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godmadeaterribleerror · 1 year ago

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Chapter 5 - Popped, Cool, and Ready to Go

Series Masterlist

Author's Note: If you want to picture me writing any part of this series, picture someone maniacally giggling to themselves the words “this is a surprise tool that will help us later” as they type. Chapter Title from Stand Up by The Revivalists.

Word Count: 9k...

Chapter Summary/Warnings: An opportunity to flip Sister Sage emerges. Contains usual warnings.

Tags: Soldier Boy/Supe!Female Reader, canon divergence, enemies to friends to lovers, canon divergence, slow burn, angst, fluff

Read on A03!

Chapter 4 - Chapter 6

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“Everything is… disturbingly clean.”

Ben watched Cocksucker and Butcher in the living room, the former looking around in shock as the latter’s gaze bounced between Ben and Her with a half grin.

“Don’t tell me you two started bloody fucking,” he jeered, and Ben didn’t appreciate the speed at which She scoffed.

“Not everyone only thinks with their downstairs brain, Butcher.” She said with an eye roll. “We’re not children you had to put in a time out until we could play nice, we’re adults who found a common ground.”

“The common ground of fucking?” Butcher’s grin spread widely across his face. At the deepening of her glare, he raised his hands in mock surrender. “I don’t doubt you, Love, it’s Soldier Boy who can’t damn well breathe without his dick in something.”

Ben opened his mouth to defend himself, but She somehow beat him to the draw. “Well, Ben’s down to only trying to fuck me twice a day, and it’s the small victories like that which have kept us from killing each other.”

“Ben?” Cocksucker looked between them in befuddled horror. “Since when do you call him Ben?!”

She returned Cocksucker’s stare with a flat look Ben had seen many times and was glad to not currently be on the receiving end of. “It’s his name. I can’t say ‘Soldier Boy’ all the time, that’s a fucking mouthful.”

“Fuck yeah, it is.” Ben winked at Her, a cocky grin spreading across his face as he was met with only an eye roll.

Butcher chuckled, giving Her an amused smirk. “Not fucking, my puckered arsehole.” He paused, his teeth showing as his delight in his own words grew. “Or should I say, your puckered arsehole?”

Cocksucker choked on air. “I’m going to be sick.”

“If he throws up on the carpet, you can not make me clean it, Sunshine.” Ben snapped, eyeing Cocksucker with a grimace. “His weak, pussy stomach ain’t my problem.”

“Oh, I’m sure there’s been worse messes in this room.” Butcher wiggled his eyebrows, and Cocksucker gagged again.

“There’s not much left after to clean,” Ben said with another smug look, unable to find it in him to care how his words fueled the accusations She so clearly wanted to rebuff. She’d live, and all the bitchiness she wielded like a weapon would hopefully circle around into admitting the clear attraction he knew she felt.

“What, you all dried up after forty years asleep?” Butcher sneered.

Ben scowled, taking a rough step in the man’s direction, the drum in his chest abruptly sounding in the distance of his ears. “You want to say that to my fucking face? I’ll show you how dried up I am—fuck!“ He lurched back as he felt a sharp sting on his arm.

She appeared at the side of Ben’s vision, Her fingers still smoking as she pointed at Butcher. “You. Never, ever make me visualize that again.” She scrunched her face in dramatic disgust. “And you.” She turned the finger to Ben. “He did ‘say it to your face’, stop being such a fucking baby. And both of you need to repeat everything you think in your head before you say it. We get it, your dicks are both huge, either suck each other off or put them away.”

“I second that,” Cocksucker mumbled, residual nausea on his face. “The shutting up thing, not the other part.”

“Thank you, Hughie. Now.” She gave Butcher a titled-head frown. “What’s the mission.”

“Don’t have to be a mission, Love, we could just be checking up on our two favorite-“

“Shut up,” She snapped. “Nobody has come to visit in two and a half weeks. And then, just after the news about Sister Sage, you two are suddenly, and I’m sure completely coincidentally, in our living room. So, what’s the mission?”

“How do you know about Sage?” Cocksucker, matching the surprise on Butcher’s face, asked.

“I have a phone, dummy.”

Ben looked around the room, trying to figure out where She could’ve possibly hidden a phone from him. “No, we fucking don’t.” He narrowed his eyes at Her, suspicion building in his chest as anger clouded his head. “Have you been fucking leaving without me?”

“When would I even have the time to leave without you?” She snapped.

“When you go to the fucking bathroom all the damn time for no fucking reason. If you’ve been lying to me-“

“Jesus Christ, I was on my period the past week. You can come do an inspection of the toilet bowl next time if it’s that important to you.”

“Fucking,” Butcher faked coughed to poorly cover his words. Ben was sure a deaf baby would’ve still have understood them, and She certainly did.

“Can it,” She shot at Butcher before turning back to Ben. “Phones aren’t big blocks on walls anymore, grampa, they look like this.” She pulled out a weird black rectangle and waved it in his face. “And you’ve definitely seen one before, dumbass.”

If Ben thought back, admittedly not even that hard, he had. Cocksucker and Butcher had both used them the first time around, he’d spotted them in the shows and movies he had been making their way through at Her direction, and even seen Her using the one invading his personal space at that very moment. However, he’d known he’d eat a fucking whale dick before he asked Her what they were then, in the exact same way he was now going have to pretend that She was the stupid one trying to pull one over on him.

“I think I remember if I’d seen something that fucking dumb looking, Sunshine.” She just glared at him and turned away, so Ben decided to count that as a him victory.

“If one of you doesn’t tell me what the plan is now-“

“Don’t get your panties in a twist, Love, we’re getting there. Hughie?”

“Gross,” Cocksucker muttered, his scrunched face of disgust turning into shock as Butcher pushed him forward. “What! Why me?”

“You use all those posh fancy words, mate.”

“He hates me!” Cocksucker gestured to Ben, before saying Her name in a pathetically begging tone. “He made you do it last time, right?! Tell Butcher he doesn’t fucking listen to me!”

Ben grinned as She gave Cocksucker one of the most half-assed apologetic looks Ben had ever seen. “I mean, he doesn’t. But I wouldn’t call him Butcher’s biggest fan either.”

“I’m right fucking here,” Ben grumbled. “I can speak for my damn fucking self.”

She gave him a sarcastic, simpering smile. “Ben, do you like Hughie, or Butcher? Is one prettier? Would one of them talking be better than the other?”

“No, they’re both ugly, pussy ass idiots who sound just as fucking boring as their pussy ass counterpart.”

“Who’s acting like who’s not here now?”

“We don’t sound the same at all…”

She ignored Butcher’s snark and Cocksucker’s weak protest. “Lovely. So if someone could answer my fucking question, that would be great. I, personally, couldn’t give a flying fuck who.”

Cocksucker sighed. “What did you read about the Sister Sage situation?”

“Is someone going to tell me who ‘Sister Sage’ is?” Ben grunted, giving Her an expectant look. Right now his best guess was some nun with plant-based powers, and he couldn’t think of a damn way that would be helpful.

“She's a supe whose power is intelligence. She’s the smartest person in the world, and a member of Homelander’s team.” She wrinkled her nose. “Well, she was. She got fired. I saw Vought’s press release about ‘creative differences’, but it’s painfully obvious bullshit. She made one appearance on TV where she spoke five words, most of the time she’d just hovering behind Homelander looking mad.”

“Yeah, we think she made Homelander upset somehow, which isn't hard to do, so he cut her loose.” Cocksucker nodded. “Either way, we want to try and talk to her. Flip her. Or-“

“Uncle Sam here is going to neutralize her.” Butcher spoke over Cocksucker with a smirk at Ben.

“Neutralize?” She looked between them with wide eyes. “Neutralize as in kill, or neutralize as in remove her powers?”

Butcher winked. “We’ll see where the night takes us. You two have fifteen to get ready, chop chop.”

She began to make her way up the stairs, but Ben remained firmly where he stood, glaring his best daggers at Butcher. “You better have brought my fucking shield this time.”

“What, you going to start crying if we didn’t?” Butcher jeered, and before Ben could move to punch him in the face, Cocksucker piped up from the side.

“Annie and MM are getting it now, they’ll meet us there.”

Butcher grunted in annoyance at Cocksucker’s affirming words, but Ben ignored it and turned to examine Cocksucker’s increasingly pallid face. His heartbeat was rising, yes, but it didn’t seem to be because he was lying, more likely the pussyfuck was just afraid. “Good,” Ben grunted, pausing to listen for a relieved stutter in Cocksucker’s chest. At the sound, Ben turned and marched up the stairs.

He wasn’t sure how it had happened, because he certainly hadn’t done it, but Ben’s suit had been cleaned of the dust and dirt from its last use. It was folded semi-neatly in his dresser, on top of underwear and socks. It was a quick change, he remembered being incredibly instant to the designer all those years ago that any needless, bullshit complications would lead to a forcerful reiterment and be fixed by their replacement, and made his way down the hall to Her door. He paused, unsure of if he should knock or simply walk in. He’d never knocked before, and She’d never bitched at him about it, but she’d also made it incredibly clear that, if he saw her naked, she’d “claw out his eyes like Jesus”. He’d asked for elaboration, in a way he thought had been quite fucking polite, and She’d left the room only to return a minute later with a copy of the Bible that was hurled at his head. Ben had not bothered to read it, but he quite liked his eyes, as did most women, so he had no interest in losing them to one impressively violent and crude one. However, knocking was also plain fucking stupid. As such he found himself just standing at the door, all the way until She opened the door and jumped back at the sight of him.

“Fuck, Ben, you scared me.” She’d placed a hand over her chest, fucking over dramatically if you asked Ben, and stared up at him. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he muttered. “I was just waiting for you.” And he fucking had been. Originally, the plan that had brought him here was to make fun of Her for clearly cleaning his suit and certainly going through his underwear drawer, now it just felt fucking stupid. She’d just caught him standing outside her room, she had too much ammunition to use against him now.

She tilted her head at him, giving Ben a look he didn’t understand or like, but just nodded. “Well, I’m ready. We should go.”

He nodded, stepping aside for her to pass him. She blinked at him a moment before doing such, and only after she was starting down the stairs did it occur to him that he’d let her go first. She hadn’t even asked. But she would’ve, he reasoned. He’d just been saving the headache of Her whining about it. Really, it had been a calculated move from his subconscious, which hated her finding every nerve of Ben’s to get on just as much as the rest of him.

Butcher and Cocksucker were right where they’d left them when Ben reached the bottom of the stairs, and She made her way to Ben’s side as they exited the safe house. Her body was less rigid and alert than last time, her heart almost perfectly calm, and though her eyes didn’t once leave him, she wasn’t vigilantly scanning his every twitch as they walked to the car. Even this car ride was more relaxed than the last, with Butcher not checking on them every damn second in the mirror, Cocksucker looking less like he was about to shit his damn pants, and Her body comfortably in the seat and not curled into the door. Ben appreciated that it was a real, windowed car this time, because that stupid fucking van had been deafening and fucking stuffy and boring to sit in. This satisfaction was squashed almost immediately when they pulled up to a warehouse that looked one fucking well-placed shit from collapsing, and Ben saw that same stupid fucking van parked beside where they stopped.

The back doors were open, and Ben could hear four moderately steady heartbeats from inside it. As they unloaded out of the car and made their way to join the others, Ben watched Her out of the corner of his eye, hearing the telltale warning sign of gnawing on lips and tapping of fingers in rhythmic movements. He’d noticed last week, then had his suspicion confirmed during their fight a few nights ago, that all her rapid, tense tapping was still controlled, always following the same pattern. For the fucking life of him, Ben couldn’t figure out what the pattern was, but he knew it existed, and it always went hand in hand with glassy eyes. Sure enough, when he turned to fully look at Her, clouds were forming behind her gaze, which had itself gone slightly slack. But before Ben could grab Her, ask her what the fucking problem was, if it was something he needed to worry about, She’d walked past him to sit beside beside the small, Asian woman he’d seen several times before. The woman smiled at Her, and she returned it without hesitation. She said a name, Kimiko, in a soft, kind voice Ben had never heard and though Kimiko didn’t say anything—thinking about it Ben hadn’t heard her speak once—the tapping slowed to a halt as they began a weird half-conversation with a lot of confusing fucking gestures.

Ben glanced around the van, looking for his fucking shield. When he didn’t see it, he turned to glare at Butcher, who’d moved to talk to MM.

“Hey!” Ben pushed himself into their conversation, ignoring their whiny glares. “You promised my fucking shield.”

Butcher rolled his eyes. “Technically, Hughie promised it.”

“Where is it.”

“Calm the fuck down, Gov, I’m sure it’s here somewhere. MM, would you give the giant cunt his stupid shield?”

“Nope.”

Ben’s head whipped to glare at the man, who wasn’t even fucking acknowledging him. “Give me my fucking shield.”

“Can’t,” MM said, meeting Ben’s glare with an angry, cold one of his own. “Didn’t fucking bring it.”

“I was promised I’d get my shield back. If you pussies can’t get it, I’m certain I could fine someone who will.” Ben threatened, the drums starting to sound once more. “I don’t have to put up with bullshit-“

“Yeah, you do,” Her voice called from behind him.

Ben turned to look at her, and saw Butcher and MM do the same.

“This doesn’t concern you, Sunshine.” Ben snapped.

She just shrugged. “You want a private conversation? Lower your fucking voice. And I feel like any conversation where you start saying you’re going to leave does concern me, because I’m the one that’s going to have to smite your face when you try. And that’s just going to be a fucking bummer.”

“My face too nice to burn?” He taunted, barely noticing the fade of the pounding against his chest.

“No, I just would have to fill out a fuck ton of dogshit CIA paperwork after. So just suck up being away from your blankie for another week, and sit the hell down.”

“I don’t have a fucking blankie,” Ben scowled at Her, but she only smiled back at him and returned her attention to Kimiko.

“You heard her,” Butcher sneered from behind him. “Listen to your mommy and sit the fuck down.”

“Don’t make it weird, Butcher.” She called, not looking back at them for a second.

Ben turned to give Butcher one last, venomous glower. “If I don’t get my fucking shield next time, we’re going to have a fucking problem.”

“We’ll get you your shield, Gov, don’t loose your damn mind.”

Ben grunted, turning to take the seat next to Her, but carefully listened to Butcher and MM’s hushed whispers as he moved.

“Bloody hell, MM, you had one fucking job.”

“I am not helping him, Butcher. Don’t send me to do your damn dirty work.”

Butcher scoffed. “I’ve had you do much dirtier work, mate. This was a fucking cake walk, and you still fucked it up.”

“I’m going to tell you one last time, and it better get through your thick, dumbass head. I am not doing anything, fucking anything, for that racist piece of shit.”

Ben opened his mouth, subtle eavesdropping was a fucking overrated pussy move anyways, to defend himself. Collateral damage fucking happened, it wasn’t his fucking fault Vought was always sending him-

“What’s the big deal with the shield?” He heard Starlight mutter behind him, a question clearly addressed to Cocksucker.

“Dunno, but he was really weird about it last time, almost threw me out a window cause I touched it-“

“I can fucking hear you,” Ben twisted roughly to face them. “What is it with you pussies and pretending I’m fucking deaf?”

Starlight sighed, giving him an annoyed glare, as Cocksucker responded weakly.

“We just, we don’t think you want to talk to us-“

“Shut the fuck up,” Ben grunted.

“Don’t talk to him like that!” Starlight’s eyes started to glow, and Ben rolled his own in response.

“Fucking try it, Bitch, I’ll blow you back to Vought. If you have a question, fucking ask it.”

“Fine,” Starlight held Ben’s anger with her own. “What’s the big deal with your shield? Are you compensating? Do you get performance issues without it?”

“Annie,” Cocksucker’s heart had picked up, and he was grabbing Starlight’s arm tightly. “Don’t make him mad.”

A thousand, perfect insults pushed against Ben’s head. Fucking amazing hits that would have Starlight crying to Cocksucker for weeks. But he could hear Her heartbeat behind him, stuttering for only a second as she listened to the argument. He heard that rhythmic tapping again, and so he pushed the words down, and gave Starlight a taunting sneer.

“Listen to your little cocksucker.” Ben taunted. “I’ll let it fucking go this time, because I’m feeling fucking generous. But next time? I kill both of you pussies.”

Ben turned away, and once his back was fully to them, he pulled out the crumpled list that now always sat in his pocket, trying to figure out if She had added “broad” at any point. While the bottom was filled with Ben’s own scratchy, hastily written additions, the top to middle of the paper was written in her neat, clipped handwriting, and close to the top was the sentence loose broad with the doll face - Buttercup from the Princess Bride??? Ben frowned at it—why couldn’t She have underlined the word—and leaned to the side, nudging Her shoulder with his own. When she didn’t turn from her soft conversation with Kimiko—how She could possibly be so invested in a conversation with a woman Ben was pretty fucking sure was mute was beyond him—Ben shoved it under her face.

Her voice died off, hands pausing mid-air, and she slowly turned to stare at him. “What are you doing.”

He pointed roughly to the sentence. “What does that mean?”

She squinted, grabbing it from him to hold closer to her eyes. “I was probably confused why you’d call Buttercup that. She’s famously not loose for like, the whole story-“

“No,” he tugged it back. “Why did you write that sentence down? What’s so bad about ‘loose broad with the doll face’?”

Her lips quirked up. “That’s what’s so urgent?”

“Is it loose, or broad?” He ignored her amusement.

“I think both together. Loose isn’t great, but I’d be lying if I said I never called my mother loose. Broad is just…” She frowned. “I don’t think I’ve heard the word ‘broad’ out the mouth from anyone who doesn’t have an active memory of at least one world war.”

“So broad is fine?”

“If you want to sound a thousand, sure. I’ve definitely heard you say worse.”

Ignoring the age jab, Ben locked and loaded his next insult for Starlight. He would let the “compensating” comment go, he was forgiving like that, but there was no fucking way she wouldn’t say something else soon. And he’d be fucking ready for it. He shoved the list back into his pants, where it had stayed since he first caught Her using it. At first it had been going to take a one way ticket down the toilet, but then he’d noticed how when he used those words on the paper, She’d frown and not talk to him for a damn hour. It was a fucking annoying, inconvenient, bitch move because during that time she wouldn’t laugh at his jokes or tell him how stupid modern technology in movies worked or bombard him with annoying comments that made him want to grab Her pretty, taunting, insufferable face and teach her some manners. She’d just be quiet and mad, and it was like he was alone, and suddenly he would hear the drum. So he’d kept the list and, whenever he noticed the bitter silence showing its ugly head, he’d write down what coxed it out. Eventually She’d noticed, and started to help him. If it hadn’t proved an effective strategy to keep her off his ass about stupid fucking shit, he’d have lied up, down, and sideways about keeping it. But they hadn’t had any of those moments he’d grown to detest since she had, so he’d kept in his bitterness about the stupidity of the whole thing in check and counted this a win.

“Look alive, fuckers.” Ben looked up as MM stood, one of those alleged “phones” in hand. “Sage will be here in five minutes. She’s agreed to meet me, Starlight, and Hughie. Frenchie and Kimiko, I want y’all outside, nearby, and ready in case she’s pulling one over. Butcher, go home.”

“Nah, mate. I’m a part of this, Mallory said so. Could make me go home if you tickled my balls and topped me off.”

“Well, then you’re going to have to stay in here.” MM turned as he said Her name. “You’re staying in here with Soldier Boy. If we need you, you’ll hear the signal.”

She hummed in acknowledgment. “What’s the signal?”

“The Deep’s massive tits.” MM gave a tired exhale as Her mouth fell open in amusement. “Frenchie made the signal. Make sure they,” both Ben and Butcher receive rough jabs in their direction. “Don’t fuck this up.”

Before either Ben or Butcher, whose mouth and protesting words had somehow begun faster than Ben’s own, could argue, MM was following the rest of the already mobilized team out of the van, and the doors were slammed behind him.

Tense, angry silence was in the air for only a minute before Butcher spoke.

“Now that everyone’s gone, will you two admit you’re fucking?”

Her heartbeat picked up slightly, and Ben leered at Butcher.

“Watch it, Dick Van Dyke, I’ll cut your fucking face off.” From beside him, Ben heard Her snort. “What do you find so funny?”

Ignoring his angry look, She gave another small giggle. “I don’t think that insult is as good as you think, Ben.”

“It was a fucking amazing insult-“

“Dick Van Dyke is American.”

“No, he was in all those stupid fucking British movies, like that one about the magic fucking nanny-“

“You’ve watched Mary Poppins?” Butcher laughed, and Ben considered ripping off his lips and feeding them to him. One bitchy, melodramatic woman who constantly cut off his words was more than enough. He didn’t need another fucking asshole, whose comments were not nearly as unwelcomingly entertaining, doing the same.

“Only because your hound dog bitch threatened to burn off my fucking dick if I didn’t.” Ben grumbled, and She gave another laugh.

“You enjoyed it, you cunt. And you told me a story about how you met Dick Van Dyke in the 60s. When he was, as he is now, incredibly American.”

“Sunshine, are you going to let me defend your honor or not?”

“My honor?” She gave him a face of giddy disbelief. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“He said we’re fucking!” Ben waved wildly at Butcher. “I’m not going to let him talk about a lady like that-“

“You literally goaded him on barely an hour ago. And called me a ‘hound dog bitch’ like, five seconds ago.” She pointed out. “Even if that wasn’t true, you’d have a whole lot of misplaced faith that I have ‘honor’ to begin with.”

“I don’t think you’d know honor if it ate you out ass to cunt.” Butcher made an exaggerated face of thought, and was met with only a flat look.

“So taint? Ass to cunt as in taint?” Her voice was bored, arms crossed in front of her chest.

Butcher shrugged. “No lady with honor knows the word taint.”

“Then we’re lucky I lost the title of ‘lady’ years ago,” She said with a toothy, fake smile. “And you,” a glare was shot at Ben. “Are not helping the ‘we’re fucking’ allegations by defending my honor, dumbass.”

He wasn’t, he knew that. But her heartbeat had settled, no longer clawing into Ben’s brain, so he just grunted. “Fuck me for trying to help.”

“I won’t,” she smirked. “That’s the whole point.”

“Bitch.”

“Cunt. Butcher,” She turned away from Ben once more. “What time did MM say Sage would arrive?”

“He didn’t.” Butcher answered, making an angry face at the closed door. “Something about not trusting us to stay here.”

Just then, Ben’s careful ear on Her heartbeat, which had slowed fully in the past minutes, was distracted by steps, followed by voices.

“I’m glad you agreed to meet us.” A man’s voice, too low to be Cocksucker, had to be MM.

“Well, even though I know what you’re going to say, I’m still intrigued by how you plan to say it.” Ben didn’t recognize that one. It sounded calm and controlled like Hers usually was, but only had the edge of anger. Her voice was always lined with vague amusement, at everything all the time. This woman didn’t sound like it was capable of laughter, even mockingly.

“Well, if you know what we’re going to say, can you just tell us your answer now?” That one was self-righteous and insufferable. Starlight.

“No.”

“Is that… your answer to what we’re going to say or whether or not you’ll tell us now?” Unsure, nervous, pathetic. Cocksucker.

“The later. I’m not going to tell you the answer until everyone joins us. Do you think I’m fucking-“

“Ben?” A pair of fingers snapped in his face.

Eyes refocusing, Ben realized She had moved so he was face-to-face with her concerned glare and frown watching him carefully.

“If that cunt fucking blows his bloody lid, I’m going outside, MM can suck my-“

Ben scowled at Butcher over Her shoulder. “I’m not going to fucking explode. I have a fucking handle on it-“ She gave Ben an incredulous look that he ignored. “And I’m trying to listen, so shut the fuck up so I can listen to what those pussies out there are saying.”

“You can hear them?” She dropped back to her seat, leaning forward with an intent stare. “What are they talking about?”

“I could tell you if you would shut the fuck up.” He grunted, and she rolled her eyes but didn’t move back. Ben paused, no longer hearing voices at all. “They moved.”

Butcher pushed off the wall. “What do you mean they moved? The fuck did they go?”

“I can’t tell you if you don’t shut-“

The door of the van was pulled open, and Ben jumped to his feet, hearing Her heartbeat start to rise as she did the same. But, instead of the blood and chaos Ben expected, was ready for, a short woman with a gleam in her dark eyes stood on the other side.

“Butcher, you look just as shitty as I expected. Should’ve listened to MM about staying behind.” Her voice was the cold, methodical one. Ben hated it, and hated how it matched her smug, stone-like face.

“If you’re as smart as you claim to be, Sister, you should know I do what I bloody want.” Butcher gave the woman a hateful, mocking smile.

She just gave a small nod back. “Well, I am ‘as smart as I claim to be’, and you are ‘doing what you want’. Reliable as always, William.” Her gaze turned to Ben. “I can’t say I’m surprised to see you, Soldier Boy. I knew they would be going for some sort of Hail Mary, and even though I was hoping for something more intelligent, maybe flipping Neuman, this will work fine. And you…” Her voice trailed, and a disarming smile grew across her face. “I don’t know you. I know everybody.”

Behind Ben, Her heartbeat was like thunder. “Glad to be an exception to such a weird and creepy rule.”

“Who are you? No, wait.” Sage titled her head. “I want to guess.”

The tapping had begun, and the drums had started their march from Ben’s chest to his head.

“You’re not Butcher’s friend, he doesn’t have any. You’re not CIA… not Vought. Not with Nueman, she wouldn’t be that stupid. I’ve seen pictures of all the supervillains Homelander tried to make, and-“ A first, true smile split across Sage’s face just as Her heartbeat became deafening. “Oh! Interesting. That hit a nerve, but how?”

Ben stepped forward, fists clenched, as Sage’s eyes scanned Her closely. “I don’t know what kind of big shot you think you are, but I’d shut the fuck up now before I make your mouth fill up with blood.”

“I’m good,” she gave Ben a sideways look. “Although that’s also interesting. Now, you aren’t military, or a terrorist. You don’t seem quite as idiotically rage-blind as the others, you might even be intelligent. Or, well, intelligent by human standards.”

“You going to keep shooting in the dark, and waste all our time?” Her voice had moved closer, and Ben knew he’d only have to turn his head slightly to see that glassy-eyed stare focused on Sage, who only hummed.

“I’ll get it, don’t worry about that. My shot in the dark has floodlights compared to yours. But time is a finite resource, especially now. You just have to come on out to join the party, and we’ll get started.”

Ben twisted to find Her exchanging doubtful looks with Butcher, who spoke first.

“How do we know you ain’t just killed them, and are luring us out to finish the job?”

“Because that’s fucking stupid.” Sage said with an annoyed frown. “And I’m frankly a little insulted you think I'd do something that plainly dumb. You would’ve heard it. In fact, Soldier Boy can probably hear them, alive, right now. I just told them to stay there and be quiet or I’d start screaming about Starlight trying to kidnap and traffic me. People would hear me, we’re at a warehouse in Queens, not fucking Montana.”

Ben gave an eye roll as all eyes turned to him. “Why do I have to fucking check? There’s a goddamn window right there. Just fucking look outside. Or those pussies can just grow some fucking balls and tell us they’re alive.”

“Ben,” Her voice was tired, and he could still hear the pressure of her heart against her ribs. “You can hear them anyway. Just fucking tell us, please.”

“Fine,” he grunted. He could hear them anyway, so he gave a tight nod after making a whole stupid fucking show of listening for signs of life, but fuck him if this was going to become a regular thing. Ben was not, threat of dick-burning be damned, going to be reduced to recon.

But Her stopped trying to claw out of her when he confirmed Sage’s words, and Ben felt an odd, satisfying rush through him when he heard it.

“Can we move?” Sage stepped aside with an exaggerated sweep of her arm.

Butcher left first, and before Ben could follow, a hand grabbed his arm. He turned back to see barely-contained panic on across Her face—panic he could feel with the tightening of her grip.

“Sage can’t know,” She whispered to him. “Don’t tell her.”

“About what?” Ben frowned, trying to ignore where she still held his arm. Firmly. Unflinchingly.

She didn’t even pull back as she spoke. “Me. If she knows about me, she’ll tell Homelander. He’ll know I’m in New York. He’ll know I’m working with Butcher. He’ll find me and bring me back. Don’t tell her.”

Disturbingly, it wasn’t only the angered acceleration of her heart eating at Ben. It was realizing that her face wasn’t full of panic. It was fear—real fear—in her eyes. He’d never seen her just afraid. He’d seen her infuriated and nervous and exhausted but never simply, rawly afraid. He didn’t like it. She hadn’t become that hollow shell he’d seen at the beginning, or that unbearably tragic picture, looking far away as she told him about Homelander. She was just as unbendable as he knew her, but paralyzed. Made of only pure, useless fucking fear.

So he meant every fucking word he spoke. “I won’t. We’re not going back there.”

“We?” She didn’t let go, her face unreadable.

“I’m not going back in the fucking box, you’re not going back to that pussy Homelander. I’m going to kill them, and you’re going to let me leave. That was the fucking deal.”

She nodded, glancing down at her hands on his arm, and her hold on him loosened. “That was the deal.” She echoed, and walked past him without another word.

They stepped out onto the street and began to follow Sage into the warehouse, Butcher’s Pussysquad walking ahead of them. The moment Ben was at the door, MM turned, raising a flat palm to halt him. “No, you stay right fucking there. You are not a part of this.”

“I’m not listening if he’s not.” Sage said smoothly, looking Ben up and down.

“Great, you two can bond over hating convenient conversation.” She muttered from next to Ben, glaring a hole in the floor.

“Fuck off, Sunshine. I’m charming and endearing, not a bragging, self-assured bitch.” He muttered back as the argument about where he should stand stretched on for far too fucking long.

“You are the most braggadocios, self-assured bitch I’ve ever had the displeasure of knowing.”

“I’m not the bitch that just used ‘braggadocios’ in a sentence like an asshole pussy.”

“At least I know the word at all. I think you came out of the womb knowing only pussy, bitch, and fuck and decided that was more than enough.”

“You sound like a fucking bitch right now.”

“You sound like a cunt who wants to fuck his mirror all the time.”

Ben looked back down to see a thin-lipped, but painless, smile creeping across her face. “One day you should ask my mirror how it is. I’ll receive a fucking amazing endorsement, and you’ll beg me to give you a fucking chance.”

“Endorsement’s a pretty big word, pretty boy. Are you sure you don’t need to sit down now?”

He did a double-take. “Did you just fucking call me pretty-“

“Oi, either fuck right now or come and do your fucking jobs.” Butcher yelled from inside, the argument apparently over with a victory for Sage.

“Please don’t fuck right now,” Cocksucker mumbled, and She rolled her eyes, leaving Ben’s side to stand amongst the group.

“I think I’ll manage to keep it together.” Sarcasm dripped from her tone and was painted across her face, but she didn’t flinch away as Ben came up behind her.

Sage was eyeing Her still, and Ben liked the woman less by the second. Even as Starlight spoke, Sage’s attention didn’t move, remaining locked on Her as if trying to pick her apart.

“We know how Homelander screwed you, Sage. He’s screwed all of us.”

“Screwed feels like a bloody generous term for ass-fucking to completion and then cutting off our balls.” Butcher muttered.

“Butcher,” Cocksucker sighed. “Unnecessarily gross.”

“I don’t know,” the French Prick, having apparently re-joined the group when Ben hadn’t been paying attention, mused. “The visualization helps.”

Cocksucker gaped at him. “How?”

“Well, either way-“

“It raises the stakes, no?” The French Prick cut off Starlight, a look of impossibly genuine concentration on his face. “Screwing is gentle, possibly playful. Monsieur Butcher's words make the issue far more…” As he searched for the words, Kimiko made another weird fucking gesture, and a smile spread across the French Prick’s face. “Oui, Mon Coeur. Fucking urgent. Far more fucking urgent.”

“Great, more urgent.” Starlight blinked, clearly giving a pathetic attempt to regain control. It was glorious for Ben to watch. “Now, we think-“

“It was still gross, things can be urgent and not gross.” Cocksucker frowned at the French Prick.

“Hughie,” Starlight hissed.

“Shit, sorry Annie-“

“No, petite Hughie, the gross nature of the words is what makes them so urgent.” The French Prick argued. “It makes them more difficult to ignore.”

MM gave an attempt to push back that didn’t involve nearly enough shouting or threats for Ben’s taste. “The words don’t matter, now just listen to Annie-“

“Words fucking matter, Mate." Butcher interjected. Ben agreed, if they didn’t then the whole stupid fucking list would have been for nothing.

“Not right now, Butcher, right now all that matters is we listen to Annie-“

“Well, Butcher’s technically right. Words do really fucking matter.” She chimed in from Ben’s side. “Language is a pillar of culture, and different words will have the same translations but different meanings across cultures.”

MM gave Her a disbelieving stare. “You too?”

“What words have different meanings across cultures?” Cocksucker asked, sounding somehow genuinely interested.

“More often than not, it’s symbolic changes, such as colors and animals having different connotations or there being a wide variety of words for one language that only has a few.”

“This can’t wait?” Starlight asked, throwing MM a hopeless look. Ben hoped it couldn’t. As utterly boring as the words coming out of Her mouth were, he’d never seen her so enthusiastic about something that wasn’t a piece of media to be explained. Her heartbeat was rising, yes, but it was beating like a drug, not a gun, against Ben’s head. This, this was tolerable, and if Starlight fucking stopped it he might have to kill her.

It was MM though, who said Her name firmly. As she trailed off, he looked at her with raised eyebrows and a frown. “You done?”

Ben could hear the chew of Her lip, and she nodded apologetically, shooting a nervous look to where Sage was watching Her with narrow eyes. If Ben was smart about it, he was pretty sure he could kill Sage, MM, and Starlight in one move. Unfortunately, that would probably make Her all bitchy and angry at him, which was exactly what he was trying to avoid. Maybe he could make it look like an accident.

“Great,” Starlight sighed. “Sage, Homelander has fucked all of us.” Butcher gave an approving grin as Starlight threw him a dirty look. “He needs to be stopped.”

“And what makes you think you can stop him? You’ve tried numerous times, and every attempt has blown up in your face more spectacularly than the last.”

“We have a plan.” Starlight said, standing up straighter.

“Then you don’t need me.”

“That’s what I fucking said.” Butcher grumbled.

“But they didn’t listen to you, which means whatever you’re trying isn’t a revenge-blind, foolish Butcher special.”

“Love, if you’re implying I’m a fucking idiot-“

“Wasn’t implying. Outright said it.”

“We can still bloody kill you-“

“Butcher,” MM said with a glare. “Shut the fuck up.”

“Well, I ain’t bloody wrong. Her power is ‘smart’, she’s not a fucking threat. We got the real threat on our side.” Butcher gave Her a wide, smug grin.

Right at Ben’s side, She froze.

“The ‘real threat’?” Sage asked, and turned slowly to examine Her once more.

“Soldier Boy,” MM said, looking between Her and Sage. “You know what he can do. We didn’t bring him back for nothing.”

“No, but you did bring him back… Why?” Sage wondered aloud, and Ben could hear the insufferable gears of her bitch brain turning. “Because you had the real threat. Not him, something worse.” Sage’s mouth turned up just the gleam in her eyes returned. “The Anomaly.”

“I- what are you- I don’t know what-“ Ben didn’t need to see Her eyes to know that the fear had returned. It was in every word She spoke, and he wanted to rip it out of her and shove it into Sage. “You don’t- I don’t-“

“He told me you died. Horrible accident, fourth shot of V didn’t take, and you combusted. I knew he was lying, I just thought he’d decided he wanted more secrecy and moved you, killed you himself, or you’d escaped and were on the other side of the world. Very, very stupid of you to come back.”

“If you know what happened to her, you should know what a fucking monster Homelander is.” Starlight said. “You should listen to what we have to say.”

“Not interested anymore.” Sage gave a dismissive gesture, another fucking smile creeping onto her features. “The Anomaly, alive and working with Starlight and Butcher? Working with Soldier Boy? This is good, this changes things.”

Ben braced his arms at his side, his anger feeding into the beat against his chest, moving forward as She took a weak, stumbled step further behind him. “You listen, or lose your fucking life.”

“I think I’ll just go. I had a much more dramatic reveal, but you have been set up, and this building is surrounded.” Sage sighed. “I would say I wish I could’ve played into the theatrics you all love a little more, but I’m actually incredibly fucking relieved I don’t have to. I’ll see everybody soon, and good luck with whatever you’re planning. I’m sure it will be entertaining.”

Before Ben could give in to the drums, or even more to grab her, the warehouse was flooded with men in black suits.

“Fuck,” Butcher shouted, pulling out a gun from thin fucking air. “What’s the point of having a super-hearing supe if you can’t fucking hear a warehouse full of enemies?”

“Sound-suppressing suits,” the French Prick yelled, taking a step behind Kimiko as he too pulled a weapon from nowhere. “I was developing them with the CIA, Vought must have gotten their fucking hands on them.”

MM pulled out his own gun, and Ben was now pretty fucking sure they were all keeping them up their asses. “Does Mallory know about them?”

“Oui, but they must have just gotten their hands on them, I finished them only two days ago.”

“When we made the fucking plan to meet with Sage,” Cocksucker had, like the cowardly pussy Ben knew him to be, moved behind Starlight. “But she can’t have known we had Soldier Boy, why would she spend time to get them?”

“Sage is nothing if not careful,” MM fired up at the descending men. “We need to get out of here, right fucking now.”

The words had hardly left MM’s mouth when the warehouse lit up with bullets.

“Are you just going to let Sage fucking get away?” Ben yelled, remaining firmly planted where he was, bullets bouncing off him like rain.

“Excuse us, Gov, not all of us are bloody immortal. And we quite like living, so shut the fuck up and be useful.” Butcher ran past Ben, firing back as he did.

Ben scowled at nothing, punching one of the men backwards like a bowling ball when he got too close. “She’s going back to Homelander, that feels pretty fucking important-“

“The doors are fucking blocked!” Cocksucker’s shrill, pussy yell cut Ben off. “They’re everywhere!”

“Then move them, you fucking pussy!” Ben threw another up into the ceiling.

He felt fucking alive. All around him, Butcher’s team was being the most useful they’d ever need in their pathetic pussy lives. The French Prick was holding something weird and long that Ben would very much like to use later, Butcher and MM were firing with an intent to kill that Ben appreciated, Kimiko ripped off a man's head with ease, and Ben was starting to hate her a little less than the rest of them. Even Starlight and Cocksucker were vaguely helpful, even if Starlight was mostly invested in keeping Cocksucker and his weak punches safe. It was fucking perfect, right until Ben threw another man into the wall, leaving a dent in the concrete, and saw Her.

She was right where they’d left her, smoking but not yet burning, men trying to grab her but falling back with screams as they did. Her bloodless, frozen face was trained on where Sage had stood, and despite the chorus of gunshots and shouting through the warehouse, her heartbeat was as loud as if Ben were right next to her. The tapping was fast—faster than he’d ever heard it, her eyes were unblinking and glazed, and blood was dripping from her lips as she chewed through skin.

She was going to fucking blow.

Another man, in almost slow motion, grabbed Her. But not on the arms or shoulder like the others had attempted. Right on the fucking neck. Ben watched as the idiot's hand landed on Her throat, watched her eyes widen and clear, and watched the man let out an undignified, pussy-like shriek as he recoiled back. But it was too fucking late. The smoke stopped, for only a second, and Ben could’ve sworn the ground fucking shook.

Everything went up into flames.

“Fuck!” Ben heard MM roar from somewhere behind him. “Everyone out! Get the fuck out!”

Ben sent another man flying back, directly into the fire, as he kept his eyes on Her. Still frozen, eyes no longer clouded, looking almost fucking oblivious to the flames around her. She didn’t seem to be burning anymore, only standing in the fire that had burst from her. Her eyes were full of that fear again, shooting upwards as the first piece of the roof fell down with a crash.

“The doors! Open the fucking doors!”

Ben turned to find Butcher shouting as Kimiko and MM struggled with the warehouse entrance. Ben glanced back at Her, but his line of sight was cut as another piece fell. Somehow, over all the noise, Ben heard Butcher once more.

“Soldier Boy, get your cunt ass over here and be fucking useful. Open the fucking doors!”

Ben grabbed one of the idiotic men who hadn’t either burned or tried to scramble away, throwing him directly to the warehouse door. The man shot right through the building, clearing a hole to the outside with a crunch. In the momentary shocked silence of the groups struggle, fire crackled, and another piece of the warehouse fell.

“Out!” Out of the corner of his eye, Ben saw MM practically push Cocksucker through the hole. “Now! Get out!”

Ben stared at the hole, Her heartbeat ripping into him. He could leave her. The building would fall, and he could fucking run in the time it took to pull her out. He could be fucking free, ahead of schedule, no killing Homelander and saving a stupid fucking world full of backstabbing pussies required. They’d find another way to kill Homelander, or not. It wouldn’t be his problem. Ben couldn’t even see her through the smoke and debris anymore. It would be so fucking easy to leave, kill Butcher, and escape.

But Her heartbeat wouldn’t fucking stop. It would keep going and going into his head. And the drum hated it, every time it sank into him, it fed the fucking drum.

He wasn’t moving. He needed to fucking move, or they’d realize his plan and try and knock him out. He wasn’t going back in the fucking box.

And She wasn’t going back to Homelander.

“Fuck!” He yelled at no one, partially hoping she’d just walk out, or someone would call him forward. But all the team had left them, and now the warehouse was just Ben, Her, and a bunch of ill-fated Vought shit-eaters.

Ben turned, throwing the wreckage as he did. It probably wasn’t helpful to the general state of the building the way he did so, but he wasn’t in the mood to be a fucking careful or gentle pussy. He reached Her, and found her passed out, face almost empty. If it weren’t for the sound of her breath, the still-quick flutter of her heart, Ben would’ve thought her dead.

“If you don’t become at least 10% less of a bitch after this Sunshine,” he grumbled at her unconscious body. “I’m throwing you right back in here.”

But he hauled Her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, ignoring the way she seared into his skin, and walked through his previous path to the exit.

———-

The ride back from the disastrous mission made Ben want to blow everyone’s fucking brains out of their heads. There were weird looks, hushed questions about what happened that he had to pretend he couldn’t hear, and a whole lot of self-righteous, sad faces. It was made worse by the fact that She didn’t even wake up until they were fully back in the safe house, meaning Ben had to fucking carry her inside. Butcher offered, but Ben had just glared at him—as far as Ben was concerned, the dick just wanted to take advantage of one of the only “safe” times to touch her—and refused to even respond.

Ben dumped Her in her room, and marched back downstairs to find Butcher still in the fucking living room.

“What the fuck do you want?” Ben grumbled, pushing past him to the kitchen.

“Well, I would usually tell your girlfriend, but seeing as she's taking a bloody little nap you’ll have to do.”

“She’d cut off your dick if she heard that,” Ben snorted. “Take it from my personal experience.”

“Good thing she can’t. Just tell her we’ll be back in a few days for operation Quick and Bald.”

"Operation Quick and Bald?" Ben huffed a sarcastic laugh. “I am not fucking saying those words.”

Butcher smirked. “Your head, Gov. See you in a few days.”

And Ben was left alone in the kitchen.

It took all the way to morning for Her to wake up. She stumbled into Ben’s room with a frown and a determined look.

“Teach me how to fight.”

Ben gave her a lazy half-grin from the bed. “Welcome back, Sunshine. Anything you’d like to say to me? A thank you, for instance. Though I would also accept acts of gratitude.”

“I’m not sucking your dick. Teach me how to fight.”

“I’m good. Not in my job description.”

She glared at him. "Technically, you don’t have a job. We’re not paying you. Teach me how to fight.”

“They’re not paying you either, Sunshine. We’re both victims.”

“I’m legally dead, they can’t pay me. And you’re the farthest thing from a victim, Mr. Body Count in the Thousands. Teach me how to fight.”

“No.” Ben had no interest in doing more for these fucking idiots. He’d already saved her life once in the past day, that should earn him enough fucking gratitude to coast for at least a damn month.

“Please, Ben, this can’t keep happening where I lose control, someone could really get hurt.” She rubbed her eyes in obvious distress. “People did get hurt.”

“So? Hurting people is what we do. You shouldn’t be in the field if you can’t fucking handle it.” Ben repeated the words he had so often told himself through the years. It had always fucking worked for him. She shouldn’t be any different.

“I can’t fucking handle it?!” She scoffed in disbelief. “That’s a mighty stupid thing for the pot to say to the kettle.”

Ben shot her a cold look. “I know how to fucking hold my own, Sunshine, I don’t need someone to fucking save me. You can’t fucking control yourself at all, and it’s a goddamn problem.”

“Nobody made you go back, you could’ve just fucking left me.” She hissed.

"Well, I didn’t,” Ben growled. “Don’t make me fucking regret it.”

“I could say the same for you. You’re only out of the box because I wanted you here-”

“Aw, Sunshine, you wanted me?” He mocked.

“I wanted your powers here. You’re just the vessel.”

“I saved your fucking life, bitch.”

“And I’m sure you’re not going to be a fucking cunt about that forever.”

“You need me.” He shot to his feet. “Don’t fucking forget it.”

She took a step forward, her face venomous. “No, you need me. What do you think happens if they decide I’m a ‘problem’ now, huh? They send me home, and just trust you not to go all revenge-fueled vigilante? If I burn, you burn, Ben. So fucking teach me how to not be a ‘problem’, or it’s your fucking head.”

He bared his teeth at Her. “If I teach you how to fight, will you stop being a fucking pussy and thank me for saving you?”

“Teach me how to fight, really fight and not just throw a punch, and I’ll buy you a fucking fleshlight.”

“What the fuck is a fleshlight?”

She gave him a mocking smirk. “Trust me, you’ll love them.”

Ben paused, examining Her face, angered but firm. “I want three of them.” He still wasn't sure what they were, but She had been frustratingly fucking accurate about what he would and wouldn't like.

“Deal.” She extended her hand, and he glared at it.

“If I hate them, you’re cooking me something.”

“You’d volunteer to be poisoned?” She laughed. “Your funeral, dumbass.”

He ignored her words, and shook her hand as aggressively as he could. “Meet me in the kitchen in three hours. I’m going to make you fucking cry.”

She grinned. “Looking forward to it.”

336 notes · View notes

mattsundaes · 2 years ago

Text

BEST FRIENDS & BAD IDEAS

♡ — jean kirstein x f!reader

Big aspirations and even bigger dildos—in which a poorly thought out plan makes it incredibly hard to act like your feelings for Jean Kirstein are platonic. Not when they’re anything but. And especially not when you’re half naked in his lap.

18+ ONLY

wc — 2.7k

prompt — cockwarming, creampie

additional content — NSFW, 18+, best friends to lovers speed run, dildo use, implied masturbation, unprotected p in v, praise kink, jean kirstein’s big dick

╰┈➤ kinktober masterlist

“If you keep doing that, I’m gonna come,” Jean growls, and his low, rough tone sends you off-kilter, shoving you headfirst over the precarious edge you’ve been foolishly dangling from.

In retrospect, perhaps this wasn’t the best idea.

–

In the long list of questionable decisions you’ve made today, one of the first catalysts guaranteeing inevitable disaster was your lack of foresight to lock your bedroom door before stripping off your shorts and underwear and preparing to lower yourself down onto the ridiculously large dildo that had been delivered in an even more comically large Amazon box this morning.

Your best friend of many years and college roommate, Jean Kirstein, came home just as your makeshift “stand”—you’d hastily attached the suction cup at the base of the dildo to the last clean plate in the cabinet for lack of a better surface—went flying across the rug, ripping the few inches you’d manage to ease down onto right out of your lube-slick channel. You’d hit the floor with a thud, growling in frustration. This, understandably, had the unfortunate effect of attracting the concern of said roommate, who swiftly burst into your room as if you were in the middle of being robbed.

The concern quickly morphed into hysterics as he spotted the giant purple dildo wiggling uselessly a few feet away from where you were lying on your stomach, punching the carpet and yelling at him to get out with as much dignity as you could muster.

“That’s my shirt,” he commented dryly, ignoring your pleas for him to forget everything he had just seen.

“Well it was in my drawer,” you spat back, trying to push the dildo-plate behind you, although the damage was already done.

Jean leaned against the doorframe, folding his arms. “I have so many questions.”

“Our business hours are between 8 and 5, so you’ll have to call back tomorrow. Sorry,” you said with a dismissive wave, subtly kicking the plate and dildo beneath the bed.

The suction cup chose that moment to pop off, and all ten inches came rolling back into view right where a bar of sunlight was stretching across the floor from the window. It would have almost looked artsy.

If it weren’t a fucking dildo.

“I thought you ordered a lamp,” he observed mildly, motioning to the huge cardboard box you’d yet to take out to the recycling bin.

“I’m gonna order you a fleshlight if you don’t shut up,” you grumbled, shoving on a pair of sweatpants.

Jean crinkled his nose, running a hand through his hair. “That thing’s so big, the landlord might start charging us for three tenants if he sees it. Is this a cry for help?”

“I’m trying to prepare myself for seducing Eren at the party Saturday night,” you whisper-yelled, as if anyone else was going to overhear you in your otherwise empty apartment.

“Jaeger?!” he barked out with a disbelieving laugh.

“Everyone says he’s huge. I don’t want it to be a disaster.”

“He’s not that fucking big!” he exclaimed incredulously.

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “Can you like, go be somewhere tonight? Go get so high with Conny you forget you saw anything? I’m gonna go try in the bathroom instead.”

“You’re kicking me out of my own apartment so you can shove a giant, sparkly purple dildo inside of yourself imagining it’s Jaeger’s dork ass?”

“I love it when you talk dirty to me, Jean.”

He groaned. “The bathroom sounds like an even worse idea. You’ll slip, hit your head on something, blood will go everywhere, and we’ll lose the security deposit.”

“Or my plan will work, I’ll get laid this weekend, and you can stop complaining about how grumpy I’ve been lately,” you reasoned matter-of-factly.

Jean’s hand came to rest on your shoulder as you attempted to push past him to leave the room, aforementioned dildo jiggling menacingly in your hand. “You’re gonna hurt yourself,” he said a little more softly, raising a brow as he cast another look at the offending object.

“I have lube!” you shot back defensively.

Jean glanced up at the ceiling, muttering something about regret under his breath before exhaling, “Let me help you.”

–

In all the years that you’ve known Jean, you’ve done an excellent job at keeping your little crush on him your best kept secret. A secret kept under the most formidable lock and key, buried deep in the depths of your psyche. Tucked away in the very back of a dusty, old cabinet like an expired can of corn.

Objectively, you know Jean’s handsome. You’re well aware.

With his intense, hazel eyes—ones that see everything.

His tall, solid form.

His sinfully curved, pink lips (and his habit of idly sliding his tongue along the bottom one).

His long, dexterous fingers—a dangerous thought.

That fucking mullet he let grow in, which shouldn’t be nearly as sexy as it is when he rolls right out of bed and leaves his room looking like a pillow-rumpled supermodel.

He’s hot, okay?

And sure, you’ve drunkenly kissed at a few parties over the years. Jean’s seen your ass more times than you can count. Definitely your boobs that time he ran into the bathroom to puke while you were showering. Sometimes he has a habit of putting his head on your lap when you’re both on the couch, nudging you till you card your hands through his soft brown hair like a damn dog.

But it’s always been platonic.

Friendly.

Two people who are just very, very comfortable with one another. Comfortable in knowing that neither intends to ruin their stable, solid friendship by carelessly sprinkling feelings into the mix.

Comfortably going so far as to share the sordid details of your sex lives (or lack thereof, lately) while leaning against the kitchen counter eating take out food without batting an eye—though you’d be lying if you said you didn’t try to one up him sometimes when you feel that familiar, unwelcome twinge of jealousy yawning awake inside of you.

But this?

This is asking too much of your restraint to keep your heart walled off and your mouth clamped shut. In your defense, it was already left in pitiful tatters after grinning-and-bearing it throughout the seven-month-long nightmare that was Jean dating fucking Pieck.

—

The next phase of your slew of terrible ideas today began with Jean sitting at the head of your bed, back against the wall, holding the dildo between his legs. Like your own personal fucking dildo holder. Grinning like this wasn’t the single most awkward thing the two of you have ever done (save for the time you both fell asleep with your head in his lap on the couch and woke up to his accidental boner poking you in the ear—neither of you ever mentioned that again).

And it would have been totally fine if it worked out like you imagined in your head the moment he pitched it—you sinking down onto the silicone schlong a few times, stuffing in as much as you could while he held it still. Then letting him carry on with his day while you lay there in bed for a little while with it lodged inside of you, getting yourself used to the stretch. Totally fine.

The reality of the situation was far different, entailing a sticky, slippery mess of lube coating of your hands and a dildo that bent and flopped in every direction as you tried to carefully impale yourself on it while maintaining some sense of dignity.

You had given up fairly quickly, butting your head against Jean’s collarbone and sighing as you asked if he thought Eren would go slow.

He was quiet for a moment.

“…do you trust me?” Jean had asked carefully, like his next suggestion wasn’t going to send you spiraling.

Like “Just sit on my dick, as a friend!” wasn’t the most fucking confusing statement your heart, brain, and vagina had ever heard.

–

Which is how you find yourself in your current predicament, straddling Jean Kirstein’s lap with far more inches of him than you’d realized he’d been keeping tucked away buried to the hilt in the velvety heat between your thighs. Raw, skin-to-fucking-skin, because you’re both in a miserable dry spell with not a single condom to be found between the two of you. And somehow the combination of “known you for half of my life” and “just got tested” and “IUD” sounded better than one of you being tasked with trudging to the pharmacy.

Or, god fucking forbid, going down one floor to ask Conny for one.

Nope.

You have three days to prepare yourself for whatever may come with Eren, so sitting on your best friend’s intimidatingly large dick sans condom the least of your worries. Even if it feels so incredible you’re literally silently choking on the moan threatening to spill past your lips.

Even if you fucking swear you heard his breath hitch when the thick head of his cock began to slip past your entrance, stretching you open wide as he breached your damp channel.

Even if he hardly had to touch himself to get hard for this.

Even if his gaze darkened when you choked out, “Jean, your dick is huge.”

This was a terrible idea.

“If you keep doing that, I’m gonna come.”

“Doing what?!” you ask, exasperated.

He rests his hands on your waist, “Doing this,” and squeezes firmly, “on my dick.”

“This isn’t even sex,” you tell him, ignoring the way the close proximity of his hazel eyes sets a flurry of emotion stuttering in your chest. “It’s like, cockwarming at best. You can’t come from cockwarming if you’re not even turned on.”

Jean raises an eyebrow. “Do you even know how tight you are?”

“That’s obviously why I was worried about Ere—”

“It’s like this,” he cuts you off, wrapping a hand around your throat. It’s a loose hold, only meant to prove a snarky point, but a spark of arousal seeps through your body anyway at the mere suggestion. His eyes widen a fraction at the traitorous way your walls clamp down on him even harder in response. “What, you into being choked?”

“I’m into a lot of things, Jeanie,” you tell him haughtily, trying to ignore the heat blistering beneath your skin.

“Like dumb idiots named Eren Jaeger?” he counters, making to grab for the tongue you’re currently sticking out at him.

If you didn’t know better, you’d almost think Jean sounds like he’s jealous.

Which he definitely isn’t.

But you poke the bear anyway.

“What, are you jealous?”

He shifts slightly, and you bite your lip to stifle the moan as your cunt spasms around the pressure from his cock.

If he notices, he doesn’t mention it. Instead, his brow furrows as the corners of his mouth tilt downward slightly. “I just think you deserve better.”

You tug on his earlobe, letting out a weak laugh in an attempt to dispel the sticky, messy feeling of hope trying desperately to cling to the arousal stirring in your gut. “Says the guy who’s currently fucking me.”

Jean scoffs and deadpans, “I thought this wasn’t sex.”

Who are you kidding? Certainly not the tension coiling ruthlessly in your abdomen.

You move a little, trying and failing to relieve the sensation of hot wax dripping down your spine. Instead, you let out a tiny, strangled noise when your throbbing clit presses down against his pelvis, the resulting flood of pleasure setting every nerve ending in your body on fire.

The way he growls out your name through gritted teeth is a warning, but his low tone only serves to stoke the flames licking their way up between your thighs.

You move again, inhaling sharply through your nose.

“Fuck,” he groans quietly, head hitting the wall behind him with a resounding thud.

You’re not sure if he does it on purpose, but his hands find their way back to your hips, calloused fingertips pressing directly against your skin as he slides them up beneath your shirt. His shirt.

The next time you rock against him, his grip on you tightens. And then, you feel it—he tugs you forward.

You lean further into him, without really meaning to, forehead coming to rest against his. “What are we…”

“Just keep going,” he murmurs.

He shifts again, sinking down lower so his back is pressed against the mattress, and you realize the angle gives you more purchase to grind down against him when he pulls at your waist, thumbs lazily skimming your hip bones.

“Jean…” you whisper, not really sure what else you intend to say.

“I want you to feel good,” he says softly, pushing his hips against you, even though he’s snugly bottomed out.

It feels so fucking good—

—laying atop Jean while he stares back up at you, pupils clearly dilated in arousal—

—watching his eyes fall shut as you run a hand along the stubble on his jaw—

—knowing he’s well aware the slickness between your legs is no longer from the lube, your cunt gushing with arousal at the feeling of being stuffed deep with his thick cock.

So you tell yourself you’ll figure the rest out later when you start to shamelessly grind down against him.

“You don’t have to be quiet for me,” Jean teases when you cough to cover up a gasp.

Your answering moan is nearly a whimper, and Jean’s muscles tense beneath you as he continues to guide your hips. He doesn’t try to pull his cock out from where it’s lodged inside of you, doesn’t start thrusting and fucking up into you. He just lets you chase the clitoral stimulation you so desperately need while you’re cockwarming him, groaning along with you at each needy drag.

“Good girl, that’s it.”

This is far more intimate than you bargained for, the gentle slide of his hands up your back scraping your heart out bit-by-bit.

“Holy shit, you don’t know how close I am to coming right now,” he moans in a gravelly, unsteady tone.

All you can do is whimper his name when the rubber band suddenly snaps in response, your body trembling as a wave of white-hot pleasure crashes over you.

And then Jean’s hands are cupping your face, his lips crashing into yours. He kisses you fiercely as you whine and shudder through your orgasm, moaning into your mouth as you card your fingers through his hair. You can feel his cock throb inside of you, pulsing with need as your tight cunt spasms and contracts, relentlessly squeezing his shaft while you soak him with your release.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he’s groaning, both of you too drunk on pleasure to move when he suddenly climaxes, cock pumping thick, hot ropes of cum deep in your pussy.

Chests heaving, Jean slowly sits up, forehead falling against your shoulder as he wraps his arms around your waist.

After a few minutes of silence, he finally murmurs, “Don’t fuck Jaeger.”

You tilt his head upward, finger resting just below his chin, skimming the stubble that’s there. Too many emotions are swimming in his hazel eyes, more than you can identify—save for one that you recognize with a jolt of clarity. It’s the way you look at him, when he’s not paying attention.

Longing.

Desire.

Soft, gentle, unfiltered affection.

This time, you’re the one to close the distance between your mouths, brushing your lips against his.

“Who?” you ask, smiling into the kiss.

Jean chuckles, the sound like warm honey, and he deepens the kiss, one hand sliding to the back of your head. Though you remain seated on his softening length, cum begins to seep from your slick heat, pooling on his balls and abdomen.

He goes to move, but you don’t budge. “You wanna get cleaned up?”

You shake your head, the corner of your mouth tilting upward with a smirk. “I’m comfortable.”

Jean bites his lower lip, huffing, “My cum’s dripping all over, and I’m two seconds from getting hard again if you keep squeezing down on me like that.”

Feigning a look of innocence, you flex the muscles in your tight, soaked channel one more time for good measure. He chokes, and you grin.

“Good.”

— likes, comments, &/or reblogs are greatly appreciated!

#jean kirstein x reader #jean kirschtein x reader #jean kirstein #jean kirschtein #attack on titan #shingeki no kyojin #snk #aot #aot smut #attack on titan smut #jean kirstein smut #dee writes

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threepandas · 1 year ago

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Bad End, Hidden Heir: Part 2

Prev <-

A pounding headache and cave air, that's what I woke up too. The air was being choked, though, by familiar scents. All trying desperately to make the cold, wet, and softly echoing quiet, hospitable. It was nauseating in my current state. Weak and... drugged? Had I been drugged? I certainly hadn't been drunk.

So why did my head hurt so much?

Why did every motion, make my stomach want to rebel?

My limbs felt so WEAK. Heavy and useless. Barely budging when I try to lift them. To rub my head? Adjust the blanket? Sit up? I can't tell. Thinking... thinking is so hard past... the pounding in my head. The fog. I struggle to concentrate. God, that SMELL.

Like a perfume store combined with... with... ugh. Everything!

I could pick out individual scents I knew I liked, on their own, added to the nauseating chaos. My favorite potpourri was there. But so was the one I like for winter? Fall? That one I liked as a kid until I found Mrs. Tianna's blend...

And perfumes! Colognes! The clean products and scents I preferred the maids used. God it... it blended together like a trash heap. As though someone drove a carriage through a perfume shop at speed. Cloying and musk and spice and fruity and-!

I sucked air through my teeth, trying not to smell it, hoping to god I wouldn't TASTE it.

Finally I managed to pry my eyes open. Either hunger or thirst giving my the strength to push past the nauseating pain. I NEEDED to move. Find out what was happening. Survive.

My gaze... met the most elaborate embroidery I had ever seen. Tapestries had less art. Almost to the point of gaudiness. Possibly past it. It was...

It was everything I had ever said I liked.

Too anyone.

Puppies and flowers, history and art, books scenes and more. It kept GOING! Hideous and magnificent. Chaos. Unhinged. Flowing down from above me, along the rest of the curtains, for the canopy bed upon which I rest. So I would be surrounded by it all. Even the blanket... it was a sea of my favorite flowers, made eternal through string.

This wasn't something people just DID. Could just FIND. I could feel my panic under the muting pain and exhaustion. This was the work of YEARS. Obsessive, continuous, YEARS. Some of these threads cost more then certain house hold make in WEEKS! And for what? A secret canopy bed?!

I struggled, body barely able to obey me but trying desperately to assist. The blankets were heavy. The curtain around the bed equally so, thanks to all the embroidery. I.. I manage to roll. Squirm. Wriggle my way, undignified, to the edge. Flop over it and out from under the blanket. Too freedom.

The air is cold.

The scents WORSE out here. Now, I can see why.

It is a museum to all that I am. Every like carefully gathered in one place, every preference. Stacked and shoved together, with no regard for if they fit. Hoarded like a collection.

I can not even tell... if I am sitting, flopped down, on my favorite winter bedside carpet or just an exact copy. My entire life is shoved together and suddenly... suddenly I do not like any of these things at all. They feel dirty. Dangerous. Like they have betrayed me. I want to cry.

But I am nauseous. Hurting. Tired and thirsty. So very hungry dispite it all. I just... I just need to know what's going ON! This isn't... this isn't how the Game goes! Not for Protag-chan. Not for me! I know I changed my "character's" behavior... but...

I... I don't understand...

Try not to cry. It's... it's really hard.

I was right. I'm pretty sure this is the Caves of Spring in the northwest of the Duchy. The offical Heir has an estate near them. The stone looks like the cliffs I'd seen in passing.

Crawling is hard. My legs keep getting tangled in my fucking nightgown. My... my f.. favorite.. nightgown! I'm not gonna cry. Damn it. I'm NOT GONNA CRY. How dare he? How DARE he ruin even that? What did he DO to me!? When I was... was...

No, don't think about it!

Move.

A decanter. Needlessly pretty. I probably loved it as a girl, fresh into this world. Everything was so FANCY and I wasn't used to having money yet. Hadn't developed any real class or taste. It looks so fucking gaudy to me now. But God, it has water. Please... PLEASE let that be water!

I drag myself up on badly shaking limbs. Nothing wants to hold. Wrists buckling, knees giving, legs shaking like a new born lamb. My arms are so weak. But thirst... oh thirst is a powerful motivator.

I force myself to move.

The water is not enough. It is everything. Cold and perfect, I force myself to go slow. To not spill a single drop, as I collapse against the dresser it was placed upon. Letting my eyes explore my cage in the way my poor abused body can not.

There are thick bars buried deep into the bedrock, separating the "room" I'm in from the hall that leads away from it. And it IS a "room". Made in cruel mockery to resemble the luxury of the dukes estate. Perhaps even more aggressively decadent in certain aspects, though that isn't a good thing. It makes it border on a storage room, for how crowded with luxury it has become.

It is the reflection of an unwell mind.

And staring up at the portraits of myself I KNOW I never sat for? The countless sketches pinned up beyond the bars? I am in trouble. I... I should have run. Not sent Creep away. I should have been the one to run. Before it was too late.

I think... I think it might be too late.

Footsteps.

I want to escape. But where can I run? I am caged. I feel close and far away. My head hurts. My body hurts. Everything stinks and I am cold. Why? Why did you do this? The foot steps are calm and commanding. Even. They do not break stride.

I do not bother to watch my hunter approach me. The monster I can not escape.

I close my eyes to spare myself the pounding in my head. Drink more water.

He makes a softly dismayed sound, as though he was not the one to drug me, to leave me here. The door to my cage opens. Closes. Ah... such a heavy lock. Should I be flattered?

Crisp steps, the rustle of fabric.

"My lady, the floor is so dirty! You shouldn't be out of bed yet. I was just about to make you tea."

The AUDACITY.

Tea? TEA! Ha ha! After DRUGGING my tea? He actually expects me to accept a cup from him again?! He truely IS insane, isn't he?

I am scooped up without my consent, unable to so much a truely struggle. Placed gently on a plush chair, a tea table moved in front of me. A familiar cup. My favorite blend. Pretty little snacks laid out deftly on lovely little plates. I grit my teeth. Slowly tip my head up to glare.

He pauses when our eye meet... then shudders, some terrible look of pleasure dancing across his face.

"That's right... look at me~" he whispers, leaning entirely too close. "I'm all that you have now. So you'll HAVE too now! No more others. No more distractions. No more sending me away! People trying to get between us. Trying to take you away. I'm all that you need, My Lady. All you'll EVER need."

"Just look at ME, your loyal dog. And I'll take such good care of you. I promise~♡"

#threepandas #yandere #yandere otome #yancore #yanblr #yandere x reader #yandere oc #yandere otome isekai #bad end hidden heir au #i always wanted to explore this dynamic #i have the power therefor you HAVE to let me serve you #isekai #adopted reader #isekai reader #yandere duke #tw sex assault #nothing happened #but Reader-chan is freaked out by being changed while unconscious #tw drugging

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confused-wanderer · 2 years ago

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Alfred is badass and has unuasual skills even for a batfam member.

Inspired by pandaredd’s skit where Alfred says “Bond wishes he was me”

The man is the caretaker of the bat family, he has raised every damn member, and has seen more than his fair share of wars, doomsdays and worse. He is a butler. And god knows what else in the spare time. All I imagine is that if a teenage Bruce looks up at Alfred and whispers he wants to train, Alfred might be the one who gives him contacts.

Alfred:

Bruce:

Alfred: .. wait here master Bruce, I know you won’t even listen to what I’m saying so I will let you learn the arts. Only under one condition though, I choose your trainers

Teenage Bruce: Alfred, whom would you-

Alfred *already on the phone* : Hello there Lee

Teenage Bruce *wide eyes* *mouthing* : Rock Lee??

Alfred *scoffing* : what world do you think we live in! Be more realistic Master Bruce.

Bruce: .. so who is it?

Alfred: Bruce Lee.

The scariest thing about the butler is that he will take you apart in less than a blow, and he doesn’t even need weapons. He will however use them just for fun.He can still hear if Bruce or any of the batfamily sneaks around, he’s been the only one who somehow knew Cass was in the room and offered her snacks while she was hanging upside down from the ceiling in the pitch black and overall has better instincts to locate any of them in the mansion than a GPS tracking system.

When supervillains, nosy reporters or even crooks try to break into the Manor, the fact that no one installed a security system should’ve really been a warning point that the Waynes had other.. deadlier security.

By the time Jason comes home he sees Alfred cleaning up the carpet, but doesn’t miss the wrinkled edge of the sleeve. It is only then when he looks to the other room and the criminals are all sitting in time out, each a truly remarkable shade of blue, black purple and green he’s never seen in real life. And none of them were even bleeding.

Alfred also has insanely fast reflexes. And to everyone surprise, he is an bloody good shot. Green arrow was once testing out a new arrow and it accidentally whizzed past the target and almost hit the cat when out of nowhere Alfred caught it and snapped it with one hand. And then proceeded to borrow a pistol and shoot the target while walking to the other side of the room, not even sparing a glance at the bullseye he had hit. All the while holding a tray of glass bottles that hadn’t moved a single inch.

He’s given advice to Jason on how to make explosives out of everything and nothing, taught Dick how to cut a tree in half with one kick, showed Stephanie how to always win Russian Roulette, guided Damian on how to break bones without ever leaving traces, taught Tim how to mimic someone’s voice and be scarily accurate, and so much more. Once on live television the world saw Alfred eat three cookies and refuse to pass them to Bruce Wayne before saying “They’ve been poisoned” and throwing them away. A few people swear they heard him mouth “bloody amateurs” afterwards and he insisted he was fine, stating that he was already “used to it.”

Whatever the fuck that meant.

And that is why the bat cave is a safer option for batman’s enemies than the mansion. Because if you were caught by the butler, just know that god has already forsaken you.

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gigiii1sblog · 1 month ago

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DORM-ROOM DEVIL 012

Warnings: mature content, fluff, sexual content, teasing, dirty talk, unprotected sexual content.

Chapter twelve: I told you I’d break you.

Y/N POV:

It started with something stupid.

It always does, doesn’t it?

I had just finished cleaning the kitchen. My playlist was playing from the speaker in the living room. The lights were dim. The candles I lit smelled like vanilla and cinnamon and comfort.

Chris walked in from practice, tossed his bag down, and collapsed onto the couch without even looking at me.

He didn’t kiss me hello.

Didn’t ask how my day was.

Didn’t notice the stupid effort I put into making our shared dorm feel more like home.

He just groaned into a pillow and muttered, “You forgot to get my Pepsi from the store.”

I blinked.

That’s what broke the dam.

“I didn’t forget,” I said, already feeling my throat tighten. “I was at in class. And tutoring. And trying to get everything done before your royal highness came home and dumped his muddy cleats on the carpet again.”

He sat up, brows furrowing. “Jesus, what the fuck is your problem?”

“You,” I snapped. “You don’t see anything I do unless I’m on my knees or laughing at your jokes.”

His jaw clenched. “Oh, so now you’re keeping score?”

I hated how fast the tears stung.

“I’m not keeping score,” I whispered. “I’m just tired of giving and getting scraps back.”

He stood. His voice went quiet, dangerous. “If you’re so unhappy, why the fuck are you still with me?”

I laughed, bitter. “I ask myself that all the time.”

The silence that followed was suffocating.

I expected him to yell. To grab his keys. To slam the door.

What I didn’t expect, was for him to walk away.

He didn’t look back.

Just grabbed his hoodie, muttered something like, “I need air,” and disappeared.

And the worst part?

He didn’t come back.

CHRIS’S POV:

I didn’t mean it.

Any of it.

But when she says shit like that, when she looks at me like I’m already halfway out the door, I make it real. I make it worse. I always do.

She doesn’t know what it’s like in my head. Doesn’t see the way I spiral the second she doubts me. All the versions of me I’ve tried to outgrow come rushing back like a wave I can’t stop.

So I go.

Because staying would mean showing her too much.

And I’m so goddamn scared of giving her everything just for her to realize I’m still not enough.

I end up at Nate’s party.

I drink.

I drink more.

I laugh with people I don’t care about. Let a girl sit too close on the couch. Let her laugh at jokes I didn’t even mean to tell.

I’m not trying to hurt Y/N.

I’m just trying not to feel her absence.

Y/N POV:

I didn’t wanna come.

I told myself I wouldn’t be that girl. The one who goes looking. The one who needs proof of what she already fears.

But Bianca had knocked on my door with tequila, lip gloss, and a knowing look.

“You’re not gonna let a boy keep you locked in a dorm crying, right?”

So I dressed in the tightest black dress I owned. Put on mascara I knew would smear if I cried. And I walked into that party like I had something to prove.

Then I saw him.

Christopher Sturniolo.

On the couch.

A girl’s legs draped over his lap.

Her hand on his jaw.

And he was kissing her.

Not like he kissed me, not hungry, not soft.

But it didn’t matter.

Because it still happened.

And my chest caved in.

I stood frozen in the doorway, watching him like he was someone else. Someone who didn’t hold my face like it was breakable. Someone who didn’t whisper, “I love you, even if I don’t know how to say it right.”

Someone who hadn’t made me believe I was more than a secret.

He pulled away slowly.

His eyes met mine.

And that’s when the color drained from his face.

CHRIS POV:

Fuck.

She’s here.

She’s here, and she saw, and I—

I can’t breathe.

I shove the girl off me like she burned me and stumble off the couch.

“Y/N—”

She’s already walking away.

I follow her through the crowded living room, past people laughing, drinking, dancing. None of it matters. Only her.

She shoves the back door open and walks into the cold.

I grab her arm. She jerks away like I hit her.

“Don’t fucking touch me.”

“Y/N, it wasn’t— I wasn’t—”

“You weren’t what? Kissing her?” she spits. “You didn’t just let some girl touch you like you’re not the same person who tells me I’m everything to you?”

I stare at her. “You don’t understand—”

“No, Chris. I understand exactly what this is.”

Her voice breaks.

She’s crying and I want to die.

“I gave you everything,” she whispers. “I gave you every piece of me and you still chose someone fucking else.”

“I didn’t choose her!” I yell. “I was drunk and pissed and I didn’t mean it!”

“Then why did you do it?” she sobs. “Why do you always hurt me the second I get too close?”

And I don’t have an answer.

Because she’s right.

I do.

I ruin everything.

I step back.

“I’m sorry,” I say, voice hollow. “That’s all I can give you.”

And then she walks away.

Y/N POV:

The second I slammed the door, my hands started shaking.

I didn’t even lock it. I wanted him to follow me. I wanted to scream at him. I wanted to break something, him, maybe. Or me.

My chest felt like it was caving in. Every inhale scraped against my ribs like sandpaper. I paced the dorm room, heart pounding, jaw clenched so tight it felt like it might crack.

Then I heard it.

Bang.

The front door.

“Y/N—”

“Don’t you fucking say my name!” I screamed before he could even get the rest out.

He stepped into my room, his face flushed, drunk and wrecked and still so unfairly beautiful. His hoodie hung off one shoulder, eyes bloodshot, lips red.

Red from her.

I grabbed the first thing I could, my empty Stanley and hurled it at him.

He ducked. “what the fuck—”

“Shut up!” I screamed, voice breaking. “Don’t talk. You don’t get to talk to me!”

He held his hands up, defensive but calm, which only made me angrier. “You weren’t answering your phone—”

“Oh, so you decided kissing some random bitch was a better plan?” I laughed, hysterical, disbelieving. “Did she taste like me, Chris? Couldn’t tell through the vodka and regret?”

“Y/N—”

I threw a pillow at him next. Not heavy. But it hit his chest, and he caught it like it meant nothing. “You said it wasn’t like that,” I spat, “You said you loved me.”

He stepped forward. “I do. I do love you.”

“Then what the fuck was that?” I cried, pointing toward the door like the memory of it was still dripping off him. “I saw your hands on her hips. I saw you pull her in!”

“I was drunk—”

“Then maybe you shouldn’t fucking drink!”

The silence cracked between us like thunder. My throat ached from yelling, but I didn’t stop.

“You do this every time,” I whispered hoarsely, brokenly. “You fuck up. I get hurt. And then you come back like I’m supposed to just… what? Heal you?”

His jaw clenched. “You think I don’t hurt too?”

I laughed bitterly, tears sliding down my face. “You hurt and then run. I hurt and stay. I always stay.”

He took another step. I backed up.

He stopped.

“I don’t know how to be good at this,” he said finally, voice shaking. “I don’t know how to be what you need.”

“You don’t even try,” I whispered.

He looked like he might cry. And for once, I didn’t care.

“I stood at that party feeling so fucking small,” I whispered. “Like nothing. Like I was just some girl you sleep with between distractions.”

Chris stepped forward. Slowly. Carefully.

I didn’t stop him.

He was close now. Inches.

“Look at me,” he murmured.

I didn’t.

He cupped my cheek. His hand trembled.

“I fucked up,” he whispered. “But not because I don’t love you. I do. I love you so much it makes me sick. And I still ruin it. I always ruin it.”

Tears spilled hot and fast down my cheeks.

“I would’ve done anything for you,” I whispered.

“I still want you to.”

I finally looked at him.

And I hated that part of me still did.

CHRIS POV:

The second she walked away at that party, I knew I’d messed up.

No, destroyed it.

But it was like something inside me snapped. She’d looked at me like I wasn’t enough, like she was done. So I did what I always do: I gave her a reason to be.

The girl meant nothing. She didn’t laugh like Y/N, didn’t look at me like I hung the fucking stars.

When I kissed her, all I thought about was how empty it felt. Like biting into a fruit and finding it rotten.

And then Y/N saw.

And everything inside me collapsed.

Now, standing in her room, watching her sob because of me, I felt the weight of every bad thing I’ve ever done pressing on my chest like an anchor.

I loved her.

But I was built to ruin soft things. I was built to turn love into smoke.

And she—

She looked like everything I never deserved.

But I wanted her anyway.

So I stood there, letting her yell, letting her throw things. Letting her cry and scream and break. Because I owed her that. Because she should’ve left a long time ago and I kept giving her reasons to stay just long enough to hurt her worse.

“I’m sorry,” I said, not for the first time.

And maybe not for the last.

Y/N POV:

I didn’t sleep.

Not even a minute.

I laid there for hours with his words echoing in my head like a song I hated but couldn’t turn off.

“I love you. I do. I’m just—broken.”

I’ve heard it all before. Like a script we both memorized.

This time, I didn’t want to stay for the apology. Not for the kisses. Not for the ache in my chest disguised as love.

So just before the sun came up, I started packing.

Not everything, just enough.

A duffel bag. My laptop. A few clothes. Toothbrush. My journal with all the things I wrote about him, good and bad. The polaroid he took of me on the beach when he said I was the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen.

I didn’t know why I packed that. Maybe because I needed to remember that for a second, he meant it.

The room was quiet except for the soft thuds of me stuffing my life into a bag. The silence wasn’t peaceful. It was tense. Lonely.

I was halfway through zipping the bag when I heard the knock.

Gentle.

Like he didn’t know if he was allowed anymore.

“Y/N?” His voice was raw. Low.

I didn’t answer.

The door creaked open anyway.

He looked like hell, hair messy, eyes bloodshot, the hoodie from last night wrinkled like he’d slept in it on a couch somewhere, or not at all.

He saw the bag first. Then me.

His face cracked.

“Where are you going?” he asked, stepping forward.

“Home.”

His mouth opened. Closed. “Just like that?”

I finally looked at him, straight in the eye. “What do you want me to do, Chris? Stay? Pretend none of it mattered? That kiss? That girl?”

“It didn’t mean anything—”

“And that’s the problem,” I snapped. “It never means anything to you. Nothing ever means anything until it’s already ruined.”

He exhaled hard, fingers raking through his hair. “So you’re just gonna leave?”

“I’m not doing this again,” I said softly, voice trembling. “I’ve spent months pretending this wasn’t killing me. I keep forgiving you. I keep hoping. And I just I can’t anymore. I don’t want to beg you to love me the way I need.”

He moved closer. “Don’t go.”

I shook my head, eyes stinging. “You always ask me to stay. But you never give me a reason.”

Silence.

And then he did something I wasn’t expecting.

He dropped to the floor—on his knees—right in front of me.

“Please,” he whispered. “I don’t know how to do this right. I fuck up everything I touch. But I’m trying. I swear I’m trying.”

I looked at him, this boy I loved too hard, who kept leaving pieces of himself all over my heart like glass I kept walking on.

Tears slid down my cheeks as I bent down and touched his jaw.

“I believe you,” I whispered. “But believing you doesn’t fix it anymore.”

He wrapped his arms around my waist and buried his face into my stomach. And for a moment, I held him. Just like I always did.

“I love you Christopher.” I said

But then I pulled away.

I slung the bag over my shoulder.

And I left.

CHRIS POV:

She didn’t slam the door this time.

She just… disappeared.

Quiet. Like a ghost. Like maybe she never existed here in the first place.

I sat there on the floor of her room, staring at the place where she had just been standing, feeling like I’d been ripped out of my own chest.

She was right.

I always asked her to stay, but never gave her something to hold onto.

I loved her. More than anything. But I loved her the way storms love the sea, chaotic, destructive, never quite gentle.

I told myself I was protecting her by keeping a piece of myself hidden. That if I didn’t give her the whole truth, how scared I was, how I never felt good enough, how much I needed her, it would keep her safe.

But it only ever pushed her away.

And now she was gone.

And all I had left was the echo of her goodbye and the scent of her still clinging to my hoodie.

@izzylovesmatt @riggysworld @amiraisafreakokaysorry @ansteeze @pair-of-pantaloons @kitty-meow-meow44@emeraldsturns @sturnslux3 @kalel2005 @sarahsturns @teheabrams @needchrissturniolobad @julessspoetry @sturniszn @slutforchrissturniolo2@alinagrace11 @beardedbernard @matthewswifeyy

#sturniolo smut #sturniolo x reader #christopher sturniolo #nick sturniolo #sturniolo triplets #chris sturniolo #chris sturniolo fanfic #christoper sturniolo #matt sturniolo #fanfic #nate doe #nathan doe #sturniolotriplets #matthew sturniolo #nicolas sturniolo #sturniolo fanfic #angst with a happy ending #angst

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spncvr · 1 year ago

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worries | s. reid

summary: you worry for spencer, it's human

pairing: spencer reid x reader

warnings: TENDING WOUNDS TROPE HELLO, hurt/comfort, mentions of death, blood (in a metaphorical way ???) ENGLISH ISN'T MY FIRST LANGUAGE PLS BEAR WITH ME, lowkey kinda sappy, reader kinda cries, like, alot, lmk if i missed anytihg !

a/n: tryying desperately to force myself out of my writers block so here's a WIP i forcedmyself to finish (its 1 am rn bye). send me requests??for??ideas?? i beg.

THE SMALL LIGHT BULB that dangles from the ceiling casts a soft glow on everything it touches. The light, never quite bright enough for your liking (you never got around to changing it) bathes the room in a gentle hue, softening the edges of the couch, carpet and shelves. That akin to the way it bleeds against his skin, with this kind of grace that seems to make scars on his face look kind and soft.

“Hold still,” you chide, trying to clean the wound on his eyebrow; a harsh reminder of the day’s chaos. And when he does you mumble, “You’re such an idiot.”

His response is a small smile that sits against his lips, warm and understanding. His hands gently find their place on your thighs, grounding you as you straddle him “Yeah, I know,” he says.

“You shouldn’t’ve just … lunged at him like that.” It’s a plea wrapped in a scold.

You duck your head down to avoid his careful eyes. You think, if he can’t see you, he can’t properly read you; a futile attempt, really. But still, you think, if he can’t see the worry within your eyes he’d just let it go; that he wouldn’t know that you couldn’t help but think, what if, the unsub had gotten the upper hand, and what if it was much worse than just a measly cut on his eyebrow. These thoughts, the feelings, seem to constantly plague your mind in your darkest moments; ones that would make you feel like your heart is pouring out your chest, like rose thorns poking at your ribcage, that’ll bleed you dry with worry.

“What’s wrong?”His voice is soft, laced with concern, and it breaks through your defenses. The fingers that were on your thigh are now under your chin, coaxing you to look up at him, a silent entreaty for your honesty. His gaze is now on yours, stagnant and unwavering—and your lips start to quiver, and tears threaten to spill. Quickly, you hide your face into his shoulder.

“I’m scared,” you admit, your words are barely a whisper.

“Of what?”

“I’m terrified for you.” your words are muffled in his shirt “What if—” you say, helpless, “What if it was more than just a cut on your eyebrow Spence, what if I— when—” you can’t finish your sentence. Not when he’s rubbing your back and kissing your head so softly and so kindly it makes the tears from your eyes spill and paint soft patches on his shirt.

“You won’t,” he tells you with a conviction, that he wears so effortlessly like his own skin, “I won’t. I’m not leaving you.”

“You can’t say that,” you protest weakly, “you can’t know that. Look at Stephen he— God, Spence. You of all people know that you can’t possibly know that—”

“Hey, no,” he scolds quietly.

But you're already looking at him, your face off from his shoulder. “Don’t tell me not to worry. Don’t tell me I can’t talk like that. You’re my boyfriend. It’s apart of caring. I should worry for you, so let me worry. It wouldn’t be human not to.”

“I know,” he says, soothingly, then, “I’m sorry.”

You wipe your tears frantically with your arm before continuing to tend his cut. “I wish the FBI had force fields around their agents.” you say, through a small smile, “Wish they could wrap you up with thick blankets.” It’s a childish thought.

His laughter is kind and genuine, it fills the space between the two of you, “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” you nod with a smile that finds its way through your tears.

“You take such good care of me,” he says, eyes never leaving yours.

Maybe it was his words or the way it had slipped from his tongue; maybe it was how his fingers, rough and calloused, had grazed against your delicate ones. But here, as he sits with a smile on his lips, (a lopsided lazy thing), all scarred and bruised, did you know that you love him. But love was a concept you had cared for and attended to. You loved your mother, your friends. You loved books and their characters. You loved the darkness, the night. You loved your job, and its challenges. You loved music and movies. You loved home, and it's all too familiar feeling against your skin. And suddenly this concept —love— seems too small, too narrow to encompass what you feel for him. There isn’t a word or phrase made —nor did you think there ever would be— to describe just how much you had felt for him.

But in short, you do love him, very much.

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myeagleexpert · 1 year ago

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𝕮𝖆𝖓 𝖞𝖔𝖚 𝖋𝖊𝖊𝖑 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖑𝖔𝖛𝖊 𝖙𝖔𝖓𝖎𝖌𝖍𝖙?

Yuu has reached her limits, tired and without the strength to fight anymore, it is up to Leona to care for and restore her body and mind with devotion. Notes: Leona in this fic may be a little ooc, but I firmly believe that when he enters into a serious relationship with someone he will become more vulnerable and soft, taking care of the smallest details so that the person feels protected. He's very soft and sweet here, which we all need, right? (Fem!Yuu) You are not a machine, you do not run on steam and electricity. You are a human and you deserve to have your rest days. May this fic be a break for you and so that like Yuu you can have your rest.

This was one of those weeks.

Terrible. Exhausting. Desperate. With sleepless nights and days without eating properly.

And after finishing everything in the early hours of Friday to Saturday and handing over his work to Dire Crowley, because taking care of Grim and doing tasks in a magical world where you parachuted in is tiring enough, imagine the injustice when you still have to do the work of a therapist and do all the paperwork that Crowley forgot to do and threw everything into the shaking hands of the young woman without magic is even more tiring and an overload.

Yuu said goodbye to Grim who went yawning to Ramcharkle and called a sleeping lion to come get you, which was quick, considering he was just waiting for the sign of his love to pick her up on the flying broom and take her in bridal style .

Her friends started to worry because the symptoms were getting worse and worse, frequent headaches, irritation with the squad, confusing people's names and potion ingredients, refusing to stop to rest, because she always responded that she wasn't tired. But everyone saw and turned a blind eye when she fell asleep in the middle of classes, when she shook so much that she couldn't drink water properly, when her nails were always bleeding and her hair became brittle. Everyone was worried and didn't know what to do.

She was becoming increasingly sick and weak, a workaholic, and was unable to share the heavy burdens with anyone. She held the world on her shoulders, dividing herself into 100 so that the work could be done with excellence. Terrible idea, but necessary. She had water up her neck and was running out of air and options.

Jack, as a loyal friend, had the courage to tell Leona everything that was happening to Yuu, and that he, as her boyfriend, should do something. It was then that Leona swore that she would take care of her now, because if the discrepancies didn't lead anywhere, he would have to take drastic actions, like wrapping up an act in a burrito.

"Are you okay?"-Leona looked worried at her strangely cold and quiet form.

"Hunhun.." a yawn interrupted the little princess-"just tired…but fine" with a voice as loud as the whisper of a little mouse.

It didn't take long for them to get to Leona's room, and it took even less time for Yuu to trip on the carpet and hit the arm of the dresser next to the bed. Since when was that damn thing there? And then she threw herself on his spacious bed, still wearing her uniform and sneakers, and with makeup slightly smeared from the day's course on her face.

"Tsk… this herbivore."

The powerful and feared lion gently took off the girl's sneakers and placed her in a comfortable position, being careful not to wake her. And with the greatest care that hands made to destroy, he takes a cloth of warm water and delicately cleans Yuu's face of makeup, removing the excess mascara from her eyes, and the concealer that tried to hide the deep dark circles that were demonstrating the Yuu's exhaustion. Leona almost feels responsible for her tiredness, for her sadness, for not being able to help her enough, for not having been by her side when she deals with giants bigger than herself, for not having talked more about her carrying the world on her shoulders. That she is not alone.

And do you want to know the worst? That it wasn't the first time this was happening and it was getting more intense than before.

Leona was never one to believe in gods or be religious, but that night he prayed at the foot of the bed to whatever powerful being was in the heights, that he would always be by her side, that he would be strong enough to hold her. without trembling, so that one day she can be free and happy.

And when he went to lie down next to Yuu, he held her tight in her sleep, because at least in his arms she wouldn't have to deal with the threats of the world.

It was noon on Saturday morning when Yuu woke up from her more than deserved sleep, but she didn't have the strength to move enough and chose to sleep like a log for another 10 min…20…30… .. until her body decided it could become conscious.

By rubbing her eyes she tried to get used to the light in the place, or rather, the lack of light. Disoriented, she noticed that she wasn't in her precious Ramcharcle room, if she had been Grim would have woken her up for breakfast, meowing loudly until she had her tuna toast. She was then in….

"Good morning, princess." - said the gentle voice of the lion, he crossed the room and opened the curtains letting the sun shine. "How did sleeping beauty sleep?" he took the chance to get into bed with her

"Morning…" Yuu gave a heavy sigh and replied in a slightly worn voice, almost moaning from how refreshing the sleep was "Well…I slept well, my love. Did I give you trouble?"

"It's going to be trouble now" with a smile, Leona stood up and took her hand like a gentleman guiding her to the bathroom.

"Hey…I shower alone."

"This time you're going alone, but next time we'll be together" - he said with a damn smirk - "I have a gift for you"

At the entrance to the bathroom there was a beautiful gift basket. A basket with luxury skincare, recommended by the queen of Sunset Savanah herself and by a brand designed only for celebrities.

"Actually, I was going to give you this gift on our date next week. But my plans were advanced and today seems like a great opportunity." he smiled fondly and gave Yuu a kiss on the forehead before leaving to prepare something for her to eat.

The shower water was like a cold current that took away the thick layer of frustrations, fears, desires, and slowly brought the lightness of Yuu's heart, she smiled involuntarily when she saw that the basket's theme was for sleeping and relaxing, having exquisite notes of lavender and chamomile. He must be really worried. The body scrub renewed her skin, giving her a feeling of deep cleansing and freshness, and when she applied the shampoo and conditioner to her hair, she realized that it had been a long time since she had time to take care of herself with such patience. No spa day for days. No money for a new perfume. No time to take care of your body and mind. Even her nails, which were previously so vain and painted in different colors and interesting details, were bitten, she took out all her anxiety and stress on her nails, because what else could she do?

After a while in the bathroom, she came out and found a pair of clean, folded oversized pajamas on the bed. And she knew it was there for her, because Ruggie had perfected the lavender scent of the fabric softener, because Leona hates strong smells in his clothes.

"How do you feel? Do you want to sleep more?" Leona appeared at the bedroom door suddenly and approached Yuu.

"You arrived just in time, love. I'm just out of the shower" - Yuu wrapped her arms around the prince's waist, pulling him into a hug that was soon returned.

"We'll be eating in a bit. Ruggie is making your favorites and will bring them when ready."

"Great, now I'm going to comb my hair-"

"Nah nah nah bun, let me do it. Sit here." He said sitting on the bed, waiting for Yuu to sit in front of him. And she goes, used to his grooming.

You might think he wouldn't know how to take care of a person, and something as simple and intimate as combing someone else's hair could turn into a disastrous situation. But when it comes to Yuu, his partner, his mate, his equal, he makes a point of applying a cream first and massaging his princess's scalp, combing it with a comb designed for her hair, untangling the strands with tenderness and love. , mentally cursing the knots that dared to remain in Yuu's delicate mane.

How many times had Yuu done this for him in the dark and distressing days he had already gone through? And all he wants is to repay the love he received on a silver platter a thousand times over. Leos are very possessive of their mates, you know? An intense and protective love.

"Did you like the present?" he said, sniffing deeply Yuu's neck, inhaling the calming notes -" Farena's wife who recommendend this to me"

"Wow, what an honor that the queen personally chose my gift." she said laughing "But I did like it, just what I need at the moment."

"hey, I helped too. Don't give her all the credit."

"Oh yeah? And how did you help?"

"Saying whether it was approved or not, of course."

Yuu would comment further on this when he saw the strange pattern Leona was making in her hair.

"Hey baby, what are you doing?"

"I'm finishing your hair, it's like this, right? I researched your hair type online and saw that it's supposed to be styled like this."- If Vil saw this he would be horrified by Leona's messy hairstyle, but Yuu didn't care. This was because she was immensely grateful that her partner was taking care of her so well.

"Ow kitten, thank you." her heart was static, like a wound being healed little by little and it didn't hurt that much. "come here."

Yuu turned around and hugged the big cat, placing kisses on his cheek and mouth. "You're the best, love."

"Everything for you, darling." caressing her cheek and looking deep into the girl's eyes, he continued- "Just for you."

The moment was as delicate as a flower, vulnerable, two people healing each other through gestures and words, enjoying the calm and peaceful moment they hadn't had in days. And if the moment could last longer, it would, but a certain hyena had to enter just in time.

"Leona-sammm~ Yuu's lunch is here. Yuu, are you awake?"

Ruggie found Yuu sitting on the bed, smiling at him.

And Leona staring at him with a hateful face that said: "Don't you know how to hit, hyena?" with its tail wagging in annoyance, like a cat.

"How are you Yuu? This time you scared us so much shi shi shi~" he laughed in relief seeing that his friend, despite being tired, was recovering and left the snack on a small table next to the bed

"I'm getting better little by little… but I'm very hungry!" she said, getting up towards the table and enjoying the smell of the delicious food.

There were two sandwiches with shredded chicken, cheese and ham, lightly toasted, with a protein cream to accompany and two glasses of citrus juice.

Leona knew everything about Yuu and when he saw the eyes lit up by a simple food he knew that the plan had worked: Right at the beginning of their relationship, in a conversation about their childhood Yuu had confessed that her mother always made this sandwich when she was sick and tired to regain her energy, and always, always with a citrus juice to go with it.

He never forgot.

And he wants Yuu to know that even in her smallest details, he hasn't forgotten.

"Eat to your heart's content, we're going to need you tomorrow!" Leona immediately glared at Ruggie the moment he profaned those words.

"Uat weonna do?" with a voice full of food she asked

"Well, tomorrow will be-"

"There won't be anything Ruggie, let her rest. It's Sunday, she'll spend the day here." Leona roared quickly and to the point, wrapping an arm protectively around Yuu's waist.

"Ok ok relax, I'm joking bro shi shi shi~" covering his hand over his mouth he laughed softly, impressed as in any situation involving Yuu, Leona will show her claws to protect Yuu, that's a material for profocation later.

They spent the afternoon relaxing, he was sprawled out on Yuu's lap, while she responded to friends, comments, posts on her cell phone, laughing at her boyfriend's sarcastic comments, watching movies while eating popcorn, and when it was time to go to sleep, they were both cuddled up together, underneath with soft covers, in each other's arms whispering words of love.

"Thank you for today kitty, I felt like a spoiled little princess" she thanked the equally spoiled prince, who was currently having his ears stroked while listening to Yuu's heart, buried in her chest.

"Well, you better get used to it, from now on the treatment is real. And another thing, it doesn't scare me like that. If I see you working yourself to the bone, I'll ruin that crow's race myself."

The two laughed and when a comfortable silence reigned, he could only hear Yuu's breathing slowing down, calming down, and watching how her eyelids slowly became heavier, the good side of night vision.

"Hey Leona….." "Hmm?"

"…I love you" she approached and whispered incoherently with the sleep already taking over her body, on the lips of the lion prince who smiled and returned the kiss

"I love you too, my love." and with that his tail wrapped around Yuu's leg, pulling her closer. The stars are witnesses to this delicate romance, and between the purring of a lion and the slow massages of the princess's hair, the two got the rest they deserved.

(っ◔◡◔)っ ♥ Every like, repost and comment is very welcome and appreciated. ♥

@nickson-lol I think you'll enjoy this <3

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callme-holly · 2 months ago

Note

I want ti request a female character for Benny Cross, the description of the character is someone originally from the Chicago area. They are returning home because they’re dad died so they have to clean out the house, etc. Maybe they are like a librarian which means they are booksmart as well as being kid of rebellious & free-spirited. They have also loved in different places like California (where they met “Cal”), west Berlin (the “free side”), Istanbul (Turkey), & the Australian outback. You can pick any story that might fit anything, but I would like how Benny & her would first meet.

I really appreciate it soo much cause I read all the Benny Cross already and we need soo much more!

𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐞 [benny cross x reader]

a/n: sorry for any typos, my brain is fried rn. but my inbox is open for requests so send them in i beg (pretty please)

The moment you stepped over the threshold, it was clear the house hadn’t been touched in weeks, the scent of dust and lingering wood polish hanging in the air like a bad memory. It was like grief sealed up in a vacuum bag, the kind of smell that clings to you and makes everything feel heavier.

Everything looked just as it had done when you left, like it hadn’t changed: the same yellowy wallpaper, the same books on the same shelves, the wood lighter and more grazed, the same carpet, and the same furniture.

You’d never thought you’d come back, at least not for this. Never to sit here, in the middle of your childhood home, packing your dad’s belongings away in a cardboard box, sealed tight with tape, never to see the light of day again.

Gone. Just like him.

The record player, his boots, photos, and dog-eared books he’d never finished. All of it was set aside with a strong sense of grief you tried to ignore, like a bad cold that wouldn’t go away.

To keep yourself from losing it, you managed to scrape yourself a job, some little library thing that made the days not seem so lonely and oppressive.

It was quieter there, quieter than the market-lined streets of Istanbul or the dry wind of the Outback. A silence that lifted a significant weight off your chest.

It was there you met Kathy; she was nice enough, decent to talk to and could keep a conversation running for hours. She was a nice break away from all the heavy things in your life, an escape from the clouds which would roll in steadily, threatening to flood your brain with unwanted emotions.

It was a Saturday, about a week after your arrival, that she finally noticed your lingering sadness.

“You could use a drink,” she muttered, looking you up and down slowly, a strange concern lingering behind her eyes. “There’s a place not too far from here. A little rough, but you get used to it.”

The scoff that left you was unfiltered, not sugarcoating your mocking at the idea. “I ain’t exactly Miss Chicago Social. I’d made shit company, hon. Trust me.”

She watched as you moved about the shelves, stacking them, reordering the books, and cursing out anyone who moved them under your breath.

“Nobody said you had to be.” She smiled. That damn smile that seemed to rope you into anything. Even if it meant going for a drink you didn’t want but desperately needed.

The bar was everything Kathy had promised it would be: rough, the kind of place you’d avoid. It reeked of smoke, alcohol and something stale you didn’t want to know the source of. The guys inside were worse.

The moment they saw you, they were hooting and hollering, jeering up a storm that was only silenced when you shoved their grabbing, needy hands away from your hips.

“Jesus, are they touch-starved ‘round here?” You whispered, sitting down on one of the chairs, ignoring the way it creaked under you. Unstable. Just like the rest of this place and its occupants.

“Like I said, you’ll get used to it. Or stop caring.” She made it sound so simple, like she knew them too well, and she probably did. Occasionally, she’d exchange greetings with some of them that walked past, leaving you in an awkward silence that felt so much worse than the quiet that would surround you back at your father’s now very empty home.

She was caught up in a conversation with someone when you decided to tolet your gaze wander, raking over every little grimy detail: all dark wood, a jukebox warbling some garbled tune in the corner, the people too loud to even hear the song.

It wasn’t your scene. Not by a long shot. It couldn’t be anyone’s scene unless they were looking for a fight.

You turned to scan the crowd: leather, bold tattoos, loud women and louder men.

The door opened with a groan, its hinges blanketed with rust crying out in protest. You didn't mean to look, but you did.

He stepped in like he'd walked out of an old photograph, everything about him a sharp contrast to the others. He was pretty in a rough sort of way, if that was even possible. He didn't smile or nod. Just strode in with a confidence that radiated like heat from the sun, scanning the room with a focus that was unbreakable.

And then he noticed you.

Not a glance. A look. Long, lingering. Like he was trying to figure out who the hell you were and where the fuck you came from.

"That's Benny Cross." You startled suddenly at the sound of Kathy's voice, cutting through your thoughts and causing your face to heat up. "Don't stare too long. He's not the type to leave things unfinished."

"Is he a regular?"

"He's a vandal. That jacket ain't just a decoration."

It wasn't a direct answer, but it said enough. You turned back to your drink, fingers idly tracing the rim of your glass, which had gone untouched since you'd sat. You kept your eyes down, focused solely on the pattern of the table, the sticky surface, and the grainy wood. You tried to ignore the movement opposite you, tried to ignore the scrape of the empty barstool, and the shift in the air. Leather creaked, and the scent of smoke and cheap cologne hit you.

"You're new," His voice was low, rough in a way that makes your stomach tie itself into knots, butterflies running rampant in your chest.

You didn't look up, not yet. Kathy was silent, watching. "You're not the first to point that out."

He gave a dry chuckle in response, leaning back, arms crossed over his chest, flashing you multiple tattoos which you would gladly observe for hours if you didn't feel so humiliated. "Well, you ain't too good at hiding it."

You look up at that, meeting his eyes, slow and steady. He didn't flinch, didn't flitter or break away. He just stayed observing you, like you were some creature in an exhibit that needed studying.

"D'you always harass strangers like this?"

Benny shrugged, a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. "Only the ones that look like they don't belong."

You snorted softly at that, the sound drowned out by the roar of laughter erupting from a nearby table. You picked up your glass, with no true intention of drinking from it, but simply to do something with your hands.

"I'm guessing you didn't come for the ambience." He grunted, and you looked at him again, brows raised.

"No," you replied finally. "Didn't come for much of anything. I was dragged here."

Kathy made an uncommittal noise beside you, and Benny chuckled. "Sure, she meant well."

You merely hummed in response. "I'm sure. She thinks a drink and a conversation are enough to fix a broken heart."

You glanced over at her, eyes begging for her to swoop in and save you, but she just sat silent. Amused. Watching.

"That's what you got? Broken heart?" Benny leaned forward at that, and you nodded.

The scoff you let out wasn't bitter—just empty, tired. "Something like that."

His smirk faded just slightly, enough to let an ounce of sincerity shine through, a small flicker of sorrow easing anything negative you were searching for.

"You got a name?"

You hesitated. Something in the way he asked made it feel heavier than it should. Like it was more than just a way to get to know you. Like his intentions were far from formal.

Still, you gave it to him, whispered softly against the rowdy backdrop.

He repeated it and hummed. "pretty", no leer, no lilt, no mocking. Just pure, unadulterated honesty.

You looked at him again, longer this time, reading the leather, the patches, the scars, and the roughness of his hands. There was a moment, a beat, where the din of the air seemed to fall away. Your eyes didn't stray from his. His didn't either. He didn't smile, but neither did you.

Something passed between you. Unnamed. Unknown.

"You got plans after this, librarian?" Benny leaned forward just enough for you to catch his words and your eyes widening in surprise.

"How did you—"

He smirked and shrugged. "I have my ways."

And at that, you almost cracked a smile.

"I don't have plans," you muttered. "No, really."

"Good," he nodded, finishing off his cigarette in one smooth drag and flicking it aside. "Then I'm walkin' you home."

It wasn't a question.

And against all reason, you didn't tell him now.

#the bikeriders #the bikeriders x reader #benny cross #benny cross x reader #austin butler #austin butler x reader

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coffeewasamistake · 27 days ago

Text

Strawberry

(Part 1)

For the Mini Pride Bingo hosted by @genderthings.

[AO3]

Prompt: Lipstick | Rating: T | WC: 3999 | Relationships : Steve Harrington & Eleven | Jane Hopper & Maxine "Max" Mayfield , implied future Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson

Summary:

Max and El have fun with makeup at the Harrington's.

Steve is not jealous.

Steve took the cookies out of the oven and put them on a tray to cool down a bit while he cleaned up. He had prepared caramel pecan cookies, just because Max had thrown him the sweetest look she could muster while asking him. He had immediately folded when she had told him she wanted to share her favorite cookies with El. She was an absolute terror most of the time, but she was even worse when she went out of her way to look sweet. Her little tactics were rubbing on El, too, and her big eyes were even more effective than Max’s fake innocent smile.

Of course, Steve had caved. He had never really been able to refuse anything the kids asked before, but now, after everything that had happened, he had turned into a total carpet. The kids were walking all over him and he was letting them, too glad to see them walk around, happy, unhurt, alive. Max, especially, had spent way too much time in the hospital for Steve to refuse her anything. Especially when it was something as easy to make as cookies.

Once the kitchen was in order, everything cleaned and put in its place, he prepared a tray for the girls. He opened the fridge, hesitated a moment, then grabbed a few different cans of soda. That way, they could directly choose whatever they wanted without having to walk to the kitchen. He put the cans on the tray with the cookies and brought it to the living room.

At some point, his house had become the headquarters of the Party. He hosted Hellfire once a week, and a movie night at the same frequency, and was regularly invaded by whoever wanted a bit of space that day. Steve always complained about them coming without telling him beforehand and making a mess half of the time, but it was mostly for show. He had to keep a semblance of authority on the kids, even if seeing his house so full of life was one of the best things to happen to him.

Today his house had only been invaded by two gremlins and not the whole pack of teenage demons. Max and El were sitting on the ground against the couch, and Steve could barely see them, finding their location by following the sound giggles permeating the air. Seeing the kids mess around was one thing but hearing them laugh so freely was special.

He walked into the living room, announcing loudly:

“Cookies for the ladies!”

His arrival, or more exactly, the cookies’ arrival was met with even more glee.

“Are they caramel pecan cookies? Steve, did you make the caramel pecan ones?” Of course Max was checking if the merchandise had been baked according to her request. She was not Erica, but she was not playing around either when it came to cookies.

“Yes, Steve, Max said they were the best type of cookies, and you are the best at making snacks.” El said softly, aiming a big smile at him.

Steve was absolutely done for.

Were they constantly manipulating him into baking for them? … Perhaps. Were they the best kids in all of Indiana? The jury was out, and Steve had accepted a long time ago that he was biased as hell when it came to them.

“Of course I made your favorites, Max. Be careful, they’re still a bit hot.”

His warning fell into deaf ears. In two minutes maximum, all the cookies had been snarfed down, except for two they had generously put away for him.

“There are so good, Steve,” Max said, while still eating her last mouthful of cookies. She swallowed. “You brought them at the right time too, we were almost done with our makeup, and the lipstick would have smeared if we had eaten with it. Here, look,” She delicately grabbed El’s face and turned it toward Steve. “Isn’t she so pretty like that?”

Max had applied a really pretty purple eyeshadow on El, and she had definitely put other things on her face, but Steve couldn’t really tell what everything apart from the mascara and the blush. It was colorful without being too much, and she looked bright, happier than ever. Max, on the other hand, was sporting a heavy dose of black eyeliner, and for a moment all Steve could think was Eddie putting eyeliner on in his van just before a Corroded Coffin’s show.

Steve swallowed with difficulty. He felt strangely agitated, as much by the reminder of Eddie’s pre-show ritual than by the multitude of makeup products spread on his living room table.

“You’re both really pretty.” His smile was still reaching his eyes, but it was a close call.

“We’re not done yet!” Max grabbed a pink lipstick and applied it on El’s lips.

Steve’s heart fell into his stomach.

El frowned a bit, looking inside the bag open on the ground between them, and finally selected a dark red lipstick.

Steve’s missed a heartbeat, then felt as if his body was making up for it by beating fucking war drums in his chest. He took a slow, deep breathe, then another, trying to stay as calm as possible, or at least look the part for the girls. He didn’t want them to see him distressed, and he certainly wasn’t planning to tell them why he felt that way.

“I think this one would look bitchin’.” El put it on her best friend very carefully, visibly less familiar with the technique. She dabbed a cotton on the corner of Max’s lips to remove an excess of makeup and took a step back, clearly satisfied with herself. Then she turned toward him.

“Steve, can you take a picture of us?”

God. He wanted to throw up.

“Yes, of course.” The polaroid camera was in his hand before he had even realized it.

Snap. Snap. Snap.

“Here. One for each of you, and one for me. I’ll put it on the wall.” They looked so happy, he could not pass up the opportunity to have such a sweet picture to his collection of the Party's best moments. Even if his smile was tight and his eyes were burning.

“I’ll leave you to your girly things, alright?”

He fled the room, barely hearing the two teens screaming about the movie they were about to watch.

The house was empty, and Steve couldn’t sleep.

It wasn’t because of the Upside-Down. The ache in his chest was different, both old and new, and turning in his bed again and again ended up being prodigiously ineffective.

Steve stared at the clock, the red numbers gleaming like a beacon in a tempest.

3:45 a.m.

3:46 a.m.

3:47 a.m.

Steve threw the covers down and stood up. He was not going to sleep tonight. He walked around the house without thinking, until he found himself staring at the mirror in his parents’ bathroom. The curtains were open, and the night was just clear enough to illuminate his tired face in the moonlight. Steve blinked, half-surprised to see where his feet had brought him. He started drumming his fingers against the tile behind him, keeping a bit of distance between the basin and himself.

His mother was not often here, but she liked to keep what she deemed as “essentials” in the Hawkins house, just in case. Her bedroom was full of clothes she liked enough to keep but didn’t care to bring on her travels, and her bathroom was fully stocked, from her favorite shampoo to all her necessary makeup.

And Steve was standing here, in this mausoleum of his mom’s life, staring at that damn bathroom drawer. The handle had been changed when Elizabeth Harrington had gone through her latest home renovation frenzy three years ago, but the furniture was still the same, if a different color. In the dim light, it looked eerily like the bathroom he had known in his childhood.

Shit.

With trembling hands, Steve opened the second drawer. A bunch of cosmetics had been left there, waiting in vain for the return of their owners. Most had never been used, and the others were still barely used. Steve reached in the drawer and picked up a red lipstick. Slowly, he took the cap off and stared at the vibrant color, muted by the relative obscurity of the room. The lipstick was new; Steve had the intrusive thought that if he tried it on, he would leave a mark, and his mother would know.

It was stupid. She wasn’t at home enough to remember which lipstick she had used or not.

Minutes passed.

He stared.

Finally, he put the cap back on, then threw the lipstick back in the drawer and left the room, flying both his pale reflection and the tube of makeup.

He didn’t go back to his bedroom. At this point sleep was clearly out of his reach for the night, and turning for hours in his bed for nothing was not very appealing at the moment. Instead, he took a turn, walked down the stairs, and set his course for the living room.

But between here and his goal, there was…

His dad liquor cabinet.

Steve froze in front of it, his brain working in slow motion. He had done his best to cut down on his drinking when he had started to date Nancy, but he had stopped trying when she had stomped over his heart like a herd of wild buffaloes. And he felt better now, with Robin, the kids and Eddie, but he could still remember vividly a time when he had beer for breakfast on weekdays to chase his hangover. Alcohol was… a difficult subject these days.

He opened the cabinet and picked up the first bottle he saw. Scotch. A good one at that, way older than him and probably worth more than the price of his battered liver on the black market. He swore. If his mom would not even realize it if he decided to ransack her whole bathroom, His dad would definitely notice his missing bottle. He had, before, and Steve never wanted to put himself in that kind of situation again. But even if the cabinet was off limits, there was still the wine cellar in the basement…

Steve shook his head and put the bottle back in its place, glass clinking. He took a deep breathe, his eyes closed. He wasn’t going to drink himself into a stupor just because he felt stupidly jealous of a couple of teen girls. He was better than that.

He fled toward the living room, stopping in the kitchen just long enough to grab a can of coke, then threw himself on the couch. Maybe a movie would be enough to lull him to sleep.

Back when he was eight years old, his parents had started going on longer and longer trips, and Steve had been left with a nanny. Linda had pretty blue eyes, pretty brown hair, a pretty smile, and was generally the prettiest person ever, according to little Steve. She had succeeded to Janice, who had only babysat him when his mother was busy, but had been mean enough that the idea of getting a nanny like her full time for weeks had been really scary. But after her, Linda was an angel, and Steve was in love.

She was so kind to him, Linda, always reading him a story before bed and telling him how strong and brave he was when she cleaned up his raw knees after a fall, just because he didn’t cry. She was the best, period. Steve wanted her to stay forever. She was way nicer than his dad, and Steve had decided quickly that he was not going to follow in his dad step and be a boring lawyer like everyone wanted him to be one day. No. Instead, he was going to be just like Linda, with her kind voice, her beautiful puffy hair and her pretty red lipstick.

One day, when Linda had been busy cooking dinner and he was supposed to do his boring homework in the living room, he had tiptoed up the stairs all the way to his parent’s bathroom, and picked up the lovely red lipstick his mom had left behind. He had tried to put it on just like he had seen her do it, making an “o” with his mouth and smearing the product on his lips.

Linda had found him there, with red all around his mouth, and had screamed at him for the first time. She had rubbed a hard cloth against his face to wash it off.

“Lipstick is for girls, Steve. Girls. Never do that again, do you understand?” Her voice had been hard, sterner than it had ever been, and her grasp on his arm had hurt.

He had promised her he would never play with his mom makeup again, and had been sent to his room without dinner. He had swallowed down his tears, and accepted her reprimand, because it was Linda, and Linda was always right.

She had been a bit more strict for a few days, but Steve was pretty sure she had forgiven him after that.

But then his parents had come home, and the first thing his dad had done had been to slap him, hard, and give him the verbal lashing of the century while shaking him. It had been worse than that time he had helped Tommy egg his neighbor’s house. Between his dad harsh words and his mom’s disappointed face, he had understood.

Linda had snitched.

He had been punished, again, and had spent two months without any sleepover at Tommy’s. After two weeks, his fury against Linda the Snitch had abated, turning into a deep hurt. He didn’t love her anymore, and he certainly didn’t want to wear pretty red lipstick like her, because she was a traitor, and he never wanted to be mean like her.

Lipstick was for girls anyway.

The kids were always squatting his house like a bunch of invasive little rodents, so, of course, Max and El came back two weeks later for a girls’ afternoon, just the two of them. They had asked for baking goods, again, but this time their alleged means of survival were brownies.

Steve, whipped as he was, made brownies.

When he brought the cakes to the girls, his nose was assaulted by a sharp smell.

“Steve!” Max raised her head, abandoning for a second the nail polish she was putting on El’s hand. “Come here, El needs someone else to practice using nail polish.”

Steve froze.

“What?”

“She already did my nails. It’s not exactly perfect, but she’s doing better each time!” Max wiggled her hand in his direction, showing off her bright green nails. “Look, she barely put any on my skin.”

Steve stood there, staring at the two teenage girls seated on his living room’s floor, dumbfounded. They wanted to… do his nails?

Max must have read his trouble on his face, because she immediately started to argue.

“You know, El needs more experience in normal people’s activity. So you would be helping her.” El nodded vigorously. “And you know, plenty of guys wear nail polish.” Now, that was a lie. Steve was a guy, and he had plenty of male friends back in high school when he was on top of the food chain. None of them had ever used nail polish, because it was a girl thing, and would have ended with the dude stuck in his own locker. Max was so full of shit right now.

“Like Eddie!” El added.

Wait what?

“What? Eddie doesn’t…”

“Yes, he does! He painted his nail black with us once before going to Indianapolis!”

There was an implication there that Steve was not ready to think about. All he knew was that Eddie definitely didn’t wear nail polish in Hawkins. People would have made even more comments against him if he had, and he really didn’t need more hatred from every asshole in town right now.

Still. Even if Eddie didn’t really paint his nail on the regular, it didn’t mean Steve could not do it once, discreetly, for the girls. He would just have to remove it before going to bed.

“You know what? Okay. I’ll do it.”

Max and El cheered as he set the brownies on the coffee table and sat down with them. The girls rummaged in a bag for a minute, before El brandished a little blue bottle.

Oh shit. That was… a rather bright color. He winced.

“Are you sure about this one?” He asked them.

They both nodded. “It’s blue. Blue is a boy color, you’ll be fine.” Max added, rolling her eyes.

Steve tried to ignore the blue eyeshadow El was sporting and gave her his hands.

El took her time, carefully painting each of his nail blue, sticking her tongue out in concentration. It was always very sweet to see her do mundane activities with her friends instead of fighting for her life. Steve did his best to focus on the satisfaction he felt at seeing her this happy, and ignored the pit that was trying to grow in his stomach.

He was fine. It was just nail polish.

“Aaaand done!” El threw him her best smile. “What do you think?”

It was…

Well, it wasn’t so bad. A bit unusual, of course, but the color created a good contrast with his skin. It was eye-catching, and Steve found at his great surprise that he rather liked it.

“It’s lovely,” He said, a bit breathless.

“It’s my turn, now!” Max said, grabbing the makeup bag. Steve frowned. Everyone’s hands were already painted, what did she want to do? Steve wiggled a bit to hide his feet under himself. He was not letting her paint his toenails.

She brandished a pink tube.

Oh.

“Max, I’m not letting you put lipstick on me,” he started, voice stern. “That’s for girls. You know I’m not a girl, right?”

“Oh, come on!” Max said with a big smile. “Just for a few minutes. It’s not even a very colorful one. It’ll be very discreet.”

“And we’ll match.” El continued.

Steve felt the pit in his stomach grew.

“I… It’s for girls, Max.”

He watched, breathless, as they exchanged a pointed look. Had his reaction been that visible last time? Did they talk about it in his back?

They turned back toward him. Unexpectedly, El was the one to start.

“You know, I’ve seen lots of people acting like other people doing things differently than them is wrong. And at first it hurt, because I wasn’t like anyone else. Like at all. I still don’t understand everything people say, because I didn’t learn about a ton of things as a kid. But now, I don’t care anymore.” She took a deep breath, then smiled. “The most important thing I learned was to be myself, whatever ‘myself’ meant, and to try to be happy with that. Rules about what you should like or not are stupid. So don’t listen to the dumb mouth breathers who say only girls can wear lipstick.” El shuffled closer to him. “They’re wrong.” She whisper-shouted in his ear.

Steve swallowed around the lump in his throat. She… She wasn’t wrong. These rules were stupid.

“Okay,” he mumbled.

“Okay?” Max’s smile was soft. “So I can put lipstick on you?”

“Go ahead.” Steve closed his eyes tightly. “But if I don’t like the color I’ll take it off.”

He sensed more than he heard Max coming closer to him, but the weight of her hand on his shoulder made him jump anyway.

“You need to stop biting your lips, Steve.” Max’s voice was soft, and for a moment he felt like she was talking to a spooked horse. The wild staccato of his heart wasn’t breaking the comparison either.

Steve was acting like a total idiot. It was just some damn lipstick.

He let go of his bottom lip and took a deep breath, trying his best to relax.

“Here we go…”

The lipstick wasn’t cold. Steve wasn’t sure why he had expected it to be, but it wasn’t. The texture was dryer than lipbalm but it tasted vaguely fruity, and Steve had to refrain from licking his lips. The whole process was sort of underwhelming.

“Okay, it's almost over. ‘Max slipped a piece of paper between his lips. “Now, press your lips together.”

He followed her instructions, bemused.

“And we’re done! You can open your eyes.”

Steve blinked, disorientated. He didn’t feel anything. It was weird. He was wearing lipstick. Surely he should have felt different. Changed. Maybe less of a man, or something. But no.

Maybe it was just because he couldn’t see himself.

El picked up a hand mirror and waves it in his direction.

“Here, look at yourself! You’re so pretty!”

Steve caught the mirror and angled it toward his face.

Oh.

It was. Nice.

Very nice. El was right, he did look really pretty like that. Max had chosen a lovely strawberry color, and it matched well with his reddened cheeks. He ran his hand though his hair and tilted his head, admiring his reflection.

“Yeah, I think that color is really working for me.” He smiled at the mirror. “Damn. I look fine.”

El and Max started giggling madly.

“You do!” El said. “It’s very nice.”

“I think you should show it to Eddie,” Max continued with a plotting look on her face.

Steve blinked owlishly. Why? How? Did she really expect him to drive like that all the way to Forest Hill just to show to Eddie how the soft red of his lips complimented his face?

“Why would I do that?”

The giggling resumed.

“He likes makeup.” El said.

“Yeah, sometimes he put some eyeliner on.” Max added.

’ I know, but I don’t think I ever saw him with eyeliner unless he’s playing with his band? That’s part of his rock star persona. Like ABBA’s crazy concert clothing.” Then again Steve wasn’t spending all his time with Eddie. Maybe the guy had hobbies he shared with other friends. Like the ones he met in Indianapolis.

“No, I saw him with eyeliner on weekends too. I think he’s a bit shy about it.”

“Eddie? Shy? Have you met him?”

“He probably thinks you would react badly if you saw him with makeup in a sort of normal setting? You did just imply makeup was only for girls…”

Steve sputtered. “I wouldn’t have said anything mean to him if he had shown up to a movie night with eyeliner!”

“Yeah, but he doesn’t know that. And you have a huge jock vibe, so that doesn’t help.”

El nodded. Traitor.

“So if you showed him you’re not against wearing a bit of lipstick, he should appreciate another guy who does nonconforming things, like him.”

Steve took a second to really think about it. Eddie was always very vocal about non-conformity. They were probably right. He should show him how he looked right now. Show him how he wasn’t just a former jock. Eddie didn’t need to go all the way to Indianapolis to find interesting friends. Steve had dept. He could be unconventional if he wanted.

“You know what?” He stood up. “I’m going to Eddie’s.”

“Wait, what? Right now?” In Max’s defense, he had decided to never leave the kids unsupervised in his house after the carpet incident. But it was El and Max, they were not like Mike and Dustin. He could trust them with the furniture.

“Yeah, why not?” He briefly turned back toward the girls, one shoe in his hand. “Are you going to destroy the house if I leave you alone?”

“Of course not!”

Okay, I’ll be right back,” Steve said, walking out.

He closed the door, nearly missing Max’s last comment.

“You won’t!”

#stranger things #stranger things fic #fanfiction #steve harrington #pre steddie #max mayfield #eleven hopper #makeup #pridethingsbingo #pride things bingo #gender things #prompt: lipstick #steddie #steve x eddie

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lilicanssecretstudy · 27 days ago

Note

Uwahhh your profile is so hot! I just came across it an wowwww! I’m stuck imagining scenarios about you, you’re amazinggg

You text me that you’re coming home from the gym in half an hour and that I should be ready. For some reason the shower stopped working a little while ago, so you have me lick you clean most days (both of us think the other broke it on purpose but in reality it just failed) so I am to wait at the door, nude but for my thick pink plush leather collar.

You figure there’s no harm in taking a little more time, your wash-pig at home won’t mind. Getting a few extra reps in and talking to the friend you met there for a while.

It’s so much later when you finally get home, finding me in the position where I’m meant to be, knees red from kneeling so long, eyes drooping, drooling a little. You’ve drugged me before, this isn’t that, I��m simply tired. But you don’t care, in fact you might prefer it. When I’m teetering on the edge of unconsciousness there’s nothing I can do to stop you from blasting through my light limits. You drag me by the hair to the living room, prop me up against the coffee table and bring my ankles up to my ears while you immediately start bruising everything inside of me with your huge gock pistoning rapidly. I just whimper and moan about it being too big but I haven’t even used the fake safeword yet, so you just hold my throat tight with both hands and keep going.

By the end of the night I’m sore, asleep, bruised all over and drooling into the carpet, dripping cum from most holes.

And we’re both still sweaty.

What a pathetic little pup. You kneel down for hours, knowing that anything I would do to you if you weren't there is far worse~

#lilican.asks #transfem #transfem dom #transfem superiority #transfem supremacy #mtf trans #mtf nsft #transgirl #mtf #trans ns4t #trans woman

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chronically-ghosted · 1 year ago

Text

i'm swingin' blind and you're stunning me without any gloves

rating: E for Explicit! 18+

word count: 9K

pairing: dieter bravo x f!reader

summary: the night continues while the two of you dance around the inevitable. dieter's restraint is foiled by dreams of a water bed.

warnings/tags: depictions of drugs, age gap, cum eating, piv sex, not actually incest but close, concerns about getting old, reader is at least 18 (by how much is up to you), no use of y/n, oral (f receiving), hand jobs (m & f receiving), unprotected piv, squirting, the barest hint of overstimulation, oh and SMUT.

🤍AO3 Link

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“Do all movie stars have six empty bedrooms they don’t use?”

“They’re not always empty . . . I mean, it’s good for parties. Gives people space to get out of the chaos if they want, or if they need a place to crash. Keeps the energy, uh, flowing. Keeps the vibes good.”

He uses the joint to take the place of having to explain that the room you just passed was in fact used as a revolving door for anyone who wanted a bump only two weeks ago. The second floor stretches out into the darkness, the nasty weather outside beating against the windows. He keeps a slow steady pace, the high making his insides comfortably warm as you wander in and out of rooms, like a less frantic, totally-fuckable version of that Scooby Doo gag. He’s quite sure he’ll never be able to watch Saturday morning cartoons the same way.

So far, you’ve been content with asking rather inane questions, filler questions that he suspects you’re hoping reveal more than he’s giving. The response to the question being more important than the answer itself.

So no one lives in these rooms? No.

Do you ever use these as anything else other than bedrooms? No.

What’s outside by the pool? A gym.

A gym with full length mirrors that he used to adore snapping selfies in, in his younger cop show days, and without much prompting, would admit to masterbating to on occasion.

You’ll always be your own greatest critic so fuck ‘em.

You come out of the last bedroom, smirking faintly as though someone had told you a particularly naughty secret, humming faintly to yourself. He never much cared for giving tours but given that you walked ahead of him and gave him adequate time to ogle the backs of your thighs, he could think of worse ways to spend time with you.

“Mhm hmm,” you mutter to no one in particular. The carpet is plush, but that is the only thing you could say you really enjoyed about the style of the house. Everything else, especially the almost clinically clean air to it, makes it feel like a hotel, as if Dieter is mold growing in someone else’s house. Again, these are filed as things that helped fill out the picture of the man your uncle had become, if not the man he wanted to portray.

“So where do you sleep?”

He had been lulled into such a stupor of quiet fantasy fueled by his warm high that he didn’t even think twice when he pointed down the hall.

“God, it just keeps going, doesn’t it?”

Turns out the path to moral degradation isn’t a straight line, but a curved slope. One he finds himself on, going down round and round and round, the longer he watches your legs, the curve of your ass, the bright smile as you quite obviously tried to get a glimpse of the old Dee. But that's the thing about drugs that he finds he so actively craved – of course there is the euphoria, the chemical sensations, the wires of your brain plugged into different outlets and restarting the whole system. But he's found that’s when people tended to be their most honest, most unpolished and they weren’t afraid to be like that.

There was a lot of talk around the ego and the ID in his early acting classes. Who was your character when their ego had been pulled back like strips of skin?

But as he got older, the question he became more obsessed with was, who were the people around him when they weren’t being paid to like him?

You, of course, are different from all that. You hadn’t built up an ego quite yet. You hadn’t built up the mechanisms required to survive the world because you hadn’t needed to. Sure, you could deflect and get what you wanted by batting your eyelashes, but there are times he felt ugly in the skin he had built. Like somewhere along the way, he had tried on all these hats and now they had all attached themselves to his head and he couldn’t tear them off if he tried. His costume didn’t fit– his face wasn’t even visible any more.

And who exactly had spent the last fifteen minutes trailing after his beautiful, carefree niece, a single breath away from getting so hard it hurt, in this massively empty mansion? What version of himself wants to snake a hand into those shorts and effectively ruin you for anyone else – wanted to grip you so hard there’d be bruises and tears in your eyes when you came?

Which one of them is he willing to show you?

All of them. None of him. The ID.

You glance over your shoulder, curious that he hadn’t answered you.

“Yeah,” he sighs, smoking between his two fingers again. “Could get lost in a place like this.”

You pause in your inspection, eyes soft because of the drugs or the low lighting or something else, and take his hand. “Lucky I’ve got you then.”

His mouth is instantly dry in a way that has nothing to do with the weed. He offers you the joint and you smoke too, eyelids drooping, allowing him another second of looking.

And then another smile breaks across your face.

“Fuck,” your laugh turns into a cough. “Did you ever get that stupid fucking waterbed you wouldn’t shut up about? I remember you swearing the first thing you’d buy when you were rich and famous was a waterbed – which I thought was so fucking cool because I’d never heard of a waterbed before because I was seven and it sounded like something totally made up — so of course, someone rich and famous could have one.”

You’re still holding hands, your palm dry and warm, when he laughs too. He takes the joint back from you, eyes narrowing as he looks at you out of the corner of his eyes.

Turns out moral degradation is a fucking cannon ball.

“Why don’t you go see for yourself?”

You squeeze his hand, eyes bright, before almost sprinting down the hall to the room on the right. He follows you, struck by the notion this is the first and last time you’ll ever enter his bedroom. This has to be the end of something.

He hears a grunt and a groan and he can’t help but smile. He saunters into the room, leaning up against the door frame with his hands in the pockets of his robe. You are face down on the mattress, hands under your chest.

“This is not a water bed,” you grumble, the sound muffled.

Once again, Maria deserved a raise just for making his bed.

“No, it’s not,” he says slowly, as he edges a teasing tone into his next words. “Look, I did get a fucking water bed, alright? Just about a century ago when they were still a thing.”

You ease up onto your elbows and glare at him. “Can’t believe you got rid of it. What a waste.”

And then you’re sliding back onto your knees, hands planted on the covers, and for just a second, he swears he can see the outline of your cunt through the material that could hardly be called shorts.

His knees actually buckle for a second before he stands up right and physically has to close his eyes. Looking away wouldn’t have been enough.

But you don’t see all of this. You’re frowning down, as if glaring hard enough will bypass physics and liquidate the mattress.

“What happened to it? The water bed, I mean.”

Just as he’s gotten his heart rate back under control, your question throws everything into a spiral again.

Do not fucking tell her about the hookers and the brass pasties. Or the cock ring. Definitely do not mention the cock ring.

“It, uh, popped.”

You smirk over your shoulder. “It was a sex thing, wasn’t it?”

The question lingers, Dieter unable to make a coherent word that didn’t sound like take your pants off right fucking now, so he swallows and shakes his head. By some minor miracle, you shrug and don’t push it, sliding off the bed and completing your assessment of his life by regarding the book collection against the opposite wall.

It’s bigger than you expect someone like Dieter to have, but its placement in the house – almost hidden in his private bedroom – suggests that its volume is not there to impress. It’s his personal collection and, judging by the bent spines, books he’s actually read, perhaps several times. There’s a small desk next to it, crouching in the corner and littered with sheets of paper that look like they were torn from a sketchbook.

He couldn’t decide which version of himself he wanted you to see less: Dieter, full of vices, or Dieter, bratty actor who only acted in the first place because he couldn’t cut it as a real artist.

Your hands run over the sketches, eyes annoyingly unreadable, and just as he’s about to leap forward and scoop all of the sketches into the trash, you move on. Your interest is caught by some of the books. You make noises that are both outside of the realm of approval or disgust and he finds himself nervous. Book reading is about the last thing on anyone’s mind once they’ve reached the final destination of The Bedroom, so he’s never worried about what someone might think. But this isn’t just someone, it’s you.

His mouth opens to make some quippy remark, when you gasp and lunge forward, grabbing something at the back of the shelf.

“Holy shit, that’s you!”

You hold up a picture of his high school’s production of Othello and there he is fifteen and smack dab in the middle of the cast.

“Oh fuck, I forgot that was there,” he groans, dropping the nearly gone joint into an ashtray by the side of the bed. You’re practically glowing with excitement and he rolls his eyes as he takes it from you.

“Jesus Christ, look at that kid. Has no idea what kind of dumbass he’s going to grow up to be.”

Three years after that photo was taken, he had left in the middle of the night for Hollywood. Of course, just as he had finished packing up his piece-of-shit Chevy, Enrico caught him. Exploded in his face and scolded him in his old man ways for leaving without saying nothing.

He kept this photo because it was the last thing that reminded him of home and yet so distant it didn’t hurt as bad any more.

“I think he did spectacular for himself,” you grin at him. “Who knew The Dieter Bravo was such a softie for the old days?”

He smirks at you, finally sick of you kicking his ass all night. There is a line between fucking you and out sassing you, one he could live with. You aren't fucking ready for that Dieter.

“No way,” he rubs the bottom of his lip with his thumb, artfully contemplative, and purposefully distractingly hot. “Just keep it around for the spank bank. Ms. Lemons was a babe.”

You narrow your eyes at him as he leans across you to put the photo back. “Oh yeah? I gave my first blow job in that blackbox.”

“No, you fucking didn’t.”

“Yes I did!”

“What was his name?”

“Jeremy.”

“Jeremy what?”

“Jeremy . . . Barnes.”

“Pssh, fake name, fake boyfriend, fake story.”

“He was real! I just . . . can’t remember his last name right now.”

“Blurs together with all the other guys you’ve blown, right?”

You bite the corner of your mouth, your smirk so tight he can almost picture your toes curling. Not that he’d dare break eye contact with you now. Now that he’s got you practically pinned to the bookshelf, photo forgotten and something that’s been slinking around for the past three hours finally rolling on its back and exposing its belly.

He knows The Look, he practically invented it, and he can’t quite remember why it’s not okay to get that from your niece and someone twenty years younger than him. Right now, the portion of his brain that can sort that’s fucked up and it’s not that hard to refrain from being a fucking creep is filled with smoke, a sort of hissing sound there that is not unlike a shaken soda begging for release.

And dear God does he want release. But he’s willing to edge it just a bit longer, scrape that muscle as gingerly as he can before touching it where it needs to be touched.

“I have no idea what you mean,” you say softly, meekly being cowed for the first time all night. Fuck, do you have to make it so easy?

“That’s right. You don’t. Because if it were any good, you’d remember it.”

He puts a hand above your shoulder to stop himself from sinking into you. Weed made the world feel plushy, moldable – and he just wants to lounge in the dip of your bottom lip. You look so different from the girl who showed up soaking wet at his front door.

Your breathing hitches the closer he comes, your eyes fluttering as you watch his fingers dig into the spines of the books.

“What’s his first name again, darling? Do you still remember that?”

You gasp, loudly, as if his itching fingers had finally sunk in between your legs, but you’re sliding away from him and pulling out something from the shelf. Something white and something he should have fucking hidden better.

“Oh my God, is this my senior yearbook?”

You’re wandering over to his bed, leaving Dieter reeling, his own spell so alarmingly effective he is caught beneath it too. It takes him a moment to blink as he realizes maybe this is where you reneg and decide you don’t want to fuck him after all.

“It’s not as weird as it sounds –,” he begins, heart in his throat, and hands safely in his pockets as he joins you near the bed. You still haven’t looked up as you flip through the glossy pages.

“Sure, sure.”

“Look, your dad sent it to me and I didn’t even open it,” he says honestly. The package was delivered on the Tuesday afternoon when he woke up so hungover he actually thought he might die, and couldn’t bear the thought of not recognizing you in the class photo.

Funny how that all fucking worked out.

You hadn’t leapt off the bed, called him a dirty old man, and ran away to call the police. Which are probably good signs. So, slowly, he sits down next to you, halfway on the bed and halfway off.

“He sent it just a few weeks ago. I didn’t really think much of it at the time,” he says quietly. So you had been on the high school’s newspaper staff, as well as being the captain of the journalism club and ran the book club. You were on the volleyball team and co-Secretary of the student body government. Here, he spent all night trying to find out what kind of person you are when half your life is waiting for him upstairs. “But maybe he sent it as, like, some sort of . . . fond reminder.”

You snort, your thumb tucked under your chin as your hand touches the memories on the page.

“No, it fucking wasn’t. He was guilt-tripping you.”

So your dad definitely still remembered the fight all those years ago. Dieter grimaces. His gaze slides from the stock pages, to your knee, down the crease of your thigh.

“You know, he would have made me your godfather if–,”

“If you weren’t such a fuck up. Yeah, he told me that too.”

You finally look at him and find him nearly out of breath, eyes wide as though he had been struck by a sledgehammer right to the chest.

“Actually, he told me if I came around more.”

Your face crumples, the flippancy gone.

“Fuck, Dee, I’m sorry.” You cup the back of his neck with your palm in a soothing gesture and it stirs something within him. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

“It is what it is.” Deflection, distraction, escape.

You smile gently, thumbing his curls as your eyes roam his face, seeing right through his bullshit.

“You know, you kinda became the cautionary tale around us growing up,” you murmur, gaze searching his face. “Not sure why, though. Since you’re, like, a gazillionaire.”

Not worth it. None of it’s worth it.

“I get that. I get why he didn’t want me around. Probably best that I fucked off and never looked back.”

The corners of your eyes crinkle, as though he had said something that didn’t make sense. You stop combing his hair and run your thumb over his ear.

“But I don’t think you are,” you say slowly, as though you didn’t need to explain. “A cautionary tale, I mean. I think you’re . . . an inspiration. No one in our town ever fucking leaves, but you did. You got the fuck out and lived your dreams. And that’s pretty cool.”

There’s not any hope for me, not if you knew all the fucked up shit I want to do to you.

Don’t look at me like that.

When he looks around for some self control, something to pull himself out of the pit he’s dragging you both in, there’s nothing. All eroded.

Moral degradation is a smooth fucking shot.

The yearbook drops from your lap, clatters to the ground as he takes your face with both his hands, his rings pressing into your cheeks, and kisses you so hard his lips knock against your teeth. The force of it rocks you flat against the mattress, your fingers wrapping around his wrists, grounding you to him – don’t take this back, don’t let go – and his tongue runs against your bottom lip once before your mouth opens without hesitation. He can feel that, that desperation, that eagerness to let him in, and he groans into the hollow of your mouth and you take it, you match it, just like everything else he'd given you this night.

Your tongue rises to catch him, to guide him, to show him the places you need to be touched. He’ll get there, you little thing, so he nips your upper lip and you gasp, your body tightening beneath him. He grins – there’s so much you have to learn.

His palm drifts away from your jaw, thumb gentle as it coaxes your cheek to the side, before he latches his lips to your neck, sucking and then a quick bite– all eased by his tongue. Your fingers dig up into his hair, clutching him to your chest as there is anything, anywhere else he’d rather be in the world. As if anyone could pry him off you.

He dives back into your mouth, air rushing out of your nose in a silent moan, and your knee hooks out around his hips, pulling him into the cradle of your lap. You jerk back –

“Dee, you’re – holy shit –,”

Your hips brush up as if you had somehow gotten it all wrong the first time. As if he isn’t rock hard above you. Your eyes widen as he smirks down at you.

“Yeah, baby, that’s all you. All you do to me.”

He chuckles, dropping his head to your chest, breathing deeply, head spinning from kissing you so thoroughly. He inhales, nose rubbing against the soft material of your shirt, ideas of peeling it off you with his teeth. Your scent, it’s all at once intoxicating, mesmerizing, and . . . familiar.

He groans, almost nuzzling your chest.

“Fuck, this smells like that nasty deodorant from 711 I used to buy ‘cause I couldn’t afford anything else.”

You slowly open your eyes up at him, a distantly embarrassed smile curling up the corners of your mouth. You look hazy, blurred, lips flushed and pink from getting them sucked and bitten. Had he not just licked your entire mouth clean from spit, you might have blushed.

Your fingers curl gingerly around the back of his neck. “Well, you never forget your first.”

His mouth falls open. You had successfully knocked him back on his ass for a second time that night.

“Shut the fuck up,” he husks, a grin breaking across his lips as the hand at your shoulder pulls gently at the sleeve. “This is my shirt? This has got to be older than you are.”

A small part of his brain, the part that definitely would object to fucking his pseudo-niece, goes warm at the thought that some part of him still lived in that neighborhood, was still there for all the important moments of your life.

That is until the very active part of his brain lumbers in, quashes all gentle feelings and promptly wrestles for control of his mouth to ask you flat out if you ever touched yourself while wearing it. Not that he didn’t want to know, but if you said yes, he would have come right there on the spot, perhaps so hard his dick popped off. So he did not ask you that, but he did satisfy that part of his brain by molding his hand around your hip, so he could feel the cool fabric on the back of his hand, and your warm, plush skin against his palm.

You like her being drenched in you, don’t you?

You swat at his chest, rolling your eyes, oblivious to his rapidly darkening thoughts. “It is not older than me, but if it was . . . would that be a problem?”

You pick at imaginary lint on his shoulder, hips rolling just enough to indicate it better not be a fucking problem, and a smirk on your face that reads innocent and filthy all at once.

Dieter shakes his head, grinning as he inches his wide palm up your hip, across the thin flesh of your ribs and –

Does not find a bra.

You had not been wearing a bra the entire night.

Your smirk deepens, your back arching into his palm, as his thumb brushes the underside of your breast, then over your tightening nipple. You moan softly, eyes fluttering, when he pinches it deftly. His jaw ticks, teeth grinding from the pleasure of watching your mouth arch open.

It’s like you had been given a list of all the things that turned him on and you are crossing them off one by one. Like you had skinned him and read all his little nasty thoughts written on his ribs and made them your own.

Like you were made for him.

He leans forward, the bristles of his beard and mustache rough like matches against the shell of your ear, his voice so weighty it could have been another physical thing he intended to drive into you, intended to rub against you to make you keen with pleasure.

“It’s not a fucking problem, you little brat. Only problem is gonna be if it keeps me from watching those pretty tits bounce while I fuck you.”

There it is. Out in the open. As if all his flirting and touching and tongue between his teeth hinted at something else besides you spread out under him. Half delirious from being so hard, he grins as he bites the bottom of the shirt – his shirt, Jesus Christ – and pulls it up and he ducks his head under the material and presses a sucking kiss into the valley of your tits.

He likes giving head from underneath the sheets because, yes, it was hard to breathe. It was hot and stifling and everything smelled of sweat and sex and eventually his brain was forced to make a decision about what motor functions to hold onto and he made it focus on sensations until he was sure he’d be swallowed up by the cunt under his mouth or impaled by the cock in the back of his throat and if that’s how they found him dead, he’d be absolutely fine with all of it.

Dieter Bravo – died doing what he loved. Giving immaculate, delicious head.

The heat under the shirt is nowhere near as intense but it’s enough to make him flush with want. He licks the sweat gathering underneath your right tit, holds it on his tongue before he lathers both his spit and your sweat over your clearly-painfully tight nipple. Every touch of his makes you stutter and he can feel you unconsciously rubbing your hips up against him.

“This isn’t going to end up on Youtube or some shit, right?” You ask above him, your voice rough as though your throat is dry. “You don’t have cameras filming this, right, Dee?”

He chuckles with his nose rimming your left nipple. Do you have a voyeur kink? He muses vaguely.

Fuck, I knew I shouldn’t have gotten rid of that mirror.

“No, baby, it’s not going on Youtube.” He runs his warm palms up the curves of your side as he tugs his head out from underneath the shirt. “All the videos go directly to a password-protected server in the Cloud.”

“Dee–,” you groan as he lunges forward and kisses you hopefully so hard it knocks those silly thoughts from your brain before pulling back to grin helplessly at you.

You cannot physically describe how impishly adorable he looks with his hair mussed, his lips pink and twisted in a smirk – you cannot really do anything at all, really – but your hand slides up from his shoulder, across his warm neck and settles into his cheek. The last bit of brown is swallowed by a swelling blackness as you rub your thumb across the bottom of his lip. This thing that has been eating at you the longer you’re around him edges you on, daring you to push him just a bit further because it knows you’d just love what he’ll do. It knows more than you, but it’s not exactly smarter than you. It’s just simply fascinated by Dieter Bravo.

Your own mouth parts, your eyelids growing heavy, as you swipe across his lips one more time before sliding your thumb into the warmth of his mouth. Eyes never leaving yours, his tongue greets your thumb, massaging the pad before licking around it like he’d swirl off the top of an ice cream cone. He sucks gently and you can’t fight the noise that comes out of you. Almost shocked, surprised that you can feel this aroused with all your clothes on and just his tongue. He drags his tongue across the back of your knuckle and the groan is louder now – you want to bite into him – and he pushes his hips into the mattress.

“C’mere, baby girl–,”

Dropping your thumb, he dives in again for your mouth, this time the back of his hand grasping your neck. He kisses you and kisses you and kisses you as if forgetting there was another way to relieve the tension in his gut, the spark that's fanning smoke like a brushfire into every place your skin, your spit, touches his.

“Take– this– off–,” He pants between the hot presses of his mouth to your jaw, your neck, the spot beneath your ear that makes you keen in a new way. His hands are scrambling over yours to get the shirt up and over your head, desire almost making him panic that everything is going too fast but not fast enough – he wants to be inside of you in every way that matter – he wants you to smell like him – to breath his same air –

He’s not so much kissing as opening his mouth over your skin, his teeth and tongue and lips fighting over themselves to get to you first. He wants to linger, wants to take his time but the pressure – he deliriously thinks he can smell you – and only when his fingers clamp down on the waistband of your shorts – he has half a mind to punish you for walking around in these things, making his sanity unwind in the hallways of this fucking place, until the only truly sane thing to do is fuck you and fuck you good – the thought is so strong, almost violent he pauses.

He looks up to the devastation he’s left in his wake – bright, purple spots on the inside of your breasts, under your ribs, the small swell of your stomach, your chest heaving – and he watches your face. You realize he’s stopped moving, slowed in his volcanic thunderous roll down to the clutch of your cunt, and you meet his gaze. You swallow, mouth too dry to form words, so you splat a hand on his shoulder.

"No robe. I’m not – not going to let you f-fuck me in a bathrobe.”

He grins. Of course, you would sass him after a make out session so intense he doesn’t even care if he comes in his pants. But he obliges, pretty much willing to cut off a finger if you continue to purr at him like you are.

“Excuse you, this is lounge wear.” He leans back onto his knees and shrugs himself out of the green robe. Your eyes flash to the triangle on his forearm and he’d be fucked to admit he didn’t get it entirely for the look in your eyes right now. Chicks always dug the tattoos. Your tits bounce as your breathing hitches.

Not Daddy’s girl, his smoke-heavy, lust-soaked brain chants at him, not Daddy’s girl.

God, he’s so hard it hurts.

He goes back down, dropping himself between your legs, arms tucked up under the backs of your thighs. He mouths the inside of your thigh – a distraction as his hand, like some sort of fucked up, horny magician performs a slight-of-hand, “iiiis this your clit?” – rubs you over your shorts. You are soaking wet and he’s fighting the urge to just dig in there, suckle you through the wet spot. He hadn’t actually made someone come that way before, but now seemed like an excellent opportunity to try.

“You know, for someone who has to couch-surf, you talk a lot.”

He noses the rim of the bottom of your shorts, allowing a full gaze down to your ass.

“Sorry if I’m sick of fucking boys who look like their mom dressed them.” You are breathless, shaky, unwinding at the seams and you know exactly what to say to dig right into him.

He bites the soft place at the back of your thigh and you groan.

“I thought you couldn’t remember any of them before me,” he purrs, watching that damp spot grow darker the longer he talks, the longer he holds off on touching you where you and him and the entire fucking world knows you need to be touched.

Maybe you ran your mouth too, when you were nervous, overwhelmed. Maybe you laughed too loud when you didn’t know what else to do, and maybe you gave him shit because the second words stopped coming out of your mouth, you’d have to sink into whatever he was giving you. You’d have to kneel to the white lighting between your legs. Maybe you were afraid there wouldn’t be white lightning at all.

Families share similar insecurities, after all.

He waits until you open your mouth again before hooking his fingers under the band of your shorts.

“Hmm, there’s actually a fairly long list of guys before you. Guys who–,”

He sucks the skin just an inch to the right of your hip bone, just before the patch of curly hair, he sucks it into his mouth and bites so gently he knows that your brain nearly splits in half from the hairline fracture between pleasure and pain.

You gasp and you’re already arching off the bed. He breathes across those coarse, damp curls and inhales.

Girlsex.

Girlsweat.

It’s like there’s acid corroding his brain, eating away at the clamps holding his sanity together and he’s gonna go fucking ballistic if the acid doesn’t get to him first. But he wants the burn. He wants the chemical smell.

He wants . . . to put his dick into something.

But first –

You’re pliable. Easy to move as he scoops your shorts off your ass – Oh, fucking Christ, there’s her entire backside, isn’t there? – over your thighs and he hurls the shorts over his shoulder. He inhales–

God, this pussy is going to kill me, he thinks or maybe says out loud before he tips forward into that black, fluttering hole. When he licks you, you both moan.

He remembers specifically doing planks for as long as he could to build up the upper body strength to languish here for hours.

Well, at the time, here wasn’t here here, but if everything before this was practice, then he was ready for the Olympics, dick as hard as a goddamn gold medal.

He swipes up with his tongue, licking and sucking and swirling like frosting was going out of style. Frosting, that’s it. That’s what you reminded him of. Fat, sweating, sweet frosting. And there was the cherry on top.

He guides your clit into his mouth, his fingers digging into the tops of your thighs as if to pull himself deeper into the wettest goddamn pool at the fucking YMCA. He sucks once and your hands fly into his hair. You’re making sounds that somewhat resemble his name, but they’re too high, too pitchy, too airless to be anything coherent.

He wants to tease you about all the boys you mentioned. Wants you to go back on your word, beg for him to believe that there was no one else before him. If there was, it didn’t matter because this is it. This is the best you’d ever have.

Even when you left him, you’d never forget –

Disgustingly, he slurps up one lip of yours into his mouth and you cry out, fingernails digging into his scalp so hard that it hurts and sends another rush of blood into his weeping cock. He mouths up before teasing your clit again – around it but never on it – before diving back down and lapping up your other lip.

“Dieter–,” you garble as if you know it’s filthy. He can hear your breathing tighten in your chest, feel your thighs clench around his ears, and he swears if he gets out of this with hair in tact, that’s the most he’s going to ask for –

And he french-kisses your clit.

You come, gasping, writhing, back arching off the mattress and he bares his forearm across your stomach, reaching up to pinch your nipple.

Settle down. We’re only just getting started.

He’s got to control himself but staring up at you, your face flushed with pleasure, he can’t quite remember what he’s supposed to do next.

You are naked underneath him. Naked and heaving and he licks the dampness staining his mattress just to have your taste in his mouth again. This is going to be a problem, if he can’t think straight without his mouth on you.

Oh my God, duh, fingers.

He pulls himself up the length of your body, and his hands sink into your hair. His fingers curl around your ear as he makes you look at him.

“How are you feeling?” It’s an echo of what he asked earlier. You’re still warm but your breathing has slowed. Your eyes are open, even if they’re fighting to stay open as if you are concussed.

“Good. Great.” You mutter, hand falling to his chest and tangling with his shirt.

“You wanna keep going?”

Your eyes open wider as if someone rang a dinner bell and you’d been walking on hands and knees, starving for weeks. You swallow thickly, nodding frantically, and the hand leaves his chest, winding down between you and, before he can stop you, slides under the material of his sweats and strokes him.

Your hands are like velvet.

Fuck, then what’s your cunt gonna feel like–

Do not fucking come right now.

“Oh, I see,” you huff, a smirk curling your mouth up, as if you had won some unnamed battle. You roll your shoulder to go aaall the way down his cock and stroke him. You think about licking your hand, but the precum leaking out of the tip of his head at a truly flattering rate is enough lubricant to keep your hand from sticking. “I can’t walk around without a bra on, but you can walk around in these thin fucking sweatpants and no underwear.”

He grits his teeth, dropping his head to his chest, trying to breath through the freightcar rattling down his spine.

“It’s my house, you little cocktease,” he pants, gasping as you run your thumb against the vein underneath his shaft. You pump him again and again and he groans low, with his eyes shut to keep them from rolling back in his head. “I can– yeah, right there – do whatever I want. Move your hand. I want to stick my fingers in you.”

His words aren’t so crass they make your ears red, but it’s the unrestrained need in his voice. You slowly withdraw your hands and you go wipe the threads of him on the mattress as he sits up to take his shirt off.

“Don’t. Just– gimme a second.”

He yanks the tank shirt over his head, setting down in between your legs again and blinking like he’d forgotten where he was. He takes your hand, licks your palm as clean as something as dirty as this could ever get, and then penetrates your hole with his middle finger. His tongue slides in the crevice between your ring finger and your pinkie and when he adds a second finger below, you both can feel the moment your brain is wiped blank and your body twitches along with it.

“Mhmm, good.” He pulls you down closer to him, fingers plucking your strings like the finest guitar. Your knees are spread wider than when he had half his body down there. He’s watching you practically drown his hand in the wetness seeping out, his other hand holding or balancing your knee.

He hovers above you, watching you roll and writhe and beg. His forearm is strained, his hand must be soaking, and he thinks your face contorted in pleasure might be permanently burned into his brain. There is still some part of him that knows that’s wrong. He shouldn’t have the faintest idea of what you looked like, high and blissed out of your mind, while his fingers stroke and dig and pluck and rub to drag you higher and higher –

The pad of his middle finger brushes something spongy and you nearly slam your legs shut over his arm, if it weren’t for his free hand pinning you open.

“Dee,” you croak, head shaking, “that was – you can’t–,”

His eyes flutter at the sound of your voice so wrecked. He needs to memorize that exact spot, save it for when you don’t have enough sanity left to push back. It’s scary, he knows, but you must be out of your goddamn mind if you thought he was going to let anything bad happen to you.

“Look at my thumb. Baby, look down.”

You wrench your eyes open, past your quivering chest, down his long forearm, down to where the black bullseye on the meat of the space between his thumb and palm is winking at you.

He’s stroking you with his thumb on your clit and the bullseye winking up at you. It’s eye-fucking you and that’s enough to break you. He wants to drink whatever drips out of you as your body locks up, head thrown back, and you come. You break through and his hand curls around your knee, gently, as he watches your body crescendo for the second time that night. He sucks his fingers, almost pensively, as if he is going to carve something out of you. Remake you. Split apart your atoms and rebuild you whole. Sex as an act of re-creation.

He kneels his way out of his pants, cock pounding red, leaking, the hot center of where his want for you is infecting him like a sickness.

Slowly, he drags one of your knees over his shoulder, half of your body hovering just above the mattress.

He wants to ask if you need it rough or slow. He can’t be gentle right now but he does have enough awareness to keep from hurting you. But maybe you, like him, like a little bit of pain.

He wants you on top, wants to see you sing for him, but he knows your legs are jelly. He knows there’s a white static hum in your brain and he’s so grateful for the pleasure of it.

He rubs the top of your thigh and noses the back of your ankle up by his ear.

“Do you want me to put a condom on?” he asks quietly, before kissing that spot below your ankle.

“Are you clean?” He’s so fucking broad and his rings pinch your skin when he pushes too hard and he’s asking for your comfort. You also want to feel every inch of his cock and you beg him to say yes.

He nods, suddenly irrationally thankful of Paul’s monthly mandated screenings. You get the clap once, and your fucking manager never lets you forget it.

You huff, realizing you’re so close your cunt can almost taste it. “I-I’m on the pill. A-a-and I’m clean too.”

As if he had ever denied you anything, as if his willpower hadn’t barely lasted four hours, you tense at the anticipation of his cock.

He’s just as warm, just as ready, so he grabs your other ankle and draws it next to your other one against the back of his neck. He sinks back just a bit on his ankles, fingers spreading you and grabbing himself and then–

It’s like getting the wind knocked out of you and getting sprayed with a hose of fire all at once.

“JesusfuckingChrist, you’re tight.”

He edges deeper as he sits up right, going slow not because he hadn’t unwound you properly but because if he went any faster, he’d obsess over the idea of getting rug burns on his dick.

“Dieter, oh God–,”

Hands leaving your ankles to wrap around your thighs, he rocks his hips back and drags out his cock just as much as the both of you can handle before thrusting forward. Again.

Again. He can’t seem to fill you enough. He wants to be bigger, thicker, girthier, if only to plug you up more.

But, fuck, your cunt is better than your hands but only because it’s so warm and wet and throbbing and he swears his heartbeat is in his ears.

He thrusts almost lazily, dipping his head to kiss your shin before dropping it back, your toes brushing his hair. His hands greedily squeeze your thighs, thumbs rubbing circles.

It’s like he has to recover from the shock and sensation of fucking you. It’s too good. It’s too much.

He’s inside of you.

If there’s a relief fund for grilled cheese, he’s going to have to donate every red cent he’s ever owned.

Your hands clench the sheets, mouth open and, yes, beautiful tits bouncing with every thrust. It’s not them hovering above him, begging to be bitten, but it’s close and he smooths his hand down from your thigh over his chest, down your hip and he kneads your breast.

“Oh, fuck, Dee, fuck . . . you feel so fucking good.”

I want to die in this cunt.

“So good, baby.”

It’s back, that pressure that connects the backs of his eyes, to the back of his gut, all the way to his pussy-soaked cock. This time he lets it build, lets it dangle out of reach, and his thrusts become faster, hurried. You jerk beneath him and let out a full whine as if he had spanked you.

He fucks you some more this way, just to feel that tightening in his gut, before he pulls your legs off his shoulders and you whine again, this time out of annoyance.

He has the where-with-all to smirk.

“What, baby doesn’t like it when I take away her toys?” He pants, almost feeling light-headed. You scowl at him but don’t push back in the least as he turns you onto your hands and knees.

“It was just starting to feel good, you a-ahh–ss–,”

He jerks his hips into you without warning, fully seating you on his cock and your head drops between your shoulders.

“If you weren’t such a brat, you’d be kind of cute,” he murmurs as he rubs his thumb over the knots in your spine, the sensation of your cunt sucking him in almost detaching him from this plane of existence. He knows you like to be teased, with his words, with his fingers, his mouth. He wants to give you everything – anything – he’s so pussy-obsessed he can feel it like ozone in his mouth.

He never wants to stop fucking you. He’s being unstable about it.

“You like that I’m a brat,” you say and push back with your hips. The sensation does make him stutter and you take it as a win. His rings sting as they squeeze your hips.

He’s sliding down that pressure, winding himself up so tightly in it he wants to stop breathing –

He starts pumping faster. The sounds that echo in that room are like music to his ears.

The sheets ruffling as your hands clench around them. The jolt of the bed as it lurches back and forth.

Your moans as he fucks every thought out of your head. “Fuck, you’re so big. It’s not fair.”

The wet slap of his thighs meeting yours.

And it all narrows down, the universe closing to a single focal point– all of it runs right to his cock rubbing up inside your cunt like it owns the place.

“Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck,” you groan, head down. “Please – please fuck me harder, Uncle Dieter.”

With a growl that surprised even him, he drops forward, one hand anchoring himself to your hip and the other coming up around your throat. You gasp as his fingers dig painfully into your skin. He pulls you both up right, nose in your ear and teeth tight in his jaw.

He punctuates every word with a particularly brutal thrust that gnaws at something truly devastating inside you.

“Don’t – fucking – call me that – while – I’m inside – you–,”

You turn your head, flush with his and the hand that’s on your throat slides up to your cheek and he holds you there, pins you there as his cock pounds the daylights out of you.

“Say my name.” He husks. There’s something cataclysmic happening inside your cunt and he has the launch codes.

You can’t remember feeling so full before. So up your eyes and your mouth and your ears and your heart – God, maybe there really hadn’t been anyone before him.

“Oh, fuck, Dieter,”

“No, honey, my real name.”

Your eyes flicker open and something in his chest roars. He’ll kiss you after this. He’ll kiss you so hard you end up on another fucking planet.

“David.”

The sweat on his temples mixes with yours and he wants to smear himself in your fluids. This close, his beard and mustache rub roughly against your skin and you wonder how long the burn will last after all this. You’re clenching his arm, clenching his lower back to you, you think you’ll make him bleed in half-moon cuts of blood.

“All of it. All of it, baby girl,” he whispers to your cheek, your jaw. “Say it. I need to hear it. I need to hear it from you.”

Your fucked-out mind spins, clutching at the memories of the past, to a name you hadn’t heard in a decade, while the man you’ve known all your life threatens to undo your sanity. You lock eyes with him, the precipice of something so large and looming, you can’t wait to be crushed by it.

“Davíd Moralés.”

And that bastard’s cock intentionally pushes against that spongy spot and you shriek. Honest to God, yell, as you come, with Dieter wrapped up against your back, sweat streaking both of you.

“Get down,” he hisses suddenly and almost throws you off him. You land on your back, your entire body pulsing as one single organism, and he grabs his cock in time to aim it at your chest.

He comes, mouth open, eyes squeezed shut, as he sprays you with white ropes. It’s warm on your tits and you shudder through your aftershocks. You feel like you’re sinking into warmth as he keeps coming, your inner thighs drenched and dripping, and finally, he leans away and collapses on the bed next to you.

There’s ringing in your ears.

You feel swollen all over, your nerve centers humming and firing and crackling as though someone whapped you over the head with a 500 volt electric baton. You want to keep sinking, keep drifting, keep existing in this warm, non-corporeal form. Everything feels so good here.

You had no idea you, or anyone else for that matter, could come that hard.

“Holy shit.”

You can’t help but grin through the short huffs of breath you swallow down in gasps.

You want to sass him but it feels a bit like spitting in the face of God. “Yeah. Holy shit.”

He sits up on his elbows, glancing over his side at you, the begrudgingly fantastic cock between his legs as deflated as you are.

“Are you okay? Fuck, sorry, I got a little crazy there at the end.”

You shake your fist loosely, with your thumb and pinky finger extended. “I don’t hear customer service calling. In fact, I think the line has been permanently disconnected.”

You both laugh softly and his eyes roam over your face. This is why he only saw vampy women. It was easier to wake up to something almost over-the-top hot, than this. Than you, with your beautifully flushed cheeks, plump lips, and eyes that searched only for him.

His gut twisted painfully. Okay, you nutted so hard you’re pretty sure your dick isn’t going to work for a week, now wake up. Wake up and smell the fucking arrest warrant.

Uncle Dieter. You're his niece.

What the fuck were you thinking? Where could this possibly go?

Instead of inspecting the small-starting-to-grow painful throbbing in his chest, he sits up and pleasantly inspects the mess you both made all over you. You follow his gaze, smirking as he intentionally smears his cum over your skin with his thumb.

“Oh, and that thing you did at the end, where you made me–,”

“Yeah?” He grinned wickedly, almost begging you to use your words, but you had been so good for him. He’d save that for later. “You liked that?”

“At the risk of sounding desperate, yes. A thousand times yes. But totally unfair and totally cheating.”

He snickers and leans down to your thighs. “Yeah, okay, Ms. I’m Not Wearing a Bra.”

The smell of you is intoxicating and it’s drenching your thighs, the sheets below you. Maybe he could strip the bed before Maria came – oh, fuck, what if it’s in the mattress?

He hauls those thoughts out of his mind, his dick twitching uncomfortably, as he bends forward and licks the inside of your thigh.

“Oh my God, Dee, you can’t possibly be –,”

“Relax. I’m not. Just wanted to clean you up.”

He licks the drying liquid from your skin – you hiss, so very overstimulated – dragging his tongue up, never breaking eye contact with you as he slinks up your body, shoulders rolling – “Dee, wait, you’re gonna–,” and licks the cum off your chest. His own cum.

“Oh, fuck, that’s nasty,” you murmur, eyes transfixed on his mouth as he swallows. He chuckles, finally deciding you’ve had enough for one night, and he leans forward and presses his lips on your temple.

“I’m not ready, but it sounds like you might be.”

He reaches back to the floor where his shirt was so casually discarded. He gingerly wipes your thighs, your hips, your stomach and chest. There’d be time for a proper wash later, but right now he thinks he’s going to pitch forward into unconsciousness in less than thirty seconds. His limbs are heavy, his eyelids are heavy but he can’t stop smiling.

You grin at him as he tosses the very used shirt back onto the ground and gets up from the bed to disappear into the bathroom. You roll onto your side, after unpeeling the bedsheets like you had done it a thousand times. When he comes back, you rub your face against his pillows and he realizes if he’s going to hoard the sheets, then he’s going to have to do the same to the pillowcase.

“I’m not gonna wake up and find you mouthing that shirt, am I?” You ask, a smirk already cradling your lips. He huffs at you as he hands you a glass of water. You take it, gratefully, only vaguely aware that he probably did that kind of thing all the time with his other conquests.

That thought threatens to sour your good mood so you put the glass back onto the bedside table and curl deeper into the sheets.

He climbs in behind you, and rubs his nose over your shoulder and up into your ear, his hand spread across your hip.

“Only if I wake up in the middle of the night and can’t mouth your tits.”

He’s purposefully being sexy, being teasing, but there’s a question there. A request. A quiet ask that for all his thick dick swinging, doesn’t have the cojones to verbalize.

You smirk at him and roll back slightly to catch his mouth. You thread your fingers through his hair and squeeze once.

“Baby, I couldn’t stand up right if I fucking tried.”

He grins, eyes warm. “Wow. Even if you fucking tried?”

God, this is such a bad idea.

“Even if I fuck-in’ tried.”

But despite all his not-at-all begging, he wakes up alone.

He wakes up in broad daylight – the storm had passed. Too bright light streams in from between the gray curtains, illuminating the one thing he never wanted to see: your side of the bed empty.

His heart clenches so fast he thinks he might be sick. There’s real nausea as he stumbles to his feet and pulls his pants on from last night. He’s about to rush down the stairs, frantically flipping over everything in hopes of finding a note, even if it told him to fuck off.

You’re twenty years older than me, you fucking creep.

Just wait until my dad hears about this.

I never want to see you again.

Just as his mouth dries up till his lips crack, he sees something on the other side of the bed that makes him freeze in his tracks. It’s your phone, plugged into the wall. He goes over and taps the screen. The battery has only 15%.

And then a post-storm breeze rattles the patio door handle and it opens slightly. He sees your barefoot through the cut in the door frame.

Holy fuck, you’re still here, just outside.

Heart now jettisoning into his throat, he opens the door to a truly spectacular morning. His patio looks down to the freshly-washed Los Angeles, the sky a cobalt blue, the air cool and faintly smelling of rain. People run and lead their dogs through the streets and for a minute he thinks he can hear the ocean.

But what makes it truly spectacular is you. Curled up at the small table in one of his white shirts and those sanctimonious shorts. You’ve got a cup of coffee in your hand and you’ve got his favorite book, Eco’s The Name of the Rose, lying flat beneath your fingertips. But you aren’t reading. You’re looking at him.

“Well, hi there. Did you dream you missed a flight?”

He blinks. “What?”

“You just, sort of, rushed out here, looking like you forgot something.” You frown. “Is everything okay?”

He swallows and it’s all he can do to keep from dropping to his knees and pressing his face into your lap.

“Yeah, fine, fine. All good. Fine.”

You turn back to the book, staring at it as if it was giving you a pep talk. Then you shut it and turn back to him.

“So, um, last night . . .”

Here it comes. I regret it, all of it. You drugged me and took advantage of me. I can’t believe that you would–

“Was great.”

He swears he hears his blood rushing in his ears. You smile at him, but clearly uneasy. As if you are the one second-guessing it all.

Fuck, Bravo, put on your big boy pants.

He pulls out the other patio chair and sits down next to you. He clasps his hands, leaning forward on his elbows. His rings clink together. He nods, trying to catch your eyes.

“Yeah. It was fucking fantastic. I mean it. One for the books.”

He waits for you to say but.

You wait for him to say but.

Neither of you do. You grin and put your coffee on the table.

“So, in the events of last night . . . surprisingly, I forgot to charge my phone.”

He doesn’t want to touch you because he thinks it might spook you so he runs his gaze over your lovely knuckles, your wrist.

“Sounds like, then, you might need to stay awhile.”

You swallow, unable to contain the growing smile on your face. You duck your head and he follows you and your breath fans his face.

“Guess so.”

If he tells it, he says he kissed you.

If you tell it, you say you kissed him.

Doesn’t matter though. Doesn’t matter that the coffee grows cold and he ignites something in you that you didn’t know existed.

When he finally pulls away, he’s still smiling.

“This might be a bit weird, but . . . wanna see my other kitchen?”

The End

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