "Of course we would." They said with a blank look. He was treating it like it wasn't a big deal.

"That's extremely dangerous (Name). Is that why you've been feeling like someone has been following you? If so you should've told me earlier. What if you became a target." Dan Heng stated as if he had no clue. (Name)'s eyes widened and Gepard had jumped being startled by the dark haired male. The shorter male looked down defeated he definitely didn't want Dan Heng knowing.

"I know but the hero had saved both March and Caelus before. He's not a bad person. Anyways what's done is done. Even if I could go back amd change it I wouldn't. Doesn't matter how angry you all are at me. I gotta clock off." (Name) said quickly getting up.

Stelle and Dan Heng exchanged looks. They gave a nod to the other. Gepard looked confused as if the two had a whole conversation without exchanging any words. "I'll leave it to you then. You better bring him home with you tonight so he's not at risk. Caelus will also be informed." They said turning to leave. They both knew he'd handle it. Seems he wasn't as careful as he thought to not be seen.

(Name) returned holding his head low. He refused to look at Dan Heng. "I don't wanna talk about it." He muttered pulling out one of his text books. He looked defeated. Dan Heng wouldn't admit it but he felt hurt when the other refused to look at him.

"I won't scold you anymore but please be more careful in the future. If Spider-Man puts you in danger I have no clue what I'd do if you got hurt. While it's great you helped him take better care of your own safety ok?" Dan Heng said with a sign. He started scanning books that were recently returned.

"I will thanks Dan Heng." (Name) muttered. Some of the taller male's words had made his heart stutter. It was going to be ok. "Hey Dan Heng would you mind spending the night? I'm honestly paranoid about being alone. Having you with me will put my mind at ease." Though his voice was quiet Dan Heng heard every word perfectly.

Dan Heng smiled thinking about how much he was trusted. He was entering things into the library's data base. "Only if you agree to stop avoiding looking at me." He answered. He glanced at the chair (Name) were sitting in to see his (eye color) eyes looking up at him. His face becoming red as they met the other's ocean blue colored eyes. "I promise I'll stop." He muttered going back to studying.

Dan Heng thought he was cute when he was all pouty like that. He was going to skip his vigilante duties for just one night. It wouldn't hurt anything right? He hoped but his moral obligation was guiltiling him from the inside. He would just go out while the other slept. Couldn't hurt right?

#taylor writes #honkai star rail x reader #honkai star rail x male reader #dan heng #danheng x reader #dan heng x reader #dan heng x male reader #tw mentions of death

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