#Hope someone got something from reading this

[rotapathetic]

͏͏͏✧ ྅ ˚ . ᯇ * TWITCH STREAMER!RAFE IS LIVE ㅤ⁝ㅤ opening p.o. mail ۫ : .

❛i get why you hid her i would too❜ : bold text is stream chat! 💬

rafe cut the tape of the box, glancing at the chat. “my p.o. box is linked in discord i think, but mods, could you link it and pin it? thanks.” he looked down when he finally got the box open.

“alright, first one of the day. i’ll name this stream p.o. mail then change it later. there is a lot, and i’m opening them all because i’ve been meaning to get to it, so buckle in i guess.”

user pretty box user is it cool if i just send a letter? i don’t have any items to send right now user open mine next!!

“you don’t even have to send anything, but if you do, it most definitely doesn’t have to be an item. i love letters and i appreciate them, that’s totally fine. . and let me know which box is yours when you see it,” he addressed both chats.

rafe pulled out the first thing inside which was a little packaging. he opened it, pulling out a couple of keychains. some of them had legos attached or a little trinket, or just pretty stones. “woah, this is cool. you know your stuff, you know i like legos. this will make me use keychains more, thank you. is it okay if i give the others to someone? she’ll love them.”

user that’s my box! yes, i made the other ones for her lol

rafe read the chat, raising a brow. “oh, really? that’s so nice. yeah, she’ll go crazy. i’ll set them aside for her.”

rafe clipped one of the chains onto his pants, putting the rest away. he reached back into the box, pulling out a funko pop and a blind box. rafe chuckled when he noticed the difference. “did you make a his and hers box? one thing for me, the other for her?”

user at first i was mainly putting in things for her 😭 then i remembered i should put stuff you like too user that’s such a cute idea user she’ll love that

“that’s insanely kind you thought of her. she’ll really appreciate it.” rafe grabbed the last thing which was a note. he read it aloud, “‘hi, rafe. i just wanted to give you some things in return for giving me a new favorite streamer lol. i watched one vod a month ago and have since watched like all of your streams. you’re pretty funny i guess. there’s stuff for both of you guys in here so hope you like them,’ and then she drew a smiley face,” rafe finished the letter.

“don’t try to humble me about being funny, you know i am. but thanks so much. i keep all of these letters just so you guys know. i don’t throw them out or anything.”

user sweeettt user there he goes trying to be funny again

rafe put the items back inside the box, separating the letter, and put it to the side. “alright, next box. this is from. .” rafe tilted the box to read the name, “a crochet business. oh, that’s cool, my girlfriend crochets,” he opened it, pulling out a note. he read it aloud, “‘big fan of your streams! but i heard your girlfriend likes crochet. . so i made some things for her. hopefully she likes them!,’” rafe read.

“and this is her business,” rafe held up the box where there was a qr code and the name of their shop.

user wait this is all for her awhh

“she will really like this. i’ll let her open it.” rafe stood and walked off camera to roll over another gaming chair and put it next to his.

user wait a minute. . user awh she has her own chair

“pretty girl. .” rafe called out, “could you come here?” rafe looked to the doorway, waiting for you. when you appeared, slightly nervous, rafe held out a hand. “there’s something for you.”

you made your way to him, accepting his hand, then placing both on his shoulders, glancing over them to see what he held. “what is it?”

“sit down, you have to open them.” rafe looked over his shoulder to you. so you did, sitting in the chair he pulled over. the chair he bought when you told him you felt comfortable to be on camera now. the chair he had customized, despite your reluctance.

you sat, putting your hands in your lap, avoiding looking into the camera. that’s probably weird to do.

user dude finally user reveal!!! user wait chat don’t make a big deal or she’ll never come back user i get why you hid her i would too user prettyyy user hi!!

rafe handed you the box, giving all of his attention to you instead of the viewers. he wanted to make sure you felt as comfortable as possible and not like thousands of people were watching you.

“opening my p.o. mail and someone sent you some crochet items. want to see the note?” your eyes widened, taking in the box. “really? yeah, can i see?” you reached for the note, reading it. your shy disposition faltered slightly at seeing something cute, and it was made for you. you slightly pouted as you read, looking up to rafe. “no way. rafe, this is so sweet.”

rafe bit a smile, nodding. “it is. i said you would like it.”

you looked to the monitor that displayed the chat, trying to catch all of the chats, but they were moving pretty quickly.

user what’s your @ ?? user open it!! user i think the owner is in the chat user yeah, she’s freaking out

“um. . to whoever sent this, thank you. i will for sure check you out. i know i’ll love this,” you looked back down to the package, opening it. inside was one balaclava, a plushie, headphone covers, and a keychain.

you were in awe as you pulled out each item, showing them to the camera. “i have to wear this balaclava, it’s so cute. you know my color palette,” you put it on, looking to rafe. “cute, right?”

he couldn’t hold back his smile now, pulling out his phone to take a picture. “i have to capture this. baby’s first stream and mail.”

user i’m sooo happy for you guys love that really user is it okay if i make fan art of you??

rafe read the chat, grabbing another package, this one smaller than the first two. “if you could draw me, that’d be dope, yeah.” rafe opened it, pulling out two small containers.

user not you! sorry, her

rafe was still frowning at the items, unsure what they were as you read the chat for him. “me?” you pointed a finger to your chest. “that would be awesome, yes it’s okay. you don’t have to!”

rafe was still unaware of the chat, scrunching a brow, and tilting the item up. “are these nails? ohhh, they’re nails.” rafe showed the little containers to you. you gasped, grabbing them. “oh my gosh, these are so cute! i love them,” you examined them both, both sets nail sets you would wear. how did someone know you would like these?

rafe looked to the monitor. “do you guys want me to just leave the stream?” he partially joked, mostly serious.

user yes! user i mean we weren’t going to say it

you shook your head, “no, this is your thing. i’m sure there is stuff for you, of course.” you showed the nails to the camera. “guys, look at how adorable. is your business name somewhere?”

you turned the package around, spotting the name. “pretty and pressed, that’s so cute. i really like these, thank you so much. okay, rafe’s turn. no more me.” you even rolled your chair back a little, putting the attention on him.

rafe rose a brow, pulling your chair back by the armrest, closer to him this time. “right. . on to the next. .” he grabbed a bigger box with wording on the top. “e.l.f.? it’s not christmas time?”

your head swiveled to look at the box. “no, it’s not. .” rafe shrugged, showing the box to you. “yeah, e.l.f. you know them?”

user no way!! user hello? 😭 user not the christmas elf rafe!

“rafe, this is a makeup brand. that can’t be right. .” you didn’t want to accept another gift on a stream that isn’t even yours! “they have products men can use, skincare stuff. i’m sure that’s for you.” you tried to rationalize.

rafe opened the lid, grabbing the note that lied on top. he read aloud, “‘we heard there was a mystery girl that your chat has been going crazy over! no pressure, just let her know we have some items we think she’d love! love, the e.l.f. team,’” rafe read.

user oh she’s getting pr!!

“baby, this is for you! that’s so cool. this is cool, right? i still don’t know who they are.” rafe tried handing the box to you. instead, you sat still, staring it. “there’s stuff you can use in there, right?” you asked.

rafe looked into the box, shaking his head. “no, this looks like makeup.” he tried handing it over again.

you stammered. “but rafe. . this is really cool, yes, and i’m grateful, but where’s your mail? why do i have so much?”

rafe smiled at your upset face. “because they thought exactly what i did when i first saw you. wanted to buy you things before i even talked to you.”

[slutty4jk]

KISS ME! | JJK › PART 1

Summary: You and Jungkook have known each other your whole lives. Childhood best friends turned almost something more. He’s charming, popular, and scared of commitment. You’re ambitious, guarded, and tired of being a maybe.

After one kiss changes everything, you realize wanting him isn’t enough if he won’t choose you back. But walking away is easier said than done.

University brings distance, jealousy, and new people. You’re ready to move on. He’s finally starting to realize he can’t. Not when it’s always been you.

pairing: childhoodbestfriend!jungkook x (fem) reader

genre: angst, hurt/comfort, slow burn, childhood friends to lovers, kinda toxic but delicious, mutual pining, fluff & eventual smut

rating: 18+ (mdni!!)

word count: 3.4k 💌

warnings: emotional whiplash, jealousy, possessive behavior, fear of commitment, unresolved tension, mutual obsession, brief mentions of sex, hurt/comfort, pining, lots of yearning

A/N: I finally hit post!!!! AAAAAAAA I’ve always been anxious about sharing anything I create, so I really hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it hehe. This is my first fic (kinda), so please be gentle with me. I’m also lowkey new to Tumblr, so I’m just going off what I’ve seen other fanfic creators do, hopefully I’m doing this right. I don’t have too many solid plans for this story yet, but I truly hope you stick around. Also hope this lives up to the hype the teaser got heheh 🤓 Happy reading! - Ivy ₍^. .^₎Ⳋ

Taglist: @akirawhore @amarawayne @jahnaviii @crazyovayou @niniythv @dollyunjinz @yungies @caaally @aestheticalime @flaneuseonthestreets @goldenko-97 @lachimolalajeon @buckylov3r @labbbaaa @bts123746 @chxiosworld @amarawayne @qu3t @littlecherri @alessiamargaux @lokislittlemouse-library @enchantingeagleengineer @jeoncasino @minnie-mouser22 @tinytangerineangel @yourlittleslutcums @httpjeonlicious @uaremyserene @intro-bts @glossyxiaoting @cdllevantae

please like, reblog, follow & scream into the void for more! (˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶)

KISSME!MOODBOARD | KISSME!PLAYLIST | SERIES MASTERLIST ⭑.ᐟ

(One Year Ago)

You’ve known Jeon Jungkook since the day he was born. Your moms were best friends before either of you even existed, girls who grew up together, fell in love with life side by side, and then raised their kids side by side too. You were born in February, and just like fate, Jungkook followed in September, just six months behind you, and from that moment on, it was the two of you. Always.

You were inseparable. Friends before you even understood what friendship meant. Sleepovers, scraped knees, shared snacks, birthday candles blown out together, all of it.

And then high school happened.

You drifted. Slowly, painfully. The way people sometimes do when the world starts asking more of them.

You went to a top-ranked all-girls private school, the kind with uniforms pressed to perfection, essays that weighed as much as bricks, and girls who competed to see who could have the best grades. Jungkook ended up at the local public school. It was louder, messier, freer. His parents wanted him to have a social circle outside of the snooty prep school one.

You started moving in different circles, living different lives. And somewhere along the way, your daily texts became weekly, then monthly, and then… nothing at all.

So when he invited you to a house party at his friend’s place, you were shocked. And maybe a little bit hopeful. Maybe this meant something. A bridge being rebuilt.

You dressed carefully that night. A pale pink tweed dress with gold buttons, white stockings, and shiny Mary Janes. Definitely overdressed for a house party, but you didn’t care. You wanted to look good. Maybe even wanted him to notice.

He didn’t.

He barely looked at you when you got in his car. Just a casual nod. No compliment. No hug. No "I missed you.” Or just a simple “How’s life?” To catch up.

It stung.

You quickly realized the only reason you were even invited was because his mom insisted he bring someone she trusted in order for him to go, and that someone was you.

As soon as you got there, he ditched you, disappearing in the crowd. You stood awkwardly by the drinks table, sipping a Coke Zero, the cold fizz sharp on your tongue. You didn’t know anyone. Everyone else seemed to know everyone. Loud laughter, inside jokes, bodies swaying to the beat.

You felt overdressed, overlooked, and completely out of place. People stared. Girls whispered. But you held your head high like your mom taught you.

You searched the crowd for Jungkook and when you found him, your heart sank.

He was on the couch, some girl straddling his lap, his hands gripping her waist, her fingers tangled in his hair. Mouths moving like they were starving. Oblivious to everyone else in the room.

Your stomach twisted so hard it felt like it was trying to fold in on itself. A bitter sting crawled up your throat, sharp and sour, like you’d swallowed regret.

Suddenly, the air felt too thick. You weren’t supposed to be here. You should’ve said no. You just wanted to spend time with him.

That’s all.

You pushed the patio door open, letting the cool night air wash over you. Arms wrapped tightly around yourself, fighting off the chill and the burn in your chest. It felt like stepping into a different world, darker, quieter, with the distant thump of bass bleeding from inside. You leaned against the railing, trying to relax a bit.

“Hey,” a voice said behind you, soft but close. You jumped, your spine going stiff as you turned.

“Didn’t mean to scare you,” the guy said, holding his hands up in mock surrender. His lips quirked up, amused. “Though… I’m starting to think you scare easy.”

You startled and turned fast, your pulse kicking up.

“You’re real smooth,” you muttered, narrowing your eyes.

He grinned. “Smooth’s better than sleazy, right?”

“You always approach girls like that?”

“Only the ones standing alone in expensive shoes.”

You glanced down at your Mary Janes.

“And what if I’m just lost?”

“Then I guess I’m lucky.”

You tried not to smile, but failed.

“What’s your name?” He was handsome and looked like the type that would break your heart. Why not let him entertain you for a while?

“Eunwoo,” he said, shifting closer. “And you’re…?”

“Y/N.”

“Pretty name,” he said, leaning one elbow against the railing beside you. “Let me guess. St. Michael’s?”

You blinked. “How’d you know?”

“You’ve got that energy,” he said. “Put together. Fancy. But kind of annoyed to be here.”

You let out a dry laugh. “That obvious?”

“Only to someone who’s also pretending to have fun.”

You smiled. He was disarming, in that effortlessly flirty way that made you want to roll your eyes and lean in closer.

“You don’t seem like the house party type either,” you said.

“Not when half the people here still think fart jokes are peak comedy,” he replied but you could tell he only says that to impress you.

You let out a soft laugh, for real this time. “You’re not wrong.”

He tilted his head at you. “So, what’s your deal? You here with someone?”

You hesitated. “I got ditched the second we got here.”

His expression flickered, just for a second. “Ah. That makes sense.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Why?”

“Because you’re way too pretty to be standing out here alone if you weren’t.” The compliment caught you off guard.

“Do you always flirt like this?” you asked, half teasing.

“Only when I mean it. I can keep you company, if you want.”

You hesitated, then smiled faintly. “I’d like that.” You were done feeling lonely at this dumb party.

You chatted for a while, nothing too deep. Just a little bit of distraction from the ache in your chest as you sipped on your drink.

“So, do you have a boyfriend?” he asked suddenly, eyes searching your face.

You shook your head. “No.” You could have but going to an all girls school made that kind of social circle a bit more difficult.

“Really? That’s hard to believe.”

You laughed softly. “I’m not interested in that sort of thing right now.”

He tilted his head. “Interesting.” He just wanted to know if you were single or not.

You looked up at him. “What about you? Do you have anyone special in your life?”

“Got dumped this morning.” He admits.

You look surprised as he says that, you would have never guessed with the way he was talking to you right now.

“Oh. Sorry.” Your tone is a bit regretful. You hadn’t expected him to respond with… that.

He shrugged. “We didn’t click. Guess I was meant to be alone.”

You echoed his earlier words. “I can keep you company, if you want.”

He grinned. “Yeah?”

You nodded. “Yeah.”

“And how would you do that?”

You didn’t know what came over you, but you said it anyway.

“What if I said you could kiss me?”

He blinked, then smirked. “I'd ask if you were serious.”

“Does it look like I’m joking?” You lean in.

He leaned in, slow, deliberate. “You’re trouble,” he murmured.

You tilted your chin up. “Do you like trouble?”

“Depends on the kind.” he murmurs and then he kissed you.

He kissed you. Gentle at first, then hungrier. You kissed him back, maybe out of loneliness, maybe out of spite. You weren’t sure. But for a brief moment, it felt nice to be wanted.

You didn’t notice the group of boys by the pool bar watching.

Didn’t see the money exchanging hands.

Didn’t see Jungkook stepping out on the patio.

Jungkook stepped outside just in time to see it. The way your hands clung to Eunwoo’s collar, how his fingers were brushing the hem of your dress lowering to your ass like he had every right to. The kiss was already too far gone. His pace slowed down, eyes narrowing.

A group of his friends stood nearby, some grinning, some groaning, throwing bills into a baseball cap at the poolside bar. His gaze flicked to the hat full of crumpled bills.

“What’s going on?” Jungkook asked, his voice low, guarded.

Mingi didn’t even look up. “We bet Eunwoo he wouldn’t be able to kiss the rich girl in under an hour.” They were watching as if to see what would happen next, ready to add more money into the hat.

“He did it in 45 minutes, he a real sweet talker,” Mingyu added with a chuckle, popping a chip in his mouth like it was just another Friday night. "I wonder if she'll sleep with him.." he thinks out loud.

Jungkook’s nostrils flared.

They made a bet for a kiss and now he might take you to bed?

His eyes flicked back to the hat stuffed with cash, to the smug look on Eunwoo’s face, to your soft smile, the one you used to give him when you were kids.

It reminded him of summers in your neighbourhood, you in your silly sandals and ribboned braids, waiting for him on the porch with two popsicles, always saving one for him.

That smile used to be his.

He remembered it like a favourite song, sweet, familiar. But now? Now you were smiling like that at someone else. And it burned.

You weren’t the girl on the porch anymore; you were all grown up, and now someone completely new got to see that side of you. Someone else got to make you laugh like that. And it made his chest tighten in a way he hated.

He felt something shift in his chest, like his heart had just dropped straight into his stomach. Was it jealousy? Was it disgust? At them or at himself? For leaving you alone? For bringing you here in the first place?

He couldn’t even name what it was, but it felt wrong.

He was moving before he even realized it.

He stormed across the patio, clearing his throat loud enough to slice through the moment.

You broke the kiss first, startled. Eunwoo smirked, the kind of lazy, satisfied grin that made your skin crawl. He knew exactly what he’d done. He had gotten under Jungkook’s skin. He had won the bet, he kissed the girl.

“Y/N,” Jungkook snaps, his voice sharp enough to cut through the noise. He’s standing stiffly just a few feet away, strong arms crossed over his chest. "Let's go."

You blink at him, lips still parted, confused by his sudden intrusion. “What? I was just starting to have fun.” You grumble like a child.

His jaw tightens. “Kissing strangers is fun?” There’s something biting in his tone. Not just judgment, jealousy, too. Thinly veiled and barely contained.

You scoff, heat rising to your cheeks. “You do it.” You just saw him. That girl on his lap, his hands all over her. You didn’t know if they had history or if they were dating but he never mentioned her to you, he never even brought up having a crush.

He’s one to talk.

His eyes flash. “No, I don’t.” It’s not a lie, not exactly. But the way he says it, quiet and defensive, you know he means something else.

“Remind me. Was that your girlfriend or just your entertainment for the night?” Your voice is cold, sharp as glass. You're not just asking. You're accusing.

He knows exactly who and what you're talking about. You saw him back there. Hands all over her like you weren’t even there.

His jaw ticks, but he doesn’t deny it. Doesn’t even look surprised. “Trust me,” he mutters, voice tight. “I know her.”

You laughed bitterly. “Yeah. That makes it better.”

He looked like he wanted to argue, but nothing came out.

“Can you just leave me alone?” you muttered, voice tight as you brought your arms up around Eunwoo’s neck. Maybe out of spite, maybe out of pain.

If Jungkook could ditch you for some random girl, then why shouldn’t you do the same thing to him?

“No.” Jungkook grabbed your shoulder, firm, pulling you back to face him again.

Eunwoo chimed in lazily, “She’s fine with me, man.” His hands slid to your lower back, hands lowering a little too low for Jungkook's liking.

That did it.

Jungkook’s jaw clenched, and his eyes darkened as he stepped forward, closing the space between them. “Get your fucking hands off her,” he growled.

One arm moved around you, yanking you out of Eunwoo’s grasp and behind him like you were something to protect and to claim.

Eunwoo smirked. He liked this. Getting under Jungkook’s skin like it was part of the game. As if he knew Jungkook had the hots for you.

But wasn’t it already obvious?

“Stop,” you snapped, louder this time, your voice cutting between them. “Both of you.” You didn’t want to cause a scene. Especially since you already stood out in this crowd.

Jungkook turned to you, jaw tight. “Y/N. Go to the car.”

It wasn't a suggestion, it was a command. He was pissed.

You didn’t argue this time. You were tired. You wanted to leave anyway. You turned, heading out to the driveway without sparing a glance at either of them. You probably wouldn’t see Eunwoo ever again, so you didn’t even bother saying goodbye or give him a chance to ask you for your number.

Once you were out of earshot, Jungkook took one threatening step closer to Eunwoo, voice low and sharp. “If I ever catch you making bets about her again, I’ll break both your fucking legs. Got it?”

Eunwoo rolled his eyes and lifted his hands like he was innocent. But the message was clear.

He didn’t move. His fists stayed clenched, like holding on could stop everything else from slipping. He was angry. At Eunwoo. At you. Maybe at himself.

But beneath it all, shame was twisting in his gut.

And something else he didn’t want to name.

Something that felt a lot like heartbreak.

Jungkook found you outside, standing by his car with your arms wrapped around yourself, the cool night air brushing against your legs.

That dress, as pretty as it was, wasn’t built for cold air, or this party.

But you already knew that.

And now someone else had touched you. Kissed you.

His stomach turned.

What the hell were you thinking? Letting some stranger put his hands on you like that? Letting him taste you like it meant nothing?

You weren’t like that. At least… you never used to be.

You weren’t just some girl. You were his best friend. Or… you had been.

So why did it feel like he was already losing something he never even got the chance to have?

You didn’t look at him when he approached.

“What was that about?” he asked, irritation bubbling just beneath the surface.

You shrugged, eyes fixed on the pavement. “What?”

“Kissing that guy?”

“I don’t know,” you muttered, voice quiet. “Maybe I just wanted to have fun.” Your tone was sarcastic.

He let out a sharp breath, stepping in closer. “Eunwoo’s not a good guy. He cheated on his last girlfriend like six times.”

“How was I supposed to know that?” You grumble, hugging yourself from the cold.

Jungkook scoffed. “Well, he’s not. They were making a bet to see if Eunwoo could kiss you and probably take you to bed right after! Are you that easy, Y/N?”

His voice was laced with anger, sharp and bitter, the words cutting before he could stop them.

You scoffed, shaking your head. “Wow. So now I’m easy? Is that what you think of me? Just some spoiled girl who jumps at the first guy who calls her pretty?”

He clenched his jaw. “Well, it seems like it, doesn’t it?”

You took a step back, your voice rising. “What’s your problem? Why are you getting so mad that I kissed some guy? I don’t care if it was a bet, I was having fun. I wasn’t even supposed to be here, was I? Your mom needed me to keep an eye on you, huh?”

His eyes widened slightly.

You hit a nerve. You read him like an open book.

You turned away, angry, pulling at the handle of the locked car door.

He exhaled, voice lower now. “You weren’t supposed to come… but I brought you anyway, didn’t I? You were supposed to hang around me. Not those other guys, you don’t know what their intentions are.” He scolds you.

That made you snap your head toward him. “With you?” you repeated. “You invited me, then ditched me the second we walked in. I didn’t know anyone. You knew that!” You exclaim angrily.

“I didn’t think—”

“Exactly,” you cut him off. “You didn’t think.”

You blinked at him, heat rushing up your throat. “I looked for you. And I found you with some girl practically dry-humping you in the middle of the living room.”

He dropped his gaze, jaw clenched.

You shook your head, laugh bitter. “I felt so stupid. I thought maybe you invited me because you wanted to see me. Like maybe we’d talk. Catch up. I dressed up and everything—”

He interrupted you. “I noticed.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“I did, Y/N.” His voice was quiet, but the weight behind it made your breath catch. “You look beautiful.”

Your arms dropped from around yourself. “Then why didn’t you say anything?” you huff, your voice vulnerable.

It wasn't about the compliment. It was about him acknowledging you, him making a stupid comment about how you were overdressed just like he would before.

Jungkook looked at you then, really looked. And there it was.

That flicker in his eyes. That quiet ache.

The one that said everything he didn’t know how to say.

You shook your head, voice softer now. “I felt like you didn’t even want me there. Like you were embarrassed to be around me.”

He stepped in. “That’s not true.”

“Then what is?” you say, staring at him, waiting for him to say something, anything. He didn’t answer, though. Instead, his hand reached for your arm, just lightly, just enough to ground you both.

You let out a breath. “We used to be best friends.”

Jungkook scoffed, shaking his head. “We’re not little kids anymore, Y/N. That whole best friends thing? It doesn’t work like that.”

Your jaw tightened. “No, it does… you just stopped knowing how to be one.” Your words hung in the air, sharp and defensive.

“You’re the prettiest girl here,” he added, softer now, like that would change the ache between you. Even he wasn’t sure who he was trying to convince. He said it suddenly, quietly… like it slipped out before he could stop it. Like he was only just realizing it himself.

You scoffed, stepping back. Your voice rose, raw. “Pretty? Please. Is this a bet too? You invite me out here, ditch me, get pissed when someone else kisses me like it matters, and now you call me pretty like that makes it okay?”

He flinched. Your words hit harder than you knew, because he’d already asked himself those same questions. What the hell was he doing? Why was he so mad when he was the one who messed up first?

Your voice cracked, and your hands shoved at his chest. “Tell me, Jungkook. Are you doing this just to see if I’m really that easy? Or do you mean it? Do you really care about me?”

You hit his chest again. Once. Twice. You hit him again, and he didn't stop you, not until the ache in his chest became unbearable. Then, gently, he caught your wrists. His touch wasn’t rough. It was careful but cautious.

He swallowed, his jaw tight. His heart was pounding so hard it hurt. And then, when your eyes finally met his… it hit him all at once.

The fear. The guilt. The jealousy. The truth.

He was afraid of this… of you, of what this could mean, but more than anything, he was afraid he’d already lost you.

His gaze dropped, unable to hold yours.

His voice, when it came, was barely a whisper.

“I mean it.”

It wasn’t slick or charming or sure of itself. It was broken open and vulnerable, scraped raw and trembling with something too big to name.

You froze.

Something in you shifted.

He lifted his eyes again, slowly, and for the first time in a long time, you saw the boy who had always been your best friend. The boy who still cared, the look on his face stole the breath from your lungs.

Regret. Longing. Fear. Hope.

All tangled in one unbearable glance.

And then, like everything in the world had been building to this, he kissed you. Not like a mistake. Not like a dare. Like a promise he was too scared to speak out loud.

And you kissed him back because despite everything, part of you had been waiting for this your whole life. It was sudden and deep, full of everything neither of you had the guts to say.

His hands cradled your jaw, warm and trembling slightly, like he was afraid you'd vanish if he let go. His lips tasted faintly like spearmint gum and bad decisions, and your knees nearly buckled.

When you pulled away, lips tingling, you whispered, “I thought I wasn’t supposed to kiss random boys.” You teased.

Jungkook leaned in again, his forehead pressed to yours. “You know damn well I’m not a random boy.”

The second kiss was messier. Needy, deep, slow, desperate. Familiar in a way that made your chest ache.

One moment you were in the driveway, the next, in the backseat of his car. Your heart was racing. His touch was careful but confident, his fingers memorizing every line of you like a secret only he got to know.

And even though it scared you, how fast it was happening, how much it meant, it didn’t feel wrong.

It felt like the beginning of something you didn’t quite understand yet. But it was yours. His, too.

That night, in the backseat of his car, under the streetlight glow and distant hum of a party you didn’t belong to, you gave yourself to him for the first time. The windows fogged. The car rocked gently. And for a while, nothing else mattered except the quiet gasps, the whispered names, the fingers grasping for something real.

And for a moment, just one, it felt like maybe he belonged to you too.

Or at least… you hoped he did.

[yan-randomfandom]

Yandere!Huntrix Imagines

[separate] 2nd POV, but feel free to interpret however!

🪻— Rumi

"Don't leave. Don't leave!"

Rumi is pathetically, incredibly dependent. Just subtle. Like the rest of her shame, she buries her feelings, with the raw hope they never rise to the surface. She doesn't exactly have a good support system (Celine). Rumi has to resort to believing the problem will go away if she keeps singing.

But, I guess... if someone did know about her patterns before the reveal, then everything is much more noticeable. She comes to you to breathe. To let go of fear, to let go of her burdens... maybe she's become too attached.

Because you know. You understand. You don't judge, you don't stare—you smile and send reassurance her way. Accepting her for who she is. Rumi feels safe and loved.

Even your touches against her patterned skin don't feel forced nor appeasing. She melts in the gentle contact, closing her eyes, relishing in how genuine your affection is.

However, you distract her too.

She can't sleep. You're not with her. Why aren't you with her? The only one who knows about her predicament—gone from her sight. Demons can reach you without her knowing. She can't protect you if she can't see you.

So, Rumi worries. Worries and worries and worries. She has to text you every moment of the day, especially night, expecting a reply back from you within 10 minutes max.

If you don't reply, she'll genuinely lose it and invite you to her home (permanently). To protect you, of course.

She'd never forgive herself if another demon got to your soul. That's hers.

🌻 — Zoey

"You're too much, and not enough."

Zoey has an unhealthy need to please everyone, even if it costs her herself. The majority of her life, she never felt like she belonged. She has to calculate every decision—choose the right one that will make everyone happy.

Well, maybe the 'everyone' doesn't include her, she thinks constantly. Think about the others first. This is where her darling comes in.

You keep asking what she wants. What she needs. What she wishes. She watches you, patient and understanding, not having violent reactions in her reluctant choices. Suddenly, her affection goes deeper from the surface level, and into your very soul.

But, uh, maybe what you're trying to go for goes the opposite way.

Zoey's too eager. She wants to please you so bad, like you did for her. A favor for a favor, maybe?

She'd casually ask you what you like. Casually ask your preferences — for example, if your love language is quality time, bet. She'll drop everything and spend more time with you. Even if it costs inconvenience, because you matter most, she violently needs to make you happy.

In most cases, she seems perfectly normal. But only because it's what you need at the moment. She's fitting in easily with your wants and needs, her desperation swept fully under the rug.

Zoey simply has to make sure you never want to leave.

🌷 — Mira

"I don't get to have a family."

Mira's the type to overthink, but also technically not? Overly blunt, short fused, highly aggressive... her words, not mine. All she wanted was to be free, to be herself. She had to leave her own family and find her own path—which led her to you.

Maybe you complement her personality well. Or even the opposite, she sees too much of herself in you. Either way, you can't hide anything from her; she can read you from a mile away. Perhaps that's what got her so intrigued by you.

She has self-awareness. Maybe a little too much, in fact—why does she feel so aggravated when you're talking to another person? Is she jealous or something? This has to be one of the pettiest reason ever to get worked up over.

Perhaps thinking about it too much is a bad idea. Now she's stuck, obsessively in her mind, on this version of you.

Is it a version she made up of you, though? You look at her like she's flawless, you smile at her like she's the most important thing in the world, and you understand her like no one has ever dared before.

She hasn't gotten this much attention from people with her own blood. The affection is so nice, so addicting, so validating—it feels too good to be true.

It shouldn't hurt to indulge a little more, right?

— in Bobby's words, I LOVE MY GIRLS !!! 🗣️🗣️‼️‼️

[myfictionaldreams]

⁀➷ Sticky Fingers // Poly!Marauders x F!Reader

Summary: Sirius had his little stash of enchanted sweets that he always claimed were "too strong for you." But you want to feel what he feels, to have fun like they do when they're soft and floaty and grinning. So when you’re left alone and curious, you make a mistake, eating an entire magical aphrodisiac meant to be split between four. What follows is hours of heat, begging, and unbearable need.

Requested by: Anon -- listen, I appreciate & loved this request so much omg, thank you so much! I hope it's not too much for you <3

A/N: PSA; LMAO this is filthy as hell.

Tags: 18+ readers only, smut, Dom!Remus, Mean Switch!Sirius, Soft Switch!James, Innocent!Reader, dom/sub, drug use (smoking weed/edibles), aphrodisiac, sex pollen effects, extreme body reaction, size kink/difference, begging, crying, rough sex, praise kink, degradation, fingering, belly bulge, squirting, cockwarming, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, subspace, aftercare, slight angst

Words: 6.7k

my masterlist 📚 AO3 Link

The Gryffindor common room was warm with an orange hue from the fire, and faint laughter crackling beneath the noise of pages turning. 

You sat curled in the crook of James’s lap, your cheek against his chest as he read aloud from one of your shared textbooks, his voice steady and comforting, even though you weren’t listening anymore.

Sirius was pacing nearby, fidgety and barefoot, hair mussed from where he kept tugging on it. His shirt was barely buttoned, and he had that smug look that always meant he was up to something.

Remus, curled sideways in an armchair, long legs hanging over the armrest, watched Sirius with the patience of a saint and the suspicion of someone who knew him far too well. 

“So when exactly were you going to tell us?” Remus asked, lazily turning a page in his worn copy of The Hobbit.

Sirius grinned and flopped dramatically into the chair opposite. “Shipment came in this morning. You should’ve seen the owl. Grumpy bastard nearly bit me.

Remus’s brows lifted. “And what exactly did this grumpy owl bring you, hmm?”

James snorted against your temple. “Something that’s going to get us all banned from the tower if McGonagall catches wind of it.”

Sirius wiggled his eyebrows and leaned over to tap the side of his nose. “Let’s just say, the good stuff. Two rolls and three little boxes, plus the new batch of glitter ones. Stronger than last time.”

You blinked, sitting up slightly from James’s chest. “Glitter ones?”

All three of them paused, the kind of pause that made it very obvious they’d forgotten you were in the room.

Sirius immediately flashed you a charming, toothy grin. “Nothing for you to worry your pretty little head about, darling.”

James kissed the side of your head, smoothing a hand down your back. “Just stuff we use to unwind. Not really your thing, love.”

Remus, of course, watched you closest. His green eyes flicked over your expression, studying the soft knit of your brows, the way your lips parted just slightly. 

“You’re curious,” he said simply.

You ducked your head back into James’ chest, cheeks going warm. “A little.”

Sirius barked a laugh, and James squeezed you gently. “Our little pup wants to go to the moon with us, eh?”

Remus didn’t laugh. His voice lowered just enough to draw your eyes to him. “Curious is one thing. Ready is another.”

~~~~~

The Astronomy Tower always felt like their place. Above the school, above the rules – high enough that it felt like the stars were listening. Sirius had a blanket spread on the stone floor and his cloak wrapped around his shoulders, loose like a shawl. He passed the joint to James with practised ease, laughing around a story you weren’t following.

James sat beside you this time, his hand playing absently with yours. You were snuggled between him and Remus, your head tucked on Remus’s shoulder, both of them warm in the cool night air.

Sirius exhaled smoke toward the stars. “Felt like the first time I saw Reg got absolutely slaughtered on firewhisky. Poor bastard tried to flirt with a mirror.”

James howled with laughter, and even Remus let out a soft chuckle as you rocked with the movement.

You watched them quietly, now hugging your knees to your chest, oversized jumper keeping you warm. They all looked so comfortable, maybe the thing they were smoking smelled funny, but you wanted to feel it too. Feel as relaxed and laugh as hard as they did.

Sirius caught you watching and winked. “Want some, darling?”

You hesitated. “I… maybe? I want to feel what you’re all feeling.”

Remus shifted beside you, his hand heavy against your shoulder, pulling your body until you’re flush against his chest, relaxing into his arms. “It’s not just the joint, love.”

You look up at him over your shoulder, “I thought what you were smoking was making you all feel funny?”

Sirius held up the joint between his fingers. “This, yeah. But I also took a little gummy about an hour ago.” He grinned, proud of himself. “The kind that makes everything feel like clouds and lava all at once.”

James added helpfully, “We took them together before dinner. Mine just kicked in.”

You blinked. “So you’re not just high. You're extra high?”

“Basically.” Sirius passed the joint to James, who took another slow drag, tilting his head toward the sky as he exhaled. “Which is why, love, you might want to wait. This stuff’s not for baby puppies.”

“I’m not a baby,” you mutter, leaning further into Remus with your arms crossed.

Remus’s gaze was sharp, though his touch around your waist was gentle. “No. But you’re ours. And we don’t want you to rush into something you don’t understand.”

James flicked ashes into a little enchanted jar. “We should show her the stash. So that she knows what’s what.”

“Not up here,” Remus said immediately. “Late, maybe. With all of us.”

James leans over, nuzzling your cheek and whispering, “We’ll take care of you, yeah? Always.”

You melt into his touch, giggling to yourself as he kisses all over your face.

Back in the dorm later, the boys let you sit on the edge of their bed as Sirius knelt beside the bottom drawer of his trunk, unlocking it with a quiet flick of magic.

Inside was a velvet-lined box. Several, actually.

Your eyes went wide.

“This,” Sirius began, holding up a shimmery purple chocolate, “is one of the glitter ones. Warmth, light body float, extra giggly.”

He picked up a deep blue one. “This? Time goes weird. Don’t recommend unless you’ve got nothing to do for twelve hours.”

The third is glittery pink, pretty. “This is one I had earlier. Not too strong, just makes you feel happy and relaxed.”

Another, red and shaped like a heart. “This one’s a little special. I was saving it. Makes you, well, hot. All over. Can’t think straight. Touch feels like lightning. Fun for group nights.”

You’re left with more questions than answers. “Hot?”

Remus’s hand slid gently over your lower back. “Aroused, sweetheart.”

“Oh,” you breathed, eyes wide.

Sirius grinned wolfishly and snapped the box shut. “But not for you. Not yet.”

James chuckled, pulling you into his lap. “Not until our good girl is ready. And when you are…” He brushed his lips to your ear, biting on the lobe. “We’ll take care of every inch of you.”

Remus leaned down and kissed your forehead like a promise. “No rushing. No pressure.”

Sirius blew out a breath and flopped backwards onto the bed. “Can’t believe we’re this responsible now. Look at us.”

“Shocking,” Remus deadpanned.

You giggled and curled closer to James, your head on his chest as he rubbed your back.

And as you eventually drifted off in the tangle of arms and warmth, the drawer with the stash stayed in the corner of your mind. Tucked away. Waiting.

~~~~~

The sun was lazy and warm, stretching gracefully across the Hogwarts lawn. It was a rare afternoon, no rain, no wind, no assignments due, just grass, light and the soft hum of spring. 

You were curled sideways in Sirius’s lap on a blanket they’d laid out beneath a tree, his arms draped lazily around your waist, his chin hooked over your shoulder. He smelled like cedarwood, smoke and the last of his cologne, and he was warm–too warm, probably, with how the sun bathed the back of his black humper. Not that he cared. Sirius loved the drama of melting for you.

Remus was stretched out nearby, one knee bent, flipping lazily through Advanced Potion Brewing, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up past his forearms so a couple of his scars were visible. James sat beside him, close enough that their legs brushed, his fingers plucking bits of grass and twirling them around. His hair was wild from Quidditch practice, cheeks still flushed pink from exertion.

Sirius blew on your neck. “You’re squirmy today, darling.”

“I’m not,” you mumbled, shifting again to get comfortable. “You’re warm.”

“You love my warmth.”

“I love your mouth shut,” Remus mused without looking up from his book.

“Rude,” Sirius chuckled against your ear. “You hear that? Verbal abuse. In front of a lady.”

James snorted. “You deserve worse, Padfoot.”

“You usually give me worse,” Sirius purred.

That earned a flicker of reaction. Remus’s eyes slid sideways, just enough to pin James in place.

“You do?” you asked softly, turning your head toward James. James’s ears turn pink.

“I mean, sometimes,” he said, tossing the grass away and sitting back. “When Moony lets me.”

Remus’s lips quirked. “When you earn it.”

You felt Sirius’s arms tighten around your waist slightly as he watched them, interest spiking like a cat watching prey. “Here we go,” he whispers into your shoulder.

Remus sat up slowly, his gaze still trained on James. “You’re getting twitchy again, love.”

“I’m fine,” James said a little too quickly, his hands now picking at the hem of his shirt.

“Mm,” Remus reached out, caught Jame’s chin gently between his long fingers, and turned his face to look up at him. “That mouth’s getting cheeky. You sure you don’t need help with that?”

James opened his mouth to sass, but Remus kissed him before he could get the words out. Firm, slow, all knowing. James melted instantly. His hands dropped, and you could see the tension leave his body in waves as Remus deepened the kiss.

Sirius chuckled lightly to himself, clearly delighted. “Gods, I love when he goes soft like that.”

You were watching, wide-eyed, as James whimpered against Remus’s mouth, just once, and Remus took that as an invitation to push him gently backwards until James was leaning on his elbows, staring up like he couldn’t remember what the sky looked like.

“Is he…” You trailed off.

“Melting?” Sirius answered. “Yeah. Happens every time.”

Remus finally pulled back, licking his bottom lip like he was tasting victory. James was flushed, breathless, and slightly stunned.

“You already, pretty boy?” Remus asked softly.

James blinked. “Yeah.”

Sirius grinned, nuzzling your cheek. “I adore watching them. Don’t you?”

You nodded slowly, heat pooling in your belly. The air felt warmer. Everything felt more.

You shifted in Sirius’ hold, curling in closer, and said before you could chicken out. “So if I wanted to try the glitter one, I’d just take a quarter, right?”

Everything stilled. Sirius barked a laugh and leaned his head back, grinning toward the sky. “Merlin, that’s adorable.”

Remus turned his head slowly, one brow lifting. “A quarter?”

“That’s what you said, Sirius–”

“I said a quarter of the purple one if you’re new, not the glitter,” he corrected, smirking. “The glitter one will have you think you’re a mermaid and trying to swim in the sink. It’s euphoric and bright and made, absolutely not starter level.”

James sat up again, still slightly flushed in the cheeks. “Isn’t the glitter one that makes everything smell like strawberries?” 

“No,” Sirius said dramatically. “That’s the fizzy. Gods, none of you ever listen to me.”

Remus was now just watching you, head tilted slightly. “Do you even remember what the shimmer one does, love?”

You take a moment to think, “Hands glow?”

“Nope,” Sirius said gleefully, enjoying this moment far too much.

Remus gave you a look that was all affection, all fondness, but with just enough edge to remind you who was in charge. “Not quite ready yet, pup.”

You pouted, turning slightly to tuck your face into Sirius’s neck. “I’m trying.”

“I know,” Remus said gently. “And I love that you’re curious. Bu we’ll wait.”

James scooted forward and kissed your knee. “You’ll get there, sweetheart. And when you do…”

Sirius whispered against your ear, “We’ll make it a very good night.”

You squirmed, suddenly shy again. Sirius gave a lot to him and looked back toward James and Remus, watching the lingering way Remus’s hand rested on James’s thigh now. “Well. Somebody’s getting marked tonight.

James groaned and chucked a flower at him. Remus looked entirely unbothered. 

Then the bell rang, echoing faintly through the grounds.

James sighed. “Quidditch. Come on, Padfoot. Let the poor girl go.”

Remus stood and stretched. “Prefect rounds.”

Sirius helped you to your feet and kissed your cheek. “Be good.” He winked. “Or don’t. We’ll find out later.”

James kissed you twice, once on the cheek, once on your lips, and whispered, “Our girl.”

Remus’s hand trailed briefly along your lower back as he passed. “We love you. No exploring the drawers while we’re gone.” 

Your cheeks burned. “I won’t!”

They walked away with teasing murmurs and shoulder bumps, Sirius turning around to blow you a kiss before Remus shoved him forward. 

You sat back down in the grass with the scent of them still lingering in the breeze, heart whole, belly warm.

An hour passed before you stood from the lawn and decided to head back to the shared dorm room. It was always eerily quiet without any of them in there.

Sirius had left a mess of clothes scattered across the floor, his leather jacket draped over Remus’s desk chair, and James’s broom sat resting against the foot of his bed. The scent still lingered on the pillows, and it was comforting, but not enough.

You were curled in the centre of their oversized bed, arms hugging your legs, chin tucked between your knees. Why was it always so boring when they weren’t around?

You did try just to relax, listening to Remus’s records or reading some of your books, but the drawer kept catching your eye.

Maybe you weren’t ready. But you were tired of feeling left out and being treated like a baby. They all got to float and laugh and kiss and touch each other like nothing in the world could ever go wrong. And you watched that.

You watched to show them you could handle it, that you weren’t just the sweet, sheltered pup. You could be bold. You could belong.

You sat on the edge of the bed, chewing your lip, staring at the drawer like it might open itself.

And then you stood, the drawer wasn’t locked. You opened it slowly, tentatively. Inside the velvet boxes, little tins, colour-coded chocolates and candies lay. You tried to remember which one was which. 

“Purple. Quarter. Starter one.”

You squirted. Was the purple one the shimmer? Or the calm one? Your eyes landed on a deep red heart-shaped sweet in a velvet box. Small. Pretty. Safe-looking, not remembering the specifics of the effects that Sirius had explained.

You plucked it out of the pouch and turned it over in your hand. You bit off a corner—just a nibble. Then, after a second, another, until the sweet was consumed completely.

It tasted like a blend of rose and strawberry, with a slight hint of spiciness. Your heart pounded, and you waited. And nothing happened.

No floating, no laughing or waves of bliss. Your shoulders sank. “Seriously?”

You gave it a few more minutes, paced a little, even sat cross-legged on the bed, waiting for anything. But there was no difference. Your tongue still worked. Your mind was clear. Nothing was spinning—no sherbet flavours or dreamy sighs.

Disappointed, you changed into your uniform and headed down to dinner.

The Great Hall was busy, buzzing with students. The candlelight above seemed a little brighter tonight, but you figured it was just your eyes adjusting.

You found them halfway up the Gryffindor table. Sirius immediately scooted over nd patted the bench beside him. “There’s my girl.”

James beamed from the other side of the table. “You look sweet enough to eat.”

Remus gave you a look. A very Remus look. Like he was scanning you for signs of trouble, and your heart did a nervous flutter.

But then he smiled and tugged you gently to sit between him and Sirius. “Missed you.”

“I missed you too,” you said quickly, averting your eyes, always embarrassed when all their eyes are on you.

Sirius leaned over and kissed your temple tenderly, and your breath caught. For just a moment, your skin tingled.

Weird.

You tried to shake it off. It was probably just your imagination or nerves.

Reaching for your goblet, your hands were just the tiniest bit shaky.

“Eat something,” James encouraged. “You’ve gone all flushed.”

“She always does when she has Remus’ full attention on her,” Sirius says proudly, planting another kiss on your skin. “Don’t worry, pup, I do too.” 

You smiled, biting back a laugh, and then you felt it.

 A low throb in your belly.

You shifted on the bench. Remus was buttering a roll. His hand brushed your knee under the table—just casual, absent-minded affection.

You nearly jolted. Your thighs clenched painfully close. Heat licked up your spine.

You took a shaky breath, eyes flicking to the doorway, the ceiling, anywhere but them.

Sirius reached across you to steal a bite from James’s plate, his arm brushing your chest. “Oi, Prongs, don’t hot the potatoes, love.”

James rolled his eyes and leaned across the table closer to you, reaching over the centre to grip your hand. It was meant just to be a soft show of affection. That’s when you felt it for real.

The ache. Low. Deep. Hot.

Your underwear was damp. Then soaked. Like a tap had opened up between your thighs but it was from your cunt. You froze. Your thighs were wet.

Your stomach cramped sharply, curling inward like a clenched fist. “Oh god,” you whispered, not being able to stop yourself.

Remus looked at you sharply. “What’s wrong?”

You forced a smile, unable to meet his eye, picking up your fork. “N-Nothing. Just a stitch.”

Sirius leaned in closer. “You alright, darling?”

Your eyes burned. Panic bloomed in your chest. You could feel it pooling beneath you, heat, slick, an unbearable pressure in your lower belly as if you needed something and didn’t know what.

You whimpered without meaning to.

Remus’s eyes narrowed, concerned. “Love…”

James’s hand is across the table again, holding onto your wrist, his thumb stroking your skin in soothing strokes. “Wha’ts hurting?”

His touch was making the sensation worse. “ I-I just need–” you couldn’t finish. 

You stood up abruptly. Too fast.

Sirius tried to reach for you, but you were already sliding out of the bench on unsteady legs. “Bathroom,” you choked out. “Be right back.”

And you ran. You bolted from the Great Hall, barely aware of your feet hitting the stone, of the voices calling after you.

Your hands trembled as you pushed open the nearest door and locked it behind you, sagging against it with a sob. 

Your underwear was soaked. Your thighs were dripping. Your clit was a hard nub, filled with blood and throbbing. The cramps were worse, like your body was begging, screaming, clenching for something, but nothing could fix it.

You were shaking so violently that your teeth were chattering together. You slid to the floor, pressing your palm against your belly, trying not to cry.

You were so stupid. You’d wanted to prove something. To feel like them. To be strong, like Sirius. Cool, like James. In control, like Remus. 

But now your body was on fire. And your mind was foggy. And you were so wet that it was running down your legs. And you didn’t even know how to make it stop. 

They were going to be so angry. Or worse, they’d be disappointed. You buried your face in your hands.

Outside, the sounds of the castle continued: laughter, footsteps, the clinking of cutlery. But in here? You were falling apart.

~~~~~

The dorm door slammed behind you as you stumbled inside, your fingers trembling before you collapsed onto the edge of the magically sized bed, big enough for all four of you.

As you curled into a ball, all you could feel was how soaked the sheets became the second you sat down. You were panting. Seating. Your skin was boiling. Every inch of you is too tight, too sensitive. Your thighs were slick with arousal, and your panties were drenched; the cramping in your belly was sharp, needy and awful all at once. 

You whimpered and clutched at your stomach. “Please…”

You didn’t know who you were begging. Everything hurt. You needed something, anything, to make the pain go away; you just didn’t know what to do.

You’d been stupid. So stupid.

The door suddenly bangs again—voices and rushed steps.

You barely lifted your head before they were flooding in.

“Pup?” All three of your boyfriends stopped dead.

You were curled up on the bed, trembling, your skirt bunched around your hips, one leg pulled up, and your panties, if they could still be called that, were completely soaked, translucent, sticking to your thighs.

The scent of your arousal hit the air like a spell. Sirius was the first to move, instinct sharp and immediate. “Fuck. Fuck, darling–” he was at your side in seconds, on his knees in front of the bed, hands hovering but not touching. “What happened?”

You sobbed, grabbing at his shirt, nails digging into the fabric. “I don’t know. I don’t know what’s happening– it hurts, I can’t– I’m so– I’m so wet–”

Remus moved slowly, deliberately, coming up behind you as Sirius cradled your face. James hovered near the door, stunned, lips parted.

Then Remus’s eyes flicked to the drawer. It was open. Wide open. And a red velvet box was missing.

Realisation hit him like lightning. “No. Tell me you didn’t–”

“I just– I wanted– to feel like you– to be strong–” your voice cracked, high and frantic. “I only took the one. I thought it was the nice one–”

Sirius's breath hitched. “What colour, love?”

“Red,” you whispered.

James finally moved, crossed the room and dropped to his knees at your other side. “Oh, love–no.”

“That was the aphrodisiac”, Remus said tightly, jaw clenching. “The strongest one.”

Sirius cupped your face gently, his voice tense. “That was meant to be split for the four of us. Together. You weren’t–fuck, darling, you weren’t ready for that.”

“I know,” you whimpered. “I know, I didn’t know– I tried to be good–”

Remus turned to Sirius. “How strong was it?”

“Really fucking strong.”

Your hips rolled without meaning to. “Please–” you sobbed, tears dripping down your neck. “I can’t– everything hurts– I need – please touch me–”

James climbed onto the bed, stroking your face. His hand found your inner thigh, and his breath hitched. “She’s soaked, Moons. Dripping everywhere.”

Remus’s jaw ticked. “We’ll help you, sweetheart. Just breathe for me, year?”

You nodded frantically, gripping onto the pillow beneath your head and moving it between your legs, rocking your soaked core against it, needing some form of relief.

“Good girl,” Sirius said, voice low, eyes locked on where you’re riding his pillow between your thighs. “You’re gonna let us take care of you. You’ve been so brave.” Your body trembled, completely overwhelmed.

You didn’t even realise you were crying until Remus kissed the tears off your cheeks.

“Love,” he tried to remain calm, encouraging as his thumb brushed your soaked lips, “You have to breathe. Deep, slow. You hear me?”

You nodded, butthe ache in your cunt was so loud it made everything else feel fuzzy. You were soaked, clenching around nothing, slick running down your thighs, pooling under you, your clit swollen and throbbing. It hurt. Everything hurt in the best and worst ways.

Sirius groaned deeply behind Remus. “She’s fucking ruined already, and we haven’t even touched her.”

James pressed a kiss to your shoulder, his voice soft and close to your ear. “You did so well trying to wait for us, honey. We’ve got you now.”

“I-I need–” you gasped. “It’s not enough, nothing's enough, please–”

Remus’s hand moved down between your thighs, two fingers flipping through your soaked folds. “Fuck, you’re burning up, love.”

You whimpered at the slightest contact, throwing the wet pillow across the room to give Remus more room. His fingers hadn’t even pushed in, just brushed past your clit, and your hips jerked, another gush of slick coating his knuckles.

“Sensitive little thing,” Sirius purred, his eyes wild. “Bet your clit’s screaming, huh? All swollen and throbbing. Poor pup.”

“Please–” you sobbed again. “I’m sorry, I just-I just wanted to feel what you do–”

“And now you’re stuck, hm?” Sirius cooed mockingly. “Look at you. Our precious girl’s just a fuckdoll now. Dumb and leaking.”

Remus shot him a look, but Sirius didn’t stop; he just looked hungry. James kissed your temple, helping you stay focused and grounding you in the process. “We’ll help you, my love. You’re notion trouble. Just let Moony take the lead.”

Remus nodded once, getting into the headspace. “James, make sure the pillows are under her head and then get her legs up, keep her thighs open.”

“On it.”

“Sirius, grab the towels, she’s going to soak through the sheets.”

“Already is,” Sirius chortled, but obeyed.

Remus’s fingers slid inside you, just two, and the sensation was already too much, not from pain but from relief.

“Shh, I’ve got you,” he said, voice low and soothing, but his cock was visibly straining behind his trousers.

Your inner walls, warm and tight, clenched immediately, spasming hard enough that you nearly came on the spot. Remus stilled. “You’re not even going to last, are you?” he said in the kindest way, eyes locked on where his fingers were sunk to the knuckle. “That desperate, you’re going to cum from just this?”

“More–” you shouted, head tipping back onto the pillows James had fluffed. “Please, it’s not– Remus–more–”

He pushed a third finger in. Your whole body shook.

James kissed your knee as he held it back. Sirius slides beside you again, licking a drop of sweat from your cheek. “Look at you. Messy little thing.”

Then came the fourth finger. You came hard, a violent, gusting squirt that soaked Remus’s hand and frenched the towel Sirius had shoved under your hips. Your scream cracked, raw and high, your thighs shaking uncontrollably as you tried to catch your breath.

“There she is,” Sirius bragged, watching your juices drip down Remus’ wrist. “Told you she was ready for four.”

Remus didn’t move. Just held his fingers inside you as you trembled and whimpered and blinked up at him, tears still falling.

“You’re still clenching. Still not done?”

You shook your head frantically. “Not enough–”

Sirius leaned in, grinning like a devil. “Greedy little pup. Bet you’d take five if Moony let you. You’d fucking split for it, wouldn’t you?”

Remus shot him a warning glance. “No one’s putting five fingers in her.”

“But she wants it,” Sirius said mockingly, kissing your temple like it was a prize. “Poor baby doesn’t know what to do with herself.”

“I’ll show her what she needs.”  Remus pulled his fingers out with a wet, squelching sound. You whined at the loss, trying to chase his hand with your hips. He stripped off his shirt, then unbuckled his belt, eyes never leaving you. His cock was massive, girthy and flushed.

You moaned, reaching for him. “Please–need to be full–”

“Deep breathe, love.” His voice held a gentleness that calmed your soul but still had authority. “You’re going to take it. But I’m not rushing and hurting my girl.”

He lined up and began pressing in, so slowly. Too slowly. You thrashed beneath him, tears in your eyes, trying to roll your hips to take more, but James still held you open firmly, keeping you in place.

Remus groaned, his eyes closing for just a second as his hair began to stick to the perspiration on his forehead. “You’re squeezing me so tight already. Try to relax for me.”

James stroked your inner knee as your lips parted in a silent scream. “She’s gripping him like a vine. Baby, you’ve got to relax for him, if you want him so bad.”

“Can’t–feels too good–urts but feels– I want it all–”

He was halfway in when you sobbed, “Remus–please–cock-ned it, need it all. Deeper!”

“You’re taking me so well,” he grunted, “So full already, look.”

He took your hand and placed it just above your pubic bone. You gasped, head shooting up as you felt the slight bulge in your belly. “Feel that?” he said, breathless. “That’s me. Deep in your tiny cunt.”

You came again. Screamed, soaked him, soaked the towel, soaked everything. Remus moaned, finally bottoming out, holding you still as you trembled beneath him, twitching and crying and shaking like you were going to fall apart.

You were shaking when Remus pulled out of you. A fresh gush following him, your pusy stretched and fluttering now, aching for more. You didn’t even get the chance to breathe before the cramps came back. 

Deep, hot, mean little twists low in your belly, like your pussy was begging to be filled again.

“Fuck–” you gasped, back arching, hands clawing for the nearest body. “Please–it hurts again– need–need”

Sirius was on you in seconds. “Shh, pup,” he taunted mockingly, climbing between your spread thighs. “You had the whole sweet, didn’t you? Greedy, greedy girl. Didn't even leave any for us.” 

“Hurts,” you cried, reaching for him. “I can’t–Sirius–need you–”

He sat up, grunting as he slapped his now exposed cock against your swollen clit. The overwhelming lightning of sensations caused you to scream once again, trying to roll your hips, but he grabbed them firmly.

“Stay still, pup,” he warned, licking his lips. “You’re not in charge tonight. I’m going to look after you, remember?”

He looked wrecked, eyes blown wide, clothes gone, pale chest heaving, black strands of hair sticking to the side of his sweaty face, but he was there, so focused on you, so in control.

“You want to cum?" he asked, lazily running the tip of his cock through your soaking labias. “Want to soak me like you did Moony?”

You nodded frantically, mewling pathetically. Sirius just grinned.

“Then you’ll cum when I say so. Not a moment before.”

You nodded desperately, needing him to do anything. “Please–”

“You asked for this, just keep looking at me, ok? So I know you’re still with me, darling," he growled, pushing inside you in a single, brutal thrust.

He was lengthy, hitting something high up in your cunt that made your vision flash white, the slight bulge in your lower belly returning with his movements. “Fuck–she’s tighter than ever," he said amased, pulling out and slamming back in. "You’re sucking me in, pup, like your cunt nkows i’ll fill it better than anyone.”

You screamed again, eyes focused on him, trying to do as instructed. And sirius laughed, a wicked sound as he started fucking you fast. His hips slapped against your overstimualted clit with every thrust. Your body jerked and twisted, eyes rolling back as another orgasm tore through you.

Sirius didn’t even have it in him to chastise you for orgasming with his permission, loving how your body was reacting to him, like it was sucking him in as hard as it could, not wanting to let go. 

“You’re crying?” he cooed, brushing a tear from your cheek with his thumb. “Poor thing, so overwhelmed. 

His voice dropped lower, almost tender. “But you’re doing so well for me, darling. Taking it so deep, letting me ruin you. So fucking perfect like this.”

You sobbed, clinging to him. “Love you–love you so much–”

His breath hitched as his movements slowed. “Yeah?” he whispered. “Even when I fuck you like this?”

You nodded, and he groaned like it hurt him. “God, I love you too,” he gasped, snapping his hips into you even harder. “So fucking music, it makes me insane.”

Another orgasm crashed over you, your thighs smappemed in James' hold, your back arched off the bed. You were crying so hard you couldn't speak, couldn't breathe, couldn't stop shaking.

You didn’t even realise he was cumming until you felt it, hot thick spurts deep inside, and his hand cupping the bulge in your bell with possessive pride.

“Look at you,” he whispered, voice hoarse. “So full, all mine.”

And then as he pulled out, the cramps came back.

Your hands trembled, already crying out in pain, as another body moved over you, the grip on your legs easing slightly.

“J-James," you whimpered for him, blinking up at him with big, wide eyes.

Your thighs were slick and raw. Your clit was throbbing, swollen and untouched for too long.

James kissed you gently, not caring that your face was covered in tears and sweat. “You’re okay, sweetheart. I’ve got you.”

He didn’t tease like Sirius. He knew what you needed, so without a moment of hesitation, he lined up, slid inside in one slow motion, groaning low as he bottomed out. 

With gentler hands, he scooped your legs back up, wrapping them around his waist, holding you still as you fluttered around him, Sirius’s cum mixing with your slick on your thighs.

“You’re so wet, pup. So warm. You feel like heaven.”

You cried out again; he kissed your tears away tenderly. “You’re doing so well,” he whispered against your cheek. “You’ve taken us all like a good girl. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to us. You know that?”

You nod in your delirious state. And then he started to move, not fast and hard but purposeful, making sure you feel the drag of his cock against your sensitive walls. You felt every inch, every praise of love, of devotion as he fucking you through thepain.

“Let go for me,” he said, voice shaking as he kissed the tip of your nose, forehead resting against yours, chest to chest. “Cum on me again, baby. Let me feel you.”

You did, and he followed, soft moans into your ears, his hands shaking as he filled you, holding you tightly. You were sobbing by the end, no longer sure of what, anymore. 

Your body was gone, empty, used and loved. Your brain was cotton. You could feel the cum leaking out of you, the wetness between your thighs a mess of Sirius, James and your juices. You were twitching, limbs weak, moaning softly with every little cramp.

“Hurts again,” you whimpered, exhausted. Remus climbed back onto the bed. 

“I know, love. Let me help you one more time.”

He guided himself back in, being careful, but your body still melted into the touch. The cramps eased instantly.

You sighed, eyes fluttering closed.

“Cocking warming only,” Remus said, brushing your hair from your face. “No more thrusting. Just keeping you full. That’s all.”

James wrapped you in his arms, Sirius pressing kisses to your fingers, your temple, your wrist.

“You did so well for us,” James whispered.

“So proud of you,” Sirius added.”

Remus kissed your lips. “Sleep, little one. We’ll keep you safe.”

And you did.

~~~~~

You weren’t sure what woke you. You were warm, too warm– your skin damp with sweat, your thighs slick and trembling, and your throat burned like you’d been screaming.

You had been. That much came back quickly. So did the ache.

Between your legs, dull and constant, a deep, used soreness that made your breath catch. Your cunt felt raw, senstive and swollen. Every part of you was heavy and aching and still soaked.

And Remus was still inside you.

You whimpered softly. He stirred at once. “Love?” his voice was a low rasp, thick with exhaustion but sharp with concern. “Are you alright?”

You shook your head, tears springing hot and fast. “Hurts,” you croaked, barely a whisper. “Remus–it hurts…”

He shushed you instantly, cupping your cheek with one warm, steady hand. “I know, I know, baby,” he said calmly. “I’ve got you. Let me out, gonne b quick, alright?”

Not nodding, lip trembling and bracing yourself, not able to relax at all despite his calming words.

Remus eased out slowly. And you cried. Not ust from the pain, though the pain was there, in your stretched, raw and puffy hole that leaked his cum from who knows when, and twitched with overuse, but from everything. The pressure, the love, the intensity of your night. You'd never felt so broken open and so held all at once.

The sob hit before you could stop it, and then you were choking on it, sobbing silently, tears streaking down your face as your body curled in on itself. Remus didn't hesitate.

He pulled you to his chest, tucking you against his heart, shielding your overheated body with his own as his lips pressed to your temple.

“I’m so proud of you. You did so good for us, Pup. You were perfect for us. You’re safe now.”

You couldn't speak, your throat so raw that your voice was gone. You could only nod weakly into his chest, gasping softly against his collarbone.

“Is she alright?” came James’s voice a moment later, quieter than usual.

She’s hurting,” Remus said gently. “But I’ve got her. You can go back to sleep, love.”

James hops out of bed, ignoring the suggestion. “Paindraught, I should have one left from my last Quidditch injury.”

Remus sat up just enough to help you sip it from the vial he held to your lips. It was bitter, but cool, and relief came quickly, easing the sharpest edge of the ache. Not all of it, but enough to stop crying and just breathe.

You heard the sound of water pouring into a glass next, and James returned with it and a cool rag.

“Hey, honey,” he said, brushing a hand down your back. “You were screaming for hours. Your throat must be raw. Drink for me, okay?”

You did. Then you were lying back again, your head in James’s lap while Remus wiped your sticky thighs gently with a cloth, careful around your swollen pussy. He kissed the inside of your knee. “We’ll bath you later. Just rest for now.”

However, you couldn’t rest, because you had caught sight of Sirius, who hadn’t spoken. Just watched from the edge of the bed, shirtless, arms crossed, eyes dark and aching with guilt.

James caught sight of him too. “Sirius.”

He blinked like he’d been pulled from a daze. “I shouldn’t have– fuck– I knew she wasn’t ready for that much. She had the whale fucking thing. I should’ve labelled it better. I should’ve stopped–” 

“Mistakes happen, and this is not on you, my love,” Remus said, still cleaning your body. “And we all gave it to her last night, not just you.”

“She couldn’t fucking speak,” Sirius whispered, eyes flicking to your saed ody. “She’s never screamed like that before. She basically passed out at the end, Remus.”

“And she’s safe now. We didn’t go too hard on her last night, we were all checking in on her, you know that.”

“But I was mean to her–”

“She loved it,” James cut in, a small, warm smile on his lips. “She always loves it when you’re mean. Because you’re not really, you’re just Sirius, it was just a scene, just in the moment like always.”

Siriu’s mouth twisted like he didn’t believe him. You blinked, still foggy, but reached out a hand toward him. He froze. Then, I crawled down the bed towards you. 

“I’m sorry," he whispered, “I shouldn’t have gone so hard. I should have locked them up. I love you too fucking much to see you in pain like that, Pup.”

You shook your head weakly, wanting to say so many things but not able to. “Come here,” you mouthed. Sirius melted.

He pulled you into his lap, cradling you against his bare chest, brushing your damp hair away from your face like you were glass. You curled into him like you were made to.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered over and over. “I’ve got you.”

The boys settled around you soon after.  Remus leaned against the headboard, a book in one hand, the other resting on your thigh. James curled at your feet, legs draped over yours, tracing your calf with his fingertips.

And Sirius, he held you like he didn’t want to let go.

[hxbbit]

Darkest Desires (Void x Reader)

Summary: After a mission gone wrong, all you wanted was to be distracted, to forget. Wishing that Bob could just stop being so nice and pin you down, do all those filthy things you don't dare say out loud. Too bad Bob can't hear your thoughts or read your mind. But someone else can...

Warnings: Unprotected sex, face fucking, choking and breath play, spit play, dom/sub dynamics, degradation and humiliation, dub!con (bob), slight voyeurism, name calling, afab!reader, no use of name or y/n,... lmk if I forget something, but really it's just pure filth.

Words: 4.4k

A/N: This is just absolutely self indulgent smut, cause there was a serious lack of Void!Bob fics imo. The last fic I've posted/wrote anything for public consumption was like 4 years ago, so I might be a little rusty, but I'm still pretty satisfies with how it turned out. Also not super proof read. I hope you enjoy it, though! Comments, reblogs and likes would be greatly appreciated... I need validation lol

It was so quiet on the ride back, you could’ve heard a pin drop. 

No one spoke, no laughter. Just the low rumbling of the truck engine and the occasional ticking of the indicator, but you barely even registered that. Your thoughts were swirling. Overthinking and replaying every single step of the mission and how it could end so badly. 

All of the hostages got killed. And the bad guys got away. 

You should’ve done more, done things differently, maybe come up with a better plan. It was rushed because it was a very time sensitive mission, but you had to at least try. 

The reality was, there was nothing you could’ve done and deep down you knew that. Didn’t mean you had to accept it, though. 

A quick look around the truck told you that the others were probably thinking similar things. Solemn faces on each and every one of them. Even Alexei kept his mouth shut for once. That was a big indicator on how badly things had gone. He was usually the first one to try and motivate everyone or make a dumb joke. 

Silence was only broken when you got back into the tower and Bob came striding towards the group. 

“How did it go?” There was a hopeful and cheery tone to his voice and a small smile on his face that dropped immediately when he really took everyone in. 

“What do you think?” Walker spat back, before turning towards his room, door slamming. 

Bob knew not to take it personally, but you could still tell that he felt guilty. His face always betrayed his every emotion.

He then looked at you. And you just shook your head, not ready for words yet. 

You were closer to Bob than the rest, understood each other wordlessly. When you met something just clicked and since then you have basically been dancing around your feelings for one another. Hesitant because you were working and living together. Both still dealing with your own demons and issues.

And even though it was an unspoken thing, everyone knew, but no one dared mention it.  

You needed a shower. Showering after a mission was essential, not only to clean the physical grime off you, but it also helped with the unseen. As if the water would wash away the sins and worries, cleansing everything. 

You were just stepping out of the bathroom, still wrapped in a towel when someone knocked at your door. You had a feeling who it could be. 

“Come in,” you said, loud enough to be heard on the other side. 

The door slowly opened and as expected, Bob stepped inside. 

As soon as he had looked at you, he looked away again towards the floor, his face tinted slightly red. 

“Uh- sorry - I uh- just wanted to ask if you were okay…” He trailed off, hands still on the doorknob, slightly fidgeting. Sparing a quick glance towards you. The towel around your body covered all the important bits, but it was more skin than Bob usually got to see. The few droplets of water that were still shimmering on your skin or fell from your wet hair and slid down the curves of your body didn’t help much either, his eyes drawn to them.

“No,” you answered honestly. “But I will be.” 

A sad hint of a smile tugging at the corner of your lips. It was nice of Bob to check in on you and for a split second a part of you wished he wasn’t so nice and considerate. That part of you wished he would just rip that towel off you, throw you on your bed and take you, making you forget all about that failed mission for little while. 

But you didn’t think Bob was the type to do that. He was gentle, loving Bob who couldn’t even kill a spider, always scared to wake the Sentry or the Void, so he pushed those things down. Kept his emotions in check. 

It was something that also made you hesitate to pursue a relationship with him. You weren’t sure he could handle or satisfy those darker desires. 

“Alright, well, if you need anything, you know where to find me.” He managed to actually look at your face this time, a faint blush still staining his cheeks and he tried to give you a reassuring smile. He was about to leave you and close the door when you stopped him. 

“Bob?”

He looked at you expectantly, brows slightly knitted together. 

You were so close. So close to saying to hell with it and asking him to stay. To spend the night with you, to fuck you until the only thing on your mind was him and how good he made you feel. 

The words were at the tip of your tongue, ready to spill out, when at the last second you decided against it. He didn’t deserve to be used for your selfish needs. 

“Thank you,” you whispered instead. His brows relaxed but instead you could’ve sworn that a shadow flickered in his eyes. Just as quick as it had appeared, it disappeared again and you weren’t even sure if what you saw was real. 

“Yeah, of course.” A reassuring smile lit up his face and he moved to close the door with a soft click behind him. 

Walking back into the bathroom, you finished drying your hair and body, putting on your underwear and a big t-shirt to get ready for bed. 

It was strangely chilly as you stepped back into your bedroom and pushed back the blankets. You looked towards the window. Closed. Glanced towards the air-conditioning unit, but it was also off. 

You looked towards the door and there he was. 

Bob but not Bob. 

Void. 

Last time you saw him was such a long time ago, you almost forgot what it felt like to be in his presence. 

He was darkness personified. A figure drenched in night. The deepest shade of black. 

He was sucking in all the light around him and reflecting none. 

Except for his eyes. 

That glint in his eyes the only indicator of what - or who - he was looking at. And right now, he was looking at you. You stood frozen. 

People don’t realize how eerie and uncanny it was, seeing a person but not at all being able to see their face or read their expressions. The only hint was him slightly cocking his head as he seemingly took you in. 

“Bob?” You asked quietly, knowing that it wasn’t him you were dealing with. 

“Bob’s not in control right now,” he replied.

“Don’t worry, he wants this too.” The voice came from all around you and was inside your head at the same time. 

You didn’t know what to do. There were protocols and rules in place in case Bob lost control, but somehow you couldn’t do anything right now. Never have you frozen during a mission, but this was completely different. 

“Come now, don’t be so shy,” Void continued speaking and it made goosebumps rise on your skin. He still sounded like Bob, but just like the rest of him, it was darker, deeper, huskier. 

It was also smoother, no stuttering or stumbling over words. 

Void took a step closer to you but you still couldn’t move. 

“I know what lurks inside you. I can see it all. There is no hiding it from me.” He kept coming closer, each step silent as he moved. 

For a moment you were confused, not knowing what he meant. Until he stood right in front of you. So close that you had to look up to still be able to look into his eyes, as they were taking in your whole body unashamedly and with intention. 

And then he looked at your face again. Eyes boring into yours. 

Staring at him so up close was like being in a dark room, trying to get your eyes to adjust to the darkness. Eventually you could make out the contours of his face.

“I know you want to be fucked. Degraded. Made to submit,” the voice purred as he was raising a hand up to your face and slid his knuckles down your cheek. A breath hitched in your throat. Pulse quickening. 

“Your thoughts were practically screaming it earlier. Like a little slut.” Void let out a low chuckle and you could make out a smirk on his face. 

“But that’s exactly what you are, isn’t it? A needy little slut begging to be fucked.” He now traced the thumb of his raised hand over your lips. 

You knew there was something very wrong with you, but you couldn’t help but lean into his touch and feel arousal start to build in your body. A soft pulling sensation low in your belly. And a wetness between your legs, which had you involuntarily clench your thighs together. 

Because Void wasn’t wrong. In fact he was so, so right. 

His thumb on your lip moved from your bottom lip to push into your mouth and you opened it, let him inside. The pad pressed down on your tongue and you instinctively wrapped your lips around his digit, sucking on it. 

All too quickly he pulled it back out of your mouth, dragging it over your chin and down your jaw. His hand moving into your neck where they found purchase in your hair. 

The grip tightening, as he was closing the gap between you. His body now flush against yours, he pulled your head back further, making you look at his face as a quiet moan slipped from your lips. 

You could now feel the solid panes of his torso against yours as well as the hardness of his arousal. Your body arched against him, wanted to feel more of him. Be closer. ´

“God, you’re so fucking eager, it’s embarrassing.” Again he let out a soft laugh and this time you felt it rumble in his chest against yours. 

“Please…” It was the only word you could manage. And even then you didn’t really know what you were asking for. You just knew you needed more.

“What is it you want?” 

Not even thinking about it, the word simply spilled from your mouth. 

“You.”

He leaned in even closer and you could feel his breath fanning over your face. 

“Is it me you want or Bob?” 

That caught you off guard and you didn’t know how to reply. Of course it was Bob. Bob who you’d been harboring feelings for, for so long. But you wondered much of him was Void? And how much of Void was him? Guilt cut through your arousal at the mention of him, sharp and sickening. Was he aware of what was happening?

Void leaned in closer until his lips grazed your ear. 

“He’s watching right now.” The words were whispered. 

Bob watching. A voyeur. The idea twisted something deep in your gut. Filthy and wrong, stoking the flames of your arousal. 

“Open your mouth.” Those were not the words you expected from him and you didn’t immediately react. He gave your hair a sharp tug. 

“I said open. your. mouth.” His other hand came up, gripping your jaw. This time you complied, opening your mouth and you felt you knew what was coming. 

He leaned over you a little more and when his face was directly parallel to yours, he spat into your open and waiting mouth. His spit hit your tongue, mixing with your own saliva. 

“Swallow,” he ordered. You obeyed. Something about the depravity of it, made you let out a whimper and bite your bottom lip. Trying to keep more sounds from coming out.

His grip in your hair relaxed but was still holding on to you. The other one slid from your jaw down to rest at your throat.

“Good girl,” he muttered, smiling again. This time you could see the flash of his teeth and heat was blooming inside you, happy to have pleased him. Eager to do it again. 

“Now what if I told you this was all you’re going to get?” Void asked. 

“What?” It caught you off guard, panic rising inside of you. You needed more. 

“Because if you want more, you’re going to have to work for it. That’s what whores do. And you do, don’t you? Want more?” Now it was his other hand whose grip tightened, fingers digging into the sides of your throat, slowly cutting off your blood flow. 

“Yes. Yes I want more,” You ground out, voice trembling, your vision starting to blur at the edges until the only thing you could still see was him.

That’s when Void released you. Hands dropping to his sides and taking a step back. You needed a second, head still spinning, vision going back into focus.

“Then get on your knees.”

Immediately and embarrassingly fast you dropped to your knees. The floor hard underneath them. You were sure that you’d have bruises tomorrow, but you couldn’t find yourself to care right now. 

Glancing up once more, you were met with the shining look of his eyes, head cocked to the side, observing. 

Lifting your hands, you reached to open the button of his pants, pulling down the zipper and freeing his cock. Of course you had fantasized about Bob before, but even in your wildest imagination, you didn’t imagine him like this. Even in his all encompassing blackness, you could tell he was perfectly long and thick and felt heavy in your hands. It made your mouth water, just looking at him, and you needed to taste him. 

“Go on,” he encouraged, but you didn’t really need it.

You started by dragging your tongue over the underside, from his base to the tip in one broad stroke and then closed your mouth around the top. You moaned at the weight and taste of him on your tongue, slowly moving up and down on him. Trying to fit as much into your mouth as you could, lips stretching, and taking him deep, but it was not easy. Not only because of his size, but also because of how hard and rigid he was. 

Void let you work at your own speed. But you could feel him grow impatient. His hand found your hair once more, tangling in it and started guiding your movements. Faster, harder. You let go of his cock and placed down on his thighs, finding purchase there. 

In time, his hips started moving too, thrusts matching your rhythm, pushing in as you were moving towards him. 

You started gagging when he hit you especially deep. Forcing himself down your throat, making tears blur your vision. You looked up at him and saw that he had thrown his head back, chest heaving. And over the sound of your own gagging you could even hear him moan. 

Seeing the effect you had on him, spurred you on more. 

You tried opening your throat more, relaxing to take him deeper and slowly breathe through your nose. 

“Fuck, that’s it,” he ground out, pushing you even harder down his cock and holding you there until you couldn’t breathe anymore and he was so far down your throat, sputtering around him. The sudden need to breathe made you want  to pull back, but Void held you in place. 

“Shhh, you can take it.” He was breathless but there was also an air of amusement to his voice. He obviously enjoyed hearing and seeing you suffer. 

Digging your nails into his thighs, you tried to hold on and when he finally released you and pulled your head back you desperately gasped for air. Threads of saliva still connecting your lips to his cock. 

“Is this what you fantasized about? Mouth wrecked, crying, being used like a whore?” He mocked and you only nodded still trying to catch your breath, but you knew that he didn’t really need your confirmation. 

Before you could verbally answer, he shoved his cock back down your throat and started fucking your face again. Faster this time. Merciless. His tip making you gag repeatedly, your throat clenching around it while spit flowed from your mouth, pooling in your lap.

“You’re just a mouth to fuck. Nothing more,” he growled, still keeping his brutal rhythm. 

“But you’re taking it so well.”

It was almost too much, not enough air filling your lungs, on the verge of passing out when he finally released you. Tears were now freely streaming down your cheeks and you collapsed in on yourself. Taking in heaving breaths. 

And then, to your utter confusion, Void got down on his knees, too, He was on your level now and took your face in his hands wiping away the tears with his thumbs. Then the spit from your mouth.

“If only you could see yourself right now. So wrecked but absolutely beautiful. My perfect little slut.”

The sincerity in his voice surprised you, but what surprised you even more was when he leaned in and kissed you for the first time.

It was surprisingly gentle, his lips sliding over yours, but hunger was hidden within. A promise that he wasn’t done with you just yet. 

A part of you thinks you should’ve pulled away, felt ashamed or disgusted. But you didn’t. Instead you craved his approval and eagerly kissed back.

Void wrapped his arm around you and pulled you up to stand with him, placing you down on shaky feet. He grabbed the bottom hem of your oversized t-shirt, becoming aware for the first time how little you've been wearing the entire time. Pulling it over your head and discarding it to the side. Then he hooked his fingers into your panties and pulled them down, letting them drop to the floor. You stepped out of them, kicking them towards where your shirt was laying.

For a moment Void was simply staring at your body. The glint of his eyes roaming over your shape so intensely, it made you want to cover up yourself with your hands. But then his hands joined in on the exploration. Moving over your hips and waist, to your tummy and breasts, squeezing them, circling your nipples, before sliding one hand down between your legs, finding your dripping center. 

That smirk appeared on his lips again, eyes shining. 

"I knew you would be wet... but this..." he trailed off, shook his head amusedly as he slowly glided two fingers between your slick folds, grazing your clit on the way there and making a shiver run through your whole body. And finally he eased those two fingers inside you, with almost no friction, pumping them slowly in and out, knuckle deep.

Finally being touched by him felt like ecstasy. Wanton moans escaped your lips with every movement, eyes screwed shut, trying to take in all the pleasure. After all this build up, you knew that it wouldn't take much to make you come. 

As if he had read your mind, he withdrew his fingers and slid them into his mouth instead. Making you watch as he sucked them clean with a grin. Tension coiled tight in your body, making you squirm as you were waiting for his next move.

Once he was done, he pulled his fingers from his mouth and placed his hands on your hips once more, quickly spinning you around.

With your back now to his front, he pushed you towards the bed. 

"Get on all fours," he commanded. Quickly you crawled onto the bed and got into position. 

You glanced over your shoulder as he discarded the rest of his clothes and then kneeled behind you. He stroked your back with his hands and squeezed your ass before he placed a sharp smack on it. You flinched but stayed in place. He repeated the same process a few more times until your butt cheeks felt hot and burning. 

"I can practically see you dripping, your pussy so desperate for my cock.” He started sliding the tip of his cock through your folds, gathering up some of the wetness and spreading it over his length. 

When he pushed in, without warning or hesitation, you were seeing stars. For so long you have wanted this, to feel Bob - Void - inside of you. 

One deep and swift push and he was fully seated inside you. There was a stretch, a slight burn, but you were so wet and ready that it was bearable and even pleasant. Feeling your body try to accommodate him, taking everything he had to give. 

He waited a few seconds for you to adjust and then started moving. His hands grabbed your hips tight in a bruising grip and every thrust was forcing a moan out of you. You pushed back, grinding against him.

"Your pussy feels so perfect, like it's made for my cock." He rasped out, moans escaping his lips too. Hearing him degrade you was filthy and beautiful, but the praise… it made you feel thing you weren’t sure you were supposed to feel. Not for the Void. 

One of his hands slid up your back between your shoulder blades, pushing your front down against the mattress.

It allowed him to angle your hips more, hitting even deeper inside you. Gripping your bedsheets, digging your nails into the fabric you also buried your face in the sheets, muffling the sounds of your moans slightly. 

His hand smoothed over the surface of your ass, before his thumb landed on your asshole, circling it, applying slight pressure but not quite pushing in. Stilling your own movements, you no longer pushed back. Letting him take complete control again. 

You let out a whimper, not knowing if you wanted him to do it or spare you some dignity.

"Oh yeah, I'm thinking about it..." he mused, still fucking you, but having slowed a little. 

"And I know you'd let me do it too, my dirty little slut. Let me claim your every hole. Make you mine completely." He kept going for a few seconds longer, making you wait. The air around you heavy with anticipation. Because he was right, you would let him. 

"But I think I'll wait until next time."

Next time... the words barely registering in your lust-addled mind, but had a deeper meaning.

He reached for your throat, wrapping his hand around it and pulling you back until you were flush against his chest. His other one snaked around your waist first up towards your boobs, giving your nipples each a hard pinch and tugging on them.  Then further down towards your clit, starting to rub circles there. All the while still rutting into you from behind. 

It didn't take long, your own climax building up so rapidly. The combination of him rubbing your clit, his hand on your throat applying pressure and feeling his whole body pressed against you as he was hitting those deliciously deep spots inside you. 

You clung onto his arms, trying to keep him in place but you knew that he was stronger than you and he easily moved his hand away from your core.

"Oh, you're not gonna come yet... maybe I won't even let you come at all. Keep you a desperate, wanting mess. Utterly ruined without even finding your own release, just to keep you begging for more.” The voice was right by your ear.

"No please!" You cried out. You knew he would do it and that he would enjoy watching you suffer. 

"I need it. Need to come,” you continued.

"Need it?" He laughed. "If you need it so bad, why don't you beg for it?" 

Tears were beginning to prickle at the corner of your eyes once again but this time out of sheer frustration. Your last shred of dignity wanted you to keep your mouth shut, thinking that you could just make yourself come afterwards. But you knew it wouldn't be the same. You needed him to grant you the release, to be the one to bestow it upon you. The desperate part of your mind won.

"Please Void, please! Please let me come. I need it so bad. I want you to make me come, please!" The words were spilling from your lips, continuous. Breathless, lips quivering.

"All right, I'll help you out.” You could barely hear it, lost in your begging. Still chanting please, please, please over and over again like a prayer to this god of darkness, as he moved his fingers back onto your clit. In mere seconds, the coil that was so tightly wound inside of you, finally snapped. Pleasure releasing all throughout your body in probably the most intense orgasm you've ever experienced, blinding and all consuming, your whole body shaken by it.

And as those waves were still washing over you, a faint voice in the very back of your mind stirred. 

He should not be able to make you feel like it. You should not have let him do this.

Deep down you knew, the voice was right. You have now crossed a line and there was no going back.

If it wasn't for Void holding you up, you probably would've slumped forward onto the bed. Limp and spent. 

You knew that he was chasing his own release now. His thrusts becoming faster, his grip on your body tightened and with one last deep thrust and a low groan, he spilled himself inside of you. For a little while you just stayed like that, both with heaving breaths while still connected. 

He then slipped out of you and without him holding you in place, immediately collapsed back onto your front. The soft mattress catching you. Only able to move so your head could rest on one of the pillows. Between your legs, his release was beginning to seep out of you, slick and warm and sticky. 

Void came to sit down on the edge of the bed and he reached a hand out and gently stroked over your hair. And for a split second you could see a hint of Bob in that action. 

"Fucking perfect," he whispered, head cocked to the side as he took you in. 

You tried to fight it, but couldn't any longer, your eyelids too heavy, slowly falling shut. You were barely conscious, drifting off to sleep when you heard the voice again.

"He doesn't deserve you.” The dark voice whispered in your head. “But I do.”

Tags: @trelaney

[sevsevteen]

Hi can you write something like yn has a crush on someone from ateez (wooyoung) or someone you like and her revealing it while being drunk

MY FIRST MULTIFANDOM FIC RAHHH ! as a caratiny this was great to write for this cheeky boy. i decided to combine two asks into one as well ~ i see wooyoung as the one who would most likely be reacting to others anywhere everywhere LOL

-- જ⁀➴°⋆

The stage was on fire.

Not literally, but with the way the pyros flared and the lights pulsed to the beat of Seventeen’s performance, it might as well have been. The award show stage felt bigger tonight - louder, heavier - and you thrived in it.

You hit your solo part mid-performance — a sharp, stylized trick with a customized baton, flipping it with ease and catching it behind your back before dropping into choreography with the rest of the team. It was clean. Fluid. Showstopping.

And someone noticed.

Not just the fans. Not just the cameras.

And Ateez’s reaction camera caught it all in 4K — his reaction the moment your trick landed.

The widening of Wooyoung’s eyes.

The slow, impressed smile.

The leaned-in head tilt as if he was trying to see more.

And the way he muttered something — "Damn, that was cool."

He clapped before anyone else. And when the stage ended, the camera panned back to the idol panel — just in time to catch Wooyoung looking at you again as you walked off.

That night, the clip made it to the internet before the group even left the venue.

🎥 [Reaction cam] ATEEZ’s WOOYOUNG during that moment 👀

“They’re feeding us a new ship and I’m not mad.”

“HE SAID ‘DAMN’?? HELLO??”

“Woo was caught slippin’…”

The next morning, the moment trended on social media.

Edits rolled out. TikToks used slowed audio of Wooyoung’s face turning. Fans dug up old behind-the-scenes footage of Seventeen and Ateez walking past each other.

And back home?

Chaos.

“Okay but— you saw that look, right?” Seungkwan shrieked, shoving his phone in your face. “He looked at you like you were the ending of his k-drama arc!”

“It was like 3 seconds,” you groaned, hiding under a pillow.

“3 seconds of love,” Joshua corrected, smirking. “He clapped. Early.”

“I clap early all the time,” you mumbled.

“Yeah, but you don’t bite your lip while doing it,” Mingyu quipped, nearly making you choke on your coffee.

“Yah!” You sat up, cheeks flushing. “Can you all not make a fanfiction in real time–”

“We’re just saying,” Vernon added, deadpan, “if you ever did date someone from another group, at least he’s got good taste.”

You huffed, trying to bury yourself back into the couch cushions.

But your phone buzzed just then.

A message. From an unknown number.

“Hello Sunbae-nim, this is Wooyoung – didn’t mean to cause a ruckus. But you were seriously cool last night. I hope you don’t mind the nonsense on ins right now :)”

You stared.

And somewhere behind you, Jeonghan leaned in to read over your shoulder with a devilish grin.

“…Oh,” he whispered. “Oh we’re never letting you live this down.”

.

The dorm was buzzing with warmth and laughter - the kind that only came after shared memories and a few bottles of soju passed between hands. It was the first night off in weeks, and Seungcheol had insisted on a casual in-dorm gathering. Food was ordered, playlists shuffled through throwbacks, and the group had sprawled comfortably across the living room floor with blankets, snacks, and way too many empty bottles.

You were curled up between Jun and Seokmin, a flushed smile on your face as you giggled at Seungkwan’s dramatic reenactment of a wardrobe malfunction on stage.

“Okay, okay- no, but seriously,” you hiccupped, eyes glassy, “who needs your shirt on if the audience is screaming anyway?”

“Yah, how much did she drink?” Jihoon asked, peering over from the other side of the room.

“Just enough for shirts to be optional,” Mingyu snorted.

You just waved them off, cheeks warm and eyes half-lidded as you rested your head against Seokmin’s shoulder. “Mmm...this is much better.”

It was like watching a robot power down. You went quiet, hands hugging an empty bottle, eyes closing peacefully despite the noisy room. Seokmin gently helped you lean back onto a cushion.

“Should someone watch her?” Jeonghan asked.

“I’ve got her,” Joshua offered, kneeling beside you with a soft smile. He adjusted a throw blanket over your legs, placing a cup of water nearby. “She’ll probably wake up soon and ask for tteokbokki.”

Sure enough, not even a minute later.

“I want tteokbokki,” came a sleepy mumble, voice muffled into the cushion.

The room erupted in laughter.

“Called it,” Joshua grinned.

You blinked sleepily, rubbing your eyes as you slowly sat up, head wobbling a little. “Where’s my– Where’s my phone…?”

“You don’t need your phone,” Seungcheol teased. “You need to drink water, and to stop flirting with the rice cakes.”

You squinted at him, lips pouting. “I’m not flirting with rice…”

Just then, a nearby conversation caught your attention.

“…speaking of stages, our Ateez juniors are killing it lately,” Chan said casually. “Wooyoung’s fan-cams are everywhere.”

At the mention of his name, your head shot up like a meerkat.

“Wooyoung?” you asked, eyes wide as a burp made its way out. “I saw. He’s kind of cute…”

The room paused.

“…what?” Jeonghan blinked.

You smiled, cheeks redder than the kimchi stew in front. “I was watching that fancam- I hope he looks at me like that forever.”

Seungkwan nearly choked on his drink. “Wait-wait, are we hearing this right?”

“Did you just…admit you like him?” Soonyoung asked slowly, equally as drunk, leaning in with an interrogating gaze.

You blinked, confused. “Like who?”

“Wooyoung,” Seokmin supplied helpfully.

“…a little,” you said with a sly smile, then hiccupped.

The room exploded.

“AHHHHH- YOU HAVE A CRUSH!”

“NO WAY.”

“GUYS, WE CANNOT FORGET THIS IN THE MORNING!”

“WE’RE TELLING ATEEZ—”

Joshua laughed as you threw the bottle in your hands at Dino, lips going up to your lips to make a shushing sound. “No, no! Don’t tell them!”

“You just called him ‘so cute’ with heart eyes!” Mingyu grinned.

“Drunk words are sober thoughts indeed,” Jun said with a proud nod.

“Stop exaggerating, and I’m not drunk,” you mumbled behind hands covering your face.

“Your face says otherwise~,” Jeonghan chipped in. “You are absolutely drunk.”

.

Music shows were always a mess of chaos — idols weaving past each other in hallways, stylists rushing in and out of rooms, someone’s encore song blaring faintly through the walls at all times. You were used to the rhythm of it all by now, the controlled madness. The tight call times. The way Seokmin always panicked five minutes before going on stage, even though he nailed the performance every time.

What you weren’t used to?

The sharp elbow to your side from Seungkwan.

“Five o’clock,” he hissed like they were on a stakeout. “Blue jacket. Flashy eyes. That’s him, right?”

You didn’t need to turn, already knowing who he meant.

Wooyoung.

The same one…who was currently walking down the corridor, the rest of Ateez trailing a few steps behind.

You took a step back instinctively.

But you were cornered - literally. With the wall behind you and a very invested Seungkwan, Dino, and Jeonghan forming a human barricade around you like you were about to be proposed to.

“Oh my god,” you muttered, flustered. “Can you not block the hallway?”

“We’re just casually standing here,” Jeonghan said innocently. “So casual. So natural.”

“Not suspicious at all,” Dino added, arms crossed.

“Shut up,” you hissed, just as a voice called out:

“Sunbae-nim?”

You turned around – and nearly tripped.

Wooyoung stood just a few feet away, hair styled back, glitter smudged across the corner of his eye like stardust. He gave you a boyish grin, hands tucked in his pockets as if he hadn’t just knocked the air out of your lungs.

You blinked. He was cute. Stupidly polite. And now just a little awkward.

“Oh,” you managed, cheeks already warming. “Hello, Wooyoung-sshi!”

His grin widened. “I’ve been hoping I’d bump into you.”

Your stomach flipped.

“Really? Why?”

“Oh, I think I heard the stylist noonas calling us!” Seungkwan suddenly raised his voice, arms up to usher the other two away.

You mentally face-palmed, ears burning red.

“Yeah. Chan-ie talks about you a lot, you know.” Wooyoung grinned.

You blinked, momentarily forgetting how to breathe. “He…he does?”

He nodded, casually leaning against the wall. “Told me all about the other night. You guys had drinks?”

Your mouth opened. Then closed.

Then it opened again. “I will end them.”

Wooyoung laughed - full and bright, the kind that made you want to melt into the floor.

“But,” he said, eyes glinting with amusement. “I thought it was cute.”

You gawked. “You heard what he said and still think that?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Wooyoung stepped a little closer. Not too close - just enough for you to hear the quiet confidence in his voice. “Besides, if it makes you feel better…I meant every reaction during the award show that night.”

Your body was on fire.

You backed up a step, pressing your hands to your chest like it could shield you from the intensity of that smile. “Am I dreaming–”

He laughed again. “After the music show’s over…how about a coffee? On me.”

You blinked.

Your mouth opened - again, with no sound. So you settled for a nod.

“Okay.”

“Okay,” Wooyoung echoed, walking backward now, one eyebrow raised like he’d just scored a point in some private game. “Tell the others I said thanks, by the way.”

Then he was gone - swallowed back into the flashing chaos of the venue, leaving you stunned in the hallway, heart stammering like a snare drum.

You were definitely going to kill the members.

But maybe…after that drink.

--

[amorienomore]

𝜗𝜚˚⋆ “thanks for the flowers” prank on jjk men

an: it’s been a minute.. whoopsiessss :p

——————

g.s

his phone pings, seeing your name pop up, his blues light up behind his blindfold. you had posted a cute little “thank you for the flowers, babe” on your story, and within minutes he’s calling. not texting. calling.

before you could even utter a word, “what flowers?? who gave you flowers?? i never got you flowers!”

he’s pacing. squinting at your post like it’ll give him answers.

when you finally tell him it’s a prank, he gasps like you stabbed him, whining like a baby about how cruel you could be.

not even an hour later, there was a knock at the door.

an obnoxiously large arrangement of your favorite flower shows up.

a letter attached that reads, “now those are from me. put that on your story.”

g.s

you post the “thanks for the flowers, baby” story mid-afternoon.

he sees it. no reply.

no call. no comment.

pure silence.

you check if he actually viewed it—he did.

that evening, he comes home calm as ever, smile soft.

“so… who sent you flowers?”

you stammer—it was a joke, a prank, a trend—

he just nods slowly, almost like he’s disappointed, but not in a loud way.

“hope you had your fun. let’s go.”

he walks past you, brushing his fingers along your waist, casual but pointed before pulling you by it to your shared room.

the next morning?

a sleek, expensive black box arrives. inside: a perfectly arranged bouquet of deep violet calla lilies and ivory roses.

attached note reads:

“don’t forget who you belong to.”

n.k

you text him a simple “thank you for the flowers today honey, you’re so thoughtful” and he stares at his phone for a long, long minute.

he knows he didn’t send any.

“i have not sent you any flowers”

his tone is calm, but you can feel the tension through the screen.

you crack and confess in under 10 minutes.

he sighs. adjusts his tie.

“please don’t play games like that again. you almost gave me an ulcer.”

still… the next morning, a tasteful bouquet sits on the kitchen counter.

“just so you have something real to thank me for.”

t.f

you hit post and wait. no call. no text. silence.

so you text him. left on read.

he walks in the door that night like nothing happened.

so you casually ask, “did you see my story?”

“yeah.”

you raise a brow, crossing your arms over your chest.

he shrugs, “wanted to see how long you’d keep up the lie before confessing.”

his face as smug as hell.

you accuse him of not caring and now it was his turn to raise a brow.

“babe, if anyone actually gave you flowers, i’d have his head in a trash bag by now.”

he does get you flowers.

they’re slightly crushed and store bought but they were from him and that’s all that mattered.

s.r

you post it on your story—“thanks for the flowers, my love ” with a sweet smiley selfie and wait.

within seconds, you feel a shift in the air.

he doesn’t call. he doesn’t text.

he materializes in the room like a final boss.

“who the fuck gave you flowers?”

you laugh, but his eye twitches.

“…that was a joke.”

“it better be.”

he’s not mad at you. he’s mad that someone might think they could get away with that.

“next time you want flowers, just say it. i’ll have the whole mountain blooming for you.”

later that night, you wake up to a throne of deep crimson roses, wrapped in silk.

“let them see those on your story.”

——————

[pinkyqily]

KISSES AT THE FRUIT MARKETS. JUJU WATKINS X BLACK READER

Summary: you and ju enjoy the la spring market

Warning: fluff, cheesy couple in love, everyone jumps ju in the comments

KYI'S RADIO 🎙: a ju spring because why not it spring and we need spring fics, and i failed to have this set for spring but either way please enjoy this mini work currently having a writer breakdown which explains the lack of fics on my part but I hope to be able to fix that, used the brownies for my brownie meme reference if someone get it, and as always happy reading readers 🥭

Spring was here the warm yet cold breeze blew as customers walked by.

You and ju held hand in hand as you walked by the busy LA street markets that get popping when it is mid spring, meaning summer is coming.

The sunlight was warm and beaming on you, which ju noticed. Even the smallest amount of details you put into something she always mange to catch it.

"Someone looks sun-kissed". She said

"What can I say this skin does glisten when the sunlight touches it". You said as you both continued walking as you appreciated the market's atmosphere.

You had stopped in your tracks to take a look at some of the fruits and veggies to buy for you and ju seeing as an athlete she needs all the vitamins she can get.

It was such a great idea to come to the market you thought. You continued looking through the sets of fruits as you made your picking not noticing someone was right behind your back and you had bumped into them.

You turned around to apologize just to find your girlfriend right behind you holding something that looks like flowers.

"Oh my didn't realize you were right behind me bae". You spoke up adjusting your dress as it got a little curved up.

"While you were looking at fruits i went ahead and got some sunflowers for my sunshine". She told you, handing over the sun flowers to you.

"Your so cheesy with it but thank you my love". You told her.

"Was about to get you some fruits cause you definitely need the vitamins". You said.

"My girl always looking out for me". She said has she had that smug smile on her face as she held her hand to her heart.

And so you and ju continued with your day at the spring market holding hands and all.

you got to buy fruits you never though of eating, vendors offering both of you free marchedies cause they think the two best friend look cute together strolling down the market.

The sun was starting to set and shops started too pack for closing time. You and ju started walking towards the parking lot.

Not once did she let you carry anything you brought expections for the flowers she brought and when you asked why you only got a because in response.

"Come on babe just let me help you put some stuff in the boot". You said wanting to help her.

"Nah I got it love just go back and sit at your spot". She told you has she already opened the passenger seat for you

You walked back to your spot in the car and soon heard ju footsteps following along.

"Today was so fun, I'm so happy that we did this ". You said as your head hit the car rest.

"It really was I'll always love spending time with you". She said as she starred into your eyes

Even though you and ju had been dating for a long time now, your relationship still felt so refreshing you understood her wants and needs like she understands yours. You guys had your argument here and there but it never went too far.

You found yourself staring at ju more, before you know it your lips mange to find hers.

The kiss wasn't rough it felt good you could still taste the sweet and sour fruits from earlier. You both pulled back from each other and you found yourself blushing like it was your first kiss.

@yourusername

Kisses at the fruit market liked by jujubballin, avery Howell rianforster,maliasamuel and 18,26 people

Comments limited

@rianforestier did my invite get lost in the mail

{ @jujubballin replied nah you just weren't invited

@ kaiyhley heckel my parentssss i miss you guys

{ you replied my sweet cakes I miss you too

@maliasamuel that dress looks so good on you

{You replied thank you bby

@jujubballin sweet and sour on the side 😏

{ you replied behave Judea

{ @jujubballin replied broo using government is crazy what happened to baby

{ @rianforster replied she calls everyone baby Judea you ain't special

{ @jujubballin replied ganging up on me is crazy

{ you replied well deserved 😂😂

@jazzydavidson pretty

{ you replied thank you jazzy baby

@Kennedynicole going on outings and forgetting about us is insane

{ @jujubballin replied y'all ain't that special to be brought everywhere

{ @rianforster replied that what I said mane

{ @jujubballin well that too damm bad

{ @Kennedynicole replied i swear you better not let me catch you ju cause it on sight!

{ you replied don't harm my bby please

{@jujubballin which one cause you be calling everyone that now 🙄🙄

{ you replied @kennnedynicole please get her ass for me 🙏🏿

{ @Kennedynicole replied I gotchu bae

[thepinkpanther83]

GIRLLLLL your older Eddie series is 🥵🥵 I’m leaking lmao I was wondering if you’d have the time to write an older Eddie one shot. And it’s just straight up porn. Filthy and hot and passionate. Like reader is out and she’s a homebody so it’s not her usual and her friends leave and in comes late 30s Eddie. She’s in her early 20s. And he goes up to her and gets her to his place and just rocks her world

Come Home With Me

Story Request: “Older!Eddie Munson Request”

Eddie Munson x Female Reader

💌 Author’s Note: Huge thanks to the Anony who requested this deliciously filthy concept! 💋 I loved stepping back into the “Grease and Honey” universe to explore older Eddie in his reckless, ruin-you era. You nailed the vibe, I hope it rocks your world as hard as he rocked hers. 😉

~Pinkie 🍒

Masterlist

Find me on AO3.

Read this story on AO3.

🎸🛠️ Summary: You're not the kind of girl who goes out. But one night, you do. And that's the night he walks in, older, rougher, all smirk and swagger. Mechanic Eddie Munson, with his big hands, filthy mouth, and eyes like trouble.

This is Eddie before “Grease and Honey” Before he settled down with his “Honey”. Tonight, he’s still a fuckboy. But tonight, he’s yours.

Click "Keep Reading" below the cut to read. 😘

“Come Home With Me”

Your boots were too loud. The hem of your skirt was riding up with every step. And your lip gloss, sticky and sparkly, felt like something that belonged to a version of you from someone else's life.

You weren't a nightlife girl.

But your friends had begged. And begged. And finally, they'd worn you down with promises of drinks, dancing, and “Just a few hours, babe, c’mon, you’re only 22… live a little!”

So now here you were, sliding into the bar just shy of ten, already bristling with regret and tugging at your sleeves. The music was low, ambient, not quite loud enough to get lost in, not quiet enough to make you feel calm. A half-dozen bodies floated around the place in various stages of tipsy relaxation, and your group was tucked into the corner booth like they owned the place.

They waved you over with cheers and playful jeers for being late. You offered a smile, the kind that felt glued on, and took the outside edge of the booth. Close enough to be counted, far enough not to be smothered.

You nursed a vodka soda like it might save you. Kept your phone face-up on the table, scrolling between texts and apps you didn’t really care about. Every now and then someone bumped your arm, or leaned in to shout something over the music, but your eyes kept drifting to the soft glow of the liquor bottles behind the bar, lined up like lonely soldiers.

It wasn’t that you hated spending time with your friends. You didn’t. But this kind of thing, the crowded air, the forced laughter, the edge of discomfort like your skin didn’t quite fit right, this wasn’t your zone.

This wasn’t you.

You crossed your legs, eyes flicking to the time on your phone. Twenty-three minutes. Was that enough time to leave without being rude?

The condensation on your glass had soaked into your napkin. You twisted it between your fingers absently and wondered if anyone would notice if you slipped out quietly and Ubered home.

Your bed. Your books. Your little mug of coffee with the chipped handle. No strangers. No noise.

Your gaze flicked to the exit.

I could be home right now. In bed. No shoes. No noise.

You sighed.

Your phone lit up with a flurry of messages, then a loud chorus of groans rose from the booth.

“Of course he got a flat,” someone huffed, already sliding out of the vinyl seat. “Third time this month.”

Another chimed in. “It’s probably karma for ghosting me last year.”

One by one, your friends started collecting their things, purses, jackets, half-finished drinks, and you sat up straighter, a little startled by how quickly the night was ending.

“Wait… are we really leaving already?” you asked, voice laced with the tiniest thread of hope.

“Emergency girlfriend duty,” one of them explained, pulling on a hoodie. “He’s stranded on 12th. We’re gonna pick him up and drop him at the shop.”

Another one looked at you, keys already in hand. “You wanna come or…?”

You glanced down at your glass, barely touched. Then up at the bar, where the lights were dimming a little more golden, a little more dangerous.

You thought about the tiny voice in your head that always told you to play it safe. To be polite. To go with the group. But you’d come out tonight for a reason, even if you didn’t quite know what that reason was yet.

“Nah,” you said, giving them a soft smile. “I think I’ll finish my drink.”

They exchanged glances, playful, a little teasing, but didn’t argue.

“Okay, girl. Be safe,” one said, leaning in to kiss your cheek. “Text us when you get home.”

You nodded and watched them go, the chill air briefly rushing in as they opened the door and vanished into the night.

Then it was quiet again.

Not empty quiet… just quieter. The kind that settled in your chest and made everything feel just a little more intimate. Like the bar had shrunk down to just you, your glass, and the hum of old rock music overhead.

You twisted your straw in the ice. Took another slow sip.

The buzz in your veins was mellow. Warm. You were still debating whether to order another drink or finally call it when it happened.

The door slammed shut behind someone.

Cold air blew in like a punch to the lungs.

You felt him before you saw him.

And before your eyes even rose to look… your body felt it.

Weight. Heat. A shift in the atmosphere like the moment before a storm breaks.

Leather. Smoke. Trouble.

He’d just walked in.

And you had no idea that your night had only just started.

That presence, loud in its quietness, electric in the way it cut through the air. He walked in like he owned the place, like he wasn’t there to be seen, but noticed him you would.

Boots hit hardwood. Heavy. Confident.

You looked up.

And there he was.

Older. Sharper. Roughened in all the ways that whispered dangerous but promised sinful goodness.

His hair was long, dark curls wild around his shoulders like he couldn’t be bothered to tame them. A black leather jacket clung to his frame like a second skin, open over a faded, sleeveless band tee that exposed lean arms and veins like roadmaps. Rings on every other finger. A silver chain resting low on his collar.

He looked like the kind of man your mother would warn you about, and your friends would dare you to take home.

Late thirties, maybe. Forty, tops. The kind of handsome that hurt a little to look at too long. Lived-in and cocky, like he’d seen shit and survived it, and maybe even liked it.

But it was the way he moved that got you.

The swagger.

Like he was a problem, and he knew it.

Your drink went still in your hand as he scanned the room once, disinterested… until his eyes landed on you.

And then he smiled.

Slow.

Like a match catching fire.

He didn’t look away.

Didn’t even pretend to.

And instead of heading to the bar… he came straight to you.

You shifted in your seat, heart thudding in your throat as he crossed the room with that effortless, heavy-lidded stride and stopped right at your table.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he rasped, voice low and rough around the edges. “You waiting for someone… or just making it easier for me?”

Your mouth went dry.

And then, like something cracked loose, your sass found its footing.

“Depends,” you said, tilting your head, one brow raised. “You always make a habit of hitting on girls alone at bars?”

He smirked, that lopsided, wolfish thing that said yes, and it always works.

“Only when they look like they’re thinkin’ about leaving,” he said. “Would’ve been a tragedy.”

You leaned back slightly, running a finger along the rim of your glass. “Flattery won’t work on me.”

“That so?” he said, and leaned down with one hand braced against the back of your booth, close enough for you to smell leather and something smoky-sweet and sinful on his skin. “Then maybe I’ll just have to talk dirtier.”

That pulled a nervous laugh from your chest. But your eyes didn’t leave his.

He was watching you like he was building a whole story in his mind, one that ended with your lipstick on his neck and your thighs over his shoulders.

You licked your bottom lip and gave in.

“I don’t usually do this.”

“Yeah,” he said, eyes darkening, “I fuckin’ hope not. Can’t have you handin’ that mouth to just anybody.”

Your heart stumbled.

You hated how much you liked that.

You hated how much you wanted to know what his mouth would feel like on your throat. Your chest. Your thighs.

And he knew it.

He knew.

“Names Eddie Munson, sweetheart, want to head outside with me and get some air?” he asked, voice low and unreadable.

You nodded before you had the chance to think better of it.

The bar was stifling suddenly. Too warm. Too much buzz in your veins. And the weight of him, just being near him, was pressing up against your self-control like a loaded spring.

He gestured with a tilt of his head. “C’mon.”

Outside, the night was crisp. Not too cold, just enough to raise goosebumps under your sleeves. You barely had time to register the change in atmosphere before Eddie was flicking a lighter to life, cupping it with one hand and shielding the flame with the other. The cherry of his cigarette burned to life. He exhaled slowly through his nose, jaw flexing as he watched the smoke rise.

You leaned back against the brick wall beside the entrance, trying to breathe normally. Trying not to stare at his profile, sharp in the amber glow of the flickering porch light.

He turned toward you slightly.

The air shifted again.

Eddie’s hand braced beside your head, and he stepped in close, so close you felt the heat from his chest soak through your clothes. One boot slid between your feet. Then his thigh was between yours. Pressed just enough.

Your knees almost buckled.

“Y’know…” he murmured, smoke curling from the side of his lips, “I could lie. Tell you I don’t do this much. Make it sound all poetic.”

You swallowed hard, barely able to breathe.

“But I’m not gonna lie to you, sweetheart. I’ve been lookin’ at you since I arrived. Tryin’ to figure out if you’re the kind of girl who wants to be handled soft…”

He leaned in, his breath against your cheek now, his voice just rough enough to scrape up your spine.

“...or the kind who wants to ride it real slow till it breaks her open.”

Your thighs squeezed together on instinct, his leg still between them, heat building in the pressure.

You stared up at him, heart hammering so loud you were sure he could hear it.

“You always this blunt?”

He chuckled, dragging from his cigarette again, then dropping it to the ground and grinding it out with the heel of his boot.

“Only when I want something bad enough.”

Then he really looked at you, and said it like it was just another breath.

“Come home with me.”

It wasn’t a question.

It wasn’t a command.

It was just... there. Real. Unapologetic.

You didn’t answer right away. The heat between your legs was molten, your body already deciding, even if your mind tried to stall. “I-I need to text my friends…”

Eddie watched you hesitate with that slow-burning smirk, then nodded toward your purse.

“Go ahead,” he said. “Text your friends.”

You blinked.

“What?”

He stepped back just enough to let you breathe. “Tell ‘em you made it home safe. That you’re curled up with Netflix and a snack. They don’t need to know you’re about to get fucked so good you’ll forget your damn address.”

Your stomach dropped.

So did your guard.

You pulled out your phone.

Thumbed out a lie.

“Made it home,” you typed. “Night was boring. Catch you tomorrow.”

You hit send.

Then looked up at him, breath shaky.

Eddie’s smile grew sharp.

“Atta girl.”

The Camaro was black, low, and mean-looking, like it belonged in the kind of movie where no one wore a seatbelt and everyone fucked like the end of the world was coming. It growled beneath you, low in its idle, matching the hum in your blood as Eddie drove one-handed through the quiet streets of Hawkins.

His other hand…

Firm on your thigh.

High up.

Fingers splayed like he was already claiming territory.

The warmth of his palm burned through your skirt, possessive, not gentle. Like he wasn’t just touching skin, he was saying you’re mine tonight. His rings glinted with each flash of the streetlights, catching your eye every time they twitched slightly… higher.

On the radio, some dirty, sludgy rock pulsed low and deep. Not mainstream. Something with weight and bass that throbbed under your seat and settled in your belly. It made you feel like something was coming. Something big. Inevitable.

You said nothing.

Neither did he.

You both just felt it.

His house was tucked back off an old road, too far from the streetlights, too quiet to feel safe, but you didn’t want safety right now. You wanted this. You wanted him.

He pulled into the driveway, cut the engine. Darkness swallowed the car.

For one long, suspended second, he didn’t move.

Then he turned toward you, eyes catching the moonlight, hungry and hot.

“Inside,” he said.

You didn’t wait.

Inside smelled like old vinyl, cigarette smoke, and something faintly spicy, like clove, or cologne long since soaked into leather and wood.

His place was cluttered but lived-in. Mechanical parts on the kitchen table. Ashtray beside a stack of records. Guitar propped against the wall by the couch.

It felt like him.

Dim. Gritty. Unapologetic.

And then, he stopped you.

Right there in the entryway.

Didn’t touch you yet.

Just looked you over slowly, like he was committing your silhouette to memory in the low light.

You stood frozen, chest rising and falling as he reached for the buttons of your coat.

Didn’t rush.

Didn’t speak.

Just undid each one slowly, fingers brushing your chest, the curve of your waist. Then he slid it off your shoulders and hung it on a hook like it was any normal night, and not the beginning of your undoing.

He stepped back, poured two drinks, whiskey, dark and clean, and handed one to you without a word.

You took it.

Sipped.

It burned.

So did his stare.

He moved to the record player and dropped the needle with a practiced hand.

A low, bluesy guitar riff crackled through the speakers. Slow and dirty.

Then, finally, he stepped in close again.

Voice low.

“You nervous?”

You shook your head.

“…N-no.”

His lips curled. He leaned in, voice at your ear.

“Liar.”

He took a long sip of his drink, never looking away.

And just like that, you knew… if you stayed any longer, there’d be no stopping this.

But you didn’t move.

Didn’t run.

Because you didn’t want to.

You wanted to know what kind of man tastes like leather, ash, and ruin.

You wouldn’t have to wait long to find out.

The whiskey glass barely hit the table before Eddie closed the space between you. No warning. No ask. Just took.

His hand found your jaw, fingers rough and callused, the silver of his rings cold against your flushed skin. He tilted your face up firmly. Like a command without words.

And then he kissed you.

Not soft. Not slow.

Like a fucking car crash.

Teeth and tongue and heat, his lips crashing down over yours like he meant to swallow you whole. Your breath caught, but you didn’t hesitate, you kissed him back just as hard. Mouth open, tongue sweeping into his, your fingers fisting in the front of his faded black band tee like you could anchor yourself there.

He groaned into it, low and hungry, then shifted, backing you up until your spine hit the wall with a dull thud.

You gasped.

He smiled.

“Fuckin’ knew you’d taste good,” he rasped, mouth dragging down to your neck. “Could see it all over you. The way you looked at me.”

He bit deep enough to make your knees wobble.

Then he gripped your hips, dragged you forward so your thigh slotted between his, and pressed.

You felt all of him.

Thick and hard and straining behind the zipper of his jeans, grinding slowly against your leg like he had all the time in the world.

Your breath hitched.

“You gonna be a good girl for me?” he murmured into your throat. “Let me ruin that pretty little outfit one piece at a time?”

You nodded.

Didn’t trust your voice to speak.

He chuckled, dark, delighted, and pulled back just far enough to look at you. His eyes were blown wide, pupils dilated, curls wild around his face. He looked like a man possessed.

And then he dropped to his knees.

You barely had time to gasp before his hands smoothed up your thighs, under your short skirt, pushing the fabric up around your hips and exposing your panties. They were already damp, you were already soaked… and when he saw that?

He groaned, low and guttural.

“Fuck me,” he muttered. “Knew you were wet. Didn’t know you were dripping.”

Your breath left in a shudder when he kissed your inner thigh.

Slow.

Then again, higher.

You whimpered when his tongue pressed against the wet spot in your panties.

He didn’t rush. Just licked a long, deliberate stripe up the center of the fabric before mouthing at it like it was candy he wasn’t allowed to unwrap yet.

You tangled your hands in his thick hair.

He moaned.

“Ohhh, fuck yes,” he breathed against you. “Pull on it, baby. Come on. Let me feel it.”

You tugged.

He growled.

Then finally, he hooked his fingers into the waistband of your panties and slid them down your thighs, slow and deliberate, his eyes never leaving your slick folds.

“Look at you,” he said, voice like smooth gravel. “Letting a man like me touch you like this. Daddy issues, or just that wet for me?”

“Shut up,” you hissed, breathless.

He grinned.

“Fair enough.”

Then he shoved one of your legs up over his shoulder, and ate.

There was no grace to it. No slow teasing.

Just devotion.

Tongue buried, lips parted, humming like your pussy was the only religion he believed in. He licked you with purpose, long swipes through your folds, circling your clit, then plunging in deep, groaning like you’ve fed him.

You cried out, nails dragging across his scalp, hips twitching as he held you steady with both hands locked tight on your ass.

“Jesus,” you whimpered. “Eddie-”

He looked up, eyes wild, mouth glossy with your slick.

“Don’t you dare stop saying my name like that.”

Then he went right back in, faster this time, messier, tongue fucking you so deep your back arched off the wall.

The sound of it filled the room, wet and obscene, his moans rumbling straight into your cunt, your own gasps climbing higher and higher as he worked you over.

You were close.

So close.

And he knew it.

“Come on, baby,” he rasped against your clit. “Give it to me. First one’s mine.”

And fuck it, he was right.

You came hard, thighs trembling, head thrown back against the wall, his name a broken sound on your lips as your body snapped.

He kept licking.

Licked you through it, held you steady, kept moaning like your taste was the answer to every question he’d ever asked.

By the time he pulled back, your knees were shot.

He stood slowly, dragging up your body, mouth peppering kisses along your ribs, your collarbone, your throat.

His breath ghosted your ear.

“Let me see you on your knees next,” he whispered.

Then he kissed you.

And you tasted yourself on his tongue.

You barely had time to catch your breath before he was cupping your face again, thumb sweeping your cheek, eyes flicking between yours like he couldn’t quite believe what just happened.

And then he murmured, soft and low, like a command dressed up in velvet:

“On your knees, sweetheart. Right here.”

Your stomach flipped.

Not from nerves this time.

From need.

You dropped without hesitation, knees hitting the hardwood with a dull thud, and he stood tall in front of you, towering, breathing heavy, the tension radiating off him in thick waves.

You looked up at him through your lashes.

He looked wrecked already.

Hair wild. Pupils blown. Lips parted.

You reached for his belt and he didn’t stop you, just watched, one hand bracing the doorframe above him, the other slipping into your hair as your fingers undid the leather strap and popped the button on his jeans.

“That’s it,” he rasped. “Fuckin’ -yeah, just like that.”

The zipper went down and his cock sprang free, thick, flushed, already leaking at the tip.

You blinked.

Swallowed.

Because… Jesus.

He caught your hesitation and smirked, voice turning into a low tease:

“I know, baby. Big guy for an old man, huh?”

You licked your lips.

He hissed.

And then you leaned in and tasted him.

Just the tip at first. Tongue teasing over the head. A flick, a suck, then a deeper pass of your lips over the top while your hand worked the base. You didn’t rush.

Didn’t dive in.

You savored it.

And he lost his fucking mind.

“Goddamn. Look at you.”

His hand fisted in your hair, pushing, guiding. Worshiping.

You hollowed your cheeks, took more of him, spit slicking your lips as he bumped the back of your throat and groaned deep and loud above you.

“You got no idea what you’re doing to me.”

You pulled off with a wet pop, hand stroking him slowly, gaze still locked on his as you licked a thick stripe up the underside of his shaft.

“Tell me,” you whispered.

He groaned.

“Fuckin’ -you’re so good, sweetheart. God, you’re so fuckin’ good.”

You moaned around him when he slipped back between your lips, and he shuddered.

His thighs flexed. His forehead hit the wall in front of him. He was barely holding on.

But he didn’t stop watching you.

Didn’t miss a second of how your lips stretched, how your hand pumped in time with your mouth, how your spit dripped down your chin.

“I should take a picture of you like this,” he groaned. “Put it next to my fuckin’ bed. Wake up hard every morning.”

You would’ve smiled if your mouth wasn’t full.

Instead, you took him deeper.

Let your throat flex around him. Let him feel it.

And that was it.

“Baby, stop. Fuck… stop, I’m gonna cum-”

You didn’t stop.

You sucked harder.

And Eddie Munson, big, rough, leather-wrapped Eddie, came with a ragged shout, hips twitching, and thrusting, fingers gripping your scalp roughly like he was afraid you’d disappear.

Hot.

Heavy.

All down your throat.

You swallowed.

Didn’t break eye contact.

And when you pulled back, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, he just stared at you like you’d walked out of his wildest, filthiest fantasy.

“Jesus Christ, sweetheart…”

His voice was wrecked.

“You just ended me. You fucking… goddamn.”

He hauled you to your feet with both hands and kissed you, deep, messy, grateful.

And then he groaned against your lips:

“I hope you’re not too tired. 'Cause I’m nowhere near done with you yet.”

He practically threw you onto the couch.

Not hard. Not rough.

Just eager.

Like his hands couldn’t keep up with how badly he wanted you stretched out beneath him. Your back hit the cushions, legs sprawled, and Eddie was already following, crawling up your body like a man possessed.

The weight of him. The heat.

You whimpered.

He swallowed it with a kiss, hot and wet, his tongue licking into your mouth like he was still trying to taste himself on your lips.

“You want me to fuck you now, sweetheart?”

It came out low. Gritty. Already breathless.

You nodded, fast, needy, and he grinned.

That dangerous, cocky grin that said you’re not ready for me.

But he gave it to you anyway.

He sat back just enough to grip your thighs, spread you open, and look.

“Fuck me…”

His voice dropped an octave.

“Look at this pretty little pussy. Still dripping for me.”

He spit in his hand. Stroked himself once, twice, then lined up and pushed in.

Slow.

Like he wanted you to feel every veiny inch.

You gasped, hands gripping his arms, eyes wide.

He was thick. Hot. Filling.

You felt full before he even bottomed out, and when he did, when your hips met and his pelvis ground flush against yours, you both moaned like sinners at the altar.

“You okay?”

His voice was raw. Tight.

“Y-yeah,” you breathed, wrapping your legs around his waist.

“You feel… fuck, Eddie, you feel so good.”

That broke him.

He set a rhythm that was pure sin, hips rolling slow and deep, making sure you felt every thrust, every drag of his cock against your walls.

“You like that, baby?”

He was panting now.

“Like getting fucked by an older man? That it?”

You dug your nails into his back.

“Yes- God, yes… don’t stop.”

He didn’t.

He fucked you into the cushions.

Fingers gripping your hips like vices, his thrusts getting rougher, messier. The couch was creaking, your bodies slapping together in a rhythm that felt holy and filthy all at once.

You clawed at him, arched up, gasped his name over and over again until he groaned-

“Say it again.”

“Eddie-”

“No. Say it. Tell me how good I feel.”

“So fucking good… please, Eddie… please-”

“That’s it. That’s my girl. You’re mine now, sweetheart. All fuckin’ mine.”

You came hard, back arched, body locking around him as pleasure ripped through you. He held you through it, kissed you through it, didn’t even let up as your body trembled and your mind blanked out.

And when you clenched again, overstimulated and gasping, that was what pushed him over.

“Ohh, fuck- fuck- gonna cum, baby, shit- I’m cumming… fuck-”

He buried himself deep and spilled inside you, grinding through every wave, groaning your name into your throat like a confession.

The whole world went quiet after that.

Just breath. Sweat. Trembling limbs.

And Eddie’s body collapsed over yours, heavy and hot, his face buried in your neck, still whispering things like “fuckin’ heaven,” and “you’re a fucking dream,” and “Jesus Christ, what the hell was that?”

You laughed, barely.

He pulled back just enough to grin down at you, lips swollen, eyes wrecked.

“I think you just rewired my fuckin’ brain.”

“All that just from sucking your dick?”

“No, baby…”

He kissed your shoulder.

“That was just foreplay.”

“Jesus.”

“Tomorrow?”

His voice went hopeful.

“Round two. Come naked. We’ll start in the bed next time.”

You weren’t sure how long you laid there, limbs tangled, breath shallow, skin slick with sweat and cum, but it felt like the world had stopped spinning just for the two of you. The only sounds were the ticking of the clock on the wall and the slow, uneven rhythm of Eddie’s breathing against your neck.

Eventually, he stirred with a grunt, arms flexing as he lifted himself off you with one final groan.

“Fuck… gonna need a crane next time,” he muttered, dragging a hand through his hair. “These knees weren’t built for high-impact cardio.”

You were still catching your breath when he bent to press a lazy kiss to the inside of your thigh, slow and reverent, like a silent thank-you, before pushing himself upright with another theatrical groan and padding, buck-naked, down the hall.

You couldn’t help but stare.

That back… That ass… Yeah, you were definitely going to have flashbacks of them later.

He returned a moment later with a damp towel in one hand and a glass of water in the other. His brows lifted as he handed you the glass, like he was waiting for you to make a smart-ass remark.

You didn’t. Just took it with a sheepish smile and murmured, “Thanks,” before sipping.

Eddie knelt down beside you, the towel warm and rough against your sensitive skin as he cleaned you up, carefully, almost reverently, his fingers dragging along your thighs with the kind of touch that felt like a secret.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t rush.

Just… looked at you.

Looked at you like you were a fucking miracle.

His hand paused at your belly, palm splayed flat, thumb tracing an absentminded little circle just above your navel. His other hand settled against your calf, grounding you.

“You good, baby?”

His voice was quieter now, still gravel and smoke, but softer, more intimate. Like a postscript to everything his body had already said.

You met his gaze and smiled, flushed and exhausted and maybe still a little high on him.

“Aside from the part where I think you broke my hips?” You gave a weak shrug. “Peachy.”

That earned you a bark of laughter and a hiss of pain when he stood up and his back cracked loudly.

He winced. You wheezed.

“That your spine or your ego, grandpa?”

“Keep talkin’, little girl,” he rasped, settling down beside you. “See if I don’t break you again just to prove a point.”

But he didn’t sound threatening.

He sounded… content.

He leaned over to press a kiss to your throat, just above your fluttering pulse, a lazy smirk curling against your skin.

“And I’ll still fuck you stupid again tomorrow, baby. Age be damned.”

You giggled into his hair. Let yourself relax into his warmth, bones soft, brain fuzzy, skin still tingling.

He tugged a worn blanket off the back of the couch, rough-textured, smelled faintly of mechanic grease and something woodsy, and draped it over the both of you. His arm curled around your waist like a drawstring, pulling you in tight.

“Still breathing?” he asked after a moment, voice rumbling into your ear.

“Barely,” you whispered. “But yeah.”

He kissed your temple and sighed, all smug satisfaction and sleepy muscle.

The room went quiet again, except for the buzz in your veins and the way his fingers never stopped moving, slow strokes against your thigh, like his body just needed to keep touching you.

An hour later, you found yourself still curled up by his side on his couch, blanket draped over your body, your legs still tangled with his.

The air smelled like sex and cigarettes and the faint bite of whiskey. The lights were low. The record had stopped spinning, needle stuck in the groove, whispering static like the ghost of a song that wasn’t quite ready to leave the room.

Eddie was shirtless, sprawled beside you in nothing but boxers, a cigarette burning slow between two fingers, his other hand resting on your thigh like it belonged there.

And maybe it did.

He wasn’t looking at the ceiling. Or the wall. Or the smoke curling toward the light.

He was looking at you.

Staring, really, like he was trying to memorize the angle of your bare shoulder, the dip of your collarbone, the lazy little smirk curling your lips when you thought he wasn’t paying attention.

“If I show up at your place tomorrow,” he said suddenly, voice low and teasing, “you gonna pretend this didn’t happen?”

You stretched beneath the blanket, muscles humming in that delicious way they only do when you’ve been thoroughly, thoroughly fucked. Your leg brushed his, warm skin on warm skin, and you tilted your head with a playful arch of your brow.

“…Maybe.”

He let out a soft chuckle. Smirked around the filter of his cigarette as he leaned in close, close enough to steal your next breath with his own.

“Liar.”

You rolled your eyes, but your smile betrayed you. He caught it. Of course he did.

Eddie put the cigarette out in a nearby ashtray, then leaned in again, not for a kiss, this time, but to rest his forehead against yours. His hand slid beneath the blanket and found your fingers, tangled them with his like it was second nature.

“You better leave the porch light on, sweetheart,” he murmured, lips brushing your temple, “’cause I’m not done with you yet. Not even close.”

He didn’t say anything else.

He didn’t need to. Because the look in his eyes said come home with me… and you already had.

Who loves Eddie Munson, show of hands! 😂 Let me know if you want to be added to my tag list! @justalotoffanfiction, @yorshie, @jackalope-in-a-storm, @v1per1ne, @daveythorntonslocker, @cokepowder55, @kelsiegrin, @ash-stardust, @meankenna, @kellsck, @chronicles-of-koystee, @micheledawn1975, @fckyeahlames, @cantstandya2000, @totallysocially, @exasperatedsighohmy, @marianaissocool, @boggerslide, @sheneedsrocknroll92, @n3lly-h3artz

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[scary-grace]

Savior (Chapter 2) - a Shigaraki x f!Reader fic

When you broke up with Shigaraki Tomura at the end of high school, you never expected him to stalk you for years, and when you and Chisaki Kai got married, you thought you'd finally broken free. But life with Kai turns quickly from a dream into a waking nightmare, and with every month that passes, you can feel your chances to escape dwindling. Almost out of time, with no good choices left, you turn to the one person who swore he'd never give up on you -- and hope he's less interested in stalking you than he is in saving your life.

AU - no quirks. Past (and future) Tomura x reader, present Overhaul x reader. Dead Dove Do Not Eat. Depictions of dubcon, domestic violence, and reproductive coercion (Overhaul). References to past stalking behavior (Tomura). Angst. Hurt/no comfort for the majority of the fic. If you find any of the above too triggering to read about, please go check out some of the other fics in the fandom! there are lots of them waiting to be discovered and loved. beta-read by @threadbearsweater, dividers by @cafekitsune

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

When you and Kai get home at three in the morning, dragging your suitcases through the door, you know instantly that something’s off. Maybe it’s the temperature of the air. Maybe there’s a different scent, something subtle but out of place. Maybe a shadow just inside your doorway that shouldn’t be there. You can’t put your finger on what it is, but you’re dead certain: Something’s happened. Someone was here.

Or maybe you’re just insane. Kai hasn’t noticed anything at all. He’s in a bad mood, shoulders hunched, jet-lagged or something worse. He drops his suitcase in the hall. “I hate this part.”

He doesn’t say things like that very often. “Go shower off,” you tell him. You help him out of his coat, surprised when he lets you. “I’ll unpack and get the laundry started.”

Kai glances your way, the motion unusually slow and heavy. “Why?”

“You did such a good job planning our trip,” you say. “We saw everything I wanted to see, and I didn’t have to worry about a thing. I can take care of this. Go shower. You’ll feel better afterward.”

Kai must be feeling bad. He doesn’t argue. He goes upstairs to shower, and as soon as you hear the water switch on, you leap into action. You don’t have much time. You have to figure out what happened here before Kai comes out.

The first thing you do is check the doors and windows. Sure enough, the one in the downstairs bathroom is slightly cracked. Like that, it’s too small for a person to fit through, but if it was entirely open, someone with a slim build could easily slither in and back out. You shut it, your heart racing like it used to in college, back when you’d discover some clue that Tomura had broken in. He always left something for you to find.

He always took something, too. If Tomura really was here, he’ll have taken something that isn’t for everyday, something valuable only to you. At first you’d thought he was doing it to hurt you, to punish you for leaving him, but something about that explanation didn’t track. It took almost a year of him stalking you for you to understand what he was really doing – taking things that mattered but didn’t, hoping you’d reach out to ask for them back. What would he have taken this time? You try to keep quiet as you move through the house, but your heart is hammering so loudly the neighbors can probably hear it. What would you notice missing that Kai wouldn’t? Nothing. Kai notices everything.

You’re still holding Kai’s coat. You stifle the urge to ball it up and leave it on the floor and hang it neatly instead. You unpack the suitcases, separate the dirty clothes, load the washing machine but hold off on starting it. You turn down the sheets on Kai’s side of the bed, and as you straighten up, you catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror at the back of the walk-in closet. You look frantic, just as struck by anxiety as you feel, and the earrings Kai bought you are still in your ears.

All at once they’re too heavy. You take them out, pulling almost hard enough to hurt, and turn to your jewelry box – and that’s when you see it. The lid of your jewelry box is ever so slightly askew.

You make your way carefully towards it, like you’re trying to catch it by surprise or something. Paranoia’s made you do weirder things. You’re meticulous as you sift through it, checking in on every piece of jewelry Kai bought you first, then onto everything you bought for yourself or inherited from somebody else. Then the things that are sentimental and nothing more, and at first you think nothing’s been taken. Maybe you left it like this the last time you looked in it. But then you look a little harder, and you realize with a jolt that something has been taken – and replaced, with something that looks almost identical.

You and Tomura had been dating for two months on Valentine’s Day, and Tomura’s friends and yours had been razzing him about getting you a gift. Tomura didn’t have any money, not since his dad went to prison, and you told him over and over again that he didn’t need to get you anything. He really didn’t. You hadn’t gotten a boyfriend because you wanted presents. If he wanted to get you something for your birthday, he could, but you weren’t worried about it. You were consistent. Sometimes you thought he believed you.

But your friends’ boyfriends went all out for the week leading up to Valentine’s Day, showering them in chocolate and presents, and you knew it bothered Tomura that he couldn’t do the same thing. On Valentine’s Day, you presented him with a box of chocolates you’d made yourself. I wanted to get you a fancy one, but they always have weird stuff in them, you remember saying. This way it only has the stuff you like.

Tomura didn’t thank you, but the way he held onto the box white-knuckled for a moment before setting it aside told you what you needed to know. Then he reached into the pocket of his hoodie and pulled out something small enough to fit completely in his closed fist. I got you something, too.

Tomura –

Just take it. He was averting his eyes, embarrassed already. You held out your hand and he dropped two necklaces into it. The charm on one of them said Best. The other said Friends. You were speechless, and in your silence, Tomura started talking. They said to get jewelry or something. I can’t afford that stuff – not the nice stuff. We’re not best friends. We’re dating. This was stupid. I just –

You kissed him. I think it’s really nice, you said. He gave you a skeptical look. I couldn’t date somebody who wasn’t my friend, too.

And maybe he was your best friend by that point. You two spent a lot of time together, about the same as all your other friends added up, and you liked spending time with him a lot. More than your friends liked spending time with their boyfriends. You remember thinking that meant something good. I really like it, you told Tomura. Which one do you want?

Tomura picked Friends. You got Best, and even when the two of you broke up, you kept it at the bottom of your jewelry box, never wearing it again but always knowing it was there. But your half of the friendship necklace isn’t there anymore. The charm on the tarnished chain says Friends.

He was here. You can’t tell if the feeling that cuts the tendons in your legs and drops you to the floor is relief or fear, but you know you got your wish. Tomura’s here, somehow. He’s watching, again. That was the first step. Now what?

Even as you’re weighing the question, you’re aware that you have to figure out what’s wrong with Kai. It’s clear to you that he picked something up on the plane home, but he won’t go to the doctor or even admit he’s not feeling well, meaning that he’s short-tempered and sharper than usual with you. You’ve seen Kai like this a few times in the past. You know it’ll fade at some point, but for now, the tension in the house is palpable.

The two of you took an extra day off after the trip to recover from jet lag – Kai’s idea, so you can both go back to work at your best. You suggest to Kai that he should actually rest instead of just working from home. The curtness with which he responds to you tells you not to open your mouth on the subject again.

But when the two of you are making dinner, sharing the kitchen as usual, you realize that you can’t let it go any longer. Kai’s hands are shaking where he grasps the knife he’s using to cut up the ingredients, and he’s this close to amputating a finger. When you brush against him, you find that he’s drenched in cold sweat, and his face has taken on a pale, clammy cast. “Kai, are you okay?”

He mumbles something through clenched teeth. You don’t dare ask him to repeat himself, and he says it again without prompting. “I’m fine,” he says. “I –”

His expression contorts, and he whirls away from you, throwing up in the sink – mostly. The mess is bad enough. You know how much Kai hates a mess. The imperative to clean it up as much as possible, as quickly as possible, clashes with your need to get out of here before something worse happens, and somewhere in the middle of it is a vestigial urge to reach out to someone who needs help. The latter urge wins out. “Kai –”

“Stay away.”

He sounds awful. He needs help. You have a strong immune system, and you can wash your hands. You take a step forward. “Kai, I’m worried –”

“Stay away!” He doesn’t turn on you, but he lashes out with one hand. The hand that’s still holding the knife.

The blade catches you in the shoulder, pierces through your shirt, drawing a jagged line across your chest. The pain is sharp and agonizing, and it comes as such a shock that you don’t even scream. The sharp gasp you let out is more of surprise than anything else. Kai drops the knife, straightens up. His eyes are wide as he stares at you. You’ve seen that expression maybe once before, when you regained consciousness after he knocked you out. Surprise at seeing what he’s done, shock that he went this far. If Kai told you right now that he didn’t mean to hurt you, you’d believe him.

There’s blood staining your shirt, vomit in the sink and on the counter and the floor, and your sick husband is staring at you, stunned like he’s the one who was just attacked with a knife. Kai’s not functioning right now. You are, mainly because Kai’s hurt you so many times that you know the world can’t stop because of it. You pull an empty mixing bowl off the counter, hand it to Kai, and shoo him out of the kitchen. “I’ll clean up and come check on you. Don’t drink or eat anything. I’ll bring you some water once I’m done.”

Kai doesn’t argue with you. You leave him on the floor of the living room – he won’t sit on the couch – and go back to the kitchen. The food’s a loss, and everything needs disinfecting. You know Kai’s exacting standards, know how unlikely it is that you’ll meet them, and at the same time, you think you might be safe for a little while. He won’t be back in the kitchen any time soon. If he had just admitted he was sick – if he had just listened to you –

You crumple the thought into a ball and throw it away. Kai hurt you again. He did it with a weapon this time. You can’t make any mistakes.

It takes you half an hour to disinfect the kitchen, time enough that it should be safe to give Kai some water. You bring it in a clean glass, filled with water from the filter in the refrigerator, and set it down on the coffee table – on a coaster, so you don’t ruin the wood. He’s punished you for that before. There was a while where his preferred method was pinching you so hard you’d get bruises.

Kai doesn’t look like he’s in pinching shape right now, but you never know. “Do you feel any better?” you ask him from well out of reach. “Please don’t lie. I can’t take care of you if I don’t know what’s wrong.”

“Fever. Nausea.” Kai shivers. “Chills. It’s viral. I don’t need a doctor.”

Good. Kai hates going to the doctor. He looks at you through hazy eyes, and to your horror, his gaze sharpens. “You should.”

“I’m not sick,” you say, bewildered, and Kai lifts one shaky hand and points. You look down to find the front of your shirt stained and shiny with blood. In your race to clean everything up, you completely forgot. “Oh. Um –”

“Urgent care. Now.”

He must really be sick. As much as he hates the doctor for himself, he hates sending you there even more, because any trip to the doctor creates a record of suspicious injuries. “I don’t think it’s that –”

“I was cutting meat with that knife. It was in my hand when I vomited. That wound won’t close on its own.” Kai shuts his eyes and leans back against the couch. “Call a rideshare. If you get lightheaded, you won’t be able to drive.”

All at once, you see the upside of a visit to the urgent care. Kai can’t drive you. Kai’s too sick to stand up straight. If you go to the urgent care, the likelihood that you’ll be prescribed something is high, and you’ll have to go to the pharmacy to pick it up – and you can buy more Plan B while you’re there. But you can’t sound too excited. “I’m worried about you –”

“I’ll contact you regularly. Go.” Kai sounds like he’s done with everything, you included. “And change your shirt.”

You do, while you’re waiting for the rideshare, but peeling off the stained shirt rips off the scab that’s formed when you pull it away from the wound. By the time you get in the rideshare you’re right back where you started, and the driver spends half the trip staring at you in the rearview mirror. The nurse who checks you in at the urgent care stares, too, and sticks you in an exam room before she’s even asked you to confirm your address. While you’re waiting for someone to examine you, your phone buzzes with a text from Kai: Tell them it was self-inflicted. With your history they’ll believe it.

Is anybody who looks at this going to believe you did it to yourself? In your opinion, claiming it was you is like claiming you fell and hit your face on the doorknob. It looks weirder than telling some version of the truth. When the doctor asks how you were hurt, you tell him it was a kitchen accident, and you’re so practiced, so composed at lying about what Kai’s done to you that the doctor buys it without a second thought. You get seventeen stitches and a prescription for three days of antibiotics, which gets sent to a pharmacy across the street. To keep up appearances, you text Kai where you’re going and ask him if he needs anything. He responds with a list.

That complicates things. You were going to pay for the antibiotics and the Plan B with your card. With all of this stuff, you’ll have to pay for it and the antibiotic on the shared card, then run a separate transaction for the Plan B. You take a deep breath. It’s not a complication, it’s just an extra step. It’s fine. Everything will be fine.

Your prescription’s not quite ready when you’re done collecting everything on Kai’s list, so you sit down in the waiting area. There’s only one other person there, an auburn-haired woman who’s wearing sunglasses inside and reading a gossip magazine. She looks up after a few seconds of you rustling around with your shopping basket, and her eyebrows lift sharply. “What happened to you, honey? You’re looking a little too much like a final girl for comfort.”

A final girl. You’ve heard that phrase before, but you can’t think where. “Kitchen accident. I’m just waiting on my antibiotics.”

“What kind of kitchen accident leaves that kind of mark?” She’s counting your stitches through your shirt. “You could run into his knife ten times and that would still look more accidental than this does.”

You catch the Cell Block Tango reference and feel a slight smile come to your face. “If that’s the scenario, shouldn’t I be the one with the knife?”

“If you had the knife, it wouldn’t be an accident,” the woman says. Her expression is serious as she gestures at you. “Just like this isn’t.”

You should have asked the doctor if you could have a scrub shirt to wear over this one. “Maybe I’m into that.”

“If you were into that, you wouldn’t have done something that needed stitches. And nobody who’s into that would do it right there.” She gestures again. You don’t know enough about people who are into knifeplay to argue. “You’re in trouble. You’re crazy if you think nobody sees it.”

You know nobody sees it. Kai’s too careful, and you’re too afraid of what Kai will do if anyone finds out. This is his biggest slip-up since your suicide attempt, and you know already that it’ll be a one-off – or if it’s not, Kai will stitch you up at home rather than letting a doctor have a look. Your life looks perfect from the outside. And even if somebody could see what was happening underneath – “It doesn’t matter who sees it if nobody does anything.”

The bitterness in your own voice shocks you. The woman sits forward, setting her magazine aside. “If somebody wanted to do something, would you let him?”

Before you can answer, or figure out why that question feels like being hit by lightning, the pharmacist calls you up to the counter. You stumble through your separate transactions, spend a while at the cash register trying to store everything in two separate bags, call your rideshare, and stumble out past the waiting area. The woman who called you a pathetic battered wife is nowhere to be found. Of course. And she left before you could give her the real answer to her stupid question: Nobody’s coming to save you. And of course she assumed the person saving you would be a man, or else she wouldn’t have said –

You stop in your tracks just inside the door. She called you a final girl. You’ve heard that before, all the way back in high school, watching horror movies with Tomura. For some reason he liked the old movies with the hokey special effects, and you remember him dissecting the movies while you listened and tried to ignore the fountains of fake blood onscreen. Sure, it’s probably a widely used term among horror fans, and sure, a person with blood all over their shirt draws attention no matter what – but that woman talked to you. She wouldn’t let it go. And when she asked if you’d let someone save you, you don’t think she was asking about just any someone. She asked about him. Like she meant one person in particular. Like she was asking for somebody else.

Tomura’s never sent someone to spy on you directly before, or if he has, you’ve never caught them at it. Why would he change his MO now? What if it wasn’t Tomura who sent that woman at all? What if it was Kai, testing you, testing your loyalty? You tried, but you must not have tried hard enough, or you wouldn’t feel sick to your stomach. When your rideshare arrives, the driver has to lean on the horn to get your attention. You’re too busy throwing up in the gutter to keep an eye out for the car.

When you get home, Kai doesn’t give any indication that he sent someone to keep an eye on you. He’s sleeping facedown on the couch, snoring slightly, the bucket and water glass empty on the floor beside it. You used to think Kai was cute like this, cute when he looked rumpled and awkward and human, and maybe it’s still true – but only when he’s asleep. When Kai looks like this wide awake, he’s so terrifying that it’s hard to believe you ever thought you loved him.

He was terrifying like that today, and you didn’t realize until it was too late. He’s never used a weapon on you before, and even if it was accidental, that line’s been crossed now. Crossing it will get easier for him every time he does it, just like it did the first time he struck you with a closed fist instead of an open hand, just like it did the first time he kicked you after he threw you to the ground. Maybe it’ll be like it was after he knocked you out, but maybe not. Brain trauma can’t be fixed, but you can always get a blood transfusion.

As you conceal the Plan B in your workbag, your mind wanders, back to the waiting area, to the woman telling you how much trouble you’re in. As if you didn’t know. As if you weren’t sitting there with seventeen stitches after your husband slashed you with a knife, already scared of what you’d be walking into at home. Maybe you imagined her. She was gone before you got back, and you didn’t hear anyone else get called up to the counter. And like any good daydream, she told you what you wanted to hear – that Tomura wants to save you, if you’ll let him. But as much as you want to believe that, you don’t have the heart. Nobody would want to save you. You’re on your own.  

Kai’s sick all week long, so sick that his boss sends a doctor to the house to check on him, since his boss is apparently well aware of how much Kai hates the urgent care. Kai’s own diagnosis turns out to be right – a virus, specifically a norovirus – and as soon as the doctor realizes what it is, he bans you and Kai from interacting at all until Kai’s been symptom-free for twenty-four hours. Kai was unhappy about that, and so were you – he’s pissed when you aren’t available when he wants you to be, and you don’t like what happens when he’s pissed at you. Everything would be easier if you could take care of him.

The doctor was firm. “I believe you and your wife are looking to start a family. Undue stress on her body – such as the stress provided by an illness like this one – will make that more difficult, not less.”

That’s enough to keep Kai quiet. The doctor’s instruction to rest is enough to keep him still. And the quarantine is enough to keep you driving to work, going for a walk, having dinner out rather than cooking in the contaminated kitchen – and doing all of it by yourself. Or sometimes by yourself. When Emi figures out that you’ve got a night to yourself for once, she drags you out with her crew for dinner and drinks.

You protest that Kai’s expecting you home, and they’ve got a whole set of excuses for you to give him. Big project, staying late at work, deadline moved up, boss unhappy. They’ll back you up if anyone asks. It strikes you as a little weird that they thought far enough ahead to give you what you’d need to lie, but then again, maybe Kai’s not unusual in wanting to know exactly where his wife is when she isn’t at home. Maybe that’s just a guy thing. The fact that no one comments on you leaving your phone in your car at work and hitching a ride to dinner with Emi just proves it.

You’ve never been to the bar they take you to, but you know it’s the kind of place you’d have loved – a little dingy, a little eccentric, full of character and characters. Somewhere that’s trying to be so many different things that it’s not sure what it really is. Kai hates places like this. You know exactly what he’d say after a good look around: This is beneath you. He’d say that, but he’d be wrong. You’re a stereotypical battered wife married to a sociopath, shotgunning Plan B so you won’t get pregnant with his baby, and you’re so twisted up inside that you’re hallucinating about your ex-boyfriend who you dumped ten years ago coming to save you. A place that doesn’t know what it’s doing is exactly where you belong.

Going out is kind of fun. You forgot about that. You get one drink, drink it early, and eat, knowing you’ll need to sober up completely before you risk going home. Emi has way more friends at work than you do, but she folds you in among them effortlessly, and whenever the topic of your husband – you’re the only one who’s married – comes up, she steers the ship away. “Hey, she’s a lot more than her husband! And she just went on a big trip. I want to hear about Cairo.”

“It was amazing,” you say, and as the words leave your mouth, you feel a smile come with them.

You tell the stories like you wish they’d happened, like you’d done this alone or with a friend, instead of trying to enjoy somewhere ancient and fascinating with your husband hovering over your shoulder. Kai looms large over every aspect of your life, but sometimes you can edit him out, and this time you do. Visiting the pyramids and the sphinx at Giza, wandering through museums, checking out the open-air market –things you could imagine doing, on a trip you planned yourself, one where you could spend as much time as you wanted before moving on.

But even as you paint your trip in broad brushstrokes, Kai haunts the details, and he makes it back into the conversation eventually, when a girl named Kaoruko who’s had three to your one asks if you flew first class or economy. “First class,” you say. “Kai insists.”

That’s not all Kai insisted on. There was what happened in the first-class bathroom, and the memory of Tomura you had to feed through a mental paper shredder to stay even marginally sane. Across the table, Kaoruko sighs enviously. “Maybe I’ll get lucky and land somebody like him.”

Yue from Marketing laughs. “Somebody rich?”

“No. Somebody who pays that much attention,” Kaoruko says. “All the little things that go into a trip like that. Don’t you want somebody who knows you so well? Somebody who can make everything perfect?”

“No,” you say before you can stop yourself. Everyone looks at you, and you struggle to scrape together a follow-up that doesn’t make you sound as crazy as you feel. “He’s not perfect. You should hear how he snores.”

That gets a laugh, just like you were hoping it would, but you know how Kai feels about even gentle teasing. You know what will happen to you if Emi ever brings up what you just said in front of him, just like you know you can’t ask everyone at the table to forget what they heard. Maybe Kai already knows. Maybe he has somebody following you, listening to you. Maybe he’ll be waiting when you get home, fist closed to strike you, foot drawn back to kick. Or maybe this time he’ll have a knife.

The panic closes its jaws around your heart tight enough to crush it, but you’ve been through this before. You know better than to show it. You excuse yourself to the bathroom, walking with slow, measured steps, praying that at least one bathroom is single-occupancy. You get lucky – they’re all single-occupancy – but at first they all look busy. Then you take a second look, realize that the one on the end is open, and lock yourself in. By the time the motion-activated lights come on, you’re already crying silently, your face buried in your hands.

You can’t escape Kai. No matter what you do, he’s everywhere – his name, his voice, his hands, his will. Even if you could get away from him, even if you could make it stick, you’d always be looking over your shoulder. You’ll never be safe, never be free, and those two thoughts play on repeat in your head until your head hurts too much to cry.

It’s time to start damage control. You can’t look like you’ve been crying in a restaurant bathroom when you head back out there. You blow your nose with a paper towel, then wet another one with cold water to press down over your eyes. Once it turns lukewarm, you lift it off and turn to the mirror to check what progress, if any, has been made. The first thing you register is that you still look like shit. The second thing is that you aren’t alone.

For one heartstopping moment you’re sure it’s Kai. But Kai’s taller. Kai’s sick at home. Kai wouldn’t be caught dead in a hoodie. Pale hands rise to grasp the edges of the hood and pull it back, and you watch through the mirror as Tomura reveals himself for the first time since the night you broke up.

In the seven years he spent stalking you, you never saw him even once. He stayed frozen in time when you thought about him, with messy blue hair and dry skin around his eyes and a mouth that was always one wrong move from turning down into a pout. Ten years out from the breakup, he’s changed. He’s gained at least ten centimeters in height, and his shoulders have broadened enough to change the way he holds himself, even as he leans back against the wall in a pose you could describe with your eyes closed. The biggest difference of all is his hair. It’s longer than you’ve ever seen it, falling loose and wild past his shoulders. And it’s white.

Still, his eyes are the same. The languid, almost careless way he moves is the same. Even the hand that rises to scratch his neck is familiar. All the awkward, endearing traits you remember are right where they belong – but when you look at Tomura, not a kid any longer, everything you recognize only serves to make you more uncertain. He’s not who you knew before. He’s something more.

All you can do is look at him as he takes one step forward, then another. His voice has barely changed from the last time you heard it. “Maybe you should turn around.”

You do. He’s close enough to touch, but he’d have to reach, and he’s not grabbing for you. You’d almost trust him more if he did – thanks to Kai, you read stillness to be just as threatening as motion. Tomura doesn’t prompt you, doesn’t ask a question you’re doomed to answer wrong. He just stands there, waiting for you to find your voice.

When you do, it’s awful. “I thought I imagined it,” you say. “You came back.”

“I kept my distance. I never left,” Tomura says. “I thought maybe he was right. You were better off with him.”

Your vision zooms in and out. “You talked to Kai?”

“He talked to me,” Tomura says. You didn’t know. You didn’t have a clue. “Said if I really loved you so much, I should fuck off – no, he said make myself scarce – and let him make you happy. I wouldn’t have if you hadn’t looked it. Even after you had that accident.”

An accident. He doesn’t sound like he’s mocking you, which means he bought the story Kai fed everyone, that you were in a hit-and-run accident instead of that you stepped into the road. Kai is that good. “I left you that picture, and I kept an eye on things,” Tomura says. “There wasn’t anything to see until a week ago.”

Your mouth’s gone dry. You swallow a few times. “A week ago?”

“A week ago. When you made that post.” Tomura doesn’t wait for you to respond. “With that fucking bite mark. I know damn well you’re not into that.”

“Maybe I am. It’s been a long time,” you say. You can’t raise your voice louder than a whisper. “We were just kids.”

“We were watching Hellraiser. The one with the Cenobites. You said you couldn’t figure out why anyone would try to solve the Lament Configuration, and I said there are people who are into that.” Tomura has a better memory than you thought he did, at least when it comes to you. “And you said you wouldn’t like being hurt by somebody who loves you. And then you got all embarrassed and looked at me and said –”

“Sorry,” you murmur. You remember Tomura giving you the weirdest look after you apologized. Don’t be stupid, he said, and spent so long kissing you that the two of you missed all but the last ten minutes of the movie. I wouldn’t solve it, either.

“You do remember.” A smile lights Tomura’s face, and something twists inside you. The smile fades fast. “I know you. I know you didn’t want that. And there’s no fucking way you wanted this.”

Kai would touch it. He’d run his finger over the line of stitches, and you’d hold still, knowing what would happen if you flinched. Tomura draws the line across his own chest with a hand that shakes, and when he speaks, it’s through clenched teeth. “This has been going on for a while, right? If he’d slashed you with a knife out of nowhere, you’d leave. Don’t answer that. I know. Why didn’t you tell me sooner? I told you that you couldn’t run from me forever. Why did you keep trying?”

He’s not asking why you didn’t leave. The fear of that question, of the shame and judgment that would follow it, has kept you silent so many times, kept you from reaching for help when it was tantalizingly close. Sometimes you wonder if Kai knows that. But Tomura’s not blaming you for staying. He wants to know why you didn’t let him know. Because if you had let him know –

“Don’t say you’ll keep me safe,” you say. Tomura opens his mouth, and you cut him off. “Kai said the same thing about you.”

Tomura’s expression twists. “Don’t compare me to him. I didn’t hurt you. I would never hurt you.”

“No, you just followed me. For years! I was –” Not scared. Never scared. Frustrated, on edge, anxious, uncertain – but not scared. “I never got to be alone. I never had to time to think, because I knew you could be watching – because you were always there –”

“I didn’t come here to talk about that,” Tomura says. You feel an odd twinge of relief when you realize that he isn’t denying it. “And that’s not why you called for me. Tell me why you posted that picture.”

The words of the woman from the pharmacy ring through your head: If someone wanted to help you, would you let him? “Kai – he hurts me,” you say. You’ve never said it out loud before, and you thought it would be a relief, but it isn’t. “He has for years. And now he wants a baby, and I can’t – I won’t. I don’t know what to do.”

That’s wrong. You do know what to do. “I need to leave,” you say. “I need to leave and I don’t know how. I don’t know if I can do it alone.”

“If you could, you’d have done it by now,” Tomura says. “I’ll get you out of there.”

He’s confident. That’s a similarity between Tomura and Kai, maybe the only similarity – once they’ve decided how something’s going to be, they’re unshakeable. “How?”

“Let me worry about that,” Tomura says. “The less you know, the less you’ll have to lie.”

Is Tomura going to kill him? You don’t want that – or do you? One of your half-formed escape plans ends with Kai dead, but it always struck you as the most implausible, eclipsed only by the idea that he’d ever let you go in peace. What you want, more than anything, is to be free, to know you’ll never have to see Kai again. But if you can’t have that, you’ll settle for a clean break. Or any break at all.

But even that feels fantastical, hallucinatory. Too easy. “Tomura –”

He smiles, softer than before. “I missed hearing you say that.”

The twist inside you hurts more this time. “I don’t understand,” you say. “It’s been so long. I broke up with you. I married him. Why would you still –”

“I don’t care about that.” Tomura reaches across the space between you, slowly enough that you don’t flinch. His hand lands carefully on your shoulder, well clear of your stitches. “I care that you called for me.”

Your eyes prickle, then start to burn. You glance down and away, and Tomura lets you, where Kai would grab your chin and make you look. Tomura’s hand shifts, sliding down along your arm until he’s got a clumsy grasp on your hand. Tomura’s always had a strange way of holding hands. No matter what else he does, he holds on tight, like he’s trying to fuse your fingers with his. Kai’s hated holding hands since you met him. Tomura never wanted to let go.

And he doesn’t – not until someone knocks on the bathroom door, startling him and scaring you. “Hey, are you okay in there?” Emi asks. “It’s been kind of a while, and you didn’t look so good when you stood up.”

Tomura glances at the door, then back to you. “She’s good,” you say as quietly as possible. “A friend.”

“Good.” Tomura raises your hand to his mouth for a long moment that’s not so much a kiss as a puff of breath against your skin, then lets it fall. “Go. I’m here. I’ll find you again soon.”

“Okay,” you say, and he lets you go, melting back into the shadows behind the door. You open it and face Emi, seeing the worried look on her face. “Hi. Sorry. I just got nauseous for a second.”

Emi’s worry doesn’t fade the way you wanted it to. But since it’s Emi, she covers up by cracking a joke. “You’d better not be getting morning sickness on me. Who’s going to listen to me talk about Aizawa if you’re on maternity leave?”

“No morning sickness,” you say, forcing a smile. “Maybe it was the alcohol.”

“You had one drink. Who knew you were such a lightweight?” Emi teases. She links her arm with yours as you step out of the bathroom. “Come on. I want to hear about Istanbul.”

Back at the table, you talk about Istanbul – and Kai, when the story can’t avoid him. It feels ever so slightly easier than it did half an hour ago, and it’s because of Tomura, because of the weight of his hand on your shoulder, the warmth of his fingers folded around yours. His promise to help you isn’t one you can believe, but you never hoped for that. All you wanted was someone to see, someone to know. Now he knows. And you feel a little less alone than you did before.

<- Chapter 1

[cacoetheswriting]

the little mess you made.

pairing: rockstar!eddie munson x singlemom!reader (modern au) word count: 3.9k

summary: five years after he returns home, eddie munson is greeted at the front door of his uncles house by a toddler with a head of dusty-brown locks. hoping for a break from the life he's built for himself, the rockstar is instead faced with another hard truth.

chapter cw: suggestive & mature themes, implied intimacy | non-explicit, one night stand gone awry, secret pregnancy aka no-one told eddie he's a dad, this chapter is kinda angsty, emotional hurt / little-to-no comfort, navigating family dynamics, adult language, some pining / yearning — pls let me know if i missed any!

psa: any images used in chapter headers don’t depict readers physical attributes! these are also vaguely — if at all— described in the story.

story masterlist

The kitchen is a statement in itself, Eddie thinks. 

Wayne’s collection of printed mugs stands on the windowsill above the sink, on full display. Random postcards and colourful post-it notes are stuck to the fridge with plastic alphabet magnets. A calendar hangs by the doorway, a different vintage car on display for the various months and hard to read scribbles on seemingly important dates.

There’s a fancy coffee machine in one corner of the forest-painted counters and a collection of hot sauces in the other. In the centre of the space, there’s a wooden table with mismatched chairs placed around it. A stack of old newspapers lies in the middle, all open to the crossword page. The table also features a vase of tulips and a single ‘World’s Best Grandpa’ photo frame: Wayne, in hospital blues, cradling a newborn.

The kitchen is a statement in itself, Eddie thinks. The statement being: he’s a stranger in his own uncle’s home.

A stranger in the house he bought for Wayne; a brick-faced thank you for everything the rockstar's uncle did for him over the years. Expecting nothing in return, only thinking this could become the place Eddie could possibly return to when in need aka now more than ever. Instead, he doesn’t feel welcome. He feels like he’s intruding somehow.

Wayne has replaced him.

While Eddie was off touring and galavanting around the world, building himself the career of his wildest dreams, it seems Wayne has been busy too. His uncle created himself a family. Somehow got himself a grandson.

“So, whose kid is that?” Eddie asks, nudging his head in the direction of the toddler.

The little boy is kneeling on one of the chairs, the top half of his body is bent over a currently blank piece of paper. He’s gripping a red crayon in his left hand, the tip of his tongue sticking out in concentration as he doodles on the page.

Wayne places a mug of tea in front of Eddie then makes himself comfortable in the chair next to his grandson, across from his nephew. For a few minutes, as the two older Munson men stare at the toddler, it’s quiet. Only the scratching sound of crayon on paper. Wayne’s gaze is filled with adoration, while Eddie’s is laced with uncertainty. There’s something oddly familiar about the tiny head of dusty-brown curls.

Clearing his throat, Wayne gently nudges his grandson.

“Messer, what do we say when we invite someone inside?”

The boy lifts his eyes from the doodles. First, he looks at Wayne, who nods, encouraging. Turning his attention to Eddie, the toddler squeezes his mouth together and offers a timid smile.

“Hello,” he utters simply.

Eddie chokes back a scoff at the absolute insanity of this moment. He wants to ask Wayne what’s the reason for this charade. Why can’t his uncle just tell him what the fuck is going on.

“Hey,” the rockstar replies, forcing a smile.

“My name is Messer,” he introduces himself, not able to pronounce the r so instead, it sounds like he’s saying Messel.

Lifting a hand to his chest, the rockstar says, “I’m Eddie.”

Seemingly satisfied with doing a good job, Messer looks to Wayne for the same type of approval, once only reserved for Eddie and the sentiment makes the brunette rockstar shift uncomfortably in his seat. The eldest Munson ruffles the toddler’s hair and asks him to go play in the living room.

“I’ll join you in a minute, okay?”.

Once they’re left alone, Wayne faces his nephew completely and Eddie now notices the difference a five years can make. A few extra frown lines, wrinkles. His hair is a shade of grey that glistens under the light and the bags under his eyes are a little deeper than before. Overall however, Wayne looks happy. There’s no stress visible across his features and Eddie’s heart clenches inside his chest because maybe coming back to Hawkins was a bad idea.

“What are you doing here, Eddie?” Wayne asks.

“When I called for your birthday, you said the tour wasn’t supposed to be over for a few more months and then you had obligations to be back in the studio.”

Ignoring his uncle’s question, the rockstar fires back with his own. The same one from minutes ago.

“Whose kid is that, Wayne?”

Placing the mug down in front of him, after taking a sip, Wayne relents. He tells his nephew he loves him. Really. The highs, the lows. The crazy antics. Eddie’s dreams and passions, his intense drive for a better life, far away from Hawkins. 

“I know all that,” Eddie says.

Wayne sighs. “Your friend, Steve, introduced me to this girl. Twenty-something. Pretty as a sunset.”

“So, you’re playing grandpa to Harrington’s child?”

“No,” Wayne answers. “I am a grandpa to yours.”

The roll of Eddie’s eyes is almost instant. He huffs in disbelief, lips twisting into a smirk at the ridiculousness of the information his uncle is after putting forward because there’s a plethora of reasons why Messer being his kid is near impossible. Top of the list: Eddie Munson uses protection. That’s rule number one and no matter how wasted he finds himself to be, it’s a rule he never forgets.

For crying out loud, he even did a months-long ad campaign for Durex.

Seeing the disbelief spread across his nephew’s features, Wayne continues.

“Following one of your gigs, she found herself in a certain situation and with nowhere else to go, I took her in. There’s plenty of space in this big house you bought me and I won’t lie kid, since you never visit, an old man gets lonely.”

“So she says,” Eddie grumbles, reaching for his own mug of tea.

“Don’t make stupid comments like that, son. I for sure raised you better.” Wayne chastasies. “With your reputation, I had no reason to doubt her.”

That the rockstar can’t deny. 

Ever since his fast rise to fame, he's on the front page of every gossip site almost daily — usually with a different girl on his arm. He’s a constant topic of conversation on various pop culture podcasts and social media accounts, primarily Deuxmoi (a pain in Eddie’s backside). Everybody has something to say and it’s not always kind, or true.

Over the years, he’s been labelled a womaniser, an asshole, the lost cause. Satanist. He’s been called reckless, heartless, and brainless. People that have never met him pretend they know him best. The internet mafia. They write how he’s incompetent, a nightmare to work with, and worse of all, void of any real talent.

Yes, the rockstar is known by many names yet, despite his public list of conquests, Eddie never thought he’d add this one to the list: someone’s dad.

“There’s no way…” Eddie begins, but the words get tangled at the back of his throat. There’s no way I have a kid and no one told me. There’s no way I missed three years of his life. There’s no way I’m fit to be a dad.

Almost as if he can feel his nephew's mind spiral out of control, Wayne reaches across the table to grab Eddie’s shaking hand.

“When Messer was born, I knew.” Wayne states, full of emotion. “My heart expanded when I held him for the first time and in that moment, I knew. He’s half you, Eddie.”

They finish their tea in silence.

When the cups are empty, Wayne stands then asks his nephew whether he’s hungry. Eddie shakes his head no, even though he is, and tells his uncle to go be with the kid, that he’ll join them soon. He washes up the ceramics, heart still hammering inside his chest, and after wiping his ring-clad fingers on a kitchen towel, Eddie ventures deeper inside this foreign house.

The living room makes the rockstar feel even more uneasy, but he doesn’t digest every piece of decor upon entry. Instead, Eddie’s focus lands on the little boy.

Messer is playing with a collection of plastic farm animals and makes the different noises with his mouth as he moves the pieces around the carpeted floor.

“You be a cow, granpa,” he instructs, once again soft on the letter r, and passes Wayne the black-and-white animal.

Then his doe-eyes turn to Eddie. He doesn’t say anything, just lifts the hand holding a plastic horse in the rockstar's direction, patiently waiting for Eddie to take it from his grasp.

Hesitantly, Eddie steps towards the toddler and crouching down in front of him, grabs the toy. Messer averts his gaze and continues playing, just like he was seconds ago, while Eddie remains frozen because, in a single second, this kid has shown him more kindness than Eddie’s experienced in his life.

Then, a small smile breaks through Eddie’s features.

The three Munson’s sit on the carpet and knock the animals around. Using a colourful Lego Duplo set, they build what is supposed to be a farmhouse along with a red tractor (and some obscenely large fruit and vegetables). Eddie realises he can’t remember the last time he’s been this naturally relaxed. 

Afterwards, when Messer falls asleep in Wayne’s lap, Eddie watches his uncle gently scratch down the toddler’s back. Melancholy washes over him. A wish to be a child again, resting in his uncle's lap without a care in the world. No responsibilities, just afternoons full of play and laughter. Suddenly, he’s met with a new sensation. 

“Why did no one tell me?”

The question is almost a whisper, an undertone of sadness flows through it and it’s true, Eddie is holding back tears. Although, he’s not fully sure why. Perhaps it’s longing for the memories he has missed during his kids' life.

“Not you, not Steve, not his mom.” The rockstar lists, pointing to Messer. “I bet half this stupid town knows he’s mine and no one cared enough to fill me in.”

“You’ve been kinda hard to track down,” Wayne tries to reason, which only makes Eddie roll his eyes further into his skull.

“We talk nearly every damn day, Wayne. I’m not that hard to track down.”

Wayne sighs. “This is not a conversation someone wants to have over the phone, son.”

Eddie scoffs. Leg shaking, hand covering his mouth. He’s pondering the waves of different emotions circling through his veins. He’s sad, he’s angry. He’s confused. Sure, Eddie may not have been always available to Wayne over the last few years, and he may also have dodged hanging out with his high school friends on more than one occasion, but keeping this secret from him… That seems below the belt.

Especially because Wayne knows exactly what Eddie felt his entire life, growing up not being wanted by your dad. Surely his uncle wouldn’t want this kid to experience the same hardships.

“He didn’t recognise me,” Eddie says.

Slowly, Wayne nods. He can sense the question at the end of that sentence.

“Messer’s mom thought it best to not tell him yet.”

“Of course she did,” the rockstar mutters and sinks deeper into the large armchair. “So, who does he think his dad is? Fucking Santa Claus or some soldier that went off to fight in a war.”

This makes Wayne laugh. A quiet chortle, as not to disturb the sleeping toddler. He shakes his head at his nephew's dramatic sense of humour, something he has definitely missed quite dearly.

“A musician,” he answers honestly, “Off touring the world.”

Eddie blinks a couple of times, taking this information in.

“She told him the truth, son.” Wayne affirms. “She just didn’t use your name or show him what you look like. She didn’t want him pointing to your photos around the place and asking when you’re going to come home, only to be wildly disappointed.”

Guilt trickles in, another cold unwelcome visitor to the persistent emotions currently overflooding Eddie’s mind and soul. He tries to ignore it. Focus instead on the confusion from moments ago, or the anger, the sense of betrayal, but guilt’s icy current wins.

Eddie clears his throat and says, “That must’ve been hard.”

“What must’ve been hard, kid?”

“Seeing me everywhere while you lived… this life.”

Wayne presses his lips together. He nods again, once, slowly, then looks down at Messer. The curve of his earlobe, the tilt of his button nose. The brown locks and the miniscule freckles, reminiscent of Eddie’s dotted Milky Way.

“That’s not for me to answer, son.”

He wants to tell his nephew just how hard it’s been. The sleepless nights, the colic, the constant anxiety, the eventual weaning, the big emotions. And before all of that, the pregnancy and associated judgement. Wayne wants to tell his nephew he’s got years of making this right, but that’s not up to him. There’s only one person who speaks for how hard this has really been and that person — as he can see from the corner of his eye — is currently making her way up the front path.

The front door opens with a click.

Eddie snaps his head in the direction of the sound, palms of his hands now clammy against his dark denim jeans. There’s a few seconds of quiet shuffling. A bag being dropped and shoes kicked to the side, and then the rockstar hears it. A voice that could calm a storm. A voice imbued with inherent peace.

A voice he’s heard before.

One he thought he’d never hear again.

A LITTLE BEFORE

“Have a great show!” Felix, his tour manager, shouts over the drumroll and Eddie shoots him a quick thumbs-up, before jogging onto the stage with the usual bravado.

Effortlessly, the rockstar spins on his heel, facing the crowd, then throws his arms up in the air as they cheer from below. The screams get louder with each city, tickling Eddie’s second favourite spot: his ego. Tonight is no exception. Thousands of fans squeal and shout up at the stage. They jump in anticipation as Eddie looks to his band. Start.

New York, New York.

The most populous city in the United States and Eddie’s preferred choice, in terms of crowds. They know all of the words to his catalogue of songs, including all of the live chants. They move when he moves, get louder if he encourages. They boo him only when he steps off the stage because they always want more and Eddie’s fucking happy to oblige.

He lives for this. Yes, the fame and the money, but in reality, it’s the shows that keep him going. The control he has over the people that come watch him perform. Up on that stage, night after night, Eddie Munson can do no wrong.

As the third song draws to an end, the rockstar casts his eyes downwards, and for the first time in his to date relatively short career, he freezes.

The tight space between the barrier and the front of the stage is filled with photographers, most of whom Eddie recognises since, night after night, they travel with the band. There’s always the couple of strays, invited from local news outlets, but usually Felix will do quick introductions before the show so they can get a couple of quotes for the releases. 

Staring down, Eddie spots the familiar faces and in the midst, he notices a girl.

She’s looking at him through a lens, but even with the camera blocking half of her face, the rockstar sees a glint of pearly whites. Click. A flash. Then, slowly, the girl lowers the 35mm and Eddie’s throat dries — not to sound overly simplistic, she’s the most beautiful creature he’s ever fucking seen.

The next song's opening guitar riff snaps the brunette rockstar out of his sudden daze, albeit briefly. He does a hectic double take, eyes landing on the girl once more as the lights change colour and her smile grows wider. She lifts the camera back up. Click. Another flash. Now, Eddie’s smiling too, forcing himself to focus back on the crowd and the task at hand.

He can feel her eyes on him, however. During the entirety of two full tracks: Won’t Get Fooled Again and Broken Mirror. She’s chasing him around the stage spellbound, as if she was physically dancing next to him, and the feeling Eddie derives from this interaction is other-wordly. He’s floating through space and time. Through galaxies, like a comet streaking across the cosmos. Actually, he’s not just floating. He’s soaring. Powered by this girl’s absolutely insane aura and her fucking gorgeous smile.

Getting lost in the moment, Eddie doesn’t realise she’s gone until the following song wraps and his gaze searches below the stage. He tries to regain focus. A drum roll fills the silence he’s created while wondering who she is and where she went. Eventually, he snaps out of his daze, turning to the crowd once more. “How are we doing tonight, New York!”

They’re doing fucking amazing, is the answer.

“That girl,” Eddie says to Felix after the show, “One of the photographers, what’s her name?”

Felix claps him on the back of the neck, pulling him into a half-hug. “Great show, man. For a minute there I thought you were going to jump through the time-space continuum.”

“The girl?” Eddie repeats; so what if he sounds desperate.

Dropping his arm, Felix laughs. “Always about the ladies with you,” he teases, then adds, “Don’t know her name. Think she’s with the venue.”

Wiping the sweat drops off his forehead with a trusty grey towel, Eddie nods, taking this information in. He glances around his surroundings, wondering if he can spot the venue promoter he met earlier and ask them the same question, but he can’t spot any other faces, aside from the band's own crew.

Felix is still talking about the show. Going over the highs, the aspects that could be improved upon, and what to never fucking do again: which in this instant, is freeze.

“It’s that girl, man.” Eddie tells his tour manager. “I saw her in the crowd and my brain just short-circuited.”

“There’s always going to be another girl,” Felix says plainly, “Chances aren’t as high for another good fucking show.”

Fingers in a fist, he playfully bumps the rockstar on the arm and walks away to chat with the other band mates. Eddie’s in half a mind to yell after Felix, scream at the top of his lungs that somehow this girl is different, but would that be true? All she did was smile. And yeah, maybe it’s the most perfect smile the rockstar has ever seen. Doesn’t mean she’s anything special…

But God, does he wanna find out.

A LITTLE AFTER

“You’ll not believe the day I’ve had, Wayne.” The voice calls out. Close. For the first time in years, it’s within Eddie’s reach.

However, he remains fixed to his current spot.

He can feel his uncle's gaze burn into the side of his skull, waiting just as eagerly to see how this will play out, but all Eddie can think is: what an embarrassment.  Seemingly, he’s lost all control of his movements. Can’t even stand to greet the fucking girl. The mother of his child.

“And all before you texted me about the certain visitor.”

That wakes Eddie up. 

His brown-eyes lock with Wayne’s, wide. There was a time, not overly long ago, when the two Munsons would present a united front against everyone in this shitty town. A team. Nothing and no one could come between them. So, not only has Wayne gotten himself a new family that apparently doesn't include Eddie, he’s also got himself a new team. The betrayal Eddie’s sensed all afternoon deepens.

“You told her?” The rockstar whispers.

Wayne nods as if it’s the simplest answer in the world. And to the eldest Munson, it is. Because yes, Eddie has been a priority ever since he arrived into this world, screaming his little head off. Eddie’s now in his mid-twenties, with a life on his own. Far away from Hawkins, by design. The toddler sleeping in Wayne’s lap being, at times, the only remaining common thread. A new priority.

“Jesus,” Eddie exhales.

He runs a hand through his already disheveled locks, then down his face. His gaze jumps between the doorway and the window. He could run away and pretend this afternoon never fucking happened, but that would only prove the point they’re all thinking. That he’s a fuck-up, unworthy of being someone’s dad.

A mobile sounds in the hallway. The unmistakable sound of an iPhone ringtone. It’s picked up almost instantly, as if the call was expected.

Then Eddie hears her voice again and his attention settles back on the doorway. Despite his feet being fiercely planted to the carpet below, mainly out of fear, he’s unmistakably drawn to the raw sound. Like he’s a pirate and she’s a siren, calling him to sea.

“Are you on your way?”

Eddie hears and his brows string together. How many people in this godforsaken town have to bear witness to the rockstar facing this colossal mess he’s made for himself — and all because he borrowed a condom from Brick, the drummer from his band. Eddie remembers now. He’s placed the voice in his memory palace along with the night this all happened. 

New York, New York. A camera down below. Click. Flash. And the prettiest smile he’s ever fucking seen.

“Okay, ‘cause I can’t face him without you here.”

A moment of shuffling. Pacing, Eddie’s deducted. She’s nervous, he thinks.

“Ugh. Steve—”

The rockstar blocks out the remainder of that sentence because of fucking course. Harrington to the rescue. His gut twists in envy. Always the same old story: Eddie the screw-up and Steve the hero. They’ve circled this scenario since high school. The alibis provided to Hopper, the countless stacks of copied homework, the train of hearts Harrington mended. Even though — one could argue — Harrington is the bigger asshole in their unlikely friendship, his best friend always comes out on top because he has something Eddie thought he himself lacked. Charm.

Although, charm is not exactly an explanation for how Steve has landed himself in the middle of this particular situation. 

Casting his memory back, the rockstar doesn’t remember Harrington at the concert in question. In fact, now that he’s thinking about it, Eddie’s sure the two of them weren’t even speaking at the time.

Wayne made it quite clear that it was indeed Harrington who introduced the girl, but when the fuck did he meet her? More importantly, why did she reach out to Steve and not Eddie directly? The questions continue to pile in his head, nauseating.

Eventually, there’s quiet. The conversation has ended and after a beat of utterly anguished silence, light footsteps make their way down the hall. Towards the living room.

Then, for precisely thirty-three seconds, Eddie’s heart stops.

“Hi.”

There’s no smile behind the word. A blank expression greets him, but regardless the rockstar feels elated — if only for a moment.

You.

New York, New York. A camera down below. Click. Flash. And the prettiest smile he’s ever fucking seen.

You.

“Hi,” he says back, throat coarse.

Tongue pressed to the inside of your cheek. Eddie knows what it means, he’s seen it before. An anxious tick. Despite Wayne’s warning, you weren’t expecting him, the same way he wasn’t expecting you.

“We’ve got a lot to talk about, I guess.”

Eddie nods, slowly. His anger subsides with every spoken word that surrounds the living room because he may not have known there’s a kid walking around this world that is half him, but you…

Seeing you after all this time, knowing Messer is also half of you, well, the rockstar thinks to himself: what a fucking twisted little jackpot he’s just hit.

as always, thank you for reading! pls support your writers by commenting & reblogging <3

story masterlist

tagging some cool people that expressed interest (if you want to be removed, just let me know), and if anyone wants to be added- also let me know: @tvserie-s-world @probablyin-bed @the-dumpster-fire-of-life @darknesseddiem @kellsck @althaiareads @streamafterlaughter @ali-r3n @spider-starry

[mrsjjongstby]

your latest fic, "overruled" is just so beautiful *chef's kiss* ✨ can we have an angst/comfort in the same universe where reader and jay had a heated argument or something and just idk, maybe they won't talk for like week/s? (let's see who will crumble/fold first 😝) gosh idek, I'm just curious how fights would be knowing they are both lawyers and pro with arguments lol

OMGGGG YESSSSSSS THANK U SOOOOOO MUCH FOR THIS AMAZING REQUESTTTT! I WOULD LOVEEEEEEEEEEE TO WRITE FOR 'OVERRULED' JAY ND Y/N! I HOPE U LIKE THISSSS!!!!!!! (SORRY FOR TAKING TOO LONG TO UPLOAD!)

Part of the fic: Overruled - p.js

You didn’t mean to start a fight.

It was supposed to be just another late strategy session. Just another complicated case. Just another night of you and Jay, sitting too close, speaking too sharply, trying too hard not to care about anything but the win.

But something cracked.

You’re standing at the long conference table, highlighting the opposing counsel’s strategy flaws on the whiteboard. Jay’s seated, flipping through a file.

“You’re missing it,” he says, calm but cold. “They’re not going to lead with that clause. They’ll bury it in discovery and use it to blindside us.”

You turn, marker still in hand. “They always lead with what’s aggressive. It sets the tempo.”

“This isn’t about tempo.”

You raise a brow. “It’s about seeing the angle they want us to miss. And this is the angle.”

He finally looks up. His expression is unreadable. Controlled. The kind of tone he uses in court when he's about to destroy someone with politeness.

“You’re reacting, not planning.”

That does it.

“No, Jay. I’m reading them, like I always do. Just because I don’t analyze it your way doesn’t mean it’s impulsive.”

He sighs — sharp, annoyed. “I’m saying we can’t afford to be sloppy on this.”

A beat.

“Sloppy?” you echo. “You think I’m being sloppy?”

Jay straightens in his chair. “If you’d just take a second and stop being so defensive—”

You snap the cap back on the marker. “Maybe if you didn’t talk to me like I’m a first-year who just got lucky.”

“I don’t—”

“You do. Right now. You're trying to shut me out when i'm disagreeing with your beliefs!”

Silence.

Jay’s jaw tightens. “Maybe we shouldn’t work this one together.”

The words are too calm. Too sharp. Too final.

Your chest goes still. “Fine.”

You gather your notes. Walk out of the room. You don’t look back.

He doesn’t stop you.

Day 1

The silence doesn’t feel like silence. It feels like punishment.

He passes you in the hallway with the same blank expression he wears for opposing counsel. Nods once. Keeps walking.

You tell yourself it’s fine.

You’ve always known how to be professional. Detached. Efficient.

But when his voice skips over you in the morning meeting — goes from “Let’s have Daniel draft that” to “I’ll take the close” without even glancing your way — something clenches behind your ribs.

You say nothing.

Just like he did.

Day 5

You stop waiting for coffee to show up at your desk.

You bring your own, bitter and wrong, because that’s what it tastes like now.

You see him in the glass of the conference room. His reflection moves behind yours, pacing as he speaks to clients. You catch your own eye in the glass.

Still sharp. Still composed.

And still waiting for something that never comes.

Day 7

The new associate leaves a coffee on your desk. Your favorite.

You smile. Say thanks.

Jay walks by your office thirty minutes later.

Doesn’t look at the cup.

Doesn’t say a word.

But the look on his face? Like someone quietly swallowed glass.

Day 10

The big case is done. You win. Clean. Without each other.

You say all the right things in the post-trial debrief. So does he.

He nods. You nod. You both pretend it’s not empty.

Day 11

You’re in the records room. Alone. Filing. Avoiding the silence of your office. You hear the door open. Then close. You turn. He’s standing there.

Jay.

Wrinkled shirt. Unreadable eyes. Stillness like a bomb that hasn’t gone off yet.

“I said something I shouldn’t have,” he says.

You freeze. “…Ten days ago?”

He exhales. “I didn’t mean it. I was angry.”

“Because I disagreed with you?”

“No,” he says. “Because I wasn’t used to not having the last word.”

You pause. Arms crossed. “And now?”

He steps closer. “Now I haven’t slept in a week. I'm sorry, baby.”

You laugh once — low, bitter.

And when you speak again, your voice is smaller. “You don’t listen sometimes. You assume you’re right. And I didn’t want to argue.”

His mouth twitches. “We’re lawyers. We argue for a living.”

“I’m not talking about court.”

Another silence. This one quieter. Closer. Jay runs a hand through his hair. He looks exhausted. And wrecked.

“I hate this,” he says softly. “Not talking to you. Walking past your desk like you’re not there. Pretending it doesn’t bother me that you won’t even look at me in meetings.”

You blink too fast. He exhales. “I miss you. I miss… everything.”

“You’re the one who started it.”

“I know, baby, I know,” he says quickly. “And I’d undo it. If I could.”

You finally step closer. That makes him smile. Just barely. He looks at you. Really looks at you.

“I miss you angel.”

Simple. Quiet. Like he’s saying it against his will.

“I was mad,” you admit. “Still am, maybe.”

“I know.”

“But I hated not talking to you more than I hated the fight.”

Jay steps forward. Close now.

“I didn’t know how to fix it.”

“You just did.”

Silence. Then, very softly:

“I missed you too.”

And it’s all he needs. Jay leans in — slow, deliberate — and presses his forehead to yours. His hand finds your waist. Your fingers touch his collar. And when he kisses you this time, it’s different. Not like the last kiss. Not like the angry silence.

This one says: I’m sorry. This one says: I’m still here. This one says: Don’t walk away next time.

You kiss him back like a promise. Like the silence is over. Like something cracked — and you both chose to rebuild it.

Together.

Later That Night

You’re back in his office, sitting beside him on the couch in quiet peace. His tie is undone. Your head’s against his shoulder.

No one else knows. They don’t have to. Because this? This isn’t about office gossip or whispered speculation.

This is the apology. The aftermath. The “I missed you” pressed into skin instead of spoken. Jay pulls you closer, murmurs into your hair:

“I won’t let us get like that again.”

And for once — the one who doesn’t trust easily, who controls everything — he means it.

©mrsjjongstby all writing belong to me. do not copy, modify or repost my works.

taglist: @gnarlyhoons @stormlit-pages @himynameisraelynn @see-c @shra-vasti @heesbbygurl @elikajinnie @jwyoceans @jaylaxies (lmk if u wanna be added!)

[iheartsophie]

DRUNK IN LOVE | george clarke

^ྀི pairing: George Clarke x fem!reader

^ྀི genre: real life, smau, established!relationship

^ྀི context: y/n joins the boys in a video of pub golf and george ends up getting serenaded by the end of it

^ྀི warnings: nothing the im aware of.. drinking maybe?

^ྀི sophie speaks!: i literally speed ran to get this finished, because of that there may be some mistakes. i have proof read but there might still be some lingering in there.. I HOPE YOU ENJOY!!

You weren’t even supposed to be in the video.

When George asked if you wanted to tag along to the Pub Golf shoot, you hesitated. You’d seen some of the chaos from their previous drinking videos — someone always ends up shirtless, someone else always ends up injuring themselves . But George gave you that look, the one with the half-smirk and the eyebrow raise, and next thing you knew, you were pre-gaming in a Wetherspoons booth while Chris explained the scoring system with the intensity of a police sergeant .

“I give her three holes before she’s gone,” Harry muttered to Chip, who let out a cackle.

George chuckled, wrapping an arm around your waist. “She’s got a decent tolerance. You’ll be surprised.”

You tilted your chin proudly. “I’m not that much of a light weight guys, come on now.”

Arthur Hill leaned over the table with a grin. “Famous last words.”

The first pub was easy. A cider. Score: par 4, you drank it in three sips. The boys nodded in approval. The second pub. Tequila shots. You took yours without blinking, while Chris gagged over a lime wedge.

Third pub? Some kind of horrific layered cocktail that tasted like poison. You swayed slightly, laughed a little louder than usual, and George was starting to take notice of your behavior but decided to just keep an eye on you for now. By the fourth stop, things started to shift.

“Y/N,” George said quietly as you downed a vodka-cranberry like it was water, “maybe you slow down a bit, yeah?”

“Why?” you grinned, your cheeks flushed, “I’m smashing it.”

“You’re wasted, babe.”

You poked his broad chest, grinning. “Jealous I’m doing better than you?”

He gave you a look. The soft, worried kind that made your stomach flip — as if it weren’t already doing that from the cheap, sickly-sweet mixers.

“You sure you don’t wanna sit this one out? I’ll call us an Uber.”

You grabbed his hand, lacing your fingers through his. “George. I love you. But if you try to take me home, I will deadass hide in the loos and climb out a window.”

Arthur TV overheard and burst out laughing, nearly choking on his pint. “George can’t even control his own girlfriend. Amazing.”

George sighed, kissed your forehead, and muttered something about “making sure you drink water next round.” But you were already halfway to the next pub.

By the time the eighth and final pub rolled around, most of the boys were pacing themselves. George had sobered up just enough to keep an eye on you, but you? You were dancing. Singing an acoustic rendition of Levitating by Dua Lipa that would most definitely get Chris copyrighted.

“Y/N, come on, we’re finishing up,” George coaxed, gently guiding you toward the group.

“I’m not done yet!” you whined, clutching a martini like it was a precious artifact.

“Babe. The pub golf is literally over.”

“Oh.”

You blinked, then giggled, letting him wrap an arm around your waist as the crew made their way out into the cool night.

The walk to the train station should’ve been uneventful.

But as fate would have it, the group passed by a club blaring music through open windows. Beyoncé’s Drunk in Love filled the street, bass thumping through the pavement.

You gasped, dramatically placing a hand on George’s cheek as he carried you bridal-style down the street.

“I’ve been drinking… I’ve been drinkiiiing,” you started to sing, voice shaky and off-key.

George laughed, struggling not to drop you. “Oh god.”

The boys lost it.

Arthur Hill already had his phone out. “This is going straight to the group chat.”

“No,” George groaned, “not Instagram—”

“Too late!” Harry whooped, posting a story of you clutching George’s neck, serenading him as if you were on The Voice and this was your final audition.

“GEORGIE, I’M DRUNK IN LOOOOOVE,” you belted, raising your arms dramatically, almost smacking Chip in the face as he tried to duck out of frame.

THE NEXT MORNING

You woke up to two things: a raging headache, and George snoring softly beside you, his arm draped around your waist.

Your phone buzzed non-stop. Instagram notifications flooded in.

@/wroetoshaw posted a story: “She’s a menace 😭”

@/arthurtv posted a story: “Y/N’s X-Factor audition in the middle of Soho 💀”

@/theburntchip posted a story: “Drunk in love is CRAZY”

You opened one clip and saw yourself singing dramatically to George, who looked somewhere between amused and mortified. Your head hit the pillow with a groan.

“George,” you whispered.

“Mmm?” he mumbled sleepily.

“Did I… did I sing last night?”

He cracked an eye open. “You were Beyoncé and Jay-Z all in one.”

You buried your face in your hands. “I wanna disappear.”

George grinned, pulling you closer. “You were iconic. Don’t worry. Everyone loved it.”

Still, you needed some redemption.

You searched for the you two took when you were at the beach. You were both dancing and the sunset in the background created the effect of you both being silhouettes.

You opened Instagram, attached the photo, and captioned it:

liked by, georgeclarkey and 465,899 others

@/youruser: i can confirm, i am drunk in love❤️🍸

Almost immediately, the replies flooded in.

@/wroetoshaw: REDEMPTION ARC 😭

@/chrismd: this is the romcom we never knew we needed

@/arthurtv: legendary behavior

@/maxbalegde: mum and dad are so in love

@/georgeclarkey: Next time I’m the one getting carried.

You smiled, curled into George’s chest, and whispered to yourself,

“Worth the hangover.”

[joelsslvts]

𓆩⟡𓆪 𝐓𝐎𝐎 𝐃𝐀𝐌𝐍 𝐒𝐖𝐄𝐄𝐓 — 𝐉𝐎𝐄𝐋 𝐌𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐄𝐑 𝐗 𝐅𝐄𝐌!𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑

Joel Miller x Female!Reader — Jackson Era | Roommate AU

Enemies to lovers / Slow burn / Protective Joel / Age gap / Longfic-style

——————————————————————————

When Joel Miller first moved into Jackson, he expected peace. Routine. Something solid to hold onto.

What he didn’t expect was you.

They told him housing was tight, that Ellie would have her own spot a few streets down with some younger kids, and that they’d matched him with someone “easygoing” in one of the older houses near the stables. He didn’t care. He just wanted a bed that didn’t smell like blood or damp mold.

And then he met you.

You opened the front door barefoot, soft music floating in from a nearby record player. You wore an oversized flannel that clearly wasn’t his, hair messy, a chipped mug in your hand.

"Hi," you said, like you hadn’t just wrecked every expectation he had.

He blinked. “You’re my… roommate?”

“Looks like it,” you chirped. “You get the room upstairs. It’s quieter.”

He hated you instantly.

Not for any real reason, really. You hadn’t done anything. You were polite. Kept your side of the house clean. But you were young—too young, in his opinion. Not a kid, but not someone who should be anywhere near a man like him. You were always humming, baking things, helping the old man next door fix his radio. You walked around barefoot even in the cold. You smiled at everyone, even after patrols.

He hated how perfect you were.

And worse? You weren’t scared of him.

Most people in Jackson gave him space. Kept conversation short. They respected him, sure, but no one tried to know him. Except you.

You’d ask him if he wanted soup when you made extra. You told him goodnight every evening even if he didn’t respond. You’d leave out a cup of coffee on the table in the mornings with a little note—just in case you want it.

God, it drove him insane.

Joel kept his distance. Shut his bedroom door at night. Ate fast so he wouldn’t have to sit across from you too long. But he watched you. He couldn’t help it.

The way you sat on the couch with your knees pulled to your chest, reading. How you laughed quietly at the local kids trying to impress you. The way you stood outside during snowfalls like the world was still full of wonder.

He told himself you were a nuisance.

But then came the night you didn’t come home.

The town had a curfew for a reason. The streets weren’t dangerous like the outside world, but people still noticed when someone was late. Joel had paced the living room like a caged dog, waiting to hear your voice, to see your smile as you walked in and said, “Sorry! Got caught up talking to Maria!”

But the door never opened.

And when someone mentioned they’d seen you at the gates helping with a trade group, something snapped inside him.

By the time you stumbled through the front door, cheeks wind-chapped and hair windblown, Joel was already by the coat rack.

“Where the hell were you?”

You froze. “Joel? I—I told you I might be at the gates late tonight.”

“You didn’t come back.”

“I’m back now,” you said, confused, brushing snow off your jacket.

“You could’ve been hurt,” he barked.

You stepped back, hurt flickering behind your eyes. “I can take care of myself, you know.”

And then it happened. He didn’t mean for it to. But the truth ripped out of him, raw and jagged.

“You don’t belong out there! You—fuck—you don’t belong around me!”

You blinked. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Joel turned away, jaw clenched, running a hand through his hair like he could physically pull the feelings out of himself.

"You’re… light. You smile at people. You have hope. And you walk around this goddamn town like you ain’t seen what the world can do.”

You stared at him for a long moment.

Then, softly, “So you hate me because I’m not broken?”

His silence was the answer.

“I’m not stupid, Joel. I know what’s out there. I’ve lost people. But I chose to keep going. I chose to hold onto something good. That’s not a crime.”

He still wouldn’t look at you.

You added, voice shaking, “But maybe you don’t hate me. Maybe you just don’t know what to do with someone who doesn’t hate you.”

He flinched at that.

You left him standing there in the hallway, alone.

And yet—something changed after that.

The next morning, you still made two cups of coffee. He took his this time.

You didn’t speak about the argument, but the air between you was different. Softer.

One night, he found you asleep on the couch, curled up with a blanket half-falling off your shoulder. He covered you with another and stood there longer than he should’ve, watching the gentle rise and fall of your breath.

“Jesus,” he muttered to himself. “What the hell are you doin’ to me?”

It took him weeks to admit it. Not out loud—God, no. But in small ways.

He walked you to the stables every morning. He patched your coat without asking. He saved the last slice of pie for you even though he wanted it.

One night, he fell asleep on the couch next to you. He hadn’t meant to. But when he woke up, your head was on his shoulder, and his arm was around you like it had always belonged there.

He didn’t move.

Eventually, he whispered, “You still make me nervous, you know that?”

You didn’t respond—still asleep, lips parted just slightly. But you shifted closer in your sleep, hand resting over his heart.

And Joel… let it stay there.

[muiitoloko]

More Frank Benson smut?

Title: Weight of You

Summary: A gruff, white-haired veteran finds unexpected warmth in the softness of a woman society often overlooks. What begins as a drink at a bar becomes something far deeper—intimate, fierce, and real.

Pairing: Frank Benson × Fem! Chubby! Reader

Warnings: Smut

Also read on Ao3

Frank took a long sip of his beer, the bitter edge of it grounding him as he sat in that familiar dark corner of the pub, the worn leather booth creaking beneath his weight. The lighting was low, the air heavy with the smell of wood polish and stale laughter. Around him sat four other men—old army friends, greying and stiff in the knees, all a little heavier, a little more jaded, all divorced like Frank. Only one or two still clung to marriage, and even they spoke of it like a ceasefire more than a love story.

“Redheads, always had a thing for redheads,” muttered Jameson, who’d been married three times and still hadn’t learned a damn thing.

The talk was the same as always—quiet at first, grumbling about pensions and politics, slipping eventually into stories half-true, half booze-fogged. And, as inevitably happens when men of a certain age drink enough to feel twenty again, the conversation shifted to women.

“I like ‘em tall,” grunted Wallace, “long legs, model types. You know, the kind that look like they’d break you if they sat on your lap, but in a good way.”

“Blondes,” Murtaugh chimed in, swirling his whiskey. “You know where you stand with a blonde.”

“Brunettes are less drama,” came the reply from the one still married, though he said it like a man who'd just discovered an unexploded landmine in his garden.

Frank stayed quiet, nursing his beer. He wasn’t there to fantasize—he was there because it was Friday, and because silence in a crowd didn’t feel as lonely as silence at home.

Then came the question.

“What about you, Frank?” Murtaugh leaned forward, one brow raised. “C’mon, you’ve got to have a type. Redheads? Blondes? What gets your blood pumping these days, old man?”

Frank didn’t even look up at first. Just gave a soft grunt, baritone curling lazily in his chest. “Alive,” he said dryly. “As long as she’s alive, I can handle it.”

The men laughed. A few smacked the table, some shaking their heads with grins.

“Even a chubby one?” Jameson joked, elbowing Frank’s side like they were still twenty and invincible.

Frank didn’t laugh. Not this time.

Instead, he smiled to himself—just a ghost of a smirk, private and knowing—and answered simply, “Chubby women have their charm. Plenty of flesh to hold onto. Feels real. Feels good.”

That quieted them for a beat. The kind of beat that always comes after a man speaks the truth in a room full of noise.

Then Wallace, ever the bastard, cocked his head and nodded toward the bar. “Well then, Benson,” he said, grinning, “guess she’s your type.”

They all turned to look.

There she was. Sitting alone at the bar, her back straight but her shoulders slightly hunched, like the weight of the day had settled too heavily on her. Chubby—soft arms, plush hips, thighs that touched. Her dark dress clung in the right places, but not by design. She stirred her drink slowly, staring down into the glass like it had insulted her. Sad eyes. Pretty mouth. Not wearing the kind of makeup meant to lure, but the kind meant to cover fatigue.

Frank didn’t respond immediately. He just watched her. Not in the leering way his friends did—but with curiosity. Recognition, even. There was something about her—the solitude, the quietness. Like maybe she’d come here hoping not to be noticed, but wanting someone to notice her anyway.

He set his beer down, slow and deliberate, his hooked nose catching the edge of the low light.

Then, after a long moment, he said, “She’s got sad eyes.”

“Yeah,” Wallace said with a chuckle. “That your thing too?”

Frank didn’t answer. He just kept looking. Hazel eyes narrowed slightly. His fingers tapped the side of his glass.

Because what his friends didn’t know—what he’d never say aloud—was that there was a different kind of beauty in sadness. A softness. A depth. A woman who knew sorrow knew how to be gentle. Knew how to be fierce when needed. And maybe she was like him—tired of pretending, tired of waiting, just needing someone who could keep pace with the weight they both carried.

He pushed back from the table, stood slowly. The chair let out a quiet scrape, and his friends fell silent again.

“Where the hell are you going?” Murtaugh asked, half-laughing.

Frank reached for his coat. “To buy her a drink.”

And just like that, the jokes stopped.

Because they all knew Frank Benson. He wasn’t the kind of man who made moves lightly; when he moved, it meant something.

And tonight, it meant her.

He approached you with a kind of deliberate casualness, like a man who had nothing to prove but chose to prove it anyway. Slow steps. Measured. Calm. His white hair caught the dim pub light like frost, and when he reached the bar, he didn’t look at you right away—just flagged down the bartender with a nod and said, voice smooth and low, “Bring her another one of whatever she’s drinking. On me.”

You didn’t even glance his way. Just let out a soft, irritated sigh, still staring into your half-empty glass.

“I’m really not in the mood to be made fun of today,” you muttered, not cruel, but tired. “I had a bad day, okay?”

That might’ve been enough to send off most men. But not Frank.

He leaned a forearm casually against the edge of the bar and arched a brow, hazel eyes fixed on your profile. “Bad day?” he repeated, a soft tease in his baritone. “What happened? Break up with your boyfriend?”

Your head snapped toward him, full of annoyance—and then, unexpectedly, confusion.

You stared.

He was older. White-haired. Strong-looking, yes, but definitely your dad’s age. Maybe older. Broad, with a hooked nose and the kind of lined, authoritative face that came with decades of life lived hard and full. Not exactly the kind of man you expected to be hit on by—not here, not now.

For a moment, your eyes narrowed with suspicion.

Would you even be made fun of by an old man tonight?

But he was watching you calmly, not leering. Not amused. Just… watching. And then, as if he knew exactly what you were thinking, he held up one hand and said, “Alright. Bad start. I’ll take the hit.” A small pause. “I just wanted to buy a drink for a beautiful woman. Sorry if I was an idiot about it.”

You blinked. Caught off guard.

“Beautiful?” you echoed, as if you’d never heard the word before in that tone—low, quiet, without agenda.

He didn’t backpedal. Just gave a small, crooked smile and nodded. “Yes.”

You looked away, suddenly more aware of yourself—your hair not as styled as it should’ve been, your dress clinging in places you hated. You were flushed and exhausted, and still he said it like he meant it.

“I’m Frank,” he offered after a moment, extending a hand. “Frank Benson.”

You looked at his hand, then took it—your name leaving your lips a little softer than you meant it to. He shook once, warm and firm, then let go.

“So,” he said, sliding onto the barstool beside yours, not crowding but near enough to matter, “what’s got someone like you looking like the world kicked her down a flight of stairs?”

You opened your mouth to deflect—habit, armor—but something about him made you stop. Maybe it was his calm. Maybe it was the way he said “someone like you” without irony, like it was obvious you deserved better than whatever this night had given you.

You looked into your drink again.

“The guy I’ve been texting for weeks,” you said, voice small and bitter. “He was supposed to meet me for dinner. We’ve been talking every day. He was sweet. Funny. Said he liked my pictures.” You took a deep breath. “And then tonight—he saw me. In person. Didn’t even say hi. Just walked out.”

Frank said nothing at first. Just let that hang in the air.

Your throat tightened, and you let out a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh. “I guess I wasn’t what he expected.”

Frank’s fingers curled slowly around his beer glass. “You ever consider,” he said after a beat, “that maybe he just wasn’t man enough to deserve what he saw?”

You turned your head.

He was watching you. Not pitying. Not performing. Just… watching.

“I mean it,” he added, quieter now. “A man who walks away from a woman like you without a word?” He took a slow sip of his beer, then set it down with care. “That’s not a man. That’s a coward.”

Your chest ached a little—tight in a way that wasn’t sadness. More like recognition. Someone had just told you the thing you needed to hear, without you having to beg for it.

The bartender slid the fresh drink toward you without a word—just a quiet nod, the kind you gave people who looked like they needed a little mercy. You wrapped your fingers around the cool glass and gave a soft, sardonic scoff.

“Well,” you muttered, mostly to yourself, “I’ve officially reached the pinnacle of adult life. Getting consoled by a stranger in a bar.” You took a sip. “An old man, no less. Wow. Stop the world—I want to get off.”

Frank didn’t flinch. If the words stung, he didn’t show it. He just leaned back slightly on the barstool, one arm draped along the counter, his fingers idly tracing the rim of his glass. His white hair caught the dim glow of the overhead pendant, silver like smoke, and when he finally spoke, it was with that same steady, rumbling baritone that could settle nerves and stir things far deeper.

“I’m not consoling you,” he said simply. “Not out of pity. And not because I think you need it.”

You glanced at him, one brow raised.

“I’m here,” he added, taking a slow sip, “because I saw you sitting here looking like the last good thing in a bad world.” A pause, measured and warm. “And I liked you.”

That caught you off guard.

You turned toward him slowly now, more fully, eyes scanning his face, then his chest—then lower, to the hands wrapped around his beer glass. You weren’t even being subtle about it. You were looking for a ring.

Frank noticed.

He smirked, lazy and sharp, the kind that came from confidence earned over decades. He didn’t move his hand—just turned it a little, letting the dim light flash over his bare fingers.

“No one waiting at home,” he said, voice calm and sure. “No wife. No girlfriend. No dog, even.” Then, with the barest flicker of amusement in his eye, “You’re welcome to confirm that for yourself, if you want.”

You stared at him.

And for a moment, you weren’t the woman abandoned at a bar. You weren’t the punchline to someone else’s cowardice.

You were the woman being flirted with by a man who meant every word.

Frank watched your reaction closely—the way your lips parted slightly, the way your gaze flicked to his mouth, back to his eyes. He didn’t lean in, didn’t press—but he gave you just enough.

And then, as if to seal the deal, he winked.

Slow. Smooth. Unapologetically cheeky.

Your cheeks flushed instantly, the heat crawling up your neck, catching you completely off guard. You looked away with a quick laugh, but Frank didn’t push.

He just chuckled low in his throat, pleased.

“Careful,” he murmured, tilting his glass toward yours. “You keep blushing like that, and I’ll start thinking I still have a shot.”

You shook your head, biting your lip to hide the smile now creeping in.

And Frank?

He just watched you glow.

You went home with him, of course.

How could you not?

It had been months since you’d been touched like that—looked at like that. Months since anyone spoke to you without a filter of condescension or pity, months since anyone had seen you, really seen you, and not just your weight or the curve of your hip in a dress that didn’t fit the way it used to. And Frank… Frank Benson didn’t flinch. Didn’t hesitate.

He didn’t act like your softness was something to be overlooked, or endured, or politely ignored.

No, Frank kissed you like he wanted to taste every inch of it.

By the time the cab pulled up in front of his townhouse—a modest place tucked in a quiet, tree-lined street—you were already kissing again, his large hand spread low on your back, pulling you closer in the backseat. His other hand cupped your jaw, steady and warm, while you clutched the front of his coat like you were afraid he might vanish if you let go.

Inside, it was quiet. Dimly lit. A lamp in the hall cast golden shadows across the framed photos and the books stacked in the corners. Military plaques on the wall, a neat coat rack by the door. It smelled faintly of cedar, old paper, and something warm and clean—soap, maybe. Him.

Frank kissed you in the entryway, slow and deliberate, like a man who had time to savor. His hand slid down to your hip and didn’t pause when he felt the plush give beneath your dress. If anything, he squeezed tighter, like he liked it. Like it was something he’d been hoping for.

And then, later—after your shoes were kicked off, after his jacket hit the floor, after he whispered something filthy in your ear that made you laugh and shove at his chest—he tried to lift you.

Tried being the operative word.

Frank wrapped his arms around your waist with a grunt of effort, his breath already catching in a mix of laughter and exertion as he straightened with a muttered, “Alright, here we go—”

You yelped in surprise, your arms flinging around his shoulders, but your feet barely left the ground before he wobbled dangerously and immediately set you back down with a soft curse and a wheezing chuckle.

You both burst out laughing.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, rubbing his back. “That’s what I get for thinking I’m twenty again.”

You doubled over, giggling like a teenager. “You okay, old man?”

“Shut up,” Frank said, still laughing, brushing a kiss to your temple. “You try hauling a grown woman after two decades of joint pain and beer.”

“Maybe don’t try to be a hero next time,” you teased.

But the look he gave you then—amused, warm, eyes full of hunger and something else, something steady—made your breath hitch.

“Wasn’t trying to be a hero,” he said. “Just wanted to hold you.”

That shut you up.

You kissed him then. Kissed him like your chest was about to burst, like something inside you had cracked open, like maybe it was possible someone wanted you not despite everything, but because of it.

Now, you were straddling him in his bed.

Naked except for the necklace you hadn’t taken off and the flush creeping down your chest. The room was dark save for the soft bedside lamp, and Frank was laid back against the pillows, propped up, arms behind his head, watching you with eyes that gleamed like amber in the low light.

His chest rose and fell slowly, a layer of soft hair dusting his sternum. He was thicker than you expected—sturdy, chubby, solid in the way of men who had long since stopped chasing anyone’s approval. His belly curved gently under your thighs, and when you shifted in his lap, he groaned softly, his eyes fluttering half shut.

“You alright?” you asked, breathless, hand braced on his shoulder.

His hands came to your hips and squeezed. Firm. Possessive.

“I said I wanted to feel your weight on me,” he murmured. “Didn’t I?”

You flushed deeper. “You really meant that, huh?”

Frank cracked one eye open. “You think I say shit I don’t mean?”

You didn’t answer right away.

Instead, you looked down at yourself—soft thighs spread over his lap, belly pressing gently against his, the swell of your breasts rising with each shallow breath—and then back at him. His hands were still on you, warm and steady, like you belonged there. Like he liked every inch of what he saw.

You hesitated.

“…Do you have a thing for chubby girls or something?” you blurted, trying to make it sound like a joke. It came out too sharp, too light. Like a bottle dropped just before it shatters.

Frank blinked.

Then frowned, just slightly.

“What?” he asked, confused. “What does that mean?”

You opened your mouth, then shook your head. “Nothing. Just messing with you.”

He narrowed his eyes a little, but didn’t press. Just let his thumbs stroke slow circles against your hips. His voice, when it came, was low and steady.

“I like you,” he said. “Not a type. Not a preference. You.”

That silenced the last of your nerves.

You leaned down and kissed him again, and this time, when he rolled his hips up to meet you—when he groaned into your mouth and pressed you down harder, whispering how good you felt wrapped around him—it finally sank in.

He wasn’t pretending.

He wasn’t settling.

Frank Benson wanted you.

And God, did he prove it.

You rode him slowly, taking your time, your hands splayed over the curve of his chest as your thighs bracketed his hips. Frank was thick—thicker than you were used to—and you could feel every inch of him stretch you, fill you, claim you. The stretch was just shy of too much, your breath catching as you sank a little deeper, your nails digging softly into the sparse chest hair scattered across his sternum.

He groaned beneath you, that baritone voice rumbling out in a low, broken sound that was more grunt than moan—guttural, restrained, the kind of sound a man made when he was trying not to lose control too fast.

“Christ,” he muttered, his head tipping back against the pillows, white hair catching the lamplight in soft silver waves. His hands tightened around your hips, not guiding you—just grounding himself. “You feel… fucking perfect.”

Your body quivered at the praise, and you bit your lip, slowly rolling your hips forward, feeling him shift deeper inside you. The way he filled you—it was overwhelming. Not just physically, but emotionally. Intimately. His cock stretched you in a way that felt like possession, and still he watched you like you were something to be worshipped, not used.

Frank’s hazel eyes were glazed with heat now, narrowed slightly, the corner of his hooked nose twitching as he looked down to where your bodies were joined. His gaze lingered on the slick glide of you taking him inch by inch, your thighs trembling with effort, your body trying to adjust to the sheer size of him. But God, you loved it. Loved the way he stretched you open, made you feel full and aching and alive.

“That’s it,” he rasped, voice thick with gravel. “Take your time, sweetheart. Let me feel every inch.”

You braced your hands against his belly—soft, warm, real—and began to rock your hips in slow circles. The pace was gentle, torturously so, your cunt clenching around him with each drag and press. Frank let out another groan, this one longer, teeth clenched behind it. His fingers gripped your thighs, then slid up slowly to your waist, then higher—until both his hands were cradling your breasts.

He cupped them reverently at first, letting the weight of them fill his palms, his thumbs sweeping slowly over your nipples.

“Beautiful,” he breathed, almost to himself. “Fucking beautiful.”

You gasped when his thumbs found your nipples again, rougher now, coaxing them into hard peaks. He pinched gently, rolled them between calloused fingers, watching the way your body arched in response.

“You like that?” he murmured, one brow arching, lips twitching in satisfaction when you moaned in reply.

“Yes,” you panted, your voice trembling as your hips stuttered, slowing your rhythm. “God, Frank—feels so good—”

He grunted in approval, his thumbs dragging one more lazy circle around your nipples before his hands dropped back to your waist. “Then keep riding, sweetheart. Don’t stop. I want to feel you come just like this—grinding on my cock, making yourself fall apart for me.”

You whimpered, your hands fisting in the sheets beside his shoulders, and started moving again—this time with more purpose. You rocked your hips harder now, faster, your cunt gripping him tighter with every stroke. Frank groaned beneath you, that rich, wrecked sound vibrating into your core.

“Fuck, that’s it,” he growled, eyes hooded, nostrils flaring. “That greedy little pussy just—Christ—sucking me in. You’re gonna make me lose my goddamn mind.”

You laughed shakily, gasping through it, but you didn’t slow. Couldn’t. Not with the way he felt—thick, hot, pulsing inside you like a heartbeat.

Your rhythm grew erratic, driven by the pressure coiling low in your belly. You leaned forward slightly, hands sliding up to brace on his chest, and Frank’s hands immediately found your ass, squeezing the plush flesh there like he couldn’t get enough.

“You gonna come for me?” he asked, voice dark and steady, despite the way his own breath was stuttering now. “Gonna let me feel you clench around me while I’m buried inside you?”

You nodded, breathless, your eyes locked on his. “So close…”

“Good girl,” he growled, thrusting up just once, hard and deep, the motion jolting a cry from your lips. “Then come on, sweetheart. Let go. Let me feel it.”

You shattered with a sob, your body locking tight as pleasure tore through you. Your cunt fluttered around him, spasming hard, soaking him as you rode out your orgasm with stuttering, trembling hips. Frank groaned beneath you, his hands gripping your waist tight as he held you down, letting you grind against him until you whimpered from the intensity.

He didn’t move—didn’t thrust, didn’t break the moment. Just watched you come apart, watched you fall forward and collapse against his chest, panting, shaking, your cheek pressed to his shoulder.

“Jesus,” you whispered, still trembling. “You—God, Frank…”

His hand stroked your back slowly, calming you, grounding you. “That’s it,” he murmured, lips brushing your hairline. “You did so good for me, sweetheart.”

You laughed weakly, still breathless. “I don’t think I can move.”

Frank chuckled low, wrapping both arms around you now, his voice warm and wicked against your ear. “Then don’t. Stay right there. I’ll take care of the rest.”

And he did.

He got on top of you now—slow, deliberate, his body blanketing yours, heavy with heat and something deeper. His cock, still hard and slick from the way you’d ridden him, slid back into you in one smooth, unforgiving thrust, and you gasped, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist.

“Frank—” you breathed, but whatever else you meant to say was lost in a cry as he began to move.

Faster now.

No more teasing, no more slow rhythm. Just the raw, relentless drag of him inside you, fucking you into the mattress like a man claiming what was his. His hips snapped against yours, the soft weight of his belly pressing against your stomach as his arms caged you in, his face buried in the crook of your neck.

“You feel that?” he growled into your skin, baritone breaking with each thrust. “How tight you are? How wet?”

You couldn’t answer. Could barely breathe. Your fingers clutched at the solid stretch of his back, feeling the thick cords of muscle under skin that had carried decades of burden. His white hair brushed your temple, and all you could do was hold on.

He fucked you hard—rhythmic, unrelenting—and you felt another orgasm coil low in your belly, hot and inevitable. Frank felt it too. You knew by the way his pace shifted—by the way his breath caught against your collarbone.

“Come for me again,” he rasped, voice ragged. “One more. Give it to me, sweetheart.”

And you did.

With a sob, you came again—tight and clenching, your thighs trembling around him, your cunt fluttering helplessly as he groaned against your skin.

“Fuck,” he snarled, teeth catching at your throat as he pulled out at the last second, wrapping one hand around the base of his cock. He stroked once, twice—and then he came with a deep, rough sound, spilling hot against your stomach and the rumpled sheets, his breath catching in his throat as he collapsed on top of you, panting, his body heavy and trembling.

For a long moment, the room was nothing but the sound of your breathing. His sweat-slicked skin pressed to yours, his chest rising and falling against your breasts, his mouth pressed to the curve of your neck.

“Perfect,” he mumbled into your skin, his voice thick, hoarse, full of something raw. “You’re fucking perfect.”

You held him.

Held the weight of him, the warmth, the smell of sweat and skin and something deeply human. You let your fingers drift down the line of his back—solid and strong, but softened by age, marked by time. A body built for war, now trembling from pleasure.

You stayed like that, silent.

And then—quietly—you hesitated.

“…Do you want me to go?”

Your voice was barely a whisper, but it sliced through the stillness like glass. It wasn’t the first time you’d asked that question. Wasn’t the first time someone had made you feel good, only to make you feel small again an hour later.

Frank stilled.

Then, slowly, he pushed up onto one elbow, his hazel eyes searching yours. His white hair clung to his forehead, and the lines in his face looked deeper now—softer, too.

“The guys before me,” he said after a long beat, “sound like complete assholes.”

You let out a bitter laugh. “Some of them were polite about it.”

He grunted. “Still assholes.”

Then he shifted, rolling onto his side, one thick arm reaching out and wrapping around your waist. He pulled you close, your back pressing to his chest now, his belly warm against your spine.

“You can go,” he said, voice quieter now, more thoughtful. “If you want. I won’t stop you.”

A pause.

“But if you stay,” he murmured, nuzzling into your hair, “I’ll give you another orgasm in the morning. One of the good ones. The kind that makes your knees shake.”

You snorted softly, your shoulders shaking with the beginnings of a smile.

“And I make great pancakes,” he added, lips brushing your ear.

You laughed then, really laughed, the sound breathless and disbelieving.

“You’re serious.”

“Deadly.”

You turned your head slightly, your nose brushing his cheek. “You bribing me with sex and breakfast?”

Frank smiled—lazy, pleased, wicked. “I’m offering you a bed to sleep in, a body to curl up against, and something sweet in the morning.”

You hesitated one last time.

Then sighed.

“…Fine,” you whispered, snuggling back into him. “But those pancakes better be as good as you say.”

Frank’s arm tightened around you, pulling you impossibly closer. “Oh, sweetheart,” he murmured, pressing a final kiss to your shoulder, “they’re even better.”

And that night, wrapped in the arms of a man who didn’t flinch at your softness—who praised it, claimed it, kissed it—you slept deeper than you had in years.

The pancakes were great. More than great, actually. They were golden at the edges, fluffy in the center, and stacked so high on the plate you’d teased him about trying to kill you with kindness—or syrup. He’d smirked and replied, “If this is how you go out, sweetheart, there are worse ways.”

And when he went back into the kitchen to make another batch—barefoot, hair a little wild, still wearing the same t-shirt from the night before, stretched over his chest in a way that made you think sinful thoughts even with maple syrup on your chin—you finally allowed yourself to look around his house.

You weren’t snooping. Not exactly. Just... observing. Taking in the man you’d just let inside you. Twice. (Three times, if you counted that sleepy, desperate fuck at four in the morning when you’d climbed back onto his lap without a word.)

His living room was tidy, but not curated. There were books—so many books—stacked in little towers beside the armchair, most of them nonfiction. Military history. Biographies. A few philosophy titles that surprised you. There were papers, too—neatly stacked on the coffee table. Notes scribbled in the margins in a looping, impatient hand. A pair of reading glasses tucked into a thick folder marked Confidential. You didn’t touch that one.

The couch was old leather, cracked at the edges, with an army-green throw folded with almost absurd precision across the back. You ran your fingers along the top of it absently, eyes drifting to the mantle.

And that’s when you saw it.

A fish.

A huge, monstrous fish, mounted on a polished wooden plaque like a hunting trophy, jaws open mid-snarl, glass eyes gleaming like it was still pissed about being yanked out of the water.

You blinked.

“Oh my God,” you muttered aloud, a laugh catching in your throat.

Frank’s voice drifted in from the kitchen, dry and suspicious. “What?”

You called back, “There’s a giant fish over your fireplace, Benson.”

There was a pause.

Then, deadpan: “Yes.”

You laughed again—sharper this time, leaning in with your hands on your hips as you stared at the beast. “That thing is terrifying. Why is it looking at me like it died mad?”

Frank finally emerged from the kitchen with two fresh plates, setting them down on the coffee table before giving you a slow, warning glance.

“That fish,” he said solemnly, “was forty-three inches long and fought me for an hour and seventeen minutes off the coast of Devon. It nearly took my arm off.”

You looked at him with exaggerated disbelief. “You mounted your mortal enemy?”

“I respected him,” Frank replied, utterly serious.

You crossed your arms, still grinning. “That is absolutely a single man’s choice. No woman in her right mind would let that thing stay up.”

Frank raised an eyebrow. “Are you saying you’re in your right mind?”

You blinked.

He smirked.

And before you could reply, he was beside you, his hand sliding slow and warm along your hip, tugging you gently against him. “I like my fish,” he murmured into your hair, “and I like my house the way it is. If you move in, we’ll renegotiate.”

You choked on a laugh, your cheeks heating instantly. “If?”

He chuckled against your neck. “Well, I figured you’d want to see the second fish in the hallway before making any life-altering decisions.”

You gasped. “There’s more?”

Frank’s grin widened, smug and dangerous. “There’s always more, sweetheart.”

And then, with a look that promised pancakes weren’t the only thing on the menu this morning, he led you back to the couch—plates in hand, fish glaring in silent judgment above the fireplace—and you realized something truly terrifying:

You could absolutely fall for this man.

Fish and all.

[barnesonly]

„all because of the wedding band on your left hand […] jealously. lust. desire. possession, even though he knew you weren't his to hold a claim on.” OH I JUST KNOW IT’S GONNA BE GOOD.

„you were something special to him. in a world where he was surrounded by nothing but blood, weapons, and death, you stood out.” That’s it. He’s got my heart already. Fuck the marriage.

Omg the setup of this is so absorbing and the vocabulary?? holy!!

„chose to ignore the fact that he was what he was. who he was.” Oh my god I can totally understand him UGHH the way someone finally treats him like a person and not a weapon… throwing up.

„you trusted he would never lay a finger on you. he didn’t. he wouldn’t.” FUCKKKK that’s IT for me!!

he wouldn’t do it if you were his target fuckkkkk need me some man who’s this loyal because—

„your life was in his hands, and he loved it.” THAT’S POSSESSION AND DEVOTION AT ONCE AND I’M SO HERE FOR IT

„your dirty little secret.” oh. my.!!! okay the way she keeps it to herself—… this is fire. AND SHE KNOWSSSS she sees the way soldier looks at her, fuck!!!

„now he had the image of you in his head, naked, with another man.” OH HE JEALOUSSSS—I just know their smut part is about to be wild.

„he wants to destroy it. he wants to grab you, take you, and fuck you through his bed” please do??? i hope it happens, please 💔

"I always come back," oh fuck me already

„consider it your anniversary gift to me." Wanna punch him in the face i’d leave the restaurant if i was her honestly.

„when's the last time he looked at you the way the soldier does every day?” OHHHHH YESSS THE REALIZATION. Thank you for coming to ur senses!!

„he wouldn't treat you like this.” OFC HE WOULDN’T!!! HE’D KILL FOR YOU AND YOUR HUSBAND CAN’T EVEN TREAT YOU RIGHTTT

imagining soldier oh yessssssss yes yes yes!!

„the man you're thinking of now could never be so insecure, so fucking pathetic” GIGGLINGGGGGG

„there's a man out there who would kill for you if you asked him to.” THAT’S WHAT I SAIDDDDDD

„would he be quiet when he fucks you, the way he normally is? or would he let himself go, let you know how much he enjoys feeling you?” OH GODDDDDDDD im squeezing my thighs on instinct!!

„You’ve done nothing wrong, right?” ABSOLUTELY NOT GIRL I SUPPORT YOUR RIGHTS AND WRONGS TOO!!

„maybe his dick is still hard from having watched the life drain from the man he was just sent to kill.” OH MY FUCKING GODDDD WE TALKED ABOUT I SAID WRITE THAT DOWN!!!! THIS FEELS LIKE THEY’RE BREAKING THE 4TH WALL HELP.

ITS HAPPENING. STAY CALM. STAY CALM.

taking off the mask oh godddddd… It’s so hot and vulnerable at the same time Im gonna pass out

HE BITES HER AND THEN LICKS IT FUCK FUCK FUCK!!! i’m such a whore for inflicting pain just too sooth it with tongue right after god i’m such a mess.

THE RING IS OFF!!!!!!! WE CELEBRATE!!!!

"you own me." i love when people come to their senses.

"you belong to me." I—again—read this as that one The Weekend line in House of Balloons/Glass Table…

WAIT ACTUALLY THAT SONG FITS SO MUCH I’m gonna think about this now „this is a happy house, we’re happy here.” NO actually tf we’re not!!

okay fuck, this is hot the way he— … the throat fucking and stuff 😣

"you're perfect." HER HUSBAND COULD NEVAAAA

„did your husband tell you how good you were?” That’s what I said…!!!!

"gonna fuck you 'til you don't know where you're at," THE WAY MY EYES WIDENED UP AND THE SMIRK ON MY FACE GREW 😭😭

his metal hand on her mouth holy fuck im so weak i told ya this part is gonna be good.

„this, you? all mine." whatever you say pretty boy

„he doesn't seem to care, grunting and wincing” LOVE ME SOME VOCAL WINTER SOLDIER FUCK YES

„I'll take care of him." I GASPED!!!

„let me take care of the motherfucker who kept me from you for so long." I GASPED EVEN LOUDER!!!!!!!!’

"do it." FUCK!!!!!!’nbnqnqnwududiwhsdu

okay so i need to say that I fucking love and adore this concept — a „good” wife who’s a nurse/doctor so basically she helps people yet she’s yearning a man who is a literal serial killer and questions her marriage just because of the way he tends to look at her—it just speaks to me. The contrast is so sharp between them and I love it. How she prefers this—something fragile that can disappear any moment when he dies on a mission—over the comfort of her own relationship, definitely more stable and… normal.

I don’t know If you plan on writing another part one day but I’d be so down to read it.

dirty little secret - nsfw winter soldier

word count: 6.6k based on this ask. disclaimer: offensive depictions/language regarding mental health. graphic depictions of violence and murder. cheating. *please note: the winter soldier willingly works for hydra and therefore bucky barnes does NOT exist in this universe. NOT associated with my pre-existing winter soldier series.

~~~

it's not like you didn't know, what with the way he looked at you.

the way he'd stare whenever your skin was exposed. a sliver of your ankle, the skin of your neck, your cleavage when you'd bend over... it didn't matter.

he would stare all the same, like you were a prized possession that he wanted but he knew he couldn't have.

all because of the wedding band on your left hand.

so he watched you, and didn't bother to look away whenever you caught his gaze in the act of him staring.

but he didn't dare touch you. that would be crossing a line.

he didn't need to touch you for you to know exactly what was going through his head.

jealously. lust. desire. possession, even though he knew you weren't his to hold a claim on.

~~~

you were something special to him.

in a world where he was surrounded by nothing but blood, weapons, and death, you stood out.

where he tore people limb from limb, disemboweled them, murdered them, you did the opposite. you stitched them back together, healed them.

you healed him.

that was the job you were hired to do, anyways. clock in, take his vitals. check his injuries. ensure he was in pristine condition to do the job that he was hired to do.

your inherent desire to nurture people, all those years of medical education you went through, all of it just to dedicate your life to tending to a man whose life was dedicated to violently executing people.

something about that thought appealed to him.

on the surface, you seemed to be a normal person. just any other doctor, any other woman. pleasant to be around, pleasant to socialize with. casual conversations with the other employees of the organization, smiles flashed at your coworkers when they walked by.

he rarely spoke to you, though. that would defeat the challenge.

defeat the challenge of trying to read you, trying to understand why you chose this job with all the work you'd done to get to where you are in life.

though he tried, he never could understand what about you drew you to this job. he knew that somewhere, deep down, you had to be as sick and twisted as the rest of them in order to work here.

to be willing to be the one who looked after him. the only one allowed to touch him. the only one who spent so much time with him excluding his superiors. the only one willing, nay, actively choosing to be alone in a room with a heartless, brutal assassin.

~~~

in the year you'd worked with him, he didn't speak to you unless he determined it was warranted. at first, you didn't know what to make of it.

when you were offered the job, you knew what you were getting yourself into. you knew the goal of the organization. you knew that you would be working with the most valuable asset among them.

you'd been forewarned, contingent on signing an NDA at interview, that he was deranged. off the rails. a psychopath.

but rest assured, he wouldn't hurt you. despite how they characterized him, you were assured that he was the most self-disciplined and self-controlled person you'd ever meet. he didn't do anything unless it was in the job description, unless it was a direct order.

it was an interesting dichotomy.

it intrigued you, the way he capitalized on his dark desires, monetized his insanity.

no way in hell could you say no to the job when it was offered to you.

so although you didn't know how to interact with him in the beginning, you were never afraid of him. even though his eyes trailed you from the second you entered the room until the moment you left. even when you caught glimpses of him covered from head to toe in blood, guts, and brains. even though you knew he was physically enhanced, had a specially-designed weapon attached to his shoulder disguised as an arm. even though he never said a word unless he deemed it absolutely necessary.

despite all of it, you weren't afraid.

so you continued to show up for work, and you continued to speak to him.

you knew he was listening. he didn't respond to your stories, didn't laugh at your jokes, didn't smile when you greeted him.

but those crisp blue eyes never left your face, never left your form.

after a while, you discovered that was his weakness. you learned to read his emotions through the look in his eyes. the way his eyes would widen ever so slightly when you got to the good part of a story.

the way his eyes would narrow when you mentioned your husband.

his gaze gave it all away.

~~~

that exact gaze gave way to his prized possession: you.

because that's all he could do. observe you.

you chose him, day in and day out, knowing what he did. you chose to speak to him like any other person, chose to ignore the fact that he was what he was. who he was.

you chose him.

you trusted he would never lay a finger on you.

he didn't.

he wouldn't.

about a month after you began work, the tides in his mind shifted. what once was a dedicated loyalty to his craft shifted to you. you became more important.

he realized he would never hurt you in any case. if a day ever came when he was told that you were his next target, he wouldn't do it.

he'd never failed a mission, not once. every target was successfully eliminated at his hands, which is why they never tried to replace him, never tried to seek out other willing talent. he was priceless, paid more than even the superiors who directed him, all because he was the best of the best. even they bowed down to him.

you, though.

forget the money, forget the protection and opportunity they offered him. he would turn on them in a heartbeat if it came to you.

he'd kill anyone who tried to come near you.

your life was in his hands, and he loved it.

he loved knowing that you knew that he could kill you without breaking a sweat, and yet, you continued to show up. he loved that everyone in this organization feared him so much that they would never even try to come near you. he loved that he was the one who dictated whether you made it through each day.

he loved that he owned you. that even though you didn't report to him, that he wasn't even in your direct chain of command, you still served him.

he controlled the breath that flowed in and out of your lungs. he controlled the blood that raced through your veins. he controlled everything.

all those thoughts, all that darkness within him, it all stayed within the confines of his mind. not a word of it was spoken into reality.

real power is best left unsaid.

but his desperate reassurances to himself that he controlled you were nothing more than an attempt at consoling himself.

he told himself he controlled your breath because he couldn't control what he actually wanted.

your pleasure. your happiness.

that's what he wanted to command.

if only for that stupid wedding band on your finger.

~~~

you knew he hated it. you knew that he didn't want to fucking hear about your marriage, about your personal life that didn't involve him. you knew from pretty early on that he wanted to be the only one allowed to look at you. that look told you he was constantly undressing you in his mind.

it's not like he ever explicitly told you to quit talking about your husband. it's not like he would even be allowed to; it wasn't his place. you were colleagues.

your husband, however, never heard about him. perhaps that was a deliberate decision on your part to protect him from knowing too much, protect him from the danger that came with being associated with such an organization.

perhaps it was because you didn't want your husband to know about him. perhaps you wanted to keep him to yourself, your dirty little secret.

perhaps you didn't want to protect your husband at all, but yourself.

you liked the attention the soldier gave you. you reveled in the way he looked at you, the way you felt like something to be desired. you enjoyed the way his eyes grew dark, even angry when you spoke about your marriage.

but that's all it was: a personal comfort to make yourself feel better.

even if it was at the emotional expense of both your colleague and your husband.

~~~

"I have to tell you, I'm leaving early today," you spoke to him, rambling on as you usually did to fill the silence. "it's my anniversary. my husband is taking me out for dinner tonight."

you glanced up at him as you said it, wrapping the cuff of the blood pressure monitor around his bicep. he glared at you as though pissed off at the discovery, yet as usual, he didn't say anything. he didn't tell you to quit talking. he didn't make any snarky comments.

but he heard you.

and he was pissed. now he had the image of you in his head, naked, with another man.

another man getting to touch you, getting to strip your clothes from your soft, delicate skin. a man that's not him getting to watch your face as you fall apart, overtaken by pleasure.

he hated the thought. he didn't want to know that another man was going to parade you around on his arm in some fancy restaurant only to take you home and touch you like he owned you.

worse yet?

it's not just the idea of another man acting like he owns you that pisses him off.

it's the fact that this other man does own you. he's your husband. you've committed yourself to him.

as he looks down at you squeezing the bulb of the monitor over and over again, he notices the way your ring catches the light with each release of your grip. that damn band pledging you to someone else.

he wants to destroy it. he wants to grab you, take you, and fuck you through his bed, ring shattered into a million pieces.

he looks back up to your face.

you don't look particularly excited about the words you're saying. you don't look like you're even happy that it's your anniversary.

you look entirely neutral, which is entirely uncharacteristic of you.

you've never spoken ill of your husband, and you've never seemed unhappy before.

this, though?

perhaps this is telling.

he watches as you continue to take his vitals and check up on a stab wound he sustained to his torso a few days previous. it doesn't bother him. pain doesn't faze him. the feeling of bleeding out is almost enjoyable, if you ask him.

he likes that you always fret over his injuries. he loves how concerned you look when you discover that he's been hurt. he enjoys how you work so diligently to take care of him, to clean him up, to do everything in your power to make him better.

he definitely won't tell you that he lets his opponents stab or shoot him once or twice just so that he gets to feel your warm hands on his skin, to see your complexion against his. to have you closer to him, to have you worry about him.

do you worry about him when he's on a job?

easy. of course you do.

you keep on talking, clearly as a means of convincing yourself that you're excited, that you're looking forward to dinner.

you're not a good liar.

at least to him, you're not.

"you need to be careful," you tell him as you re-bandage his injury. "one of these days, they'll get you real good and you won't come back to me."

your tone of voice is casual, teasing. but just as before, it's a cover-up, a deflection from how you really feel.

he's getting sick of that.

"I always come back," he speaks, gruff, voice hoarse from lack of use.

he would like to tell you that you have nothing to worry about, to remind you that nothing can possibly touch him. except, of course, he's kind of blown that cover by letting himself get injured.

he's long debated if his pride and his ego are more important than getting what he wants.

not when it comes to you.

"yes, of course, but I'd hate to see you come back in a body bag," you laugh.

real amusing.

you offer him some painkillers, to which he denies. you offer him a lot of things, a lot of comforts that he never accepts.

nothing would be as satisfying as you offering him yourself.

~~~

you sit at a table that's too small to comfortably eat at in a restaurant that's too dimly lit to even read the menu.

"don't do that," your husband reprimands when you hold up the screen of your phone to the menu to try and read it.

"I can't even see," you hiss back, but you agree, setting down your phone and trying your best to read the words without enough light.

this is your anniversary. you shouldn't be fighting on today, of all days.

when the waiter comes by, your husband orders a bottle of whiskey, top-shelf, likely hundreds of dollars.

"why the hell did you order that? I told you I have work in the morning, I'm not drinking," you remind him.

"it's my anniversary, too, isn't it?" he retorts, just as the waiter returns with the bottle and two glasses.

you just roll your eyes as he proceeds to down his first few drinks of the liquor.

"and how are you paying for it?" you whisper gently to him. you don't want to piss him off, but you can't just let it go.

"you make enough money at your goddamn doctoring job that you don't tell me shit about."

how dare he speak to you that way?

"oh, so you're paying for it out of my salary? seriously?" you ask, crossing your arms over your chest.

"consider it your anniversary gift to me."

you sigh and shut your eyes in frustration as he continues to drink. you're not in the mood to argue over this in public.

it's not like he got you a gift, either. four stupid years of stupid marriage, only for it to lead to this...

fuck.

when's the last time you told each other you loved one another?

when's the last time you had sex beyond scratching that itch, fulfilling that obligation?

when's the last time he looked at you the way the soldier does every day?

woah, okay, enough. don't go there.

you shouldn't go there. you shouldn't be thinking about another man while at dinner with your husband.

he wouldn't treat you like this.

stop this. right now, you tell yourself. it's not right.

it's not.

but you're really fucking sick of pretending like you don't just casually enjoy the attention he gives you.

~~~

so maybe you give in a little.

maybe you let yourself pretend. at home, in bed, under your husband, that it's not him who's touching you. that it's someone else's hands peeling your dress from your skin, someone who appreciates you. who doesn't see you as the person he fucks but the person he gets to have like this.

as he touches you, the room is dark enough that he's nothing more than a body on top of yours, seeking his own pleasure from between your legs.

your marriage has never felt as loveless as it does to you right now, as you realize how he's not even looking at you. not saying your name, not saying anything.

amidst the pain of realizing it's over the second he presses himself into you without any care for how you feel, amidst the guilt of pretending that it's not him taking you right now, there's a flicker.

a flicker of hope. of potential. that maybe it's not too late for you, that you're not actually tied to the man whose ring sits on your finger. that you can be more than just the person your husband mooches off of, uses to pretend like he's more of a man than he actually is.

the man you're thinking of now could never be so insecure, so fucking pathetic as to demean you by pulling out the second he's done without making sure you're satisfied.

"happy anniversary," he mumbles as he turns away from you, already falling asleep from the liquor.

except you're wide awake. the thoughts in your head are swirling, and the heat in your stomach is growing.

you're up and walking yourself to the bathroom quietly so as to not wake him, shutting the door and flicking on the light.

as you look in the mirror, you don't know what to think. you barely even know who you are anymore, just now realizing the extent to which you're truly miserable. how you don't feel seen, how you feel like a shadow in your own home.

how you feel like someone when the soldier looks at you. how you feel special.

there's a man out there who would kill for you if you asked him to.

you can't help it when you brace one hand on the bathroom sink, the other reaching between your thighs.

would he be quiet when he fucks you, the way he normally is? or would he let himself go, let you know how much he enjoys feeling you?

would he ruin you so quickly you wouldn't even know what hit you? or would he torment you, taking you apart so slowly that you begin to cry, pleading for more?

you reach to turn on the showerhead to mask the sounds of the whimpers escaping your mouth, even as you bite your lip so hard it tastes metallic on your tongue.

you imagine him looking at you with those eyes of his, the ones that never leave you, as he fucks you on his fingers until you're dripping down to your ankles.

before you know it, you're coming. you're hunched over the bathroom sink uncomfortably, your fingers struggling between your thighs.

it's awful, and it's amazing, because the thoughts of what he would do to you continue running rampant in your head.

as you hop in the shower, you tell yourself that you've done nothing wrong.

you've done nothing wrong, technically.

right?

~~~

the next morning, you can't look yourself in the eyes in the mirror.

you can't wake up your husband to tell him you're leaving, to kiss him goodbye, because you're still reeling from the night before.

you're a good person. you're a committed, devoted wife, even through your struggles. you're going to stand by your husband and quit letting the soldier ogle you because it's wrong.

when you get to work, you toss your purse on your desk and change into your scrubs. the entire time, you can't help but be overly aware of the weight on your left hand. it's weighing heavy on your heart and mind, not just your hand. you want to take it off, to relieve yourself of the pressure for the day.

except you know he'll notice if you take it off. he'll see it. it might even be so substantial that he speaks up, questions you about it.

you're stuck.

by time you gather up the courage to go see him, you're told he went on a quick last minute assignment. he'll be back this afternoon.

somehow, that's both a relief and a disappointment. you have to act normal, put last night behind you. you have to move forward.

you don't have a choice.

~~~

in normal circumstances, he goes to get cleaned up before you evaluate him post-mission.

this isn't normal circumstances. somehow, you're frantic to see him, just to remind yourself what normalcy looks like. you need to lay your eyes on him, remind yourself he's actually a colleague, not a fantasy you've made up in your head. that way you can fucking get over yourself.

you've got too many thoughts at once, all swirling around like a hurricane in your head.

this isn't like you. you need to relax, calm yourself down.

but somehow, you feel more trapped than you've ever been right now. even in this job where you have free reign, take orders from next to no one, get along with your coworkers...

the ring on your finger continues to weigh heavy, no longer a symbol of connection. just a ball and chain.

just when you get yourself so riled up that you think you might quit your job and leave your husband without a word, there he is. you're standing in the doorway of your office as they lead him down a hallway to his quarters.

he's back, covered from head to toe in blood, sweat, and dirt. he's wearing that tactical gear you rarely see him in. he looks better than you think you've ever seen.

you want to hide the way you gasp, the way you're taken aback at the sight of him like this.

but when you're there, he knows. when you're in the room, his gaze has nowhere better to be. he's far more observant than you know, reading your body language better than you yourself can, thanks to his enhancements.

he immediately knows something is different about you. how your heartbeat is racing faster. how you're not the calm and collected person you usually are.

he ditches his handlers, telling them to fuck off as he walks over to you. they're none the wiser.

he towers over you, black synthetic covering the lower half of his face as he glares down at your shocked expression, sensing the way your face heats under his watchful eye.

you normally don't respond to his gaze.

something is off.

something is different.

he permits himself to speak.

"how was your anniversary?"

the question, particularly from him, shocks you and angers you all at once. you try your best not to respond, keeping your real thoughts to yourself, as you let out a scoff and roll your eyes. the whole time, you fidget with the ring on your finger, gently tugging it up to your knuckle, and back down to its seat...

your lack of a response is just another indicator on top of your inability to hold eye contact, the way your eyes roam.

roam his face, catching the scratch on his left temple, noting the way his hair is a mess.

even though he sees everything, always maintains his composure, he's still wound up from the mission. maybe his dick is still hard from having watched the life drain from the man he was just sent to kill.

you don't know it, but he's just as amped as you are right now.

he's never crossed the line. he's never touched you.

he shouldn't do this.

but then your eyes meet his again, and the choice is made for him.

his hands come to your hips, gripping you tightly, forcing you backwards into your office as he kicks the door shut behind him. you almost trip as he walks you backwards, but his hold on you is so firm, it keeps you upright.

his eyes are pointed in a manner you've never seen before. you've seen them narrowed in confusion and in anger when you've told him your life stories, but never like this. never with all the heat in his body manifesting itself into his expression as he looks at you.

you could spend the rest of your life right here, being watched, observed, if only by him.

he's shameless as he drops his eyes from yours, down the slope of your nose to your lips, gently smeared with tinted lip balm.

did you wear bright lipstick for your husband?

what would it look like smeared on his skin?

his eyes continue their descent, all the while you make no effort to fight against it. you should push him away, tell him this is inappropriate, that you know where this is leading.

even in your baggy scrubs, he manages to make you feel naked and exposed.

you might swoon.

once his gaze finally trails back up to meet yours after what feels like a lifetime, you're powerless against the way you whine,

"please."

without hesitating, he's gripping your hip tighter in his flesh hand, pushing his thumb up under your shirt to finally feel your skin. his metal arm, little more than a weapon attached to his body, comes up to wrap itself in your hair, tugging roughly to expose your neck to him. you gasp at the sudden motion, but comply without a second thought.

his flesh hand moves from your hip, ever so slowly, to remove the mask from his face.

there he is.

you hear it clatter onto the desk behind you where he tosses it, his hand coming back to hold you tightly, fingers pushing up under your shirt to splay his huge palm against your skin.

he leans down, pressing his face into your neck, and he inhales so sharply against you that you can hear the swoosh of air. he adjusts his grip on you, holding you closer to him as he presses his lips to your flesh.

his mouth is warm, and wet, and then-

he bites down, hard.

"oh, fuck," you hiss, but still make no attempts to move away, instead finally bringing your hands to his waist, holding him in place the way he's doing to you.

he makes a noise against you as he licks over your skin where he just bit into you, and you know right now: you're so fucked.

he covers every inch of your exposed skin in his marks. he wants you to remember this, to know who left all these bruises on your delicate skin, even long after the fact.

all the need he's harbored, all the desire he's kept perfectly under control over the last year, all comes undone in less than a second.

you squeal as you find yourself being shoved to your knees in front of him, his metal hand holding the back of your head so you can't escape.

as you look up to meet his gaze, he knows he could keep you here forever.

maybe he should.

your hands find their way to his outer thighs to hold yourself up, and you watch as he continues to just stare you down without making a move.

"soldat?" you inquire. it must shake him from his thoughts as his other hand comes to his cargo pants, pulling and ripping at the buttons and zippers. he's already straining against the fabric, finally having you like this, at his mercy.

he's never letting another human being see you like this again, least of all your husband.

your husband.

"give me your hand," he orders, and the sound of his voice in your ears heats your whole body. you shakily reach your hand to his, where he grasps it softly, taking a moment to look at your ring as though admiring it.

and then you feel his fingers wrap around it, tugging the platinum gently off your finger, and then-

you hear it clatter to the floor, and you watch as he stomps on it, the beautiful diamond shattering to pieces.

"look at me," he hisses at you. you're still in awe, in shock, jaw dropped from the sight. what this means for you now, what it represents.

his hand comes to your chin when you don't move quick enough for him, forcing you to look back up at him.

"you belong to me."

you want to revel in the words, forget all about the ring destroyed on the floor. your eyes so badly want to flutter shut at the thought.

you know better.

"I own you."

this time, his words are a smidge gentler. the look in his eyes almost softening, showing some real emotion behind them, how badly he's wanted this, too.

your ring is on the floor, destroyed. your marriage in the gutter, hopeless. your body and soul in the hands of the man above you.

it's so refreshing, somehow so freeing to repeat back to him,

"you own me."

only then does the weight of your ring finally fall from your shoulders, the chain finally cut, freeing you to tie yourself to who you really want.

his hand on your head pushes your head forward, pressing your face up against the outline of his cock under his black boxers.

"damn straight," he whispers. he releases you momentarily to yank the fabric out of the way, and you're immediately drooling all over yourself when you see him.

you don't get the chance to stare for long because he's yanking your jaw open with one hand and pushing himself down your throat without another word.

it should be uncomfortable, making your jaw ache as you struggle to hold your mouth open enough, eyes watering, unable to breathe.

it's exactly what you want.

he wastes no time in moving your head for you, thrusting in and out of your mouth, watching as your lips part to take him without complaint. your eyes shut as you eagerly let him fuck your face, tears falling down your cheeks to mix with the mess of saliva collecting at the sides of your mouth.

you grip his legs as tightly as you can, hands still shaking, as he continues to use you the way he's longed for since he met you.

"you're absolutely fucking perfect, you know that?" he grits out amidst his rough movements. "you're perfect."

did your husband tell you how good you were?

did your husband even appreciate getting to have you like this?

you're a mess, whining and whimpering around him, disgusting noises filling the room and catching his ears.

you want nothing more than this, for him to want you, to keep going. but you don't know how much more of this you can take.

as though on cue, he quits moving, holding your head down on him as he lets go down the back of your throat. his release fills your mouth so wholly, dripping down your chin as you don't swallow in time.

he hauls you to your feet and sits you down on the desk behind you. his flesh thumb finds your chin and wipes away the remainder of his mess.

"gonna fuck you 'til you don't know where you're at," he hisses, reaching his metal hand to yank at the string on the waistband of your scrubs. "tell me you want it."

"shit, I want it," you affirm, your voice absolutely wrecked from the way he just debauched your throat. "I want you so bad."

you watch as he pulls on the string, bow coming undone, the sound of nothing but both your breathing in your ears. you let him reach for the hem of your shirt, gently dragging it up and over your head. you kick off your shoes so he can ease your pants down and off, finally getting them out of the way.

in all the times you felt his gaze on you, it's never felt like this. you've seen him look needy, wanting, staring at you like you're the most valuable and priceless treasure known to man.

this is something else. this is him realizing he gets to touch you, gets to see what he's imagined under your clothes for a year. he gets to strip you, gets to have the only thing he's ever wanted more than the feeling of someone dying at his hands.

he gets to have you.

he gets to make you scream in pleasure, all because of him, only for him.

it just then hits him that you're in your office where anyone could hear what's only for his ears.

his metal hand comes to rest atop your lips, gently sealing your mouth shut to prevent any sounds from escaping. at the same time, his flesh fingers find their way beneath your underwear.

if not for his hand keeping you from moaning out, you'd be a wreck, a noisy mess all from a single one of his touches.

"look at you," he whispers, pressing his fingers further down between your folds to where you're aching for him so desperately. "so warm and wet for me."

he grunts as he pushes two fingers up into you, making your whole body withdraw automatically.

"shhh, I've got you," he tells you, and you ease into the feeling of his fingers inside you making your mind go blank.

you've never heard him talk this much, ever. the sound of his voice makes you feel so giddy, the fact that he's speaking to you making you feel relaxed beyond belief. he's always so deliberate, so careful, that the feeling of him talking to you like this only exacerbates the heat in your abdomen.

he continues to hold your face firmly, keeping eye contact the whole time as his fingers move inside you, deeper than you could get yourself the night before.

fuck, the night before, when you got off to a scenario almost mirroring the situation you're in now. you let out a low whine against his hand, and he steps closer, staring at every reaction that manifests itself in your eyes.

he looks determined. excited.

you don't want to come too fast. you don't want to embarrass yourself, except-

you grip the edge of the desk tightly as your orgasm takes you with little warning, your whole body trembling, his hand never faltering.

he keeps working you through it, continuing the pace and rhythm he's set even when your body feels like nothing more than liquid. it's so much, it's too much, you want to protest.

"again."

you don't know if you can, cries bubbling in the back of your throat as your eyes struggle to open to catch his gaze. you can't, you can't...

"you will."

is he an actual mind reader?

he might be, you think, as your body shakes uncontrollably as he sends you into a second release so quickly you might die from overstimulation.

you lay back, head tapping the desk as you try to catch your breath. your hands are shaking as you bring them to smooth our your hair, trying to calm yourself, wiping the drool from your chin.

you can't possibly force yourself to move right now, not even to sit up as you feel him stepping in between your legs, the insides of your thighs against his hips. you shiver yet again as he trails a metal thumb up the soaked fabric of your underwear.

he hooks his thumb inside the fabric, pulling, ripping it from your skin to see the way you're already swollen and still dripping for him.

"all mine," he hisses, cupping you in one large hand and leaning over where you're laying on the desk. his face is right in front of yours as he grits out, "this, you? all mine."

you nod lazily, eyes fluttering open and shut repeatedly, humming your approval.

his flesh hand comes to rest under your head as he lines himself up against you, between your legs. your body moves before you're aware of it, wrapping your arms around his shoulders, legs moving to hitch themselves around his hips.

"please," you mumble. you're already half gone, all thanks to him.

now you need him to fuck every last thought, every last doubt out of your head.

"that's my girl, begging for it like you should," he mutters, pressing a metal thumb to your clit just as he steps forward, thrusting himself entirely into you in one quick motion.

"fuck," you scream out suddenly, keening at the burn, how utterly stretched beyond belief you feel.

he quickly covers your mouth again with his free hand to keep you quiet, rubbing you between your legs to help you settle. "you're fine," he whispers to you, "doing perfect."

you nod your head vehemently, trying to compose yourself, all of your limbs clinging so tightly to wrap yourself around him.

next thing you know, he's pulling out about halfway, just to drive back into you with so much force it rips a moan from your throat. he doesn't hesitate, having craved having you like this for so long, fucking you with all the built-up tension inside of him.

the sting gives way to the most blinding pleasure between your legs. you're a complete mess as you hold onto him like you never want to let go. you feel the way his fingers move against you in tandem with his thrusts. if you had any critical thinking skills left, you would wonder how he finagled this position, how can he possibly be comfortable leaning over you like this...

he doesn't seem to care, grunting and wincing with every movement. this is the first time you've ever seen his face contort, the first time you've seen him actually put his feelings on display for you to see.

you're infatuated with him, the way he's showing you a part of him no one has seen before, the way he's fucking you like he has something to prove.

you're a mess, losing control of your muscles, your stomach cramping as you're already on the edge so soon.

by the way his breathing changes, you sense he is, too.

"come for me, right now," he grits. "on my cock, for no one else, ever again."

you're helpless against the way your body follows his orders, every other part of you going lax as you squeeze him so tight it sends him into his own release.

you don't know how long you stay like that, him leaning over you and still buried so deep inside of you. you feel a burning pain in every fiber of your being, but it's the most satisfied you've felt in a long time.

you listen to him breathe against your ear, and you eventually realize he's looking at you again, watching as you come back to yourself.

your mind slowly starts to turn on again, as does your body.

you blink once. twice. you swallow.

what have you done?

the instant his hand falls away from your mouth, you begin to panic.

"my husband-"

"I'll take care of him."

you don't want that to sound appealing. you don't want to savor in how hot and bothered the idea of him killing for you sounds.

"I can't ask you to do that."

he lets out a rough exhale.

"then I'll ask you. let me take care of the motherfucker who kept me from you for so long."

he feels the way you tense, how you squeeze around him, still half-hard inside you.

he wants to smirk at you, tell you that he knows. he knows you like the idea of it, that you get off on it the same way he does.

"let me take care of him."

"they'll think it was me, I'll be the one who gets accused-"

"you think I'm gonna fucking let that happen to you?"

you don't know what to say.

deep down, you knew he would do this for you. you knew he would do anything for you, but the fact that he's actually confirming it, telling you that he'll kill your husband for you?

you were an idiot to not give in to this, to him, sooner.

he watches how the look in your eyes morphs from one of concern to one of contentment. he's already hard again by time you tell him,

"do it."

~~~

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