#Mannequin Swing

[thespliffbunker]

hhyperballad

[bat-luun]

hey not to be a little hater but i fucking HATED vanessa

[beatsyncer]

[theplotdemandsit]

When Five finally makes it back home with his siblings, finally makes it back to the right timeline, he finds he’s still holding his breath. 

“Is it really over?” He thinks out loud. 

“I guess there’s only one way to find out,” comes Luther’s response. 

So they do. And everything seems…normal?

But as much as Five wants to sleep for ten days straight, he can’t help but feel on edge. He spends his time visiting each sibling, popping in for dinners or briefly making sure they haven’t felt anything out of the ordinary. One day Allison asks him if he actually wants there to be an approaching apocalypse. His eyes fall onto Claire who’s catching him up on High School Musical the Musical the Series.

“No,” he answers. “I really don’t.” 

They make time for family dinners every Sunday. They still bicker and maybe swing some fists every now and then, but everyone is fast to apologize and laugh again. With room to breathe again without high stakes, the hurt finally begins to heal. They had been family before, but it slowly begins to feel like a real family. 

And for the first time, they really get to know each other. For all the crap they gave Luther about the moon, they listen as he shares the misery and loneliness and betrayal he felt. Allison describes her time as a Black woman in the 60s without her voice. Literally. Viktor tells them about what it was like growing up powerless only to end the world twice. How he lost his memory and found the one he loved only to lose that too. 

Klaus manifests Ben (who is still a ghost but as alive as he could get) and together they tell of their adventures growing up and the cult Klaus accidentally created. In between laughs, they also learn about Klaus’s harrowing experiences with drugs and death.

And Five? He has over 40 years of stories, and at first he doesn’t want to share any of it. His time in the Apocalypse, his time in the Commission, murdering for the sole purpose of survival in order to get back to his family—it’s not a side to him he wants his family to know about. 

But at the same time for reasons he can’t explain, he does want them to know. For the first time, he wants to talk to his family, the family he worked tirelessly to save. 

Little by little, he does just that. Every now and then he will start a sentence with, “Back in the Apocalypse…,” during dinner or his visits with them. Silly ones at first, like the time he had the nasty Twinkie. The time he sang all the Beatles songs he could remember and pretended he was having a concert. The time he found Umbrella Academy action figures and reenacted missions with them. 

When it’s just him and another sibling, he starts sharing some of the hard stuff too.

He tells Allison how he starved during his first winter alone and hallucinated that she had helped him find food. When he woke up he found himself in a storage house full of canned goods and bawled his eyes out.

He tells Diego about the first time he killed someone. How the scariest thing was that he wasn’t shaking. 

He tells Viktor how he sometimes still wonders if he deserves everything he got for messing with time in the first place. How he’s afraid that one of these days he’ll wake up and be alone again.

He tells Klaus about the time he thought about giving up and ending it all. 

He tells Luther about Dolores. About how even though he knew he was crazy for talking to a mannequin, Dolores was the better part of him that salvaged his sanity.

He tells Ben (and Klaus, by default) that his biggest regret is not being there. That he tries not to think about how things might have been different if he’d stayed.

Slowly, slowly, bit by bit, the tension eases from his shoulders. He stops worrying so much about the world ending and how to keep everyone alive. Instead, he spends his time going to the park with Claire, helping Diego and Lila with the babies, having midnight food outings with Klaus, and listening to Viktor play his music.

At their weekly family dinner, Luther tells Five he has a present for him and pulls out a box of Twinkies, saying, “I know you want to try one.”

Five gives him a practiced glare and says, “I would rather swim in a pot of boiling oil.”

Before, his family might have stared at him like he grew two heads, but now they laugh and think his retort is hilarious. Luther opens the box and pulls out a bag of marshmallows instead, and Five can’t help but crack a smile. 

One day they ask him what his plans are—what’s next for the oldest sibling.

Five warms his hands on a hot mug of coffee. “I’m tired of thinking about the future,” he tells them. “Right now, I just want to spend time with my family.”

That earns him plenty of “aww”s and “You’re such a softie, Five.” He waves them away and tries to duck out of their hugs, but they get him in the end. And even if he could teleport, he doesn’t want to.

He hadn’t been looking for happy, but he found it anyway.

Now cross-posted on Ao3 under the same handle!

[rotthepoet]

Come Home (Dark!Mattheo Riddle x Reader)

Notes; DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT. Dark!Matty has been plaguing my mind and I need an outlet omg. I lowkey rewrote some lore for this, so essentially the battle of Hogwarts takes place but Voldemort's influence still lives on through Mattheo, who basically runs the new Knights of Walpurgis(The slytherin boys). Everyone is evil, all good business. 

Warnings; again, DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT. Dark!Mattheo, Murder/death/gore, stalking, kidnapping, mattheo might highkey be ooc but its fine, dubcon(reader REALLY wants him but like.. morals?), oral(F! And M!), mention of fem masturbation, predator/prey dynamic, spitting, degradation, lowkey breeding kink?, piv, lowkey porn with plot, Stockholm syndrome if you squint, at least he kinda gets a redemption arc

This one goes out to my beautiful @nottswitch i hope dark!mattheo comes to life and fucks us both <3

Word count; 6.3k

ﾟ+*:ꔫ:*﹤

The bitter breeze in the frigid air pricks through my thin shirt as the diner door swings open and shut again as a customer disappears into the icky black of our winter night. I stare out after him, a farewell unspoken on my lips as I cast my gaze towards an orange, flickering lamp post lining the parallel street, and I realize how truly cold it is inside the shabby eatery. 

As I tug the embarrassingly short, mandated skirt I'm forced to wear, I can only think of the comforting and safe walls of Hogwarts, my home only months ago, yearning for the soft crackle of a fireplace and the ambient chatter of portraits lining the walls. The muggles had nothing as interesting, nothing as familiar as the light of the silver moon passing through the large windows of the great hall. Nothing as comfortable as my own home back in England, with my mother and fathers smiling faces. Nothing as comfortable as the safe, unscarred arms of the once-kind boy I loved what feels like so long ago. 

Being on the lam for about a month now, I've been skipping towns and laying low where I can. It’s not often, but when I'm able to stay in a town for longer than a week, I take pitiful muggle jobs, my current being to take orders at a local diner, “famous for their milkshakes”, although fame must mean four regular visitors in this nowhere town. 

Jean, the gray-haired woman who owns the diner I work at, leans over the counter and points at the analog clock hanging on the wall. It reads almost 1:30, and it finally sets in how tired I am. She hums and looks me up and down, standing in the middle of the floor, standing stiff as a board while holding a broom. She clicks her tongue and shakes her head, a small smile gracing her aged face. 

“I’m sorry, I zoned out.” I apologize, leaning the non-flying broom against a nearby booth, and smooth out my wind-swept hair. 

Jean just shakes her head, “Go on and head home. You did good today.” she hums in approvement, tossing me my room key that was previously hanging on a hook in the kitchen. “Be careful out there, the papers said another storm is coming.” she warned, but a storm is the furthest thing from my mind as I push open the door. Silver light flashes across the street and my heart nearly stops beating, a pit forms in the bottom of my stomach. My eyes squint, finally adjusting to the lack of light, catch the face of a mannequin in the window of a shop. I let out a breath I don’t realize I’m holding and relax as I realize the moon had simply caught the silver details on the faux person. I turn on my heel and carry on down the dimly lit pavement towards my motel. 

It’s just as run down as everything else in this town, water stains stretching across the ceiling like swatches of muddy paint, and the hideous carpet crunches underneath my feet. It isn’t much. It is nothing, in fact, but a roof over my head and sanctuary from the ruthless dangers outside. 

I drop each article of clothing from my body onto the yellowing tile of the bathroom floor, stepping into the freezing cold water of the shower. I shudder, goosebumps racking through my body as I allow the water to wash away the grease and sweat, I collected today. I run a baby blue loofa over my skin, suds washing away with the now lukewarm stream. I close my eyes, and take a deep breath, and the smell of metallic rust from the old pipes fills my nostrils. 

Blood. So much blood. It covers my hands, and my knees, my face, and my clothes. I practically wade through a pool of it, the dark hallways of that god awful manor stretch on infinitely, and the smell of rot and decay suffocates my senses. My heart nearly beats out of my chest as his strong arms wrap around me as I collapse to the floor, and I'm hyper aware of the many motionless bodies lying at my feet. His lips brush against my neck, rough and wet, and I wonder if they have blood on them too. I wouldn’t put it past him. Malicious is not a word I thought I would ever use to describe my lover, the man I thought I was going to marry one day, but like many other things before, he proved me wrong. His warm hands caress the soft fat of my thighs, slipping underneath the loose fabric of my shorts, and he leans into my ear. “They’re all gone now… Let’s go take a shower.” 

I release a shaky breath and turn off the water, letting it drip from my head and down my face, mingling with salty tears. Wiping my face with my wet palms, which did nothing in retrospect, I sigh. I can’t go back there; I can never go back there. It isn’t safe anymore. He isn’t safe anymore. Come on, I can’t keep feeling bad for myself. This is ridiculous, and as I step out of the shower and dress myself, I feel a newfound sense of determination. Sleep, for the first time in months, finds me easily with her warm embrace. 

ﾟ+*:ꔫ:*﹤

As most things in my life do, my high spirits came to an abrupt end. Smoke fills my lungs, but there's a strange taste to it. It’s not a fire, no, it was tobacco. A smell I was all too familiar with. I sat up in bed, and my eyes met the inky black eyes of his silver, skull mask. My breath catches in my throat, only for me to cough out the smoke from his cigarette.

He couldn’t have found me this easily. It’s a bad dream, it has to be. Merlin forgive me, God save me, tell me this is just a dream! The mask on his face shifts a little, clearly amused at my coughing fit. “Have anything to say?”

Say anything. Stop gaping at him like a fish, you are a powerful witch, almost top of your class in DADA. Almost. Second place, notably. Right behind him.

Mattheo Riddle.

A sob racks through my body, tears falling down my cheeks before I even realize, and I’m paralyzed in place. Half of me wants to crawl into his arms, to beg for forgiveness, to beg for him to take me home. Home to that wretched, dark house, with blood seeped into the wood. With blood-stained grout on the kitchen tile. With blood-stained walls. So, so much blood. The other half of me screams at me to run. To run, to run, run, run, RUN! For god's sake, run! 

I push myself out of bed, fast enough to catch Mattheo by surprise. He flicks his cigarette to the side, letting it roll along the carpet floor. My hand reaches for my wand resting on a table beside the door as I duck out of his reaching arms, and I stumble to my feet as he lunges after me. I throw open the door, pulling it shut in his face as he screams for me.

“You bitch! Come back here!” he screams through the wood, struggling with the now sweat-slick doorknob. 

The door splinters open with the blast of, “Bombarda!”, but I scramble down the wet, cold streets, my bare feet scratch against the rough pavement as I sprint, thankful that it had been just warm enough to not freeze. I duck down another street, pulling out my wand to apparate elsewhere. I rack my brain for a safe location. Hogwarts? I might be able to, but I don’t want to risk splinching. My job? It might separate me long enough to get my shit together. 

Air is knocked out of me as a heavy body slams into mine, knocking my wand out of my hand. A heavy, black boot pins my wrist to the ground, and a silver mask that was not Riddle’s leans over me. He laughs under the mask, but I can’t tell which of his mentally fucked goons had caught me. I reach for my wand, but another set of boots kicks it out of my reach. Leather gloved hands grab my hair and lift me up to face the group now circling me. 

“She looks pitiful, really. Like an angry kitten.” An Italian accent draws next to my ear with a mocking snicker, and I thrash to kick Theodore Nott anywhere I can, luckily landing a solid blow to his shin. He curses in pain, and hisses something inaudible underneath his mask as he throws me back to the ground. The rough concrete scratches against my exposed skin, drawing blood from the soft flesh. I yelp in pain, landing at the feet of someone else. A black, steel-toed boot presses against my cheek, pushing my head to the side as I watch another figure ominously approach. I would recognize my Mattheo’s casual amble anywhere, and he peered down at my stray wand laying at his feet.

I don’t even have time to protest as he steps his boot onto the wood, sparks fizzing out around the magic object as it snaps under his weight. A choked sob escapes me as he approaches, my eyes wide with horror and betrayal.

“Enough of this, love. It’s time to come home,” He drawls, kneeling down to my level and lifting my chin to meet his empty gaze. “Be a good girl and come back to me, I’m tired of this little game of yours.”

“Fuck. You.” I spat on the silver of his skull-like mask, noting the wild look in my own eyes as the saliva slips down its reflective surface.

Mattheo groaned and tugged off his mask, and my breath caught in my throat. What the hell is wrong with me? I can’t think this awful man who betrayed me, threatened me, hunted me down, can still be attractive. Then again, he was still the man I had loved–part of me still does love– all those years ago. The handsome face I fell asleep looking at, the doe eyes I found comfort in. He looked roguish now, his brown curls were longer than the last time I had seen him, and he had a new scar running across his cheek from our last encounter. My mouth goes dry as he leans into my face, his breath hot against my lips. 

“I’ve missed you, love,” He practically purred, pressing his dry lips against my trembling ones. I whine against him, wriggling my body underneath the heavy weight of whoever was holding me. 

Mattheo groaned, gripping my chin harder, “You used to be so obedient, pet, but don’t worry. I’ll fix you.” he mumbled, kissing my forehead as I felt his wand pressed to my temple. He mumbled an incantation against my skin, and I felt my body go limp before my eyes closed themselves, and sleep consumed me. 

ﾟ+*:ꔫ:*﹤

It was cold, damp, and reeked of copper and mold. My body laid on the floor, sore and unresponsive to my will to move. As my senses came back to me, I tried climbing to my feet, but a chain tugged my ankle back to the floor. I tumbled to the stone floor, scraping my hands against its rough surface. I whimper in pain, and only as I go to wipe my hands on my pants do I realize I’m completely nude. Horror racks through my body as I take in my surrounding and own appearance. I know I'm back in that old house, that old, disgusting, horrible house of horrors, and tears fall from my stinging eyes again.

I don’t know how long I laid on that floor, shaking from the cold as I sob into the air, screaming and cursing with conviction, damning Riddle’s name to an eternity in hell. I scream, and wail, and cry until I tire myself out, my voice breaking into nothing but a hushed plea for freedom. 

I fight sleep, sitting myself against a wall near my chain, breathing deep into my burning lungs. My eyes drift closed, but I will them open as the loud creak of a door alerts me. It’s only then that I notice a stairwell, casted in a white light with the newly opened door, and my heart nervously skips a beat as a tall shadow approaches the stairwell. The stairs creak under his weight as he descends to what I can only infer is a basement, and I stare up at his form.

Mattheo wasn’t nearly as scary like this, dressed in black slacks and a loose white shirt. Had he not been so threatening, and the reason I was chained to the basement floor, I would have swooned over the top buttons being undone. Perhaps I still do get butterflies in my stomach, but that may just be nausea. 

He looks down at me with an expression I can only describe as mock sympathy, clicking his tongue softly. “Down here for less than three hours and you’ve already managed to hurt yourself,” he scolded me, shaking his head in disappointment, “My clumsy girl, what am I going to do with you?” 

The smile he cracked made me want to claw his eyes out, or kiss him, and I worry that he may have slipped me a love potion. My ears ring, and my head suddenly aches with a mild pain, and Mattheo smirks.

“Like the shirt, do you?” He teased, kneeling down to my level. I curse under my breath, face heating up with anger (Or embarrassment, I can’t really tell), of course I forget he’s a legilimens. “Drop the act darling, I know you’re going to crack eventually. Save us both the trouble so I can finally bring you back to bed.” His warm hand tenderly caressed my cold cheek, and I fought the urge to lean into the comforting touch. “I hate seeing you down here like this, but you need to remember your place.”

My eyes snap back to his, and I whip my head to the side to bite his hand. He scowls and rips his hand away, reeling it back and back-handing me across the face. It knocks my breath out of my chest, and the rings on his fingers cut my cheek. Metallic blood drips to the floor. 

“Fine. Stay down here and bleed out for all I care.” He snaps, rubbing his sore hand as he turns on his heel and storms up the stairs. The door slams loudly behind him, and I’m engulfed in sudden darkness.

ﾟ+*:ꔫ:*﹤

My cheek and hands had long stopped bleeding the next time he came back, staining my skin red with its slick. My head lifts as the door opens again, and light makes my eyes dilate painfully. Mattheo trudges down the stairs, his head hanging low, and a small white box hanging from his hand. He approaches me and kneels at my level. I meet his gaze, glaring into his soft eyes.

“Darling, you know I didn’t mean to hit you, right?” He mumbled, holding my chin to twist my cheek towards him, his rough actions bringing tears to my eyes. “I was just so worked up, and you were pushing too many buttons, you’ll forgive me, right?” He asks hopefully, but I don’t answer him.

He sighs in defeat, opening the little box and retrieving a cloth and bottle full of a clear liquid. My eyes go wide, and I scramble backwards as far as the chain allows me to. “No, No, Mattheo please don’t-” I plead, heart racing as he looks at me with confusion.

A smile breaks across his face, “Oh darling, no, no, it’s just alcohol.” he laughs a bit, a deep sound that makes pleasant shivers run down my spine and too an embarrassing heat between my legs. What the fuck is wrong with me? He approaches me again, dousing the cloth with the solution before taking my hands. He shushes my soft whines as he presses it to my scraped palms, which makes me hiss at the burning sensation. “Good girl, there we go. That’s much better, isn’t it?” he asks as he takes a roll of gauze from the box and wraps each of my hands. He lifts my palms to his lips, pressing a storm of soft pecks and kisses to the gauze and skin. My face heats up at the gesture, and I force myself to look away. He was always so chivalrous for a monster, though it hurt to call him that even after everything.

He presses the cloth to my cheek next, his thumb tracing calming circles into the opposite cheek. “Such a pretty girl, my pretty girl.” He whispered, placing a bandage over my skin. Just like my palms, he kisses my cheek, though much slower and intimate this time. “I don’t want to hurt you, you know?” he promised, leaning over my trembling body. He looked down at me, eyes drifting past my collarbone, and he whistled softly. “A sight for sore eyes… and It’s all mine.” He smirked, leaning down as he supported his weight on his forearms. His chapped lips press suspiciously soft kisses to my neck. A loud thud coming from upstairs makes Mattheo groan and pull away. He looks down at me, wide eyed beneath him, “I’ll be right back, love, don’t worry your pretty little head.” He hummed, patting my cheek as he stood up. 

He casts me one last yearning glance before he shuts the door again, much softer this time. I lean back against the stone, releasing a breath I didn’t know I was holding, and try to ignore the wetness between my thighs as I drift off to sleep.

ﾟ+*:ꔫ:*﹤

I’m startled awake as the basement door slams shut, and heavy footsteps descend to my prison. Mattheo storms into view, and before I can even get a word out, he grabs me by the hair and pulls me up to my knees. He sneers down at me, and my head is spinning from the sudden switch up.

“Incompetent assholes. Have to do everything myself around here,” He mumbled, not really speaking to me rather than himself. He doesn’t loosen his grip on my hair as his other hand tugs apart the button of his slacks. 

My eyes go wide with shock, and he pulls my hair, forcing my chin up to look at him. “Open your mouth,” He demands, his voice lacking his previous warmth, and I'm reminded that this is not my Matty. My lip quivers and I shake my head slightly. Mattheo pulls his half-hard cock from the confines of his black briefs and pulls me by the hair to his tip. “I don’t have time for this attitude, I said open your mouth.”

I don’t even have a moment to react before his leaking tip is pressed against my mouth. He pushes his way past, groaning as my wet lips engulf his mushroomed tip. He pulls on my hair again, forcing himself further into my warm hole. “There you go, not so hard, was it? Now suck.” He orders in a tone I’ve never heard him use in bed before, and as he bucks his hips towards my face, I whine in protest while the ache returns to my lower stomach. My jaw relaxes on its own, familiar with the girth of his hung cock. An almost inaudible whine slips through my throat, and he groans at the tightness. One more tug lets me know his patience is running thin, and I reach my bandaged hand up to stroke the rest of him while I focus on his tip.

Mattheo bites back a moan, his hips stuttering as I descend further down onto his length. His leaky tip presses against the back of my throat, and he holds my head in place while he rocks his hips further into me. My nose presses against his groin as he slips down the back of my throat, and his grip moves from my hair to my throat, feeling my neck bulge with every movement. Saliva drips past him and down my chin, dribbling to the floor in thick droplets. He shudders as my throat tightens around him, nearly swallowing the head. 

“Yeah, yeah… Fuck baby. Keep going for me, almost there,” He mumbles, rocking his hips faster than before. I whine around him, my own hand slipping down to the ache at my core. My fingers gingerly brush against my clit, and the soft moan I try to let out makes Mattheo’s head roll back. Hot spurts of his seed shoot down my throat and my glossy eyes go wide at the feeling.

“Swallow,” Is all he says, and obediently, I do. He pulls my head off of him, his cum mixing with the drool in my mouth when it drips down my chin. He grips my face between his index finger and thumb, collecting the mess with a swipe of his finger and pushing it back into my sore mouth. “All of it.” 

When I satisfied him, he pushed me back to the ground, and I yelped in pain as I collided against the stone surface. “When I come down here, I want you on your knees waiting for my dick. Understand?”

I nod weakly, and he smirks down at me. “Good girl. Keep it up and maybe I’ll bring you back upstairs.” He says, before pulling back up his pants and running a hand through his hair. 

When he leaves again, I’m left with an unbearable, wet mess.

ﾟ+*:ꔫ:*﹤

With nothing else to do in my makeshift prison, I sleep a lot. And when I wake up, I force myself to sleep again. I sleep God knows how long before the door opens again, and Mattheo trudges down the stairs. I scramble to my knees, honestly fearing what might happen if I disobey him, and when Mattheo catches sight of me, he smiles. 

“There’s my pretty girl.” He hums, holding a platter with a bowl of something steaming, a slice of some sort of bread, and a bottle of water. My stomach growls as its divine aroma fills my senses, and I can’t remember the last time I’ve eaten. 

Mattheo sits down in front of me and puts the tray between up. He rests his elbow on his knee and leans into his palm. “Eat,” he orders me, gesturing to the platter with the wave of his free hand. “Or would you prefer I feed you myself?” He asks with a smirk, watching how I shift from my knees to rest on my hip. I grab the water bottle first, chugging half of it in one go, before I subconsciously offer him a sip. What’s mine is his. Was his. Was. I look up at him, taking the water and sipping from it. I tore my gaze away before he noticed.

“I don’t want to stay in the basement anymore,” I mumble, dipping the bread into the soup before taking a bite, shivering at its deliciousness. Mattheo sighed and shook his head. “You know I can’t do that yet. You ran away, darling. I can’t trust you won’t do that again,” He explained, reaching his hand across the way to rub my knee soothingly. I sigh and push the tray away, my appetite gone. Mattheo frowned and moved the tray away, leaning over me. “Princess, c’mon, don’t be this way.” he hummed, pushing me onto my back. My heart rate quickened, and he definitely noticed. “But you’re right. I’ve been neglecting you… That’s why you ran away right? My poor girl was lonely and scared.” he hummed, pressing his lips to my collar bone. “Not anymore. My attention is solely on you, I promise.” 

My head rolled back a little, lolling onto the floor as he trailed his kisses down my sternum, stopping at my breasts to gently knead them. Butterflies fluttered in my stomach as I reached for his hair, tugging gently on his loose curls. He groaned in response, his lips finding my perked nipple and taking it into his warm mouth. His other hand slipped down my soft stomach, dipping between my thighs. Out of reflex, I squeezed them together, and Mattheo parted from my tit. He sat back on his haunches, using his strong, scarred hands to pull apart my thighs and admire my glistening, needy cunt.

“It’s been all about me, huh? Need to show my girls some love.” He mumbled, before dipping his head down. His warm breath fanned across my puffy lips, and I shivered at the breeze. He didn’t waste a second more, drawing a long, needy moan from my lips as he licked a long strip from my hole to my clit. My hands tangle into his hair again, and my mouth falls open with pleasure. “Fuck, Matty–” the nickname fell from my lips without a second thought, and he practically purrs against me. His hands grip my thighs, pulling them over his shoulders as he dives nose deep into my pussy. My back arches off the floor as a string of curses flies from my lips. I feel his wet appendage push against my hole, and I clench at the feeling as his nose brushes against my sensitive bud. I tug on his hair again, “Fuck, Fuck, Fuck!” I mewl, my edge fast approaching as Mattheo swirls his tongue over my clit. He sloppily makes out with my lower lips, pulling me closer to the edge with each passing second, and I’m in near tears when there's a loud crash up above us. 

Mattheo practically roars in anger, pulling his soaked face away from my aching cunt, the knot in my stomach loosening at the sudden separation. I whine and sit up, trying to pull him back down, but he stops me with a firm hold on my wrist. “Stay here and don’t make a sound.” he ordered, “I need to take care of this, and I promise as soon as I’m done, I’ll come right back.”

Anger flashes through me, and I bite back my cries. “Don’t you dare leave me like this, Riddle.” I snap, and he gives me a warning look that makes goosebumps prick at my skin. He leans in, pressing a wet kiss to my lips, and I can feel him shiver as I lick my own arousal from his lips. “I’ll be right back, princess. Be good for me, and we can talk about a reward.”

And with that, he left yet again.

ﾟ+*:ꔫ:*﹤

I was starting to get sick of his mind games, switching up his attitude, finally giving me relief before ripping it away from me. Fuck. What am I saying? I watched him murder dozens of people; I watched lives being taken right in front of me. I shiver at the memory and try to focus on anything else before it becomes too much to bear. 

I hate how he makes me feel. Sometimes he’s my Mattheo, and sometimes he’s nothing but a parasite attached to a face I can’t help but love. My back hits a wall, and I can’t count how long he’s been gone. I miss his warm, familiar touch, but anything was better than the cold, dark basement. I close my eyes, my lip trembling as I reach my hand down, fingers hesitantly spreading my folds. Cold air hit my wet lips, and I gasp at the feeling. I brush my fingertips against my hole, whining softly at the pleasure that coursed through my body. Maybe I'm sick in the head, maybe I hit my head too hard one day on the run and never recovered. Maybe I never really hated Mattheo. 

What is wrong with me?

I don’t move when the door opens again. I glare at him, anger coursing through my veins. This was not ‘right back’. As Mattheo’s black boot lands on the stone floor, my mouth goes dry. He’s weaning that stupid mask again, and that stupid costume, tilting his head stupidly at me. He approaches me in a way that makes my heart race in fear, like I'm nothing but cowardly prey between the jaws of a large wolf. 

He knees down, retrieving his hand from his pocket. Wordlessly, he unlocks the chain around my ankle, and he looks up at me. With another wave of his wand, I’m dressed in a loose tank top and shorts. It’s not much at all, but it’s better than naked. A rush of emotions rushes through my chest, and I almost gratefully throw my arms around Mattheo, but he stops me. 

“Go. Run,” He orders, stepping aside. I stare up at him in confusion, mounted to my spot on the ground. “I said run, little pet, like you want to.” He pulls me from the ground, pressing my cold body up against his comforting warmth. “Run, and if I catch you,” he leaned down into my ear, and through the skull mouth of his mask I could feel his breath fanning across my ear. “Well, I think you know what’s going to happen.”

I still don’t move, wondering if he would be less harsh if I stayed with him, but he only laughed. “Such a good girl, don’t worry,” he pulled his mask up just enough to expose his pearly white teeth. They sunk into the soft flesh just beneath my ear, “I’ll always find you. Go, now.”

I don’t know what possessed me, but my feet started moving on their own. I raced up the stairs of the basement and pushed past the door. The house was just as I remembered, dark with walls that were too tall, black cloths hung over the complaining portraits. I was disoriented in the dark, but my feet carried me through the house until I found the overtly large entrance. I pushed open the doors and ran out into the cold, snowy night. 

Frost nipped at each of my limps, and my lungs found it harder to breathe the frigid air. I ran anyway, out towards the woods surrounding the manor. I cast a glance over my shoulder, finding Mattheo staring back at me through the blacked-out eyes of his mask. I ducked into the tree line, just as he started his casual stroll towards me. Cocky bastard. 

I run for as long as I can before my lungs give out. I leaned against a tree, walking slowly into a clearing. I take a deep breath, pulling my arms behind my head to breathe deeper. Just as I find a moment of peace, a branch snaps behind me. I whip my head around, my heart racing as Mattheo approaches me. He doesn’t run, only walks towards me with his hands stuffed into his pockets. He ditched that awful mask, and I can see the smirk pulling at the edge of his lips. I stumble backwards, falling into the fresh snow. He continues his pace, unbothered by my racing heart as I scramble away from him and finally back to my feet. I don’t get one leg in front of the other before strong arms are wrapped around my waist, slipping under the loose fabric of my shirt.

“I win,” He mumbles in my ear, voice dark and raspy. It sends a chill down my spine that pools in my underwear. 

Mattheo throws me over his shoulder, ignoring my flailing lips as he walks back to the manor. “Didn’t even get a mile, love. Lost your talent it seems, or maybe you knew you’d miss me too much.” he teased, running his warm hands up my thigh, pressing a kiss to my exposed skin. 

It isn’t long before we’re back at the manor, and I thank every god I'm in good ties with when he walks past the basement. He takes me to his room instead, our room, the room where I've fallen apart under his touch more times than I can count. 

I breathe in his familiar scent as he deposits me on the bed, and I roll over to bury my burning face in the pillows. Mattheo chuckles at me and grabs my hips, pulling me back against him as he grinds his hardening bulge against the plushness of my ass. 

“You’ve been extra obedient, haven’t you?” he asked, his voice dripping with a tone I could quite place. Lust? Possession? Love? It all blurred together as he rutted his hips against me. “Good girls deserve a reward, don’t they?” he asked, before hooking his fingers at the hem of my shorts. He pulled them down to expose my glistening cunt. He spread me out along his fingers, admiring the way my pussy pulsed around nothing. He leaned in, pressing a possessive kiss to my clit, holding my hips as I try to buck away from him. 

His warm fingers trace along my thighs, sleeping between my legs and collecting the arousal that pooled there. I release a shaky breath into the pillow as his finger circles my clit, and I arch my back to present myself further. He hums in appreciation, trailing his finger further up to my dripping hole, slowly pushing his middle finger inside of me. I gasp at the intrusion, not being able to remember the last time something so long had been inside of me. I keen under his touch, gripping the sheets for stability as he slowly pumps his finger in and out of me. A moan escapes me as he curls his finger, and his thumb brushes against my needy pearl again. Mattheo adds a second finger, spreading out my tight, gummy walls. I crumble under his touch, mouth falling open and eyes going half lidded as he pulls his fingers from me. 

I hear him dropping his pants, and the bed dips behind me yet again as he leans his body completely over mine. His arm wraps around my neck, pressing me close to his chest while his breath fans across my face. The tip of his cock presses against me, and I whine at the sensation, pushing my hips back against him.

“Needy girl, thought you didn’t need me anymore.” He teased, pushing just the bulbous tip into my hole. It’s enough to make the knot in my stomach tighten, and I shake my head. “Need you, Matty, Need you so bad.” I admit, face flushed with embarrassment as he smirks. “Gonna run away again?”

He doesn’t let me get an answer out before he’s pressing further inside of me, the stretch burning pleasantly while my eyes roll back. His arm around my throat tightens, “I asked you a question, darling.” He teased, licking away the stray tear that fell from my eyes. I gasp as his cock brushes against a gummy bundle of nerves, and my head drops to the pillows. He tugs me back against him, pushing even further until he balls slapped against me. “No! No, never gonna leave again,” I promised, involuntary whines spilling from my throat. 

Mattheo pulls his hips back before drilling them back into me, “Good girl,” He grins as he sets a punishing pace, watching my face contort into pleasure underneath him. “Who owns you?” he asks, and I push back against his hips desperately. “You! You do, God, you do!” I moan, feeling my head go light from the lack of airflow. 

“God isn’t here, Love, It’s just me now.”

He drills into my pulsating hole, my back arching at his every thrust as my brain goes mushy from the pleasure. The arm around my throat pulls away, slipping down my stomach to find my pearl. His fingers are just as fast as his pace, and I can’t fight back the whorish moans in my throat. His lips attach to my shoulder, biting a possessive mark into my skin as he fucks me good, better than he ever had before. 

Tears fall from my eyes, and my hand grips his desperately as I’m worked to my edge. “Matty, Matty please…” I trail off into a string of moans, and Mattheo adjusts himself behind me. He bucks his hips into me once more, and I fall apart all over him. My pussy flutters around his cock, and he rides out my orgasm with a few last thrusts of his hips, before he spills his hot seed deep into my womb. Mattheo collapses on top of me, still deep inside as he pins my body to the bed. He hums into my neck, burying himself in my skin. 

“That’s my good girl. Let’s go take a shower.”

[lixiesfreckless]

Sugar & Spice | h. j.

A Sugar Across The Hall bonus scene

➸ synopsis: in reality, Joshua Hong can never say no to you.

➸ starring: joshua hong x reader

➸ word count: 1.9k words

➸ general content: boyfriend!joshua, kissing, slightly more than kissing lmao

➸ warnings: suggestive content, brief mention of alcohol

➸ rating: TV 16+

➸ author’s note: this can be read as a stand-alone BUT…happy one year anniversary to my magnum opus, sath. I love it to death, and I’m still not done writing for these characters, but for now, you get a much needed not-quite-hallmark-channel-approved scene. and before you get it twisted, this is and will always be dedicated to my beloved @ashonheavenscloud , but I’d like to give special thanks to @catboyieejeno for always encouraging me to stir the pot <3 love you guys a ton mwah

♫ this fic has a soundtrack! touch by keshi uhhhhhh somebody by keshi aahhhhhhh

Oh, he's really done it now.

Walking around some lively street corner a few blocks away from your shared apartment building, Joshua leads the two of you through downtown NYC at the height of spring. Strangers pass by your lovestruck duo without a second glance, not bothering to watch you look back at him with a borderline absurd amount of fondness in your irises. It's funny; usually Joshua wouldn't give spring a chance when it came to stating his favorite season, but since you waltzed into his life, he can confidently say that any of them are worthwhile—as long as you're with him. He squeezes your hand for what feels like the millionth time this evening, an action that makes you giggle happily to yourself.

Because you find it cute.

Oh, how you have no idea at all.

How tortuous this night has been for Joshua. How he regrets the day that he walked into that fateful department store, not looking for anything in particular but coming to a full stop in front of a specific mannequin. How he mentally patted himself on the back for remembering your size when you opened the gift bag a few hours earlier, eyes alight in excitement as you pulled out the present, letting the fabric unroll in your fingertips. How his face heated up as you opened your apartment door, and he quickly noted how the mannequin did the dress no justice.

Truthfully, if the dress looked as good on the mannequin as it did on you, he would have never taken it off the rack. He'd know better.

Because all through dinner he had to stop himself from staring at you and the slope of your neck, broken up by the thin straps of the halter dress and abandoned by your hair that was conveniently(to his demise) in an updo, to show off the open back. Luckily, you were so delighted by the Greek restaurant that you'd picked out that you hardly noticed his deepening flush, or the way he nearly downed his white wine in one go the second the server left your table.

And now, as you swing his hand and practically run up the stairs(because the elevator is broken, again), he finds himself almost dreading the night ahead. It's a Thursday, which means self care and Grey’s Anatomy, and while he would never turn down spending time with you, being that close to you for a prolonged period of time after the night he's had would be borderline masochistic.

Of course he contemplates all of this, but in reality, Joshua Hong can never say no to you.

So you unlock the door to your home, blabbering on about something that had happened at work and completely oblivious to the way that your boyfriend is eyeing you, torn between running towards you and running across the hall to get a grip on himself.

“Johnny went off at a customer yesterday,” you chuckled, crossing the room to set your purse down on the kitchen table. “They were being so rude, and over spilled milk too—throwing a fit over where we get our coffee beans imported from–”

You yelp in surprise, followed by a giggle at the feeling of Joshua’s hands encircling your waist from behind. His head settles in the space on your shoulder, but not before leaving a light kiss to the exposed skin of your neck.

“Hi,” you greet him, hands coming up to hold onto his forearms as you try to decipher the reason for this sudden display of affection.

“Hi,” he sighs, nose nudging against your pulse point, “Did I ever tell you how stunning you look in that dress?”

“No, I must have misheard you the first fifty times.”

He laughs at your little jab, willing his hands to stay still despite his growing desire to let them wander. You make the terrible decision to turn just enough so you can look at him, and it's this position that puts Joshua at his most vulnerable.

“Ready to wrap up season five?”

Looking up at him the way that you are paired with your slightly parted lips and flushed demeanor, Joshua finds himself at a loss for words, instinctively leaning into your face as his restraint wears thin. And your unfazed and accepting disposition makes it that much worse for him, his breath shaking as you flutter your eyes shut and part your lips.

The first touch of his lips is familiar, his kiss walking the line between mind-numbingly sweet and devastatingly tender as one of his hands comes up to lift your jaw. But instead of pulling away like he had originally intended, he presses harder against your mouth with a small sigh, unable to find any logical objection to the change of plans.

Your giggly demeanor fizzles out under the heat of his mouth, and your breath escapes you once his hand slides down to your neck, fingers languidly tracing the curve and playing with the straps that rest there. In contrast to his slow hands, his kisses grow faster and almost desperate, not wanting to separate for even a second as he tilts his head and slants his mouth against yours.

You stumble backwards slightly in pleasant surprise, and the table hits just above the hem of your skirt before the arm around your waist tightens, pulling you further into Joshua’s chest.

He takes this opportunity to lean forward slightly, clearing the table with a sweep of the arm that was holding you before hoisting you up onto it, hands firm on your thighs and then sliding down to your knees so he can part them.

“Josh,” you whisper breathlessly, clutching onto his shoulders as your eyes dazedly flicker between his lips and his eyes. His lower lip gets trapped between his teeth as his strength falters, gaze hardly able to meet yours as his fingers dance along the scalloped hem of your dress.

“Oh God, don't do that baby,” he nearly moans, and the pet name turns your brain waves into radio static. You've never heard him sound so helpless, as if his very fate would be decided by whatever you choose to say next. “You make it so hard to just sit and watch TV with you sometimes. Especially when you look like this.”

Knowing now that you have the upper hand, you decide to humor yourself and tease him a bit, leaning forward with a slight smirk on your lips. “Like what?”

His eyes drink you in from head to toe, taking their time to memorize all of your body lines in the flattering dress. If the opportunity were to present itself tonight, he doesn't know whether he would even want to take it off of you.

He leans in close, hoping that his desire translates well as it's mumbled against the skin of your neck.

“So damn good.”

His confession against your sensitive skin has you muffling a whine, gripping the edge of the table as your rationale evaporates under his searing lips, traveling higher and higher with each press.

You can't take his teasing much longer, and frankly, this side of him doesn't come out often enough for you to pass up an opportunity such as this. Meredith Grey will have to wait.

“You know…” you whisper, head tilting back as you feel his hand slipping behind your neck to support it, “they play reruns on Friday nights too.”

“Thank God, ‘cause you in this dress has been driving me crazy since you put it on,” he chuckles against your lips before catching them with his again, taking his time now to fully taste you, swiping his tongue along your bottom lip to elicit that delightful shiver that runs up your spine. You respond in earnest with your hands, carding through his brown locks and nearly melting when he doesn't suppress the groan that tumbles from his throat.

He kisses you like you’re air itself, hands sliding up your skirt and body pressing against yours, and once your nails slide down his scalp he softly groans into your mouth, moving onto kissing across your jawline. You repeat the action while winding your legs around Joshua’s waist, and he whines quietly into your neck, “Please…tell me to stop before I can’t.”

So subtly you almost miss it, he rolls his hips into yours, his desires clouding his judgment as a foreign sound jumps to the top of your throat. Immediately your attention is drawn to the heat you feel in your abdomen, and while you have grown accustomed to bearing it in silence, you’re finding it increasingly hard to ignore with him like this, hands all over you.

Wanting you.

He does it again, with a little more pressure this time, and your head falls back as a whimper just barely tumbles out of your lips. He shivers slightly, nearly overcome with the exertion of fighting every urge to take you on this table this instant.

To temporarily solve this problem, his lips find yours again, but feeling your muffled moans against him proves to be no more effective than trying to put out a forest fire with a garden hose.

As his hips softly grind into yours and your kisses get more and more frantic, your voice of reason pushes through the heavy cloud of lust at the forefront of your brain. “Wait, I've never–”

“We don't have to baby,” he cuts you off, wanting to make his intentions clear despite being unable to put an inch of space between the two of you, “and I don't want to just yet, but I…”

His hand that was previously bunched in your dress comes up to cradle your jaw, thumb brushing gently against the redness of your cheek as he calms himself down with a deep breath.

And as he gazes at you with nothing but adoration in his brown irises, you can almost feel the words coming before he says them out loud.

“I…I am so in love with you,” he begins, fighting a chuckle born out of the absurd location of this sudden confession, “that sometimes, when I look at you, I can’t even think straight, and I…” he trails off, struggling to find the right words the longer he stares at you.

You, on the other hand, are practically beaming, bottom lip trapped by your teeth in an attempt to fight the smile you’d be flashing him, so as to not distract him any further. But you soon realize; with him seated between your legs, there’s not much you can do to help him out here.

So you switch to offense, legs squeezing him tight around his waist to pull his hips back to yours. “You what?”

His chocolate eyes darken to a coffee color in seconds, and the hand that was on your hip tightens again, keeping you firm in place on the table as you bat your eyelashes at him.

“Sometimes I wish I could just show you how much you drive me crazy.”

You don’t hesitate, lifting your chin to meet his lips in a deceptively chaste kiss as your hands fall onto the buttons on his shirt, playing with them just to rile him up further.

You shrug, feigning indifference. “Maybe you can.”

And at that, before you can even register what’s happening, he’s sliding an arm around your waist and under your knees, picking you up and heading towards your bedroom with a chuckle.

“Maybe I should.”

‧⋆ ✧˚₊‧⋆. ✧˚₊‧⋆‧

click to read Sugar Across The Hall

[messenger-of-babel]

A Perfect Gift

Summary: Last minute Christmas shopping with Tim, and you can't decide what to get him. (Tim Drake x reader)

Word Count: 1.8K

Notes: Interesting posting schedule coming up- so be warned! I can't believe I didn't write more for Tim in Angstober?? Guess I'm gonna have to write him some unseasonal angst in the future.

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"Come on, surely you know what to get them." You laugh at Tim as you walk along the streets of the shopping district in Gotham, hands interlocked and swinging gently. He puffs out his cheeks, shaking his head defeatedly. "I do not. That's why you're here." he argues.

"Why don't you try getting them something they don't have? Something useful?"

"Babe. They're Waynes. There is not a single thing here that they need or haven't already bought themselves." he points out with a sigh, his blue eyes flicking over the boutique mannequins as you walk past.

You hum. "That's true." you say as you reach a hand out to pick some snow from his hair, the soft white powder beginning to fall from the sky once again. It had snowed earlier in the day, leaving everything in a blanket of white, but in true Gotham fashion it had turned to brown icy sludge within hours. "It just means that we need to find something that they didn't know they needed."

With a tug on his hand, you pull him into a store, bell ringing softly as you entered the warm display room. Little did Tim know that you were looking for something for him as well. He had been teasing you since the start of the month, saying that he had already picked out something for you and that you were going to love it. You had responded almost immediately, competitive and determined to get him an equally good, if not better, gift. However now it was only a few days before Christmas, and you were still empty handed. Not only that, but it was also going to be your first Christmas with the Waynes. Your family had decided to have a location Christmas, opting to try out a warmer Christmas for once and escape the cold grasp of Gotham. You had been invited, but who could refuse spending a Christmas with Tim?

You caught a glimpse of him from the corner of your eye, studying his expression. He was chewing his lip between his teeth, eyes scanning the store anxiously. It was almost like you could hear the gears in his head turning, trying to scan for something that his brothers and sisters would like. You decide it's time to strike, pulling him in further with you.

"See anything you like?"

His eyes flick to you, but he only hums low in his throat. "I don't think Jason would like anything here. Dick might, but I don't know his sizes. And that watch over there," he points to one in a display. "I was going to get Bruce that, but Duke said he already got it for him. If we check the women's I might find something for Steph or Babs, Cass would probably not like anything from that section, it's not really her style. Oh, but Stephanie will probably get offended if I pick clothes and get it wrong, so definitely not that-"

You sigh as he rambles, the stress in his eyes resurfacing. You try to trace the store where he looks, hoping to catch sight of something that he looks at for more than three seconds.

The first store is a bust for you both, and you venture back into the cold.

You always had trouble with giving Tim gifts. Really, what could you buy for the son of a billionaire who had everything he could ever want? It seemed like the amount of trouble Tim was having with his family was the exact same issue you were having with him. You let out a sigh, anxiety building in your chest.

When you and Tim had first met, you weren't even sure if he liked you. You were study partners in university, who weren't even taking the same classes. Was sharing the same table at the same time in the library considered a first date? You couldn't even call it the talking stage, considering the library was pin silent at all times. If anything, the talking was done through small smiles and tiny nods. His first present to you had been before you had even been dating.

You had rocked up to the library for the new semester to pick up your textbooks and pay off the balance for it, only for the librarian to tell you that someone by the last name 'Drake' had come in earlier to pay for his and your own. Shocked you had piled them into your arms, not knowing who your mysterious donor was until you saw the sticky notes and familiar scribble on top. "Hope to see you around again this semester- Tim Drake.'

You had dated shortly into the new semester, and since then he had been the perfect gift giver. Six-month anniversary he got you an engraved tag pendant with the names of your close family members that lived outside of Gotham, after you had told him how you wished you could see them more. In comparison you had saved up for a watch that cost you around $200, and you had been really proud of it.

Yet that was crushed the first time you went to his place, and you saw the watch box of luxury timepieces, all engraved with nice messages. Most of them were from Bruce, but there was a nicely worn one (clearly a favourite) signed off by Alfred. Since then, you had felt this low embarrassment whenever he wore the watch you gave him. Despite your gentle protests he never took it off, even if it didn't go with his outfit that night or glinted garishly in the flash of the paparazzi camera. So, this time, you wanted something perfect.

As the evening drew on you had managed to help him get the perfect gifts for everyone, his arms slowly filling with shopping bags. You had suggested getting Haley something and gifting to Dick, so you had gone to a pet boutique and bought a new black and blue collar, with a sturdy lead to match knowing how strong she could be at times. You couldn't help but throw a scarf in there for her too.

Damian (who Tim was begrudging to get a gift for but still didn't want to leave him out) received some treats for Titus alongside a set of new sketching pencils since the youngest Wayne had been running out, yet too busy as Robin to refill them just yet. You both had taken a decent amount of time trying to remember what brand he liked, knowing that there would be a barbed backhanded comment coming your way if you didn't get the right ones.

Jason got a new leather satchel that would fit nicely on his bike and was weather proofed. You didn't expect more than a gruff thanks aimed in your direction, considering his aloofness (you weren't sure if he wasn't a fan of you in particular or if he was just uncomfortable being in the manor in general). But you snuck a notebook in there when Tim wasn't looking, hoping to win over the gruff brother.

'For when you have late stakeouts' you had written on the front, signing your name after. 'So, you can put down your writing, so you don't forget it.'

Duke got a new box of booster packs for the card game he was collecting, and thankfully your university friend let you know that the new series had just landed, meaning there was a good chance that Duke hadn't gotten his hands on it yet. Cass was given a year's membership to the Gotham City Art Gallery, which also allowed her to go late at night with fewer members of the public if she wanted a quieter experience. Steph and Barbara got given gift packs from the spa they often visited together, as well as a bottomless brunch in the new year at their favourite cafe. Alfred had been tricky, but you suggested a new tea set for his personal use. It was simple, white with very little flourishes, but you had gotten his name printed in fine gold on the teacups. Something that belonged only to him.

Then it had been trying to find something for Bruce himself. You had gotten stuck with that yourself. The most you had been able to do was settle for a nice handwritten card from the both of you, alongside a vintage bottle of port. Bruce could buy that himself a thousand times over if he wished, but it was the thought that counted, right?

Despite the thoughts that 'counted', you were still lost on what to get Tim for Christmas. You had run through everything in your mind, and everything he looked at. Yet his face was mostly indifferent as he focused on shopping for everyone else, making it near impossible for you to gauge his interest in things. Finally, as you were headed back to the pick-up spot so he could call Alfred, you dug your heels into the pavement. He bounced back lightly, your joined hands stopping him from going any further.

"Are you okay?" he asks, bags bouncing in his arms.

"What do you want for Christmas?" you ask bluntly. The stress was reaching its peak, surprising him be damned. You don't know you could face the embarrassment in front of everyone if you got him something that he didn't like. Tim tilts his head, eyebrows pinching together.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean," you take a deep breath. "What do you want? there's not much I can give you that you can’t get yourself, or that the others aren't going to give you. So, what's one thing that I can give you that others can't?"

He takes a moment before putting the bags down on the ground and giving you a soft smile. He wraps his arms around your waist, tugging you lightly. "You."

your heart thuds at the proximity and the tenderness in his voice, his eyes searching yours. "And not in that way. I just want to spend Christmas with you. Make that house feel more like a home. Make the manor a little less haunted. That's all I could ever ask from you, silly."

he bumps his forehead against yours, making you chuckle breathily. His lips graze across yours lightly, but before you could lean forward there was a honk of Alfred arriving.

Tim pulls back, leaning down to grab half of the bags while you grabbed the others. "Come on," he gestures with a tilt of his head. "You can join us for dinner. Alfred makes the best Sunday roast."

As you watched him slide into the car, the ball of worry dissipated in your chest. You settled on a gift for him.

If home is what he wanted, then surely a locket of you two would be a portable sanctuary.

[thisapplepielife]

Written for @steddieholidaydrabbles.

Seemed Fitting

Prompt Day 3: Jacket | Word Count: 1000 | Rating: T | CW: Language | Tags: Post S4, Eddie Munson Lives, Established Relationship, Gift Giving

Standing in the men's store, Eddie realizes he's been overconfident. He has no idea what to get Steve that he'll actually like. If Steve wants something, he just buys it for himself, and that makes gift-giving tough.

There's a green sweater on the wall that he kind of likes. It's somewhat plain in a sea of hideously busy Cosby sweaters, but it might be too plain. A green sweater? Does that really scream that he tried his best?

Probably not.

Eddie feels out of place in this store. It's not his kind of establishment, that's for damn sure. The salesman is wearing a suit for god's sake. He should just get the green sweater and call it good. Steve will like it. 

Then, he overhears another shopper asking the salesclerk about the Harrington Jacket.

Like, Steve Harrington? Does Steve have a jacket named after him? Eddie, somehow, wouldn't even be surprised in this town.

Eddie turns his head, to see what the guy is pointing towards. 

It's just a jacket, on one of those headless mannequins. But the jacket itself isn't too different from the gray one Steve wore a lot in high school. 

Eddie steps closer, and looking at it, this one is actually more similar to the jackets Eddie's seen in imported music magazines.

"Oh, it's punk. Like, The Clash," Eddie says aloud, and the guy turns and gives him a dirty look. 

Well, fuck you too, dude.

He looks Eddie up and down, "It's not punk like you."

Eddie is not punk, but he'd definitely rather be called punk than whatever the fuck this dude is, so he lets it go.

He's learned to pick his battles. To bite his sharp tongue. He doesn't want to end up running for his fucking life again. Once was plenty.

But the guy is still talking.

"It's a classic. Steve McQueen. Elvis. Sinatra," the guy says snottily in his loafers, and looks a little disgusted by Eddie's mere presence. What else is fucking new? Especially in this town.

"JFK," the clerk chimes in.

"Yeah, JFK," the guy repeats.

Eddie says nothing. He's seen it worn in magazines with Doc Martens, and mohawks. 

But he listens to the salesman try to sell it to this idiot. The funnel neck. The rain-resistant cotton. How it's a classic wardrobe staple. How it never goes out of style. 

Eddie sees the jacket with the tartan plaid lining in a different way than these two are seeing it, that much is certain. He's seen this in Brit music mags, and he sees the possibility here. Steve could wear it both ways. 

Steve Harrington is punk, even if it's mainly on the inside. Steve Harrington is also preppy, and classically fucking gorgeous.

Then he hears the kind of steep price tag. He can swing it, will swing it, no matter what. It'll just cut a little more into his cash reserves than he'd expected. 

Steve's worth it.

The two idiots are still verbally jerking each other off in front of the mannequin, and Eddie steps away.

He looks at the rack of jackets in dark, muted colors, and really likes the red one. Steve has that red sweater he looks fucking fantastic in, so maybe a red jacket christened with his last name would look even half as good.

Eddie slides the hangers, and chooses Steve's size, trying it on himself to make sure, and then takes it to the register.

The girl behind the register smiles. She reminds Eddie of Chrissy, and he feels a pang of sorrow. Of guilt.

"Nice choice," she says, folding it nicely, "Was anyone helping you today?"

"Nope," Eddie says, "just you."

And he hopes she takes the commission for selling it.

"Would you like it gift wrapped? It's free," she offers and he nods, says thanks, and watches as she wraps it way better than he'd have ever been able to do at home.

The jacket is wrapped and under the tree, and Eddie is nervous. It looks great. The girl at the register did a really good job wrapping it, and treated him like he was welcome to be there, buying their clothing. She was nice to him, and he hates that that is something that stands out these days. 

But right now, he's not worried about that. No, he's suddenly scared Steve won't like the jacket. Scared he got it wrong, again. 

When it comes time to actually give it to Steve, Eddie stalls.

"If you hate it, we can take it back," Eddie stresses, still holding the gold box, reluctant to give it over. 

"I'll love it," Steve says, grinning, holding out his hands.

"You might hate it."

"Eddie, I've never wanted any specific gift from you. I've just wanted you. And you're here, so, I win. I've already won." 

Eddie wants to crumble at that. Fold. And instead just wipes at his eyes with the back of his hand. 

The number of people that have just wanted him for him, is pretty damn slim. 

His mother. Uncle Wayne. 

And now, somehow, Steve Harrington. 

It's absurd. 

It's also the best thing Eddie's ever felt, especially since that fucked up Spring Break.

Steve Harrington is actually a good dude has become his mantra. A belief Eddie holds near and fucking dear. The most solid truth he knows. 

"Here," he says, "Merry Christmas." 

Steve opens it and grins, "Oh, look at that. I love it. Thank you," he says and he puts it on. It fits, and Steve twirls around like he really likes it. Maybe he does. Maybe Eddie did good this time.

"It's a Harrington jacket," Eddie explains, "Seemed fitting." 

And Steve smiles with his whole fucking face, reaching out, pulling Eddie close enough to kiss. Steve's arm wrapped behind Eddie's neck, the soft sleeve of the Harrington worn by his very own Harrington, grazing Eddie's skin.

He definitely did good if he deserves this. If he deserves Steve at all.

And Eddie kisses him back.

If you want to write your own, or see more entries for this challenge, pop on over to @steddieholidaydrabbles and follow along with the fun! 🧥

Notes: The Harrington Jacket was kind of fascinating to do a deep dive on. It was originally called the G9 by Baracuta, and didn't get its current Harrington name until Rodney Harrington (Ryan O'Neal) wore one on Peyton Place. James Dean, Elvis and Steve McQueen all wore versions the Harrington. In the UK, it was often worn by different subsets, including punks. The Clash famously wore Harringtons.

Nowadays, a true Baracuta Harrington is quite expensive, running $400+ - but I could not find a list price in the 80s. (There are many alternatives, like the red Drizzler worn by James Dean in Rebel Without a Cause, so perhaps if the true G9s were as equally expensive back then, which I'm assuming they were not, but if they were, then Eddie was looking at one of those alternative versions.)

They are still in style today. And I like to imagine Steve Harrington is out there somewhere right now, in his fifties, still wearing this one Eddie gave him.

(I do think Steve's blue S1 jacket is probably a version of a Harrington, but definitely wasn't tartan lined.)

[kaybreezy3000]

Five Hargreeves Dirty Headcanons ABC's

(Rated M for sexually explicit content, 5438 words, the last one for Z is sort of a mini story for you to enjoy. This list explores Five and his relationship with 'you' while taking a small dive into his very complicated psyche and looking at some of the reasons why he is the way he is. This is written with 'you' as anyone-not male or female specific.)

Note~ me doing this idea was actually born from me not sleeping last night, and a request my dearest friend Bad Kitty got to do a list this way. She just did a headcanon for Five, so she respectfully declined. Check her stuff out with the link above and I swear you won't be disappointed.

All right.... I hope I did this in a way that's satisfying for all you lovely Five fans out there. 🤞

A-      A student, Aftercare

Number Five doesn't do anything half ass, and that includes you. He’s a hyper focused genius who is going to study you like you’re just another thing he needs to conquer. Every sign your body gives him that he’s doing something right will be cataloged and used to his and your benefit. Five is all about attention to detail and from the moment the tip of his thick cock slips inside you, to the moment he’s done filling you, your pleasure is his. He will always make sure you come, usually more than once and always screaming his name.

With aftercare, he’ll be sure to touch you with the most cautious and gentle of touches as he wipes up the mess he made of you, his soft green eyes dementedly delighting in the glisten of his seed leaking out of you onto the sheets.

B-      Biting, Bondage

Five may seem refined, but he loves to let the feral part of him go wild when he’s with you, not just when he’s swinging an ax through someone’s face. Biting his teeth into your neck hard enough to make you cry out, or softly nibbling on the shell of your ear never gets old. Your agitated sounds of complaint when he does these things arouse dark parts in him that only make him want to drag his teeth along your skin and confuse you even more. Biting your quivering lower lip as his hips violently thrust into you and your nails dig into his back is just one of the ways he makes sure you never forget that you are his.

As a trained killer who loves to exert his power over others, Five is not opposed to using the silk length of his tie to bind your wrists, fastening them above your head, then to the headboard so you can’t touch him. Now you can’t get away-not that you want to.

The look of you that way and the feel of your body under him reminds Five of being with Dolores. She couldn’t touch him back no matter how much he wished she could, and now neither can you.

C-     Control

Thanks to Five’s upbringing where he didn't get to learn what it meant to have the love of a real parent, he suffers from issues of self-worth and trust. He wanted approval, but all he ever got was ridicule and abuse. Due to this, he naturally developed coping mechanisms, such as the need to be the best at everything and becoming extremely self-reliant.

Five is the king of survival, and he knows how to take care of himself.  As such, he struggles with the need to control everything. This includes many things in your relationship, especially with all things sex.

D- Dominance, Dolores

Five is dominant, there’s no question about it. Living a lifetime with Dolores as his only companion only instilled that quality in him even more. This plays heavily in his joy of you calling him Daddy, and that has little to do with his real mental age of being way older than he looks, and much more to do with him wanting to take care of you because that’s what he knows and is good at.

Just like with his beloved mannequin, Five loves manhandling you into positions that make it even better when he fucks his long hard cock into you. With a sheen of sweat causing his chocolate fringe of hair to stick to his forehead, Five could pin you down and thwack his hips into your ass while it's flipped up in the air all day long, all the while maintaining a devilish side smirk and insisting that you are doing such a good job for Daddy.

He's such a wonderfully fucked up jerk, but you love your daddy for all his kinks and oddball quirks. Even his little ticks make you want him even more.

E-      Escapism

Sex is about love for Five. He’s just that kind of man.

He could fuck anyone, but he didn’t, not until he found you. He couldn’t open that part of himself without the intimacy that a real love based relationship gives him. That’s not to say that sex isn’t his favorite form of escapism because it is.

Five is hardly a simple man, but to him, the ecstasy of having an orgasm and the momentary blind eroticism of feeling your body release in that way are just part of what it means for him to be human. He is filled with a mysterious power that may or may not be originally from the alien race his adoptive father belonged to, but he’s still a man and he loves to fuck.

F-      Fingers

This guy’s long sexy fingers are really something, whether you look at him using his dexterity when steadily pulling the trigger that ends someone’s life in the blink of an eye, or if it’s when he’s running them between your legs, languishing in the feel of your engorged flesh wetly dripping for him. Don’t be surprised if Five sucks your lust off his dangerous digits, or if he forces them in your mouth after he’s had them inside you. Both options are great in his mind, and he’ll never get enough of tasting you or good naturedly debasing you.

G-     Grasping, Growling, Groping, Gripping

While hoisting your ass off the bed so he can pump his cock into you with an unforgiving rhythm that makes your insides clench around him and your mouth drop open wide while you gasp out stuttering profanities, Five is for sure going to latch onto your hips, your waist, your hair, your neck, your thighs, or basically anything he can get his hands on.

What you have is his, and he’s not letting it go. When your bodies are connected, he couldn’t be happier. Growling out throaty sounds of euphoria as his tip slips back and forth just inside your slicked entrance, Five knows just how to manipulate your body, and he knows it’s driving you equally crazy.

H-     Humping, Holes

With no shame and little other options, Five is no stranger to getting off by humping inanimate objects, but thankfully, now he has you. Still, you are often a target for his hip thrusting exertions where his hot length grinds against the side of your leg, or your ass crack. He really likes doing this when he wakes up with a boner that refuses to be ignored.

You don’t mind, he is young again after all.

It’s hot as hell watching Five lose himself in such an innocent way, but your heart also breaks a little when you think of all the loneliness he’s had to endure and why he’s still attached to doing this.

The good news is, he’s healing from all that. He has other options when it comes to being with you, and he’s not about to overlook several places on your body where he can insert his needy cock. Five isn’t picky, he will fuck any hole you let him pound.

 I- Imagination

Let’s face it, Five has a very big imagination. Dolores anyone….

Without his ability to imagine her love for him, he wouldn’t be here. She was his voice of reason, and what he considers the personification of all the best parts of him. Without Five there would be no Dolores, and without her, there would be no Five.

Thanks to that enamel covered molding of plastic and resin, you have Five and his imagination is just as strong as it ever was. He never seems to run out of ways to ravish you. Like in public, when he blinks you into a fitting room where he then shoves you against a mirror and slips his fingers and then his cock inside you while he watches your hands palm the glass and your eyes droop.

It’s all Five and his imagination coming to life. He makes your head spin and your body spasm your shuttering release.

He gets stuck in his head sometimes, but it’s not all bad. Sometimes it's just in him fretting giving you small gifts to show how much you mean to him or it's in the simple but as meaningful things he loves to do, like him quietly reading your favorite book to you while you lay together in bed.

J- Jerking off

Five knows how to polish his palm. One might say he’s the master of masturbation.

Needs being such in his many times of despair, the act of self-love gave him something other than pain and suffering to think about. Eventually, for a young boy all alone in the apocalypse, his desire to lose himself in this way became an addition. Smart as he is, Five knew this was happening, but he still became reliant on it, and now he’s still partly that boy, and also that lonely man, sometimes a bit too involved with playing around with his hands down his pants.

He’s shameless about it, never shy about taking his hardened shaft out to show you how it’s done. Fingers tightly curled around the base, he’ll slide them up and down his erection, sure to prolong his climax as long as possible. Not until he’s had enough will he tease the super sensitive slit and the bulbing band of his cherry red tip with his forefinger, circling it round and round before he goes at it hard, fucking himself so brutally his hand is nothing but a blur.

Not one to leave you out, when Five throws his head back and growls, “Get your pretty mouth over here,” you listen. Then you are compensated with the sound of Five groaning out your name as hot spurts his nearly translucent semen flick onto your waiting tongue and then drip down your lips onto your chin.

K- Kissing

The simple pleasure of kissing someone real was something Five had not known until he found you. Not until your first kiss did he understand why people in the romance novels he’d read seemed to be so taken by it.

The first time he looked into your eyes, knowing you saw him for who he really was, all the good and the bad, and that you wanted him anyway, he nervously but determinedly advanced. Slowly at first, he came within a hair’s width from your lips as his uneasy breaths danced across your skin. He was scared, but the moment his mouth touched yours and then molded around your warmth, softly pressing into your acceptance, he never looked back.

Now, after he’s had time to learn how to do it. Five is all about kissing. Running his tongue across your teeth, or tangling it with yours, it doesn’t matter. He’s in heaven when his mouth is on yours.

L- Licking

Five may not look it, but he’s strong, and so is his tongue, and he’s not afraid to fuck you with it. Before you come, he’ll get you so worked up and dripping with anticipation that it’s insane. He’ll happily lap your liquid desire for him until you’re a puddle of goo, laying there with him between your legs, the backs of your knees dangling limply over his heaving shoulders. Catching his breath after your body has just repeatedly tensed and then uncoiled, giving itself over to his mouth, he’ll chuckle at your state of complete and utter destruction, his boyishly handsome dimple doing you in even more.

M- Manipulation

Five is very clever and knows how to get what he wants but he doesn't mentally try to manipulate you. He will however indulge in the fantasy of using you as his own personal fuck doll. This, as is many of his tastes is simply something that's a part of him ,as much as his witty yet dryly delivered comments. Sometimes he asks nicely for you to lay down and not move as much as possible, sometimes he prefers to take your options away manually, and that's when we get the extra special suppressive simulation of bondage added to his sexual exploits.

N- Nuzzling, Naughty talk

Five is many things, uninhibited in bed being only one of them, but he’s also the most loving and tender person you’ve ever known. He shows this in many ways, but one that never gets old is when he’s feeling exceptionally needy and he buries his face against your neck, murmuring sweet nothings about how much you mean to him while he brushes the tip of his nose along the underside of your jaw. He’ll press his face against your ear, cherishing the smell of your hair and the feeling of your skin against his. Five can’t get enough of loving you in these small but passionate ways.

Also, while doing this and at many other times as well, Five lets his silver tongue go verbally, never ceasing to shock you with the dirty things he comes up with. If he tells you to get over here and sit on his dick and ride until he says stop, that’s always fun, and so is watching his eyes comically roll back in his head as he cries out how fucking good you are a taking his cock.

O- Ownership

Five is possessive. He doesn’t covet things unless they have value, and he doesn’t have much to his name and never did. He is a simple man in this way. He was also the kid who did not let the other kids play with his toys, and with you now it’s no different.

He’s not the type to prevent you from doing anything you want, but he is extremely territorial. If something is important to Five, like you are, or even when we are talking about something as seemingly insignificant as one of his tailored suits, if someone dares fuck with the things he holds dear, they are in trouble.

Five doesn’t own you but you own his heart, and if anyone he’s not okay with gets too handsy and lays a finger on you or the fine wool fabric of his sexy suit, expect retaliation and not always something as simple as him angrily swatting their hand away followed by a few choice words of distaste.

P- Punishment, Promises

Being someone that considers their opinion to be more often than not the only one that matters, Five comes off very harsh at times, but with you it’s all a game.

Teasing him about his real age brings out a side in him that’s all about showing you who’s the boss. And one of his favorite ways of doing it is threatening you with holding back when your body is just about to start convulsing from the rhythmic roll of hips pushing his dick so far inside you that you're sure he’s hitting your belly button. Another way is when he throws a hand back and smacks you in the ass while you’re already struggling to keep hold of the sheets so he doesn’t fuck you straight through the mattress.

Five’s promises to take care of you are just as true as his promises that you will pay for your sassy little comments. Together, your back-and-forth, fight style flirtations always lead to him getting overly worked up, and you getting pinned somewhere like against a wall while he frantically fucks his own brains out by way of pounding the fuck out of you.

Q- Quivering, Quaking

Five is beautiful. His soft bedroom eyes with their long dark lashes fanning his flushed cheeks as he looks down at you underneath him take your breath away almost as effectively as his desperate kisses.  But it’s after he’s finally let go and let himself fall over the edge, when you can feel the heat of his cock quaking its last grievances inside you, his body quivering as his legs let go and he collapses at your side, that you are both the most at peace.

R- Rough

Five loves to take you any way he can, but the guy loves it rough. His lean body and his sinewy muscles making a mouth watering ‘V’ as they point like an arrow downwards towards his perfectly tailored dress pants, spelling out all kinds of trouble, but in this case, it's the good kind of trouble.

His body is built for action and that’s what you’re going to get. Five loves to surprise you by blinking himself right on top of you, holding you down with his legs as he attacks. Be it all his training as a child, or as an assassin, Five Hargreeves likes to fuck hard and fast, with his hands holding you down under him with no mercy.

S- Submission

Five craves your submission. Just hearing you beg for it gets him hard, and he often demands you verbalize how much you want him to fuck you harder, or make you come. He'll get you to say it, or he’ll stop thrusting his cock inside you. While you’re losing your mind, he’ll merely look down at you with his cocky grin, just waiting for you to plead with him to give you his cock again.

When it goes the other way, at least when it’s in between the sheets, Five is rarely the one to give himself over that way, but with you, he will. But he only does so knowing that it’s in his benefit.

There’s been more than once he has shown you how much he trusts you, and wow is it a sight to watch Five Hargreeves wither and writhe as you torment all his sense, using blindfolds and gags, and even handcuffs to keep his greedy hands off until you say so.

Imagine his face twisted with agony, lips parted as helpless moans for more pour out of him.

T- Tits

Your body is a wonderland, plain and simple. Anything Five can stimulate himself with while also getting a rise out of you is fair game, and that includes tits.

Small ones, big ones, his or yours, whatever. Five adores the perky points of flesh that he can nipple and suck on. Making them hard nubs with the carefully cruel but also sometimes achingly gentle tugs and rolls between his fingers, is one of his favorite pastimes whether in the privacy of your bed, or in public if he can get away with it.

U- Unlimited energy

The nature of Five’s ability to teleport is something that he never really talks much about, but you know that within him is an infinite strength. Without it, he’d never be able to summon enough energy to propel himself through time and space; it's just simple math.

That said, this same quality of his very unique power allows him an unfair advantage in bed.

Five has unlimited levels of vigor while he’s bucking his hips back and forth and his cock slips in and out, over and over and over. Always a perfectionist, he prefers you get off before him, but even when he’s not so lucky, he can rally. Using his already spent dick, semi hard and still throbbing from the loads of cum he just dumped in or on you, Five will show you that his recovery period is just as extraordinary as he is, and the next thing you know, your sexy teleporter is showing you a whole new rhythm with his hips smacking into yours.

V- Vulnerability

Most of the time, the people in this world that seem the most aloof and coldly indifferent are actually the most desperate and in need of love.

Five is this person.

All his traits point to this. With his extreme levels of trauma, he will always be this way. He longs for the acceptance he never got from Reginald and his siblings. Deep down he’s terrified of showing weakness because if he does, that means he can be hurt. The reality is, he’s already been hurt more than almost anyone that’s ever walked the planet, but in his vulnerability and fear is so much love.

Never the one to give up, Five is trying to learn how to accept the parts of himself that he hates and see that he’s someone deserving of happiness. You are a huge part of that.

W- Whimpers, Whispers, Whines

Anything that comes out of you that sounds broken and desperate makes Five’s dick and mind go wild. The more you keen and struggle, the more he tries to get more of it. It’s pretty much a vicious cycle of torment that’s part narcissistic fulfillment, and also purely for the joy of making you feel amazing. Five feeds off your pleasure.

X- X marks the spot

Five has left his mark on you. Whether he knows he’s doing it or not, he’s taken claim of your body and soul. Let’s face it, he occupies way too many of your thoughts. But his accusation of all that is yours doesn’t stop there. He also loves to mark physically.

Five uses his teeth, tongue, sucking, and licking. He’s an expert, using anything he has at his disposal. He leaves trails of his claim over you for all to see. He’s like a puppy, unable to help himself as his mouth covers you with anxious expressions of love.

Y- You

When we think about Five Hargreeves, we outwardly see a person that one would think only thinks about himself, but it’s actually the complete opposite.

As we know from his troubling past, he’s made mistakes and he’s paid for them, and all along it’s been his love for his family that willed him to keep going. Now, that’s still there despite their continued differences, but his aim in life is more directed at you.

Five wants nothing more than to make you happy. He’ll never stop being scared of losing you no matter how confident he seems. It’s not his fault; he’s lost so much, over and over.

Right or wrong, he also makes you a priority in all things orgasmic bliss. If he’s going solo, you and your naked body welcoming him are all that’s on his mind. When you are together, he’s damn sure to see to it that you get off. He’s a teleporting, ex-temporal assassin that may or may not be the founder of a time controlling agency, but first and foremost, Five Hargreeves is a gentleman, and a gentleman always takes care of his business, and you are his number one business.

Z- Zippers (Heads up~ This one is special because with it, I’m giving you guys a little taste of more in the moment/story writing that I am more used to doing. This part being very similar to something a very naughty version of Five does to someone in the story I wrote called ‘The Devil Within’)

            One of the most erotic sounds in Five’s opinion is the sound of his zipper being pulled down by your careful hand as you coyly gaze up at him with your adoring eyes.

Looking between his widely spread legs at the sight of you kneeling before him, ready to do as he asks, makes him feel more powerful than he’s ever felt, and that’s saying a lot because Five is very, very powerful and has done unimaginable things.

            It starts with a steadiness in his soothing words and his hand brushing along your cheek, then moving back into your hair. His fingers thread along your spine as he pulls you closer.

You can already see the bulge of his desire even before you open his pants, but now, pulling the fabric aside, you see the outline of Five’s erection filling the thin cotton underwear still covering him.

You know what he’s going to do but he warns you anyway.

“You’re going to eat my cock and love it, honey.”

Licking your lips, you nod.

Coming down on him, you kiss the wet spot of darkened material covering his deliciously rounded tip. Just thinking of it inside you, opening you up almost painfully, has you wishing you could touch yourself, but you don’t dare because right now, this is about him.

Sliding a hand down, Five pushes his underwear down, freeing his stiff cock.

You let out a little whimper.

Feeling pretty damn proud, Five grabs a wad of your hair, then sharply pulls your head, pushing you down closer to his body.

“Don’t be a tease, sweetheart” he tauntingly sings with misleadingly boyish play in his voice.

You lick your lips again, then open your mouth around him, your tongue leisurely tracing up the raised veins roping the length of his engorged shaft.

After only one pass, you stop to gauge Five’s reaction. 

The moment he locks eyes with you, you wrap your lips around him and Five is quick to push you down without warning, forcing you to gag around him as you struggle and gasp for air. 

Smirking, Five lets you sit that way, allowing you to adjust as he lets out a low groan over that sinful act of ruthlessness. His fingers play with your hair, petting you even if it is a degrading form of encouragement. Doing as he pleases, Five refuses to adjust the pressure he is putting on the back of your throat.

With a small smile of approval over your quick submission, Five reaches down, requesting you give him your hands. You do, then he proceeds to place them palm down on his thighs. Taking your hair again, Five lets you move freely, bobbing your head up and down, mostly working his tip with your tongue.

Your eyes flutter and your fingernails gently dig into Five’s slouched slacks as he starts rocking your head back and forth over him, making his dick disappear inside your wet mouth. Holding you the way he is, with your head tilted back, your throat open and lined up perfectly, it gives Five the deepest penetration and a view that before being with you, he’s only ever seen in porn, and the sight and the feel of it is making his already heavy cock feel like it might truly choke you if he gets any more turned on.

“If it’s too much let me know,” he says, clearly indicating that you should push back if he is too rough or if he makes you take him too deep.

He isn’t expecting it, but you immediately push back, then start circling your tongue around his cockhead as you moan. This is all part of the fun, but since this was not what he wants, Five's mind whirls with punishments he could deliver, but his stomach also fills with wonderful butterflies the more he listens to you. As you tease the underside of his shaft, his breathing grows heavy, and he can’t help but grind against your marvelous tongue.

Reaching up, your hand drags down over Five’s tensed abdomen. You’re taking your time with him, and it is evident you’re enjoying it, and the feeling of each ridge between his muscles as he holds his body tight, trying not to sway.

Five has to admit, he is enjoying this too, but then you wrap your hand around him, covering the base of his shaft, only not moving it. His hands clench and his knuckles whiten as he lets out a rough sounding sigh of exasperation.

Letting his penetrating gaze settle on you, Five is just about to start thrusting down your throat again when your hand begins to move and your head shallowly bobs over his drizzling tip while you softly suck.

Five’s body shudders and you respond by moving your hand up his length, jerking him a few times before pressing your thumb gently but firmly against the underside of his shaft where your mouth is popping on and off.

Sudden waves of pleasure hit him, followed by shaky breaths as his fingers tighten their grip on you. Taking complete control of your movements again, Five forces your head down, pushing your lips sliding along all the way to his pubic bone, only pulling your head up again so he can fuck into your throat all over again.

It’s not like he didn’t warn you or give you an out. Still, there’s no denying he isn’t getting a sick sort of pleasure from your tears, wet gags, and each and every spasm of your throat, and there is no way he isn’t enjoying the sound of your desperate whines and moans.

You want this as much as he does and you are not tapping out, but your fingers are digging into his thighs as your eyes roll back so far in your head that Five is sure your brain must be turning off because he just skewered it.

Loving every second of dominating you by roughly fucking your face so hard he is making it impossible for you to think, Five pays you back for doing so good by not holding in his deep moans and low grunts of euphoria, but all too quickly he has to stop, or it will be over, and he doesn’t want that at all.

As his hips slow and pull away, your swollen lips gently popped off him. 

Your brows furrow upwards as you watch Five with a needy expression. Feeling like he can get away with it, he taps your chin with the end of his cock, spreading the drips of drool that you can’t help but have after taking him that long and hard. 

Five smiles down at you, a wickedly charming sort of look spreading across his face as he watches you wordlessly begging. He tightens his grip on the back of your head.

“God, you are fucking beautiful,” he breathes, then suddenly yanks your hair back, forcing you to crane your neck back. “I can’t wait to paint your face.”

After a few more taps to your waiting tongue, Five swiftly brings you down on him again, immediately causing you to gag. The sound of your body fighting him and the feel of your moans buzzing against him as you twitch and repeatedly try to swallow, all have him close to the edge again, but he can’t stop now even if he wanted to.

Soon, his rhythm becomes even more aggressive as he takes your head in both hands, slamming his cock into your mouth while griding the back of your throat against his tip before pulling off, only to repeat the process.

“You really wanted my dick, didn’t you?” Five breathlessly sputters as he throws his head back and his pale green eyes disappear under his heavy eyelids.

Inevitably his brutal pattern has become more erratic. Eventually, Five pulls back, fully pulling out. His hand that was tangled in the strands of your hair is moved to your puffy lips instead.

Jerking your chin up with his free hand, he urgently askes, “Do you think you can swallow all of it?”

You eagerly nod.

With an air of desperation coming out of him, Five strokes himself needily, bringing himself closer and closer as you watch in anticipation, your mouth open and tongue out.

With a few sharp inhales, Five’s body begins to tremor, and his legs begin to feel like they could give out on him. One of his heels squeaks on the floor as he drives himself forward, intent on delivering. 

A long string of rough groans fall from Five's gaped lips as you flinch and reactively shut your eyes in response to the pearls of white falling over your waiting tongue.

Having plenty of pent-up sexual tension, not to mention a lifetime of being deprived of anything to this level of sexual eroticism, Five’s superpowered youthfully charged load repeatedly spurts out of him in heavy ropes, just like it always does.

You swallow and swallow, trying to keep up, but even though you are, Five deliberately pulls back, letting the last of his cum land across your flushed cheeks, some even dripping down, landing on your breathless body.

"Oh fuck," he gasps with his hand clasped around his shaft. His angry grip keeps moving but much more slowly as it passes over his length while he rides the last incredible waves of his release.

His crisp white dress shirt moves up and down, faster than normal as he looks down at the mess he’d made of you.

“Such a good job for daddy,” he dizzily breathes before coming down to kiss your lips, his come covering them not at all stopping him. As his hands cradle your head, he breaks away just long enough to say, "I fucking love you.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

There we have it people…..

🎶-Now I know my ABC’s…and you guys got to get inside’s Five’s pervy head with me. 🎶

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[fuck-customers]

I got a doozy for ya.

I work in a sex shop, right. A high-end sex shop. We’re open until 10pm every night except Sundays. This doesn’t matter to the story really, but we’ve been low on people lately — down to a team of 3. Today was my 8th straight day of working and my 3rd time this week closing by myself, which is not supposed to happen ever. Shit is kinda rough, but we keep the store nice anyhow because we take pride in the products we sell, etc.

Anyway. The story. Couple comes in at 9:55 — we’re already off to a bad start. I hit ‘em with the ol “hey just so you know we do close in 5 minutes!” The wife tells me “oh it’s fine, he knows what he wants” so im like okay, whatever.

Cue them bringing me a bunch of different things to open at the counter and look at, because apparently they did NOT know what they wanted. The wife asks me what size underwear I think will fit her and what size will fit her husband — like im just fuckin psychic? I guess? The husband meanwhile is going to sit on our CLEARLY MARKED display couch (it literally has a sign that says “please do not touch display”) and pretend to make out with the mannequin. The husband comes up with a dildo and proceeds to freak out that the underwear (strap on boxers with an included bullet vibrator) are too expensive ($74). So the wife puts back the 3(!) sets she had grabbed, except she doesn’t put them back, she leaves them on the bottom of the merchandiser. Like?? This is not Walmart honey this is a fucking luxury shop?? Hello? You cannot act like an animal in here!

Mind you. The only reason im putting up with these people is because at first it looks like they’re going to make a big purchase (a harness, a high-quality dildo, a couple of restraints). But no, the husband wants to bitch about the prices some more. I’m like honey you were the one who wanted the 10 inch poseable dildo with lifelike skin, it’s gonna cost you more than the basic silicone would, sorry. The wife is complaining that he uses scrubbing bubbles to clean their toys (what the fuck) and then as im explaining that some soaps have silicone they’re interrupting me to tell me horrible details of their sex lives. I’m like please for the love of god can you just finish your purchase and leave.

They don’t end up getting the restraints. They get the dildo and a basic strap-on harness. Something like $97 total. By the time they check out, it’s 10:12, 2 minutes after I’m supposed to be clocked out, and I haven’t even started counting the drawer down. All told I don’t end up finishing my closing tasks and getting out to my car until 10:30, which is the time im usually at home in bed. Yayyyy.

And mind you all of this I could have handled. Whatever, some people don’t understand what “closed” means. But as if all that weren’t enough, as she’s leaving, the wife turns back to me, looks at the poster for one of our sex swings, which features 3 different sets of models, and says:

“now why is it that nowadays all of these things have to have interracial couples?”

Posted by admin Rodney

[rubyin-wonderland]

Guilt

opla!Zoro x gn!reader

Summary: Under the control of a hypnotist, Zoro is forced to hurt you. How are you going to heal?

WC: 4.4k

Warnings/tags: blood, injuries, torture, getting stabbed, a shit ton of angst, fluff at the end

The forest stretches endlessly out around you, giving you the impression of complete isolation, despite the danger lurking all around.

You aren't completely alone, thankfully. Zoro stands with you as you traverse the forest, pushing through the bushes to hopefully find some way out of this hellish situation.

Hypnotists hide in the forest with you, prepared to take control of you with a single look. You need to escape, but that seems impossible this deep in the forest.

The sun has been completely blocked out with a blanket of branches and leaves held above your head. It must still been day since you can see, but there is no direct sunlight and there hasn't been since you entered.

You hold onto Zoro's arm like a child, eyes darting back and forth across your surroundings in case anything or anyone jumps out.

Zoro allows you to hold his arm, his hand holding yours. "It's okay." He says, still looking ahead. "We're gonna be okay." It's for him to hear as much as you.

You know it would be unwise to stop. You need to escape, but your legs ache and you are exhausted.

"I need to stop." You mumble, keeping your pace nonetheless. "We can't stop." You resist the urge to whine. That certainly wouldn't help. "I know."

"We'll walk for a few more minutes and then stop, okay?" He suggests quietly, trying to compromise. You hum a yes and nod, trying to keep up before you hear something, stopping dead in your tracks.

"Just a few more minutes." He tries to spur you into motion, but you look up at him, fear in your eyes.

"Something's there." You press your back to his, your natural place when preparing for a fight.

You hear footsteps from behind you and instinctively close your eyes. That way you can't be hypnotized.

You feel Zoro reach for his swords, drawing them from their sheaths, at the ready.

Then something happens. He freezes against your back and you know something is wrong. You take a step away as he spins around, swinging where you had been standing.

Hypnotized.

Your blood runs cold as you see his face, completely void of emotion. No soft smile or mild frown. It's a blank slate, there is emptiness behind his eyes. He's a puppet for the man standing behind him.

His posture is rigid. It's like someone turned him into a mannequin. There is no protectiveness about him. No kindness. He is not there. He's just a vessel. His swords are already drawn.

You run back into the forest, drawing your own sword to defend yourself, moving as fast as your legs will allow you.

The men follow you as you run, but as long as you don't look the hypnotist in the eyes you're safe.

Zoro follows close behind you, eventually tackling you to the ground, knocking the wind out of you.

As you gasp for air, he breaks out of the hold the hypnotist has on him, loosening his grip on your arms.

He looks confused and for a second you want to kiss him for coming back to you, but you know as soon as the hypnotist reaches the two of you the control will take over again.

You break away from him, taking off into the bushes, getting air in staggered breaths.

You look back to see Zoro go rigid again, the simple action causing you to stumble over a root, hitting the ground hard.

Zoro takes his time now, the hypnotist doesn't want to let him go. You stand, trying to regulate your breathing before holding your sword out, preparing to duel.

He lunges at you, but you're lucky. The hypnotist doesn't know how to use his swords. The movements are sloppy and leave plenty of space for you to attack.

You don't attack, though. That's still Zoro. Not right now, but inside he is, and you can't shake that. You can't hurt him.

You dodge his attacks easily, he gives you more than enough time to block. The fight would have a clear winner if you were to actually attack him.

He continues to slash at you wildly as you begin to scream for help. If any of the others can hear you they'll come to help. Hopefully.

You manage to knock him off balance, immediately taking off into the woods again, calling out for anyone.

You run fast and Zoro follows behind you, staying in the trance from the hypnotist, swords at the ready.

You don't look back. You just keep screaming, your legs burning under you. You keep running until your legs physically give out under you.

This time, when you hit the forest floor, you don't get up. You just lay there, heart pounding in your ears, your voice cut short by the fall.

You feel hands grabbing you, turning you over on your back so you can see what's about to happen to you.

Zoro sits above you, his weight holding you to the ground. Your elbows are pinned to your sides. You can't move. You can't escape.

Your sword fell out of your hand when you hit the ground and it now sits out of your reach.

His swords are discarded as well, the hypnotist likely knowing how to use fists far better than blades.

Instead of calling for your friends, you try to get through to Zoro. He lands the first blow against your face and you resist the urge to crack.

It isn't him. It isn't.

Zoro would never hurt you.

He's being controlled.

It's not him.

You hope that by some miracle he'll be able to break through the hypnosis with the power of love, but you can tell it's a silly idea.

Still, you try.

"Zoro! Zoro please! Try to come back please!"

Your begs are cut short by him forcing a forearm against your windpipe. Your voice struggles as he slowly suffocates you.

He adjusts himself at some point and your arms free themselves, reaching up to force his forearm away from his throat, your legs kicking under him.

You are struck by the blankness of his face. So much so that you force your eyes shut. You think it would be easier to handle if he looked angry. His appearance is uncanny. There's no exertion on his features. He's just staring at you, blinking occasionally. There's nothing.

It would be easier if he looked like he had a reason to hurt you. Any emotion. Even joy. You'd prefer seeing joy over this void.

You can't tell if it's worse that he's hurting you or that it looks like he doesn't even care. You know, you know that it's because of the hypnosis that he looks like this, but it's killing you.

You know deep down that he isn't even conscious. He is asleep in his brain while being controlled. He doesn't even know his body is doing this.

It's a small mercy to think at least he won't be tortured with these memories. He won't be able to see his forearm pressed against your neck as you beg him to stop.

He eventually removes his arm from your neck, allowing you to breathe. You can scream for help again. He wrangles your arms back to your sides and leans forward to grab your sword.

His knee digs into your side as he examens the blade. You begin pleading like your life depends on it. In a way, it does.

Maybe you'll be able to contact the sleeping consciousness in his head and wake it up. Have him take over again. You can only hope.

"Zoro, let me go. Zoro, please, please stop this." You start to cry. It's pathetic but it's your only defense at the moment. You can't hurt him.

He moves the sword against your arm, dragging the blade across your skin, watching the red line appear and begin to bleed.

You can feel the blood trickle down your arm as he moves to your opposite shoulder, drawing a line across it, 'accidentally' scratching the skin of your cheek with the pointed tip of the sword.

You continue to scream and cry and beg. You need your crewmates. You need backup.

You watch as Zoro lines up the blade perpendicular to the ground, the tip sitting on your bleeding shoulder.

"No." You say the word as if it will stop him. Nothing else has. He's still emotionless. Still being controlled.

You feel the blade plunge through your shoulder one second before Zoro's body relaxes.

His eyes go wide and his brow furrows as he tries to understand what just happened. When he sees his hands wrapped around the hilt of your sword, buried in your shoulder, his hands drop it. He's terrified.

He gets pulled off of you and he just sits there, watching as Nami approaches you.

You've never seen Zoro so scared. And yet it's a miracle to see anything on his face.

You're more focused on the pain radiating from your shoulder, trying to pull away from it. You hold back the urge to scream, groaning instead

Nami lifts you up, supporting you against a tree. You can see her mouth moving, asking questions, but your vision drifts to Zoro, who sits confined within the hold of the rest of the crew.

His eyes are haunted. They're talking to him but he isn't listening.

Your eyes meet and you're glad they finally do. He's there. He's back in there. He's him.

The sword juts out of your shoulder, standing up, supported by your body. Nami removes it, launching you into another pained yell before trying to silence yourself.

Nami is quick to work with a field dressing, patching up the bloody wound and covering up the cut on your arm. You'll need more help when you get out of the forest, but it does the job for now.

Nami doesn't try to get any answers from you. She just wipes the the blood and dirt off your arm and hastily wraps it up.

You read her lips and listen hard to understand her. She says you're so close to the edge of the forest. You're thankful, but fear eats away at you. It consumes your mind, squirming through your guts.

You want to throw up, or sob, or both. You end up crying, every other breath interrupted by gagging, but since you haven't eaten all day, nothing comes out.

You can see Zoro and the boys watching this and as much as it hurts to see him scared, you're still glad you can see his emotions.

He's horrified. Fear and grief rush across his face. He knows he did this to you. His eyes briefly dart to the man lying on the ground. Unconscious. He can't take control anymore. He doesn't have to. He's done enough damage.

Your hearing slowly returns and you look at Nami. "What happened?" You know what happened. You remember every grimy detail. You just want the slim chance of being told that it was a dream. A hallucination. That it hadn't actually happened.

"One of those hypnotists found you. He took control of Zoro. He was forced to attack you."

You nod, numb. You want to talk about how scary it was, but Zoro is sitting right there, eyes full of concern, staring right at you. His focus never wavers.

You let your head fall against the tree. You just want to go back to the ship. "I wanna go." You mumble at the ground, feeling hollow.

"Let's get you back to the ship." She helps you up and after some silent discussion, an arrangement is made.

Zoro walks at the very front of the group, next to Luffy and you walk at the back, supported by Nami. This way you have the feeling of security and confirmation that he won't attack you.

You know he won't. Since the hypnotist is out of the picture, everything should be alright. And yet, your brain replays the pain. The fear itches at you and there's a sinking feeling in your stomach.

Zoro wouldn't hurt you of his own accord, but he could be forced into doing it.

You try not to think about how any of the people around you could be manipulated into doing the same.

Sanji and Usopp stand as a buffer between Zoro an you, like some sort of extra protection. You feel like it's excessive, but you don't say anything. Neither does Zoro.

You can tell Zoro wants to look back at you. You see muscles in his neck twitch as he debates looking at you, making sure you're okay.

He turns around once, and you flinch. It's not intentional and it drives shards of ice through your stomach. You're scared of him.

As you walk, you realize the strange fact that Zoro shouldn't apologize. Nothing about this situation was his fault. The actions done against you aren't his. He has no reason to apologize. It's not his fault, but you know the hypnotist isn't going to feel the guilt.

This is the kind of experience that would bring you to his side, snuggling deep into his arms, trying to escape the feeling of your attacker. But when it was him who had attacked you, you didn't know what to do. You craved his touch, but it was his touch that had hurt you in the first place. The arms that kept you warm and protected had suffocated you. The hands that usually wiped away your tears had driven the blade into your shoulder.

You can't stop thinking about it. It replays over and over again in your head. You see Zoro's face hovering over yours. You feel him hurting you. It makes your heart break.

You have to stop for a second when you realize that you don't think you can be left alone with him. Not after that horrific encounter.

Out of the forest finally, you see the sun. It isn't a good sign. It's a dawn on this new trauma.

A doctor fixes you up properly, telling you to rest and what to do and what to eat and drink. You barely listen. Everything is wrong.

There's a celebration for your acts of heroism. For freeing the town from those hypnotists who have been controlling them for years. You don't enjoy it. You pretend like nothing happened in the forest. That your injuries were accidents, and earned in a direct altercation with a hypnotist. A lie, and a terrible one. You and Zoro stand far apart whenever necessary.

You don't know how to feel. You aren't angry at him. You don't blame him. He did nothing wrong. The hypnotist is to blame. But every time you tell yourself that, you flash back to the forest floor, watching Zoro position your sword over your shoulder.

That night, you sleep alone in the room you usually share with Zoro. He bunks with the boys.

The room is empty, but you can't sleep next to him. Every inch of you is simultaneously asking to run into his arms and force yourself as far away from him as possible.

The crew leaves in the morning, without much discussion. The boat just floats away from the harbour, leaving a horrific scene behind you.

For the first few days, you handle things without much trouble. You do your best to avoid thinking about the situation and risk getting riled up. You are forced to stay in bed, which makes the task of not thinking about it much harder, but there's usually someone there to accompany you.

Zoro doesn't visit. You suspect he doesn't want to hurt you further by appearing like a memory of what you've just experienced, but it doesn't feel right to not have him there. The others don't ask if you want to see him for fear of agitating you and you don't say anything about it because your mouth zips up of its own accord any time you ask about him coming to see you.

"How is Zoro?" You finally force out one day, during Nami's visit. You trust her to give it to you straight. "He's not doing good. He blames himself." You shake your head. "It's not his fault."

Nami sighs. "We know. He's the one having trouble. He misses you, but he doesn't want to visit and scare you." She looks over, an unspoken question finally coming to light.

"Do you want him to visit?" She watches the way your mouth closes and your body freezes, stopping you from answering. "You can say no. I won't tell him that you did."

You don't answer, the ever present conflict in your head raging on. You sit on the bed, feeling emotionally exhausted as your silence answers for you.

"That's okay. Take your time. Sanji will bring you dinner later, okay?" You just nod, mouth wired shut. It's too much.

For the first few nights, you sleep out of exhaustion, but once you're caught up on sleep, it wears off.

You suddenly can't sleep at night. You'll wake up at random times for no reason and it takes incredible amounts of willpower to get back to sleep.

It's midnight, and you don't even feel tired. Your thoughts return to him, defending him while your brain tries to fight you off with images of him hurting you.

The bruise on your neck has almost disappeared, and your arm is much better. You suspect the stab wound will have a scar, but the cut managed to heal quite well, only a slight line remaining on your skin.

In the morning, you are expected to make your grand return, allowed out of bed, but as of right now, you need to get out. The world is sour and you can't stay in the room you are supposed to share with Zoro any longer.

You step outside, hoping whoever's on watch duty understands that you need this.

Initially, you want to find Zoro and just see him. Know that he's safe. That he's still there, even if your mind can only conjure images from that fateful day.

You pass by the boys' room without stopping. You don't want to rouse them from their sleep anyways, so you just walk around outside.

The cool night air wraps around you, making you shiver. Your skin comes alive with small bumps in reaction to the chill.

The sky is clear and the water is calm. It's a perfect night. There's no wind, at best it's a breeze, and only the sounds of water lapping at the hull of the ship to help lull people to sleep.

You sit on the deck, staring out at the water, vast, blue, and unforgiving. You feel something bubble up in you, but it's as if the bubbles are made of tar, floating lazily upwards, popping and coating your insides with a sticky, black ichor.

You feel sick, but not like you're about to throw up. You just feel wrong.

You forgot the night watch schedule, who wouldn't after what you'd been through, but it means that Zoro is the first to see you out of your room. He shirks his duties slightly, focusing his attention on you.

He faces your back, watching uneven breaths take your body. He isn't sure if he should go inside and wake someone else up to deal with this. He isn't sure of anything. He can't stop envisioning you after he was freed from the control. Eyes wide, bleeding profusely from a wound brought on by his hand. He feels completely unable to do anything to help you.

He hasn't seen you since the celebration back on the island. Even then he had kept his distance.

You seem to have healed well, you've regained some movement in your shoulder, limited as it is. He's grateful that you haven't been hurt permanently. That would be awful.

He takes a step towards the rooms, planning to fetch Nami, he thinks she'll be the best help you can get, but his foot drags and you pick up on the noise, whipping around to face him.

You look up at the elevated deck he stands on, both of you are frozen in place. He looks blank again. But not in the way the hypnotist had done it. Instead of a lack of emotion, there's too much. He has so much to feel, and only a limited space to express it.

Concern and worry are visible on his face and you remind yourself that this is Zoro. He doesn't want to hurt you. He would never intentionally hurt you. He loves you and he wants you to be safe.

You mind counters this with reminders of how it felt to struggle beneath him, unable to get through to him, to bring him back.

After a while, he takes a cautious step forwards. You don't move away.

"Can we talk?" The question is one you've heard him ask once, when he first confessed his feelings to you.

He doesn't typically engage in conversation, but times are difficult. Changes need to be made. You take him up on his offer.

"Yes. Come down here." Your words are stilted and sound forced. Your heart pounds in your chest as he comes down to you, every movement careful and precise.

When he reaches the same level as you, he keeps his distance, backed up against the railing, allowing you to make the boundary.

He's never been good with this kind of thing. Vulnerability. It isn't easy for him. Which surprises you even more when he begins the conversation.

"Is there anything I can do? To help?" You stare blankly for a second before shrugging. "I don't know." You want everything to stop. You can't stand it.

"I'll keep my distance, if that's what you want." "I don't." The words slip out without warning. For once, your body doesn't stop you from trying to reach out to him. It's the truth. If it's going to hurt with or without him, you want him anyways.

"I want," you search for the words, forcing your head down, staring at the deck. "You. With me." You say it to the wooden boards of the deck, trying to keep yourself balanced as the pent up emotions threaten to overtake you.

"But I need to go back to the start. With the touching." You're surprised at how well the words come out.

Zoro hadn't been overly touchy before you were together, but after a while, the two of you were nearly always touching in some way. He already misses it, but he knows he'll do whatever it takes. You're worth it.

"Yes. Of course." He bows his head to you, nervously.

You think back to the beginning. The first days with him. Small touches. Nothing too strong. Brushing hands, gently pressing against each other when there was no room for personal space.

He used to kiss your hand.

It had made you laugh when he first did it, mocking some romantic man the two of you had been watching. It grew into a joke, and then it was serious. Any time he wanted to make you smile, he would kiss your hand.

And so, as an offering of new beginnings, you slowly walk across the deck towards him, pushing away the memories from that day.

He stays still, trying not to scare you. You take his hand and he lets you guide it up towards your face. His hand is warm in yours.

"Start small." You whisper to yourself, reminding him of the way you spoke to him in the beginning.

"Let's start small." He had said, knowing neither of you were ready to dive in, to have the full experience off the bat.

"Okay." He said quietly, barely a breath in the wind. You lift his hand up, pressing a gentle kiss to the back of it.

He's glad it's dark and nobody else can see him because his face is as red as they come.

You can tell though. The slightly flustered look is all you need to see to know he's the exact same shade as a tomato.

You smile and his heart flutters.

"I love you Zoro." The words start to flow easier and for a brief moment things feel normal again. "It's nobody's fault, but I'm sorry we have to do this."

He resists the urge to lean over and kiss your forehead. "I tried to attack him. It's my fault we're in this mess."

You let go of his hand and turn your face serious, watching him carefully. "It was nobody's fault. Not mine, not yours, not Luffy or Usopp or Nami's either. The blame lies on that damned man and his hypnotic eyes. And it's over now. Nothing can be done about it." Zoro nods and reaches out a hand, an offering for you to take, if you should want it.

"To new beginnings?" He says gently and you can tell he doesn't expect you to take his hand. Maybe to surprise him, you do.

Your injured arm raises up, the fingers slide between his, lightly holding him. His fingers wrap around your hand, light enough to let you pull away without resistance should you have to. He's strangely good at helping you.

The two of you sit in silence, your hands sitting between you.

Carefully, you try something risky. You lower your hands and move closer. You just want to try. To know if it feels awful.

You press your body to his and he is deathly still. His breath hitches and you wonder if he knows you can tell he's about to cry.

You wrap your free arm around his body, giving him a gentle squeeze. "Your turn." You mumble into his chest. You feel his arm move. Your heart jumps, but you can't tell if it's out of fear or love. You decide to let it happen anyways.

His arm carefully wraps around your back, holding you to him.

You look up to see a single tear dripping down his face, a sight that makes you want to cry yourself.

You decide that you need this. You cry in his embrace as well. It feels like normalcy. It feels like home.

You separate after a while. It's a bittersweet parting, but your hands stay together.

"Tomorrow, please come back to our room." You say quietly. You don't know how this will work, but you know it will, and that's enough.

To new beginnings indeed.

[beansprean]

No matter what we do, we will always end up here...(a confrontation in Nandor's room in one of my comics)

My Familiar’s Ghost part 68

Masterpost

See new pages on Patreon!

(ID in alt and under cut)

ID: 1a. Close up of a windowsill from inside Nandor's unlit crypt as the window slides itself open a crack. 1b. Zoom out, more of the room visible including an unlit fireplace to the left of the window, a bare dressmaker mannequin to the right, and a corner of Nandor's coffin in the foreground. Long curtains flutter open around the window as a mass of black smoke slithers through the crack into the room. 1c. Shot in profile, coffin and the adjacent wall in the background, as the smoke materializes into Nandor, who walks purposefully toward his coffin. 1d. Close up of Nandor's left hand lifting the lid of the coffin.

2a. Aerial view of the coffin as the lid swings up to reveal...Guillermo! He is still dressed in his fancy red sweater and bat lapel pins and lays there with his arms crossed, eyes glowing faintly orange in the darkness of the room. He glares up at Nandor and says "You're mad at me again." 2b. Zoom out to room in profile as Guillermo sits up in the coffin and Nandor jerks back in shock, eyes bulging and arms flying every which way as he cries "Ayyyy!" 2c. Repeat. Nandor's shriek trails off into an angry shout of, "Stop doing that, fuck!!" Nandor calms himself, head tipped back and hands curling in the air in frustration. Guillermo floats himself unsteadily into the air, out of the coffin. 2d. Wide shot from the window side, the entire room visible beyond with the door to the hallway on the far wall. Nandor is in the foreground, body turned away from Guillermo and toward the viewer. He undoes the clasp of his cloak with his right hand and casually lifts his left to light all the candles in the room, bathing them both in a warm orange haze. Nandor furrows his brow in irritation and asks over his shoulder, "What do you want, Guillermo?" Behind him, Guillermo now stands on the floor beside the coffin, both hands on the lid as he pushes it closed. He aims a stern glance at the back of Nandor's head and replies, "An explanation, for starters?" /end ID

[muwapsturniolo]

✯Day at the Beauty Supply✯

Summary: Chris goes to the beauty supply for the first time with his girlfriend.

BLACK READER!!!

Warnings: none really.

✯ ✯ ✯ ✯ ✯ ✯ ✯ ✯ ✯ ✯ ✯

It was time. The annual trip you take every few months to a store you could spend all day in.

The beauty supply.

You could spend all day in the small shop, chatting with the aunties and thinking of all the new hairstyles you could do. If you get lucky, they might have some freshly popped popcorn to give you with your purchase.

Just as you slip on your Crocs, your front door swings open. “Honey I’m home and ready to fu-where are you going?” Chris barges into your home, holding his phone and a Pepsi. “To the store…and what were you ready to do?”

“Fuck you... but now I want to go to the store with you.” I eye him up and down. He's dressed in black pants, some shirt, and his white Air Forces. “Fine, you don’t look like a bum so let’s go.”

“You always say I look like a bum!”

“And do. You’re driving.” I shove my car Keys in his hand and walk out the door.

We get in the car and I put in the directions. “Where are we even going?”

“Beauty supply,” I mumble as I click away on my phone. “Beauty supply? Like Sally’s?” I scrunch my face up and side-eye him. “Uh no. I don’t shop at Sally’s, they don’t have anything I need.” Now Chris is confused.

There’s other beauty supplies than Sally’s?

You two soon arrive, you hopping out before the car is even parked, eagerly rushing towards the door.

You’re in the store before Chris, a basket already in hand, starting to look through the aisles. Chris walks in and freezes at what he sees.

Multiple mannequins, wigs, jewelry, clothes, hell even a deep freezer.

It’s a culture shock for him. Of course he’s been in Sally’s with his mom, but that store was nothing like this.

He quickly walks through the aisles, avoiding the mannequins staring him down as he attempts to look for you. He finds you looking at the shampoos. “These mannequins are scary as fuck.” He mumbles.

You ignore him and continue to look at the shampoos. “I see the one you us-no, I need a different one for my wigs and I’m trying to see what’s better.” You mumble. You end up grabbing a new one as well as the original that you use. You start walking, Chris trailing behind you like a lost puppy

Or so you thought.

“What do you think about pi-Chris?” You turn around and you don’t see him. With furrowed brows, you walk around the store and see Chris looking at the perfume oils.

“Why are all these names so sexual? It’s like your makeup all over again!” A certain memory of your mascara pops into your head making you smile. “Panty dropper? Pussycat? Suck him dry!?” He starts reading off names, a boyish smile taking over his face. “Let’s go, you are not about to sit here and embarrass me.” You grab his hand and attempt to drag him away.

You walk over to the bonnet section and start browsing your options. Once again, Chris gets distracted. He sees packaging with guys on the front, wearing some type of head scarf. In his eyes, it looks cool and he already sees an outfit he could wear with it. He picks up an orange velvet one and starts to put it in your basket. “What are you doing? I don’t need a durag?”

“It’s for me.”

All you can do is blink at him.

“Chris sweetheart, I don’t want you to get canceled so gon' head and put that back.” Now he’s confused. “What? Canceled? Why?” You sigh as you put the durag back on the shelf. “I’m not explaining cultural appropriation to you in the beauty supply. Let’s go.” You end up dragging him towards the styling products.

He gets bored quickly and decided to walk around the store, looking and touching every little thing. Just as he is about to touch one of the products on the shelf, a voice speaks up behind him. “You lost baby?” He turns around and sees an older lady.

She has on bamboo hoops, long curved nails, and her hair is wrapped in some type of fabric. The red lipstick she has on matches her red framed glasses perfectly. “Umm, no?”

“What you doing in here baby? Not to judge but we don’t see too many palm colored folk in here.” His can’t tell if he’s blushing from the pet name, or if he’s embarrassed by her calling him palm colored.

“M-my girlfriend is shopping…” just as he finishes his words, you come around the corner, “there you are! I swear I’m going to have to put you on a leash!” Your basket has seemed to double in size from the last 5 minutes apart.

You see the older woman you have known since you started coming to the store and smile, “how are you miss Cheryl?”

“I’m good puddin pop! I was wondering when I was gonna see you again! I see you brought your lil friend with you.” Cheryl raises her brow. “Was he being bad? Chris, I told you not to embarrass me!”

“I did-he was good sugar. He just looked lost. Are you done shopping?” You nod and she guides y’all over to the register. She begins scanning everything out but stops when she gets to a fragrance oil, “lick me all over? Baby you usually go for the shea butter.” You turn to Chris who is smiling innocently.

“My momma would have popped you for touching and sneaking stuff into the basket.” You mutter as you tell Cheryl to keep it.

She finishes ringing y’all up and you go to pay, “$300 baby, I applied my discount since you’re my favorite.” You go to pay but Chris snatches your card out of your hand.

“Excuse you,”

He gives you a nasty look, “when have you ever paid for anything since you have been with me? Exactly. So put the card away, add on the lipglosses you have been eyeing, and stop trying to embarrass me.”

“Aww shit yall, our lil puddin pop got her man with money!” The other older women start to laugh and chatter. You huff as you grab a few glosses and put them on the counter. Chris taps his phone, a faint hue of pink on his cheeks as the women hype him up for paying. “You better keep him, not a lot of men gon pay for your stuff at the beauty supply chile.” You look at Chris as he grabs your bags.

“I am.”

Before yall walk out you stop and turn to Cheryl who already has what you want in her hand. “You and this damn popcorn! Now get outta here and go love on your man.” You giggle and grab the popcorn before skipping out of the store and to the car.

You and Chris finally make it back to your place and you begin to put everything away. After a quick shower, you join Chris on the couch, straddling his lap. “Mm you smell good.” He says as he kisses your neck.

“Lick me all over.”

He snaps his head up in confusion. “What?”

“The fragrance you snuck in, lick me all over, I’m wearing it.” A smile breaks out on to his face. “I like it, it’s different from your usual fragrances…it does make me want to lick you all over.”

He attempts to lay you down on the couch but you stop him, getting down on your knees between his legs.

You hum and and begin to unbutton his pants, “let me say thank you for buying my stuff.”

Chris smirks as you begin to do your work on him

“Thank god for the beauty supply.”

✯ ✯ ✯ ✯ ✯ ✯ ✯ ✯ ✯ ✯ ✯

little thing i came up with based off of this headcanon i did !!!! i hope yall like it!!!

TAGLIST 🍑

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@st7rnioioss @carolinalikesthings @mattslolita @suyqa @xxloveralways14 @pepsiimaxx @judespoision

@ivonchetooo1239

[backwzzds]

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ RORONOA ZORO AS A FATHER…

zoro would be one those fathers that most people assume would be terrible, but unsurprisingly, he’s very good with kids, as told canonically.

he’ll only have one daughter. he can’t handle anymore brats.

when your daughter was born, he’d bought up possibly naming her after his late childhood best friend. you knew how much she meant to him, so it was no problem making sure your daughter carried on her name, and hopefully her future dream. roronoa kuina.

lots of people assume zoro’s a strict dad, but most days, he’s pretty chilled back.

he came off as not having any interest in learning how to do kuina’s type 3-4 hair, but when you secretly caught him watching a youtube video as he practiced on one of your wig mannequins you knew he wanted to learn from the start

when kuina’s a toddler, you teach him how to do simple styles on her hair. to detangle from the bottom, always make sure her hair was moisturized, and just learn the small things about her. like how she was tenderheaded—something she inevitably inherited from you.

he’ll take her to get braids from the african aunties whenever you’re busy or stuck at work. kuina, already knowing the routine would sit on the chair and zoro’s big body would be squeezed between two parents talking on the phone for nearly nine hours straight, occasionally heading out to grab some food for himself and kuina. the things he would do for that girl.

kuina would be in the big chair swinging her little feet as she watched youtube video’s on her daddy’s phone. she’d always smile at the fact that you were his lock screen and she was his home screen—a picture of him coddling with her to sleep when she was just a baby. lord knows how much them two love they sleep!

he’d be so overprotective, he would teach kuina her parents’ full name, address, emergency phone numbers, and everything in between by the time she’s 6. no stranger would ever had a chance to mess with the daughter of roronoa zoro.

despite his off putting (and quite rude) personality, he’d be the best one to give advice. only to you and his little kuina though. most wouldnt even consider it advice, but baby kuina always loved it when her daddy told her what he thinks she should do in a troubling situation.

“papa what do you think i should do?” the little girl frowns. “i really think i hurt the girl’s feelings. but i didn’t mean to!”

zoro pops his one good eye open from its closed resting position as he sat on the couch with his arms folded. “are you sorry?”

kuina gives him solemn eyes and nods her head. “really sorry.”

with a quick whit, zoro answers straight, “apologize. don’t make the situation about you. she’s the one you hurt, make sure she realizes that you know that.”

kuina allows her father’s words to sink in her brain in order to fully process everything he’d said. when a bright idea comes to her head, she wraps her arms around her father and places a wet kiss on his cheek, yelling, “thank you papa!” before skipping off to make amends with her friend.

would sueprise teachers and parents when he shows up to some PTA’s alone. you were caught up at work, so zoro took up parental volunteering opportunities on his own. of course, he only did these things for you and kuina, so he didn’t care that the single parents were eye goggling him with lust. not when kuina bragged to all her friends about how cool her dad was.

zoro tries to create an emotion-based home. he doesn’t want kuina growing up in a cold home like you and him did, so he always made it his best to publicly express his emotions or whatever he was feeling at home. he made sure kuina saw him love on you in order to see and know that her parents always loved each other—not just for show—and made sure that she knew it was okay to express her own emotions because she was a lot like him, more than he’d have liked.

when he catches kuina stiffile in her cry about him having to miss a chunk of her school play due to a very heinous and reaosnable excuse (traffic was a bitch), he pulls her off to the side and allows her space to express how she feels.

“you can cry. it’s okay to cry, marimo.” zoro kneels down to kuina’s height as she hangs her head low, too embarrassed to look up and reveal her tears. the one bond they had, was him calling her marimo because if you looked at the both of them—they were damn near identical twins. you were convinced your genes didn’t even fucking try to make it to the egg on time. only he could call her that though. that was their thing.

zoro gives her a genuine apology. he hated seeing his pretty princess cry, but he knew she had to do it. “i’m sorry. i got here as quick as i could, hm? i’d never miss anything about you on purpose.”

at the sound of her father’s soft voice, kuina looks up and wipes away some of her tears. “you promise papa?” her voice is sultry as you wipe at your back, heart warming at the beautiful wholesome interaction between the two.

behind zoro’s back were a mini bouquet of flowers and candy. “course i do kid. c’mere, i’m gonna make it up to you.”

lord knows zoro wasn’t the best father. he didn’t even think he was a good father—this was all new to him. but sometimes, he’d liked to believe that what he was doing in the present was enough to give kuina the future he never got to have.

[hatsukeii]

fragrance: coffee break, replica / timeskip!akaashi keiji x barista!reader

notes: coffee (top), lavender (heart), milk mousse (base)

description: the first shot of espresso after a long shift, freshly dripped coffee from the brewer

disclaimer(s): a love or hate fragrance for many

wc: 2470

warning(s): mentions/depictions of puke and anxiety, overworking culture and capitalism LMFAO but no nsfw!! angsty akaashi is a corporate slave and reader is a free soul who just likes brewing coffee </3 gn reader too!!

Akaashi Keiji doesn't like coffee at all, especially not when the black liquid that pools in the abyss of a flimsy paper cup on his desk is only a means to stay awake, to keep editing. But if anything, the instant coffee stand in his office is a necessity to keep him alive these days. He stares at his monitor, and his phone goes off in clicks and whirs just as it has for the past seven hours; messages from Koutaro, who has just won his qualifiers with MSBY, the qualifiers that Keiji wanted so badly to be at. He glances at the time that blinks at the corner of the screen.

22:45:01

Just another fifteen minutes, he thinks. Just another fifteen minutes until he can finally flick the lights off and lock himself out of this hell for the next two days. His eyelids grow heavier by the second as his fingers click impossibly quickly at his keyboard, regurgitating words on a blank canvas the way he throws up black coffee into the toilet every night. Despite that, his hand reaches for the paper cup that sits on his coaster, a pandora's box of putrid bitterness waiting to be consumed. After all, the vile, soured sensation of puke flushing out from his esophagus is infinitely more enjoyable than falling asleep at his desk and being berated by his dickhead of a boss again. He flips the swampy black liquid into his mouth, wincing at the tartness that claws lines down his throat all the way to his stomach.

Surely enough, right as the numbers at the corner of his monitor blink into 23:00:00, Akaashi Keiji is already frantically shoving his documents into his messenger bag, inevitably folding them in the wrong spots as he haphazardly slips them through the free cracks amongst his laptop and other miscellanous items. He flicks the lights off and sprints out the door, missing the key hole twice before finally managing to lock the office up properly, and makes a run for the bathroom, where he kneels in front of an empty urinal, and throws up everything he’s consumed in the past six hours. This consists of a single cream cheese bagel from the office fridge, and five cups worth of pure instant coffee.

The streetlights buzz above Keiji's head, moths feeding into their brightness as they dance around a ghastly tungsten glow. The walk home is tiring. He is so very tired. His guts have been emptied out in an office bathroom and the buzzing of the streetlight makes him want to crawl up its post and shatter it to shards, taking the moths down with it. Walls of glass on both sides line the night streets, mannequins staring him down as he slumps and turns the corner to his own.

Warmth.

The corner he has just turned heats him up like a fireplace does when the wind howls and screams at his windows, and he turns to the warm glow of a usually unnoticed cornerstore. It's fifteen past eleven, yet one person resides behind the counter. The sign at the door is flipped to ‘closed’, and Keiji can do nothing but stand at the entrance, watching you meticulously swirl steaming water into filter paper. He turns away in embarrassment when you look up at him, and place the long-spouted kettle in your hand down. He steps away from the corner as you swing open the door, the bell jingling in a merrier fashion than the droning streetlights.

"Are you good? You look a bit pale."

He turns back, and your body is halfway out the door. He doesn't say a word, yet his feet move towards the store unconsciously, and he doesn't realise it until his body is lined up with the doorframe.

"Do you, by any chance, have any food? I can pay."

Keiji sits at the coffee bar, where your steaming kettle sits amongst a plethora of brewing tools. Brown liquid falls into a roundbottomed flask drop by drop, tantalisingly slow. You flick on the television behind him, and the unmistakeable sound of leather against hardwood rings loud from the speakers as you reach into the fridge behind, searching for anything edible.

"You allergic to anything?"

"No, anything's good. Thanks."

Grabbing a leftover croissant, you throw it in the microwave, pressing carelessly at the buttons until the little glass dish begins to spin and whir. Facing the counter again, fingers return to the handle of the kettle as you continue swirling steaming water into coffee grounds on filter paper. Keiji's eyes are trained to the television, the reflection of a volleyball on the screen following the motion of his eyes.

"Volleyball fan too?"

"Yeah, my best friend plays on that team. Black Jackals."

Your eyebrows raise, still trained on the brewing batch of drip coffee. One circle, two circles, and down. You're not sure why your peculiar visitor is here instead of in the stands, but the bags beneath his eyes and his ghastly figure at your door are enough to give you a clue. You set the kettle down again, and the coffee begins to drip faster with the addition of water.

"Oh, really! Which player?"

"Kou- Bokuto. Bokuto Koutaro."

"That's cool, he's my favourite player. Got his jersey sitting somewhere at home."

The microwave beeps, and you reach for a ceramic plate, sliding the crispy croissant onto it and handing it to Keiji. He reaches for it hesitantly, the crust crunching beneath his fingers as layers of flaky pastry steam and fold against each other, before taking a bite. Buttery soft layers of bread, warm flakes dancing on his tongue, a hint of salt between each sheet of croissant pastry. His face stretches into a barely noticeable, but satiated smile as he chews. For the first time this week, Akaashi Keiji swears he is in heaven.

"This...this is a really fuckin' good croissant." He chuckles out with his mouth stuffed, a rare occasion given his usual schedule of throwing up, then going to bed. You wink at him, clicking your tongue proudly.

"In-house favourite, took me months to get right. I'm glad it's good."

Keiji pushes his glasses up with his knuckles, glancing back at the television. Koutaro graces the screen now, piercing golden eyes wide with enthusiasm. His voice rings through the speakers.

"I'm dedicating this win to my best friend! He was supposed to be here, but he must've been busy, so he couldn't make it. But that's okay! I know he's watching me back home, right, Keiji?"

He wants to cry, his mouth still stuffed with your croissant. His Adam's apple shifts ever so slightly, and you take notice of his neck tensing. The whites of your visitor's eyes are more red than anything, the bridge of his glasses sliding down when his nose scrunches at Bokuto's words. You eye the croissant on his plate, half-eaten in the two minutes it's been out of the microwave for.

"Would you like some coffee? Freshly brewed, new recipe."

Akaashi Keiji doesn't like coffee at all. Yet as he turns around to meet your eyes, lips pursed in guilt, he thinks that maybe, just maybe, it might be what he wants right now. You swirl water into the coffee grounds again, brown liquid dripping into the flask alluringly.

"Are you sure? It looks like it's taken a while to collect."

"You'd be doing me a favour by telling me if it tastes like shit."

You wait for the droplets to cease, before swirling the flask once, twice. Brown coffee trickles into a white mug as you hand it to your visitor, who takes it timidly with both hands cupping its warmth. Notes of lavender and almonds peek from the cover of coffee, flushing his sinuses clean from the biting acidity of the instant coffee he's become so accustomed to.

"Sorry in advance if I end up puking this out. It happens with instant coffee, and it's not going to be because of the taste, I promise."

You shoot your visitor a questionable look, and he grimaces in shame.

"You must be drinking a lot of shitty coffee, with too little water. Could be acid reflux. This should be much better, but let me know if you need anything."

Keiji does not down the coffee in one go this time. Instead, he takes such small sips from the mug, that he may as well be taking kitten licks at the liquid. It slides past his tongue and into his throat, smooth as silk. Hints of vanilla fill his tastebuds, offsetting the innate bitterness of caffeine, and for once coffee does what it's meant to. He feels alive again.

"This is incredible. I think I can actually hold this in my stomach."

"Coffee shouldn't make you worry about keeping it in your stomach, so I'm glad."

He smiles, a real one now, taking in another sip. His bag hangs from the wooden frame of the chair, papers still crumpled between laptops and binders and files. He watches you swirl water into the filter paper again, and wonders how long you might be willing to keep him here for. The street is desolate, spare for the leaves that flutter in the midnight breeze. He would like to stay in this seat forever.

"So, why aren't you in the stands? Bokuto was clearly looking for you."

He freezes, initially unsure how you've figured him out, before recalling his declaration of comraderie with Koutaro upon the flick of a television remote to the volleyball match. The mug of coffee is half empty when Keiji places it down on the counter, and he rubs his face in his hands. His nails are short, evidently chewed on, and you catch onto the way his thumbs instinctively massage against the fleshy cushions at the bottom of his palms, and the centre of his inner wrists.

"Office work, manga editing is no joke."

"Yeah, I can tell, you've worked yourself into anxiety and carpal tunnel."

"Must be nice brewing coffee without a dickhead boss on your back for everything."

You grin sadly, because he's right. You've seen it on the faces of every visitor, tired eyes searching for hope on laptop screens, teeth gnawing at peeling lips at seven in the morning for no particular reason, restless feet bouncing on the floor as they wait for their coffee, and almost burn themselves trying to finish it in one go, before rushing out the door without so much of a thank you. Your midnight visitor is no different than the rest, other than the fact that he displays genuine human emotion, and is willing to slowly enjoy your five hour brew.

"Yeah, it's the least I can do for everyone who comes here. Fix them a good cup. They're tired enough as is."

Keiji chokes up at your words. The past year of manga editing has graced him with screaming seniors, hours upon hours of overtime, throwing up food and drink every night until all he has the guts to eat are microwaved frozen bagels. His throat closes up, Adam's apple swallowing thickly. Shoulders begin to tremble, and you place a hand on the side of his bicep, rubbing it soothingly over the counter. His sobs fill up the shop, drowning out the television as he rubs at his face even harder, wiping his tears with his jacket. In one night, you have shown him more care than anyone else has in the past year combined, and all you've done is microwave him a leftover croissant and fix him a mug of real coffee.

"S-sorry, 's been a shitty week."

"You're okay, you're fine. Let it out, as much as you need."

And for just a moment in his bleak existence, the sterile white lights of the office become a lamplit cafe, hidden in the corner of his street. The stench of air freshener is swapped out for vanilla, and coffee, and lavender, and all that is right. For just tonight, Akaashi Keiji, who doesn't like coffee at all, thinks that he might actually be able to enjoy it, as long as it's from you, and only you.

author's note:

bet you didn't expect this series to get angsty!! i really wanted to write a coffee shop romance, but i also wanted to get a little ambiguous, like a sorta fateful meeting, and i thought this would work!! the idea of throwing up coffee makes me want to cry because i love coffee so much i could not imagine my life without it icl

hope you guys enjoyed this though! it's not as romantic as the other ones i've done on the cologne series, but it's a change in pace that im looking to achieve!! might be the most gentle piece i've written for this series in terms of atmosphere as well :333

anyways tags!!

@chuuya-brainrot @starlysama @catsoupki @fiannee @afyrian @bailey-reeds @iiwaijime

ok love u guys see u in the next one bye bye

[verbenaa]

You’ve always loved the settee that Astarion keeps in his shop, the dark green velvet worn soft from the countless hours you’ve spent lounging upon it, favorite book in hand as you recline.

It had quickly become a part of the routine that you now cherish—you, languishing with a cup of tea or goblet of wine as you watch Astarion work diligently, his fingers nimble as he stitches and embroiders to his heart’s content.

But your favorite thing about the little settee were the moments exactly like this one: when Astarion sets down his needle and thread, garment carefully draped over a mannequin before sauntering over to you, taking whatever it is you hold in your hand and setting it carefully on the windowsill behind you as the curtains flutters in the soft nighttime breeze.

“You’ve been very patient, darling,” His words tumble out low, dulcet, as he kneels down next to the indent of your waist, hovering above you. “Why, I can’t quite believe that I haven’t heard a single peep from you yet.”

The scent of him—an ever familiar cologne of rosemary and bergamot fills the air around you as you turn innocent eyes to glance up at him, eager to play coy.

“Maybe I know the value of what a little patience will get me.” 

Astarion swings a leg across your body, straddling your indolent form as you flutter your lashes and your arms lift to wrap around his neck, newly freed fingers running through the snowy curls resting there at his nape as he leans forward.

Astarion’s own fingers, the very same clever ones that you always admire, dance at the hem of your dress before trailing it upwards over the soft skin of your legs, fingertips teasingly brushing over each inch of skin the soft linen bares.

“And what, exactly, do you think it will get you?"