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gloomwitchwrites · 8 months ago

Text

Locker Room

Simon "Ghost" Riley x Female Reader

Word Count: 1.3k

Content & Warnings (per the warnings MDNI): canon-typical swearing, enemies-ish to lovers, sexual tension, arguments, suggestive themes, intimate touching, teasing, dirty thoughts

A/N: For @glitterypirateduck 's Ghost Writing Challenge. I used prompts 43, 97, & 99. (I had so much fun challenging myself to do this all in one go. I set a timer and everything.)

After finding an infuriating note on your desk, you confront Simon in the communal locker room.

Part Two // Simon's POV

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist

Beneath your skin is an inferno.

It’s not the kind that blazes for another, or burns in tandem with a deep yearning. This is just seething anger and blunt frustration.

You’re ready to knock out some fucking teeth.

How dare he? Who the fuck does Lieutenant Riley think he is?

When you return reports to Captain Price, you point out all the inconsistences and errors. The lack of accountability and absolute carelessness has been scratching at you for ages, and this time you had enough. Usually Price shrugs, fixes whatever you’ve marked—to a degree—and then returns them without argument.

This time? Price took one look at them and told you to talk to Simon.

Not a problem. No issue at all. You and Lieutenant Riley have always been on good terms. Sometimes, it’s been more than good. You’ve caught him staring for far too long, or he stands a bit too close as if the two of you are a couple and not coworkers. And while you’ve internalized the fantasy, it’s not like you’ve ever acted on it.

But now you’re just irritated.

You handed over the files yesterday evening, and this morning you found them back on your desk. It’s not the turnaround but Lieutenant Riley’s audacity of placing those files back on your desk with a singular sticky note.

The reports are just fine, sweetheart.

Sweetheart. Sweetheart?

The other day you imagined what it might be like to have the burly, masked man call you a pet name, but this is just fucking condescending.

Your heels clack sharply against the linoleum floor. Perhaps it’s the rage in your face, because every person you meet on your rampage steps out of your way, their gaze averted. Rounding a corner, you exit through a side door and into one of the hangars. A few people glance up, frowning, but return to their job.

Sighing heavily, you approach the nearest person. “Where’s Lieutenant Riley?”

The young man—who looks right out recruitment—glances up. He swallows and peers over his shoulder as if he’s not sure he’s supposed to say. “Locker room, ma’am?”

“Thank you,” you reply sharply, turning on your heel and heading for another door leading to the communal gym.

“But—” he begins, stumbling to his feet as you charge on. “Ma’am! You can’t—”

The door slams shut behind you and you don’t look back.

This is one of several communal spaces. There are the usual training areas on base but there are also a few gyms for those that want to get a bit of extra work in. Every head turns toward you and many don’t look away. This one is just for the men, and you’re the odd duck.

And fuck it. You don’t care. You’re too fucking mad right now to think of anything else but giving Lieutenant Riley a piece of your goddamn mind.

With everything pumping in your veins, the reality of you storming toward the locker rooms hasn’t even dawned. Hasn’t clicked. Fury laces your every step, and even here, where you’re not supposed to be, the men in your path move as if they sense the rage.

When you burst through the door and meet a wall of steam, all the heat suddenly extinguishes. Glancing around, you’re met with wide-eyed stares and surprised expressions.

Keeping your gaze as upward as you can, you clear your throat. “Where is Lieutenant Riley?”

There is only silence. Maybe if you stare at the top of the lockers for long enough, you’ll somehow gather your courage again.

“I asked where Lieutenant—”

“I’m right here.”

You turn abruptly and freeze.

Lieutenant Simon Riley stands before you in nothing but a towel. It hangs low on his hips. Other than that, the bottom-half of his face is covered up by a black mask and his dog tags dangle from his neck. His hair is a wet, tussled mess, and his chest glistens with water like he just stepped out from the shower.

Simon simply stares at you for a moment as you stand in utter silence. His gaze, which is piercing and fierce, slides away to scan the room. He doesn’t have to say anything. The rest of the men in the room grab bags and clothes, rushing to exit through the door you just entered from.

When the last man leaves, Simon rolls his shoulders, straightening his spine. It makes him appear larger, more intimidating, and that one movement draws forth a heat in your belly. This isn’t anger. This is need.

“I know what you came here for,” he says, and it’s so casual a tone that the earlier rage comes rising up.

“I’m sure you do,” you snap, crossing your arms over your chest.

Simon says nothing. His dark eyes remain on you, unmoving and cold, yet pinning you to the spot as if you’ve been impaled by a spear.

“Are you going to apologize?”

“Why?” he asks automatically.

You scoff. “Are you fucking serious?”

“You didn’t come here for an apology.”

You uncross your arms and hold them out in front of you, bent at the elbows. “The reports—”

“The reports are fine.”

You roll your eyes and throw your hands up in the air. “There are inconsistencies everywhere. I can’t submit them as they are.”

Simon rolls his neck and then strides forward. Instinct has you stepping back, moving away, but you bump into a row of lockers. He doesn’t stop until he’s leaning over you, one large hand pressing into the metal to the side of your head.

“You’re nitpicking,” he replies.

“About lazy writing?”

“Oh, love. I assure you. I’m thorough.” At that, Simon leans in, and your hands rise instinctually, pressing against his firm chest.

Simon’s gaze doesn’t drop from your face. His entire attention is on you and that heat is back, twisting in your stomach, stirring up a slickness between your legs.

“Lieutenant,” you breathe, wanting the need between your legs to leave but also loving how close he is.

Sure, you’re pissed off but my god. The fresh scent of him is intoxicating, and you’re doing everything in your power not to lean in and lick up the droplet of water running along the side of his throat.

“Why did you come here?” He waits a beat, and when you don’t reply, Simon continues. “To argue?” He lightly pinches your bottom chin, his thumb pressing against your bottom lip, dragging it down a bit. You open your mouth involuntarily and Simon makes at sound in his throat that makes your legs weak. “To see me?” He leans in like he’s about to kiss you. “To be alone?”

“I didn’t ask for this,” you whisper.

Simon has you caged in. Pinned. The only thing separating your body and his is that towel.

“Why do you think everyone left when they did?” Simon’s thumb drops away from your lips only to press at the hollow of your throat. “It’s not because you walked in.”

“Why?” you ask, as Simon’s thumb drags lowers over your top to the space between your breasts.

“Because you’re mine. And they know it.”

“You—what?” Without anywhere to go, you can’t escape his intense stare.

“I’m staking a claim.”

“Lieutenant—”

“Simon,” he growls. “Call me Simon.”

“Simon,” you say, and he groans.

His dog tags brush against your fingers. The metal is slightly cool and damp. You curl on finger around the chain, and tug, bringing Simon’s face down to yours. If he can tease and touch, you’re going to do the same. He can’t have all the power.

Your lips brush against his through the mask, and Simon’s eyelids begin to close, revealing his gentle submission in this moment. Deepening the movement, you kiss him as if there were no barrier. This time, he truly groans, and you’d give anything to remove the barriers between you and find out what it’s like to feel him deep inside.

Fisting his dog tags in your hand, you shove him away, but only enough that there is a fraction of distance.

“Fix the fucking reports, Simon.”

Instead of kissing him again, or even touching him, you unclench your fist, releasing the dog tags. Slipping under his arm, you exit through the door and out into the gym, leaving a trail of steam in your wake.

taglist:

@glassgulls @km-ffluv @tiredmetalenthusiast @spicyspicyliving @childofyuggoth

@miaraei @coffeecaketornado @wren5650 @aykxz98 @kayden666

@unhinged-reader-36 @miss-mistinguett @keiva1000 @cherryofdeath @enfppuff

@cinnabeanz @berarenado @rogerrhqpsody @josephquinnschesthair @saoirse06

@therealbloom @ninman82 @no-oneelsebutnsu @marispunk @thewulf

@lxblm @ferns-fics @ooldcardigan @beebeechaos @enarien

@xxkay15xx @sw33tsnow @kessi-21 @makayla-666 @lifes-project

@burn1ngw00d @heeheehoohoohahahihi @lulurubberduckie @ravenpoe67 @jade1605

@contractedcriteria @lovely-ateez @gingergirl06 @leed-bbg @blackhawkfanatic

@suhmie @tulipsun-flower @ghosts-hoe @jaggersinclair @nomercyforthewarrior

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specialgradefckr · 13 days ago

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Heartline Gone Flat

Sequel to: Beat Your Heart to Death

tw: explicit content, extremely unhealthy relationships. gojo/geto, gojo/reader, geto/reader, stsg/reader. female!reader. pining. mind games. catfishing. non-consensual filming. extremely under-negotiated kinks. safe? maybe. sane? it's INsane. consensual? allegedly.

bondage. knife play. it gets fucking crazy. no one retains any degree of sanity by the end of this fic. every single character is deathly allergic to honest/healthy communication. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.

You're not stupid. You notice the cameras.

It's not easy, mind you. Suguru - it had to be Suguru, Satoru didn't have this kind of calculated approach to anything - had hidden them reasonably well.

But the flash of a light, a glint where there shouldn't be one... suddenly you were finding cameras everywhere.

At first, you wondered. Why the hell would they bother spying on you? They already fucked in the living room. Groped each other right in front of your salad.

And then, this one time. Suguru had just finished eating their little hookup girlfriend out, his lips still wet and sticky while he lifted up his head.

He met your eyes. Dark and violet and... hungry. He didn't look away. All his pretty words, all the honeyed excuses that you know would pour from his lips, and he didn't look away.

No, your gaze was only broken by a head of white hair, Satoru pulling in to steal a kiss. Blue eyes glinting at you, so bright you have to look away.

He'd wanted you to see. They both had.

You know it, now. But why are they watching you?

And you think back.

Missing panties. Your vibrator dying on you constantly. Your lube running out. Your toothbrushes wearing out quickly.

Suguru does the laundry. He knows where everything is, like the clean freak malewife mother hen he is. Satoru keeps using your bathroom even though he and Suguru have their own.

So they're fucking with you. They're fucking in front of you. They're spying on you while you try to fuck yourself.

All that and they won't fuck you, won't even try.

Why? Why why WHY WHY! What do they want? What are they fucking doing?

Suguru won't tell you. He'll deny it's even happening. Satoru -

You don't like that shimmer. The way his eyes seem to stare right through you. His ethereal beauty.

The lurch in your chest every time he looks at you.

You'd had time to come to terms with your crush on Suguru. It had been a slow burn, a low simmer, a pull in the back of your mind that makes you nod your head and smile and sigh every time he asks you for something, every time he makes some excuse.

Suguru was comfortable. A well-loved, soft blanket you couldn't bear to wash, couldn't sleep without.

What you feel for Satoru makes you want to throw up. Shove him down, bite into his fucking neck and eat his heart straight out of his chest.

Every time you see him with Suguru it makes your fingers twitch. Your cunt clenches - do you want him inside you? Do you want Suguru inside you instead? Do you want his pretty mouth pressed up between your legs, pretty blue eyes gazing up at you, tearing up as he suffocates on your cunt?

Who the fuck knows. But you want, you know you want him. Like nothing you've ever wanted before in your life.

But you can't have him. You can't have anything, and, as far as you can tell, they're fucking taunting you with it.

So when you see the cameras... the next time you catch them fucking, Satoru moaning loudly, as if exaggerated, Suguru muttering dirty talk that could have come straight out of a porn script -

Well.

If they're filming you... and if they're so determined to be your personal porn stars...

Why not oblige them?

There's this man at the club that Suguru doesn't like.

They try not to bring men back too often. Women work better, make you more jealous. And he'll admit he doesn't like the thought of Satoru wanting a dick that's not his. He knows Satoru feels the same.

Though, with the way this pink-haired, tattooed man is looking at him, it looks like Satoru's whore instincts have gotten ahead of him.

"Who the fuck is that guy?" He whispers, bitingly, a hand over Satoru's hip. Mean, grasping.

Satoru laughs, but it's an uncertain sound. "Sukuna, I think. I remember him from tinder a couple years ago."

"Matched with him?"

"Guess so."

They don't have to wait long to see what the guy wants. How he glares at them both. Larger hands snatching Satoru's wrist, glaring down as Suguru when he tries to shove him back.

"Whore," Sukuna spits, glaring down at Satoru, "I paid you good money and you fucking blocked me?"

What?

"The fuck are you talking about?" Satoru snaps, as Suguru's mind races.

Is Satoru fucking around? But they spend every moment together. And he sounds genuine.

Sukuna isn't dissuaded. He snarls and sneers and acts like Satoru is playing dumb, until he finally pulls out his phone, revealing a series of DMs with someone called...

SatoSugu <3

What?? Who???

"You told me you weren't exclusive with your little boyfriend here," Sukuna growls, "Guess that was a fucking lie, too. Keep a leash on your slut, yeah, Daddy Suguru?"

And though Suguru does like to think of himself as having paternal energy - for a man like Sukuna, that's a bit on the nose.

Satoru recognizes some of the pictures on the DMs, though.

They're selfies (thirst traps, really) that he's sent... to you.

It only takes a little digging from there. SatoSugu <3 is an OnlyFans account - and a big one.

There's regular uploads. It's full of shots of the two of them, sometimes shorts, sometimes even videos a few minutes long.

The angles are a big scuffed but the audio is usually good. Some of them look like they might have been recorded from a phone -

And they're all set inside your shared home.

"Well, well, well," Satoru says, sounding much more composed than Suguru is feeling, "Looks like we got more of an audience than we were looking for, huh?"

At least most of these are showing his good side. Oh, he looks hot in that one...

He remembers that time, too, where Suguru was especially pent up...

Satoru scrolls through the feed with a smile on his face.

He pays the subscription fee, too - ooh, you were making good money off of this - and licks his lips at all the saucy content.

Really, he should be thanking you for the archive. But after using them to make money without their knowledge, surely you owed them at least one... collaboration.

Suguru does not feel the same.

It's not a surprise - Satoru has always had a bit of an exhibitionist streak.

For him, it was different. Satoru had his own ways of being territorial, but Suguru was possessive, in a dark, heady way Satoru loved to stoke.

You were allowed to see because you were theirs. You were a part of this relationship, whether you knew it or not. Even if you hadn't claimed their bodies yet, you had their hearts.

Random girls they brought home - those were unimportant. Quickly discarded. Tools to be used to make you jealous; they got only as much contact as was strictly necessary, and no more.

But this?

Showing them off - showing his Satoru, the one he'd so carefully reduced to tears and quivering. His strong, beautiful Satoru, full of energy and slutty dramatics, meant exclusively for your eyes and his?

And him; you've been pining for Suguru for years. Now you're letting strangers see him in his most intimate moments?

It's... diabolical. Exploitative. A master stroke of manipulation, taking advantage of their attempt to make you jealous, reducing it to a moneymaking scheme.

As much as he hates to agree with Satoru, it is kind of a turn on.

He can't quite call it a betrayal. You must have found the cameras they'd planted, set some of your own, knowing they might not notice the extras.

There's a special sort of rage billowing in his chest at the thought of everyone who got to see him and Satoru without his consent. But he's not so foolish as to think he didn't have this coming.

The question was, why did you do it? Are you angry? Are you trying to profit off them?

Knowing Satoru, he'd be pleased with either answer. But Suguru wants more.

Suguru wants anger. He wants your gut to sear with fury like his does, he wants you to be seething at the both of them. Apoplectic.

The time to prod you, taunt you, lead you into making a move is over. This is your answer - infuriating and enrapturing.

His mind twists and turns at Satoru's suggestion. Collaboration.

Turnabout is fair play, after all. And nothing quite turns him on like scheming and fucking.

Perhaps he and Satoru will have to make the first move. This battle is yours... but the war?

Oh, it's only just begun.

When you do meet their accusations, you do so head-on, shameless.

"Oh?" Your tone is tinged with mock innocence, "I didn't realize you had a problem with people watching you. Sorry about that."

There's not an inch of apology in your voice, of course.

In fairness, it wasn't even an unreasonable assumption. They'd fucked in plain view in your living room.

"That doesn't explain the man." Suguru says, unwilling to even say Sukuna's name.

But you know what you did. He knows you do.

You meet his eyes with a gaze you've never shown him before, heavy with the new arrival of old grudges. It hits him like a hunger pang.

"I thought you were looking for a third." You say. "You're always bringing people back home. I didn't think you were exclusive."

Suguru savors the bitterness in your voice. Why not me, you never asked me, it should have been me.

Delectable. Every last chocolate-coated note of longing burnt to a crisp.

"So you pretended to be Satoru?" The white-haired dog of a man slinks up to his side, arms crossed. As if he cared.

Their eyes lock onto the pink slip of your tongue licking between your lips.

"It looked like a perfect match. You've both got a preference," You drone, "Strong guys, tall guys. He's stronger and taller than either of you, and his dick is bigger, too."

That has them freezing up. Tense. Air thickening with it.

He can feel Satoru nearly vibrating next to him. Straining against an invisible leash.

"That doesn't mean you can just impersonate us."

You fix him with a look the tired fingers of his thoughts are not able to unwind. Suguru could spend hours looking at you, picking apart every single inch of your expression.

He'd love every second of it.

"So?" You ask, challenge in your tone.

He smiles, eyes half-lidded as he closes in. "So, we both agreed... if we're going to be on the page, it's only fair if you go on there with us."

You take a step back, but it's not far enough. Satoru's lean, muscled form presses into you from the side.

"Yeah, babe," Satoru sings, "Isn't it time for you to upload? Come on, we can't disappoint the masses."

Boxed in, walled off. Suguru crowds you with the heat of his body, broad shoulders.

Ah, there it is. The nervous flick of your eyes, the tightening of your expression. Readying yourself for the crash.

Like white water breaking against the rocks. You've always been so malleable to him, so predictable in your moods, and yet somehow vaster and greater than he could ever command.

He thinks your lips on his, your waist encircled in his arms, is a fine start to mastery.

Of course, Satoru can never let him have anything - arms tug at his shoulders, a chest closing in from the side.

He moves to sandwich you between them, letting Satoru slot himself behind you. He knows it already, in the cracked blue intensity of Satoru's gaze, Suguru knows he's hard, desperate to grind himself against you.

"Oh, but you're not into me, are you?" You brandish the words like a dagger, "And we've been friends for so long, Suguru. We're all roommates, too. I wouldn't want to make things weird between us."

The pointed barb makes him laugh in spite of himself.

You still won't say it. Won't say you want them. You don't push them away, don't do anything to stop this -

You want him to say it first. And if Suguru isn't careful, Satoru might just sell them out to get his dick wet.

So he smirks, letting one hand trail down and underneath your waistband. Grasping your face by the chin and tilting it to look towards a planted camera. Satoru takes the chance to kiss your cheek.

"Oh, we play with girls all the time, Satoru and I, and you didn't mind recording," he purrs into your ear, knowing this isn't what you want to hear. "Don't you think you owe this to us? After putting us up without our permission, you should at least put yourself out there too, no?"

"Yeah," Satoru says, like the obedient, horny lackey he is, "What he said."

How eloquent.

"Since you both agreed on this," You say beneath lowered lashes - but this close, Suguru can feel how your cheeks have warmed, "You must have an idea of what you want to do with me."

Anything. Everything. He wants to toss you down, eat you up, watch Satoru fuck you from a million angles while he directs, fuck Satoru while he fucks you and vice versa -

But he can't let you goad him into saying it. Even under pressure like this, you're trembling, but not as trapped prey. You're burning from the inside out, fighting the urge to grab and hold and have them.

"Oh, I know we do. Satoru," He purrs, "Come here and help our dear roommate put on a real show, would you?"

Satoru groans as he thrusts into you. Hand on hip. Clingy, needy.

"Did you like it," he pants in your ear, like he's the one getting fucked, "Did you like showing us off? Showing me off?"

Egging himself on. A match that lights itself and burns up too close to your fingertips.

He has you on his lap, too close and yet not close enough. Facing forward, towards the camera in Suguru's hands (is it even turned on? you can't tell, can't look away from the hunger in those violet eyes).

Satoru's other hand winds around your ribcage, clasping one of your breasts, squeezing and groping freely.

"Showing that prick my - hngh, my selfies just for you?" He whispers, "Did you have fun pretending to be me? Teasing him, then blocking him? Did you think to yourself, you'll never have him anyways, you can never have my Satoru?"

A laugh comes out from his mouth, thundering through you, his muscled chest pressed to your back.

You want to see him. Pretty, beautiful Satoru - he's finally fucking you, and you can't look him in the eyes.

Suguru does. Suguru's eyes flick towards him, meeting his gaze. Just over your shoulder.

After all those years lusting for him, you finally have him and you can't even have him.

And it's glorious. It feels amazing, like nothing you've felt in your entire life.

He's good, so good at this, pressing into you just hard enough, just enough friction, the hand on your hip darting over to rub over your clit while he whispers his dirty talk in your ear.

"Did you like leading him on only to dump him? Wanna keep me all to yourself?" His voice is hot, breathy, dripping with thrilled arousal.

"Answer him." Suguru says, and he sounds so faraway, even though he's right there.

Watching. Filming. Directing, even.

Satoru's only fucking you because he told him to. The circles over your clit send you clenching, quivering, and Satoru whispers for you to answer, come on, did you like it? Do you like them?

"Of course," You choke on the words, "It was fun messing with Sukuna. But I felt bad for him, you know? Catfishing is one thing, but it would be cruel to inflict the real you on him."

There's a laugh from Suguru, even as Satoru's fingers dig into you. He leans over your shoulder just enough to stare at you from the corner of your eyes. Grinning.

You meet Satoru's crystal-blue gaze, lips curling into a shaky smirk.

"You're such a whore," You drawl to his face, gasping as he thrusts harder (his cock throbs at the word whore, this goddamn slut), "You vain fucking bitch, you love flirting, showing off your body, but I know when you and Suguru fuck, you make him do all the work."

Reaching around with one hand, grasping the toned tightness of his ass, you squeeze - even as a swipe of his fingers over your clit takes your breath away.

"Yeah? Then what am I doing now, babe?" Those eyes glitter at you. Satoru's locked on you, not looking away for an instant.

He's so fucking beautiful, all smirking and shining and heavenly flesh against your own.

And you feel Suguru's gaze like a leaden weight. Lick your lips.

(He's not yours. You can't have him.)

"Suffering, probably," You dig your nails into his ass and he hisses, cock twitching inside you, "Poor little pillow princess Gojo having to put in some effort for once."

Satoru's smile bares teeth at your use of his surname.

(Don't, Suguru mouths in warning, while your attention is fixed on him.)

"Ha!" It's a dry laugh, biting, feral, the words he wants to say stuck in his throat, "Fuck you!"

"You are," Suguru drawls, "Poorly."

"And fuck you, too, bitch, your hole is next," Satoru pants, thrusting hard and fast.

(He wants wants want wants WANTS. But Suguru wants, too. And he has you now, doesn't he?)

You keen as he drives into you, quick movements, fast circles over your clit that match the friction in your cunt. Closer, closer.

Something in his face spurs you on. Heart racing the words out of your mouth, "You gonna cry when you cum, baby?"

Taunting, snide, the words don't match the way your chest lurches as he hits a spot inside you, and heat spurts in your lower half.

It's agonizing and ecstatic; the hand not coaxing your clit into bursts of heady pleasure grasps your breast, clutching you back against him.

There's a noise from across the room, a shift or something, but it feels so loud to your ears. Like Suguru refuses to be ignored. Even in this one perfect moment of your fantasies come through -

Or maybe you just like him too much to forget he's here. To keep yourself from glancing over at him.

But Satoru isn't looking at Suguru. He hooks his chin over your shoulder, leaning his face into your neck as he groans, languid thrusts of his release jerking against your hips.

You feel wetness against your neck, hot, slick. Licking at you.

"No, but maybe you will," He purrs, sucking marks into your skin.

Hands roaming. Legs hooking over yours, limbs wrapped around you, refusing to let go.

You blink, hard, and no tears come out. Must be dehydration.

Suguru's eyes are burning holes in you. Even Satoru stiffens behind you. (His cock stiffens, too - is he really that much of a whore, or has Suguru trained him or something?)

"Ah-ah-ahhh," Suguru tuts, but it's a cold sound.

His eyes are sharp, pointed, "That can't be all. This is for the audience, after all. You should put on a good show."

It's almost malevolent, how he relished in your expression when reminding you of the shared pretense.

You meet his eyes with your own burning gaze.

"This is all for content, right?" The words are full of malice, of challenge.

You match him, smile for hateful smile.

"We should do things you two haven't done before."

Suguru had to hand it to you.

He didn't expect Satoru to be the first person to peg him.

Oh, technically, perhaps it could be considered from you. After all, it had been inside you, first.

"I seem to have run out of lube," You'd explained coyly, "You don't mind, though, right? Here, I'll donate some of my own."

So Suguru had sat and filmed while Satoru fucked the dildo into you. Rubbing it over your cunt even though you swatted at him, rushing him to put it in and lube it up.

Your hands on Satoru's dick in return, grasping tight and unforgiving. Like he wasn't already hard enough. Jerking him until he spurted all over your palm.

You rubbed that on the dildo, too, once he'd pulled it out of you. You couldn't stop a tight hiss at that.

Suguru keeps the vision of it in his mind's eye as Satoru fingers him open. Hands still wet with his cum and yours.

(It keeps him hard. That little gasp you made, breathy, a touch overstimulated, so soon after your last release.

What a large refractory window. He wants to break it open.)

The dildo is hot pink, bulging. Suguru had mocked it when they'd found it in your cabinet. Satoru thought it was cute.

By the smirk on his face, his opinion hasn't changed.

"Get on with it," Suguru grunts, shifting his legs to give him better access. Glancing at you, camera in hand. Eyes locked.

"Yeah, yeah," Satoru says, blithe as ever. Rubbing the dildo's bulbous, silicone head against his hole, "Coming right up, cockslut."

He can't help a scoff. "You're one to talk."

He's still half-worried Satoru will confess his undying love to you just to get his dick wet. Give up the game before it's really started.

"Wonder what the title for this should be?" You muse, "Slutty twink ruins goth's hole, no lube? You guys sell so well."

Suguru almost chokes out a laugh at that. You and Satoru, cut from the same cloth. He'd seen it earlier.

A pair of whores talking each other through it.

(It's never failed to make his blood burn.)

"I think we're owed a little more participation from you," Suguru licks his lips, "Come over here."

A trickle of desire he lets through. Just a droplet, really.

He watches your eyes dilate at the sight.

(Oh, you want him. You want him you want him you want him you want him and it's the most potent aphrodisiac he's ever known.)

The camera is abandoned on the table. Maybe he was in frame, maybe he wasn't.

What's far more important is you, between his legs, as Satoru sits him back on his lap. Up on his thighs, giving him space to slowly drive the dildo in.

And even though Satoru's face must be just behind him, a grin he can hear - Suguru knows you're staring at him. Trapped in his gaze.

Your hands crawl up his thighs. Shaking as Satoru stretches him. Working up to the cock that's now tall and pulsing against his lower abdomen.

The hunger in your eyes makes him tense. He's leaky already, not from how expertly Satoru is nudging his prostate, but from how you look at him like a dog staring at a steak after it's been told no.

Your eyes glancing between him and his cock.

Something flutters in his stomach. Burns in his gut. Soars in his chest.

This is love, isn't it? It must be love, this high he sees looking at your face pressed against his dick like you can't quite believe you're there.

(Finally finally finally fuck - )

He chokes, arching his back and moaning. Wincing his eyes shut to hide how they water.

Satoru's hand grasps at his hips, the other one shoving in - tight, tight, fuck, it burns -

And then it's soft, and wet, and perfect, your lovely mouth opening up around his dick.

Tongue gliding over it like you can lick away years of longing. Savor the fruit of your yearning. Devour him entirely.

He feels like he's melting. Red-hot bursts of pleasure as Satoru pumps into him and you - your eyes - fuck fuck fuck your mouth, warm and melting around his cock until he can't tell where he ends and you begin.

His hand reaches your face before he knows it. Cupping your cheek.

What face is he making right now? He can't think about it, can't think about anything but him inside your mouth and your face in his hand.

You lean into it, eyes half-fluttering, blissful, sucking and drooling around him.

That's what gets him. His cock pulses, and throbs, and he doesn't have a moment to warn you, but you swallow around him anyways. Suckling as you pull away, glancing up at his face.

A drop of his cum gets on your mouth. Thoughtlessly, his thumb swipes it away, but it lingers on your lower lip. His eyes linger, too.

Something twists in his chest.

He doesn't know what does it. If it's that moment of vulnerability, all the soft, tender parts exposed that he has to lash out to protect. Or if being able to finally touch you has unfettered something cruel and wild inside him.

Or maybe it's just the sick, twisted desire to win. To watch you cave in on yourself from the hunger, starved until you become just as willing to draw blood as he is.

But Suguru knows he says it with an awful, mean smile.

"You can add on Slut used for both holes to that, too," He snarks, his hand moving back to cup your cheek.

Soft, so soft. Face crumpling at his touch. Fighting not to show it.

"You sure seemed to enjoy it," You say. Heart on sleeve.

He wants to rip it apart. Ribcage open, heart bare and beating.

"Gojo's better, of course," He strokes your cheek in mock affection, "But it'd be unfair to compare you to him. He's special."

Thumb over the twitch in your cheek.

(Won't you bare your fangs? Won't you bite? Tear in?

If you won't, then he will.)

"I've never had anyone like Satoru. He always knows just what to do... maybe he's a born slut," Suguru chuckles, low, feeling your cheeks heat against his fingertips, "Or maybe he just knows me that well. Loves me that much."

He can feel it, he thinks. Your poor trembling heart, your face growing hard like armor.

What are you thinking now? I love you, too? I'd love you even more? I've loved you longer, forever, how can you not see -

"Sure he loves you," You bite out, "He loves your dick."

You're hungry, so hungry. Starved of his affection. And he's dangling it in front of you now -

So why won't you bite?

Satoru's not entirely sure how it got to this point.

Suguru, tied to a chair, arms strapped down. The vibrator - the one he'd sabotaged so many times - strapped to his dick, all swollen and purple and dribbling pitifully in overstimulation.

HIs eyes are red-rimmed, bloodshot. Sweat in a sheen over his broad shoulders. Lips in a thin line as he struggles not to make a sound.

He's so handsome, even like this. Maybe more like this, Satoru thinks, and then buries the thought deep as if to hide it from Suguru's ravenous gaze.

(He thinks he knows anyways. Suguru always knows, knows everything. Satoru could see things but Suguru understood them.)

It started somewhere with the bindings, he thinks.

A tone of measured challenge in your voice that Suguru couldn't resist.

Suguru thinks he's some kind of director. But you'd baited him with raised stakes, and then offered him an out.

"It's okay if you don't want to. I know you and Satoru aren't there yet in your relationship. If you don't want to do it with me, just say so."

It's not a bluff Suguru could easily call.

Telling you he doesn't want you, they don't want you, would be an outright lie, a hole he doesn't dare dig for himself.

"Do it. Tell me you don't want me. Tell me that and we can stop here."

You offer him your beating heart on a platter, well-disguised. Tone even as you give him the knife and hold if over your chest.

He couldn't call you out. So he had to raise.

Hands behind his back, at first. Then he's tied to a chair.

Satoru makes good use of it. So do you. Hands and mouth and tongue and teeth, everywhere.

Your lips are so soft and yet they sting his skin, dripping venom with every word.

Raise, raise, always raise. As high as you'll take the stakes. He'll never back down.

A vibrator, remote controlled. Satoru getting the chance to hold the camera.

Suguru just barely catches him half-filming while he palms his cock to you grinding against his dick in his lap.

"Do you like it, Suguru~?"

He doesn't know who asked him.

But he knows you're not fucking him yet, you haven't said it yet (that you want him, need him, love him can't live without him say it say it SAY IT ALREADY).

And he can't lose, he can't lose, not to you, not you.

That's when he called for the whip. It's a fine thing, a short flexible band of leather.

And then Satoru had licked his lips, itchy fingers, pulling his shirt over his head, and Suguru realized that if he went ungagged he would ruin everything.

So that was how the gag got into Satoru's mouth. He's drooling on it now.

And the sight of you muzzling Satoru had been enough.

Suguru felt ravenous, vile. He saw an opening and went in, fangs bared.

"Want to make him cry for you??" He taunts, "He's a pretty crier, even prettier when he cums. Maybe you can do with that whip what you couldn't do with your cunt, hm?"

"Shut up or I'm gagging you, too. Turn around, Satoru."

And Satoru bared the pale, flawless expanse of his back to be whipped, had to have his hands smacked away form his cock while Suguru cooed about how pretty he was.

How you asked if he liked it that much. If he was a slut for everyone, or just for the pain. If he'd take anything you would give him -

He's chomping at the bit. Ball gag. His mouth isn't full enough. He wants to taste you.

Satoru's back is burning by the time you shove him onto the floor.

"Unbind me," Suguru had ground out, "I'm so hard - fuck, I want to take him now."

"Too fucking bad. I'm busy -"

"You looks so good all red and whipped, baby." Suguru interrupts, ignoring you completely, "Like you were born for it. Look at me. Look at me."

And Satoru did, making eye contact over his shoulder, past you -

Yeah, Satoru thinks. That's how he got here.

On his still-stinging back beneath you, shirt off, watching you straddle him in all your furious glory.

Knife in your hand. His chest bared as you seethe.

He tries not to pant so hard - it's tough, you're rubbing right up against his dick and this is about the hardest he's been in his life.

"You really are a fucking slut," You say, words dripping over him with your hateful gaze, burning like acid.

Every inch of his is aflame. It's agonizing, it's euphoric - it's like your anger is a part of him. Surging in his veins.

Blade pressed to his skin. Sharp. Beautiful.

You are beauty incarnate, in his eyes. Satoru knows he's never seen anything as beautiful as you are right now.

"Worthless fucking whore, doing whatever you're told," You spit, "Letting your body get carved up for porn. Is this all you're good for, Gojo?"

He blinks, eyes wet. Don't call him that. You can't call him that! Not now!

Satoru knows it. By the touch of your knife on his skin and the touch of your eyes on the knife. Your entire world is narrowed down to this moment where he's letting you do anything to him.

He's so good for you, so still. Looking up at you with his big, beautiful sparking eyes.

All lean muscle and power and strength just lying under you and taking it.

Sure you call him a whore, you must be jealous over Suguru, but he knows you can tell. Just by how he looks at you.

Laying beneath you all docile, stronger than you and delighted to take a knife to the chest from your hands. This is love, you must know love when you see it.

And he feels it, moving, lines drawing over his chest.

Your name. Your NAME.

He feels it, in his chest, literally every stroke of the knife splitting through his skin.

Satoru's eyes tear up, pain and pleasure white-hot and pulsing towards his dick. It's throbbing, desperate.

All he can do is whimper, whine. This is why he was gagged, because even through it, he's chanting.

Fuck, fuck. You're carving your name onto him. Onto his chest, onto his heart.

He fucking feels it, he feels you leaving this mark on him, this mark that can only mean you, he's yours, he's all yours and he always will be.

Looking up at you. Your eyes, feverish, frenzied. Full of him.

Hands bloodied as you guide the knife.

Oh, he tries not to pant. He wouldn't want to mess up your work. He tries not to buck up into you, but it's a lost cause, like his cock has a mind of its own. Like it knows where its home is now.

Skin splitting, blood pooling over his chest. Over his heart.

He feels it leaping out to you. Like it'll flutter right out of his chest.

You want it. You want it so fucking bad, he can see it in your eyes.

His arms itch to take the knife from you. Satoru cries into the gag, fruitlessly, because don't you understand?

Can't you see? He'll cut it out and give it to you, it's all yours!

You can have it!

The words pour out of his eyes, like he can tell you, like you'll understand if only he looks at you long enough.

You have to understand. Of course you do. You're his whole world right now, and he's yours, he can feel it.

Satoru knows it like he knows that satisfaction in your eyes.

You lick the blade clean. It has his dick drooling.

yours. yours yours i'm yours, i've been yours, baby, look at me. you see it. you see how good it feels for me, being yours?

i love it. love you.

Feels like his heart is leaking out of his mouth. Every word he can't say. Useless, dribbling, skin-warm and wasted.

Tears streaking down his face. And he meets your eyes and you can see, he's sure, you can see it -

"Satoru," you choke out, cracking like his name has carved your throat like you've carved his chest. Shifting against him.

Oh, fuck.

Heat bursts in his lower half. Yeah... yeah, he just came from that.

Sucking in air desperately though his nose. Blinking away tears in his eyes. His face is a sticky, wet mess. Abs coated in his own cum.

Ruined beneath you. And you look enraptured.

Fuck. Fucking hell. It's the greatest moment of his life.

He spares a flick of his gaze to Suguru, poor Suguru, all alone on the corner watching.

And it's so easy just to tell him with his eyes. They know each other that well.

This could be you down here. This could be her under you, for all you know she'd let you. You're so fucking determined not to say you want it that you handed this to me.

Some things about Suguru, he really doesn't get.

Oh, well. Finders keepers.

Her name is on my chest forever, now. No matter what she does with you, she'll always have done this with me, first.

You have it. You have what you wanted, now. Finally.

Satoru is underneath you. Suguru is in the corner, fucking watching. Like he's been making you watch your crushes fuck for months on end.

Your handwriting has never been as beautiful as it is on Satoru's pale, perfect skin.

Now it's split by the letters of your name. You don't even feel bad.

He wanted it. Leaned into every inch of the cut.

Those beautiful blue eyes. Looking at you, you, you.

His gorgeous chest red with your name and he's completely transfixed, Finally it's just you, his attention is all on you -

The flick to the corner and you know instantly. Suguru.

It's always him. You can't even have Satoru to yourself for five minutes, and you can't even blame him for it.

Not when you want Suguru, too.

(but you can't have him. you can't have anything you want, not really, can you?)

Your hands are shaking. You don't even notice it. Adrenaline pours through you. Flight or fight.

You look at Satoru's chest. It's really only barely bloodied.

The knife is warm in your hand. It was so easy.

Cut him deeper. Cut him open.

You want to cut his fucking heart out and take it in your hands. Rip up that pretty face. Put out those beautiful gemstone eyes for straying.

Ruin everything you love about him. No one will want him then. Suguru won't want him.

(can you have him then?)

The edge of the knife is against his throat and you're ready to just slide it across his neck -

and -

Satoru is looking up at you again.

(cut him. cut his throat. kill him now. fucking whore, how could he -)

Wide blue eyes sparkling with untamed affection. Lovesick. Adoring.

(it's not for you. this isn't yours and never will be.)

His mouth is gagged but his face just lights up when he sees you, all bright and eager and -

(you love him. you love him so fucking much.)

Suguru calls your name and your heart is burning again -

(you love him. it hurts.)

The knife falls, unbloodied, from your hands.

You get up.

You walk away.

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robolvrr · 2 months ago

Text

f-r-e-a-k !‿⁠✷｡✧

lost light members react to human porn (and develop some preferences of their own.)

ft. skids! megatron! rodimus! swerve! ultra magnus!

nsfw under the cut.

rodimus prime - top-five ranked

when he first heard actual, genuine human content had reached aboard his ship, he had quickly formed a half-assed meeting to announce that he, of course, being captain and all should review with ultra magnus.. and perhaps rewind too, before dispersing it out to the crew.

of course when ultra magnus expressed his surprise at this new leaf turned, eager to scour through intergalactic protocol he simply let one word out the other audial and made some grave, grammatical errors to distract the mech and let the captain do his own decision making.

he spends a lot of time nitpicking. he doesn't like movies as much so he reserves those to swerve nor does he care too much about books.

a functioning computer however....

he's bored. and curious. two demons that never dwell well together in the same room.

clearing browser history? never heard of that!

good thing the previous owner has lots of bookmarks, because he finds it infinitely easier to sift through links there than carefully type.

"porn...hub? what's that? must be some kinda uh.. uhhh... uh."

cue the fan whirring. he's hunched over and slack jawed, staring at the frankly color-clashing archive and almost pushing himself away when the cursor hovers over a video - and the humans in it start moving.

clicked the first video with a bold "#1 ranked". he really shouldn't. he really, really should just toss this tempting contraband out the nearest garbage disposal.

"unhh! harder! haaarder! ♡"

he's focused hard on the spike - cock, he learns, or dick, humans got lots of funny terms - ruts rough into you, forcing you to melt forward and squeak through sheets.

the loud, exaggerated moans make him pitifully decide otherwise. imagine him, all weak in the knees, sliding down to sit as he watches transfixed.

flesh on flesh hitting sounds a lot better when it's this and not fighting.

sooner or later, he's huffing into his servo, jacking off his spike and squeezing the tip so rough he's almost jealous seeing you bouncing away. you'd be so, so fragging soft. he can imagine squeezing your limbs and twisting you around to his liking.

overloads fast. he's almost ashamed enough to be embarrassed.

now? can't reach his climaxes unless there's some raunchy, wet-coated squeals in his memory banks. doesn't bother searching up anything because he doesn't have the patience to cultivate. you just happen to be at the top so he gladly sticks watching your holes get sticky any cycle.

skids - playboy bunny

"oh for prime's sake, chromedome don't make me feel like i'm trading for somethin' illegal."

won a "mystery stash" from a late night gamble. of course, not all of rodimus's finds stayed quiet.

he isn't sure why it's such a big deal. the cardboard box which spills open easily under a digit's care isn't filled with weaponry or bombs.

it's almost funny, this giant picking up a magazine in a pinch, helm tilted and keeping it an arm's distance away like the pages might bite.

he looks at the front cover for a long, long time.

his processor isn't catching up. then he squints. gets reaaaaal close.

there's you! all dolled up, as the humans would say. except you're really not, because half of your squishy aft is out, and your servos are covering up your chest but aren't doing a good job.

neither is the bright, blue bow christened at your pelvic area, where he realizes with a jolt is lacking any modesty panels of any kind.

flips a page. oh, it's you again. curved over a lounge. cheekily spreading yourself with a... gathering of lace twisted around your frame.

another one. you got something round in your mouth. he looks carefully at your lips.

and then he's flipping through all of it, and digging into the box and oh, he's found a jackpot because it's all you.

now he understands why it's got the markered "collectors items" on the side. he doesn't question too much when he spits lubricant down onto his spike. dedicated some of that cotton candy gossamer all over your february edition of playboy in approval.

megatron - classic erotica

a true mech of literature. now, unlike many of the lost light, he's had his run in with humanity before. not that he particularly got or wanted to enjoy their culture back then.

though when he did find his way back onto a possible path of redemption, he did indulge once upon a time.

at his spark, he's a poet. a linguist. enjoyer of golden age, art and craftsmanship.

earthen literature has its.. moments. he reads novellas and lost to the history manuscripts, plays, all of which have almost all been uploaded to more convenient means as upkeep for the paper is a pain.

however, he has found one book. a funny looking book, with a funny looking cover.

he observes, rigidly, the scandalous embrace of what he assumed to be the characters, how clothing lacked in areas it shouldn't and skin was almost.. glistening. "seven nights of passion." a chuff left his dermas.

ah, to pit with it. why not?

megatron finds himself slowly involved with the chapters despite the comedy of its advertisement. the writer, you, no doubt under a penname, push development shockingly far.. for a human.

and the intimacy? interfacing? so descriptive. while he has not seen what he is reviewing, he can imagine it. images of sweaty bodies, grinding and yearning and crying.

cybertronians have no reason or function to. the thought of a human, pushed to the brink overloaded with stimulation is... stimulating.

it is a shame when it comes to an end but he might in his free-time peruse for more. leaves his plating warm and intake dry.

the authors note suggests that your inspiration drives from personal experience.

his ... array fizzles at that. fascinating.

swerve - r-rated movie night

"wowza. that's hh. haha. woah! they all do that.. ?"

first movie he flipped onto the projector was supposed to be an "action and feel-good film with hints of romance, angst and sci-fi elements."

not even halfway through, you, the imaginary captain of the imaginary "roman's ravager" have your uniform shimmied down to your ankles, mouth mashing against your supposed rival, who everyone has been heckling for the past forty-five minutes.

some of the mechs cheer, other grumble and argue to skip, others squirm and grimace. swerve watched you push the other down, head tilting back as the camera zooms to your face.

"it's just acting, ya' degenerates, stop acting like protoforms!"

it isn't until he feels a servo smack upside his helm that he starts fumbling for the remote. too much noise but now he's getting a comm from mags asking about what the rackets for so! fast forward he goes.

at 1x.

while the chaos starts to settle, he peeks between digits. catches glimpses of your open mouth. the goosebumps down your chest. how you shake at the insinuation that someone is between your legs, servicing.

slag. when's the last time he's even played with his valve?

movie night was a hit regardless of the commotion. he has to clean up after, which thankfully didn't result in any expelled energon or skid-marks.

that also means he's alone. alone, in his bar. all by himself, staring at the rest of the discs with your pictures on the front, credits humming in the background.

it'll be good for the economy. (all of it is pirated.)

maybe it's for the best. because now, he's realizing you really are a great actor, in lots of different genres, able to adapt and really grab his attention.

it's not as if his spark pulses seeing you in costumes, or using that soft voice you do in all your roles when you make a point.

not like he's riding his digits and crunching into a fist when you're running on the beach, sand dappled and leaving little to imagination.

ends up on his back, charged up and shaking. hurts to speak, to move or to dab up the puddle of transfluid, laughing deliriously when his panels are even too much effort to close.

ultra magnus - audio praise

"you're doing such a good job. you're perfect. you know that, right? yes you do, so good for me."

when he first heard you, he damn near crushes the auditory device and full-blown shudders in the confines of his hab. he's sputtering, optics wide and there's a million reasons he should report this to rodimus and question just what he's given him.

"to help ya uh... research? take the edge off pal."

half-contemplates storming back to the bridge himself if it weren't for your sugar-coated mumbles still coming through the unpaused recording.

you'd think he was dealing with a ticking blast with how he warily handles the device, gruffly spitting out curses that he'd otherwise never allow in crew vicinity.

"i want you to reward yourself. you earned it, honey. can you do that for me? here, listen."

to his horror - and crumbling interest - a slick cacophony of sound rattles in his helm. there's panting, a shift of material that he assumes is tangled around you and frag, he's able to think up you and a thousand faces.

what's worse? is he's hypnotized. you don't demand. you coo to him, just loud enough to let him know you'd be broken too. if he let himself let down that wall, just for the twenty minutes you sing in his audials, he'll know it's done with you just as weak.

"g—gooood job ahhhh!" that does it. ultra magnus groans, shutting off his optics entirely. his large servo feels up along his frame as you suggest.

"i wish you were here. hah.. mmn! could see me. see me fucking myself to you. let you kiss me. you deserve it, sweetie. deserve me on you."

magnus and the sobbed growl to his motors reminds him just how lonely he's felt. always monitoring. always stressed. hearing the spit collect at your throat as your commands grow hoarse makes you feel real.

would you... would you kiss him? would you let him pick you up, rest you flat on his servo and have his glossa lap up your want?

he towers over nearly all. having a partner so much smaller, tinier than even an minibot, shouldn't run up a charge but it does.

he overloads when he's sticking digits near the casing of his spark, ignoring the spurts of pre sizzling down his thighs.

"w-was that as fun.. for you as it was for me?"

dazedly falls onto his berth. this isn't leaving his dermas unless he's had a drink.

a/n : a little haha funny idea i had. there's just something so funny thinking of these giant old robots realizing just how much porn is out there.

#maccadam #mtmte x reader #first contact au #transformers x reader #headcanons #/nsft #mtmte #valveplug #rodimus prime x reader #rodimus x reader #megatron x reader #ultra magnus x reader #swerve x reader #skids x reader #my last kaboomie before the work week #/nsfw #transformers x human

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thedreamlessnights · 10 months ago

Note

Since requests are open, here's my suggestion: I recently revisited my old mythology book and found one of the myths about aphrodite bathing in a lake and blinds some pervs that sneaked up to watch her. Now, the reader might not have the powers of a goddess but you know what she does have? A dagger-happy vampire boyfriend more than willing to shank unwanted peeping toms (in his defense, he actually asked if he could be there, so no harm done here). Idk, I just like the idea of the reader having scary dog privileges and Astarion not minding looking menacing/scary while doing so

Thank you so, so much for this request, anon. It's an absolutely incredible concept, and it fits Astarion so well! I had such a fun time writing it, and I really hope you enjoy the result!

For Your Eyes Only

Astarion x F!Reader - NSFW

Content warnings: Mentions of brief, non-consensual voyeurism. Somewhat graphic violence, as well as mentions of blood, degrading terms, and the description of an injury and death. Explicit sexual content, including: oral sex (receiving), penetrative sex, fingering, multiple orgasms, blood drinking, and ear play. Tags: Takes place post-Cazador, some point in Act 3. Includes mild spoilers. Established relationship, a bit of emotional hurt/comfort, and tender smut.

Word Count: 5.8k

After the darkness and chill of the Shadowlands, the heat in the city feels suffocating.

You missed the warmth dearly back then, trudging through despair and gloom, thinking of nothing but the inevitable relief of the city. Your bones always ached something awful in that foul place, never warm enough to ward away the icy air. Now, though, it occurs to you that you hadn’t fully appreciated the cold when you had it.

The sun that streams down from the skies is blistering - scorching, even - and without reprieve or relief. Sweat courses down your neck, soaking the collar of your shirt. Your socks are damp inside your boots, and where the leather meets your calves, they’re chafing.

Gods, what you wouldn’t give for a bit of that chill again. Even with the achy bones.

What’s worse is the mud, somehow. One would think that Baldur’s Gate would be scarce on its share of the stuff, but it’s everywhere. Tracked up from Rivington, puddling in the streets, clinging to the bottom of boots.

Granted, your boots have seen more than their fair share of mud since the nautiloid: sticky, wet, warm. It’s seeped into socks and splattered across new armor, stained some of your favorite nightwear. Sometimes, when you’ve finally settled down for dinner, you’ve been able to taste it. No amount of scrubbing rids you of the earthy, bitter taste for long.

The mud in front of you is different, though. By all accounts, the heat should have baked everything at least somewhat dry, but this puddle remains. If it can even be called a puddle, really. The gloppy, wet mess looks more like a pond, and completely blocks the only path ahead. Even the edges of it remain entirely liquid. If you didn’t know better, you’d think it’d just rained.

A quick glance at your map confirms what you’d feared; this is the only nearby route to your destination. You’re on the outskirts of the city. Rock walls line either side of the path, too steep to climb. You know for a fact that Shadowheart had recently used your last Potion of Flying. Either you lose hours of progress to get Gale from camp so you can cross, or you’ll have to proceed through this stupid pond.

Astarion watches you eye the mess with a dramatic flick of his wrist. “Oh, by all means, darling, you go first!” he exclaims, raising a brow. “It won’t be me jumping in that slop.”

Karlach frowns at the mud’s appearance, tapping the toe of her boot against the surface. It ripples at the movement, brown waves gently sloshing against the surface of the nearby stone. “Can’t be that deep, right?”

“I don’t know,” you reply. You’re aching for a stick or loose branch, something to measure it, but there’s nothing around. Just grass and stone, the scalding sun on the back of your neck, and the muddy pond directly in the middle of the path.

“I say we go back,” Shadowheart urges. “I don’t know about any of you, but I’m not keen on dirtying myself.”

“We’d have to backtrack through hours of traveling,” you point out. “There’s no other way forward. I’ve checked the map.”

“Fine,” she relents, crossing her arms across her chest. “You go first, and we’ll follow behind you. Once we’ve seen it’s safe, that is.”

And, hells, you do not want to step foot in there. Not one bit. Still, do you have much of a choice? Your feet are already aching from the day’s walk. It would be devastating to lose all your progress. So, no - you really don’t have a choice, not if you want to get those Netherstones and stop the Absolute in time. The quakes in the city have only been getting worse.

“Alright,” you finally reply, your voice stronger than you feel.

You step forward, pressing your right boot against the mud, then apply your weight. Your heel breaks the surface with a terrifying rush of movement, and your leg instantly slides down into the muck - much deeper than you’d thought, deeper than it should be. When your foot hits the bottom, sticky, cold mud splatters up, painting your shirt, neck, and parts of your face.

Suddenly, the day isn’t quite so warm.

When you finally muster the courage to look down, your right leg is submerged up to the knee, soaking through your trousers. You can practically hear the sick squelch of it making its way into your socks, squishing between your toes.

“Urgh,” you mutter, wrinkling your nose as you attempt to pull your leg up. “Disgusting.” But it won’t budge. In fact, your squirming seems to be making you sink down even further. You try to shift your weight, but your balance is uneven with one leg in and one leg out. You’re dangerously close to losing your footing, and every bit you struggle threatens to tilt you face-first into the makeshift mud pond. In a prime moment of idiocy, you plant your other foot in the mud for support, and find your bottom half completely unable to move.

“What a brilliant idea,” Shadowheart says. “Now you’re stuck.”

“Thank you, Shadowheart,” you grit out, sweat dripping down your neck as you attempt to twist yourself around. “I had no idea!”

Karlach steps behind you, laughing a little. “Come on. Up you go, soldier,” she says, leveraging her arms under yours and giving a quick tug. You’re expecting the mud to release you, but it doesn’t. Your legs don’t budge - not even an inch.

“What in the…?” she mutters, giving another pull. This one has more force behind it; when she tries to haul you up, white-hot pain sears up through your ribs, ripping an agonized cry from your lips. No matter how hard she yanks, the mud’s grip only tightens around you. It’s beginning to feel like you’re a brittle piece of rope in a vicious game of tug-of-war.

“Shit! I’m sorry!” she exclaims. “So, so, sorry!”

“What are you doing?” Astarion asks, his voice suddenly sharp. “You’re hurting her! Put her down!”

“So she can get sucked further into the mud?” Shadowheart asks. Her voice is lined with fear now, which is scaring you more than anything else about this miserable situation. “We have to get her out!”

But it quickly becomes clear that no matter how hard Karlach pulls, it’s useless. Every yank is agony, and you only sink further and further. Tears stream down your cheeks from the pain, and your spine feels like it’s gained a good two inches from being stretched, but still nothing. No give at all.

Eventually, Karlach lets you go. Your body plops down in relief, but the mud is somehow deeper than it was before. It’s up to the bottom of your ribs now.

“Fuck me,” she pants, wiping her forehead. “What should we do?”

“How should I know?” Astarion’s face is drawn, more pallid than usual. His lips are pinched into a line. He should be telling you I told you so, making jokes - and you know he would be, if he were anything but absolutely terrified. Your panic is bad enough with the heaviness of the mud on your chest and lower body, but the look on his face? That tells you it’s even worse than it feels.

“Step back,” Shadowheart instructs quietly. “I have an idea.”

Once the two of them are out of the way, she steps forward. Stretching out her hands, she mutters an incantation into the air. In seconds, the slight chill of the mud surrounding you becomes sharp, painful ice that burns against every exposed inch of skin it touches. A very muddy shade of ice, but ice all the same.

Karlach’s axe crashes through the surface and it shatters, breaking around you. After another hit and a moment of digging, she finally has you out: freezing, still covered in mud, and very sore - but alive.

“Thank you,” you manage, choking out the words between your shivering.

“Never say I didn’t do anything for you,” Shadowheart says, smiling a little. She lets out a breath of relief, the tension bleeding from her shoulders. “Now. Turning around, are we?”

By the time you get back to camp, you’re the most uncomfortable you’ve ever been in your life. You’re wet and cold and exhausted, caked with dried mud that pulls at your skin when you move. It’s in your hair, on your face, and in your shoes, squelching with every step. The feeling makes you want to crawl out of your skin. Your ribs are sore and achy, and - on top of all of that - you’ve lost a good day’s worth of travel.

The only thing you want is to fall into Astarion’s arms, but he wrinkles his nose when you come near, holding out a finger to stop you. “Oh, no you don't,” he says. “Bath first. Then you can talk to me, darling.”

It seems no amount of persuasion is going to change his mind, so you head back to your tent and grab a number of supplies - soap, sponges, a towel, and a change of clothes. Your trusty knife for protection. The river is bound to be freezing, but it’s better than sponging yourself down and hoping for the best.

Thank the gods you’d found a decent pair of boots in an abandoned house today, because the ones that are currently plastered to your feet will take days to dry out, even in the hot sun. When you get to the nearby river, you don’t even bother to take them off before you plunge them into icy water, sufficiently drenching them until you can furiously loosen the mud enough to slip them off and toss them onto the riverbank.

The rest of your clothing gets the same treatment: the trousers which slowly pull away from your skin, the shirt that’s splattered with mud and covered in it up to the waist. Your hair will no doubt be a disaster, too.

You’re still sitting in the soaking-wet clothes when you hear the sound of a twig snapping behind you. Your hand instantly grabs for your knife, ready to throw it at whatever threat might be in the woods as your eyes sweep along the trees.

Nothing. You find nothing.

“Darling,” comes Astarion’s voice. He slips out from the shadows, immaculately clean, gazing down at the weapon in your hand with a lifted brow. “Planning to render me dead twice-over?”

“You scared the living hells out of me, Astarion!” you snap, sucking in a shaky breath. The blade drops from your loosened fingers, softly thumping against the dirt. “What are you doing out here?”

He steps closer, taking a seat on a nearby log. “You were taking ages to get clean,” he whines, sprawling out his legs in front of him. “And, unfortunately, our companions haven’t had an argument all night. How else am I meant to entertain myself? So here I am. Trudging through the woods for your company.”

“You could give me a warning next time,” you reply, still a little jarred. “I thought you were someone hoping to catch an eyeful.”

A smirk flickers across his lips. “Oh, but I am,” he says. “Do you mind terribly?”

Against your will, your cheeks heat, and his smile widens. “I don’t mind,” you say. “Not if you behave, that is. Hands to yourself.”

“I’ll be on my very best behavior,” he promises. Leaning forward, he prods your boots, wrinkling his nose at the sight. “Gods below. Those disgusting things should be burned.”

“I have an extra pair.” You move to tug your shirt off, but it’s clinging to you. “Gods damn that stupid mud pile. I should have asked Gale to use a cleaning spell.”

“Oh, please,” Astarion says. “He’s been sulking in his tent all evening. Apparently, being asked to blow yourself up by an old flame doesn’t do much in the way of socializing.”

The shirt finally pulls free, and it’s clear that your smallclothes have received the same treatment as the rest of your garments. Gods, you really should have asked for that cleaning spell. This mud is going to take ages to get out.

“Hand that here,” Astarion says, motioning for your shirt. You toss it to him, and he inspects it closely before setting aside.

“What?” you ask. “What were you looking for?”

“Oh, darling, nothing,” he says. “That’s my ‘to be burned’ pile. We’ll get you a new one.”

You’d argue, but you aren’t very attached to your current outfit - and besides, after weeks of trekking through wilderness and Shadowlands alike, it’s falling apart even without the mud.

“Do what you want with it,” you grumble, finally pulling off your smallclothes. “That shirt was barely surviving anyway.”

You glance over your shoulder and find him observing with a raised brow, slowly taking the sight of you in. You must look like a mess, but you’d never know it from the glint in the eye, or the complacent smile that plays upon his lips. Heat stirs low in your belly, simmering under your skin. Later, you tell yourself. When you aren’t covered in filth.

You lather up the soap on your sponge, scrubbing away the mud the best you can, but the damned stuff takes ages to get off. By the time you’re finally clean, the silvery moon is high in the sky, and your skin is beginning to prune.

Astarion makes a small comment or two, but mostly seems content to watch you in silence. His gaze burns over every inch of exposed skin, leaving phantom heat wherever it stalls. All you want is to get out of this damned river and touch him, but you’re determined to get every bit of the mud off before you do, and it’s taking much longer than you’d hoped.

When you’re finally presentable, you start on cleaning your filthy smallclothes. The soap is slippery, making it difficult to do much scrubbing, and the water alone is doing hardly anything.

Astarion watches you struggling, huffing as you nearly drop the soap bar in the river. After a moment, he lets out an exasperated sigh. “Dearest, you do realize that it would be much easier if you-”

But his words suddenly cut off. His head snaps toward the woods, and every nerve in your body burns with fear. In the span of seconds, he’s lunged forward, grabbed your knife, and darted after the sound.

Not a moment later, there’s a loud crash - some form of impact as he tackles whatever it was that he heard. You instantly push yourself out of the water without thinking, numb, your heart pounding in your chest as you stumble into the forest after him. It only takes a few steps in before you see it: a man on the ground, Astarion’s knife to his throat.

Your stomach churns, and your skin prickles in the air’s chill. How much had he seen? How long had he been standing there?

Astarion is shouting something at him, and the stranger is struggling against his hold, but it’s useless. He’s a scrawny, weak little thing, no match for Astarion’s lithe, nimble strength. No amount of twisting or fighting dislodges Astarion’s grip. After a moment, he finally gives up, cackling like an old hag as his head plops down against the dirt.

“Give me one reason why I shouldn’t kill you here and now,” Astarion hisses, anger contorting his features.

In response, the man spits in his face. “She’s your bitch, is she?” he croaks. “You can take a turn after I’m done with her.”

Astarion snarls in response, gripping the man’s collar and pressing the blade deeper into the skin until it draws blood.

“Wait,” you call, stepping closer. “Don’t.”

Astarion blinks in disbelief, sitting up, careful to keep his weight on the stranger underneath. “My love, you can’t be serious,” he says. “You want to spare this-”

“Spare?” you echo, cutting off his words. “Who said anything about sparing him?”

Something glints in his gaze as he takes in your words. “Darling,” he drawls, his tone admirational. “By all means.”

He hands you the knife, and you kneel down next to him. It’s heavy in your hand, cold and smooth as you run your finger over the flat edge of the blade. You stare at the shimmer of it for a moment, entranced, somehow calm in the midst of this chaos. Then you slam the bottom of the hilt into the man’s nose.

There’s a sickening crunch before he screams, blood streaming over his mouth and spilling down his chin. Even after last night’s feeding, Astarion tenses up at the smell of it, but the curl of his lip tells you that he won’t be drinking from this piece of absolute refuse.

When the stranger reaches over and grabs at your arm, you almost don’t even realize - you’re so caught up in your own mind, in the weight of the knife in your hand. Then his nails dig into your skin, and everything hits you at once.

The freezing night air. The stinging, throbbing pain that flares through your skin as he claws at you, unable to do much more. The feel of Astarion’s hand, gentle but firm, prying the knife from your grip. It happens before you can even react - a swift slice of the blade, slitting the man’s throat. Dark blood, gushing from the wound and onto the dirt below.

For a moment, there is nothing but the sound of your breathing. Sharp but shallow, straining in your chest. Jagged air that flows in and out, but it does nothing to stop the increasing amount of black in your vision.

You’ve fought and killed more people than you can count so… why does this feel different? Why here, why now? You’ve nearly died before, so why does the scrape on your arm feel like it’s much more than that?

Then Astarion’s hands envelop your cheeks, blissfully cool, and the panic and pain seep out all at once.

“Darling,” he’s saying, half-breathless, “are you alright?”

You manage to nod, and some of the concern leaves his eyes. He runs his fingers over the scrape on your arm, and you wince. “We need to get you patched up,” he murmurs, his brows pinching together.

“Don’t take me to Shadowheart,” you choke out. She’s already done you enough favors, and you won’t be able to stand her disapproving gaze if you disturb her rest after today’s fiasco.

He huffs. “Stubborn little thing,” he mutters, but he doesn’t argue.

Instead, he heads back to your supplies by the river. When he returns, he wraps a towel over your shoulders, and it’s only then that you realize you’re naked. Completely, utterly naked. It had been bold of you to break that bastard’s nose in the nude, but… well, it hadn’t been your intention.

He’s dead now, though. He’ll never look at you again.

Astarion sweeps you up into his arms and carries you out of the woods along with your clean change of clothes, holding you tight against his chest and leaving your soiled clothing behind.

You can’t find it in you to care at the moment. You’ve scrounged up plenty of clothing along the journey; those torn, stained things won’t be missed. Not to mention, if you ever need more, Astarion will gladly steal you some new ones.

He takes you to your tent, and you’re grateful to see that everyone else has turned in for the night. Anyone awake to see you would inevitably have questions, and this only affirms your decision to avoid Shadowheart - if you woke her up to heal a minor scrape on your arm, she’d be seething.

And though she’d undoubtedly be sympathetic after hearing the cause, you don’t think you can muster up the words to tell her what’d happened.

After he’s carefully set you down on your bedroll, Astarion yanks the flap of your tent closed and reaches for your pack, digging through the contents until he’s found some bandages. His grip is gentle as he takes your arm and swipes some remnants of a healing potion over it. You’ve been through this dozens of times, but you can never seem to shake the urge to wince as it sets in - the potion stings just a bit before it soothes, a sharp tingling that fades into a sweet, balming relief.

You’ve calmed down some, warming up in your tent with him, but Astarion’s hands are shaking as he wraps the wound. His brows are pinched together, his swallows are thick and strained, and he can’t seem to meet your eyes, even when he’s done bandaging you up.

“Astarion,” you murmur. “He’s dead.”

He stills in place, jaw clenching as he inhales sharply, still not meeting your gaze. Instead, he glowers down at the tent’s floor, his hands balling into fists. “He deserved so much worse than that,” he snaps.

You don’t argue with him. Instead, you let him fuss over you, taking the time to smooth through your wet hair, plucking out remaining leaves and twigs from the woods. He gets you into a warm, fluffy robe - only the gods know where he’d managed to find something like that - then pulls you close, his thumb stroking over your cheek. You rest your head against his chest and close your eyes, listening to the soft sounds of his body working under his skin. No heartbeat, of course, just the quiet churn of his movements, the rise and fall of his ribs that’s become habit to him.

After a moment, he takes your face in his hands, just as he had in the woods - but when you meet his gaze, there’s a sharp intensity in his eyes rather than fear. He takes you in little by little, tilting your head up to brush his fingers over the fading marks on your neck.

Then he leans in, and you catch the smell of him you know so well, lingering on his skin like soap. Bergamot, rosemary, brandy. It’s what you associate most with him, that sweet, sharp scent that bathes over you. When his lips finally meet yours, the kiss is rough and desperate, heated and aching. His fangs scrape over your lip, grazing the delicate skin but not breaking it. His tongue slides into your mouth, and his hand returns to the back of your neck, tightening his grip.

One of your hands fix into his shirt as you lean into him, nipping at his lip. You shift your free hand up into his hair, tousling through the soft, silky curls before gently tugging. He groans and pulls you closer, and - gods, it’s incredible. Warmth drags down your spine like a hot coal, searing and addictive. You squirm a little in his grasp, shifting until you’re straddling his hips, and he pulls away to kiss down your jaw, murmuring soft words into the skin.

When he gets to your chest, you let him untie the robe and spread his hands underneath, peeling the fabric off your shoulders, fingers slowly warming as they trail down your back. His hands settle on your waist as he kisses you again, mouth soft against yours.

Gods, you need him. You’re already soaked, and he’s barely even touched you.

You can feel him hardening underneath you, his movements growing desperate, his breathing labored. You grind your hips against him and he lets out a strained noise against your lips, shuddering. He pulls away, examining your expression as he tucks a strand of hair behind your ear.

The movement is tender and incredibly sweet, but you’re hardly patient. You’ve been wanting him ever since he sat on that log in the forest, gaze roaming over every inch of you. You let out a soft whine, attempting to tug off his shirt. He does absolutely nothing to help you.

“Astarion,” you breathe. “Please.”

“Hm? Did you want something, darling?” he asks, the desire in his voice betraying his otherwise casual tone.

“I want you,” you tell him, rolling your hips again in search of the friction you so desperately need. “Please. I want you.”

“Easy, love. You have me,” he replies, brushing his thumb against your lips. Your heart swells with a fondness that would threaten to make you cry if you weren’t so ridiculously needy.

And finally, thank the gods, he takes off his godsdamned shirt.

You run a hand up his shoulder, then into his hair. You’d once thought that he was using a special shampoo - his hair was so soft, it seemed the only explanation. Then you’d seen him with the same shampoo you were using, and you’d practically wept with envy over his ridiculously perfect genes. Even now, as you run your hands through the silk-soft curls, you don’t understand it.

Then you trace up the line of his ear, and he shudders, leaning into your touch. When you gently massage the tip of his helix, he lets out a soft, seeking noise and his eyes flutter shut. Hells, you swear that you can feel him growing even harder beneath you. Another roll of your hips and his eyes slowly open again, half-lidded and glazed with desire. His hands firmly grip your waist, and there’s the briefest sensation of falling as he rolls you back onto your bedroll, tucking the pillow under your head.

He kisses along your clavicle, nosing down your ribs, humming against your skin. Feather-light brushes of his lips meet your ribs, then your breast, pausing to swipe his tongue over your nipple before he proceeds downward. When he arrives at your navel, your legs automatically spread open for him, and he lets out a hum of approval. He takes a leg in his hand and kisses up the thigh, warm, sharp kisses that trail up to the place you want him most.

He starts off slowly - a long lick over your clit, a quick swipe of his tongue before he settles between your legs, propping your thigh over his shoulder and starting a maddening rhythm. After all this time, you really should know how much pleasure to expect - but after everything, after his confession in the Shadowlands and the fear with Cazador, this still feels… new.

And Astarion is very, very good at what he does. He seems to know exactly what you want before you do, before your mind can put it into tangible thought, and before your body can even search for it. He works a finger into you, then two, and you’re left gasping and squirming as he sets an agonizingly slow pace. After a moment, he speeds up, just where you want him, perfect, perfect-

And then he pulls away, and the look on his face practically shouts that he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. Of course he does. He’s always been a tease. His fingers continue their work, languidly dragging in and out of you as he speaks.

“You know,” he says, pressing a kiss to your thigh, “back at the river, this was all I could think about. Getting my mouth on you. Watching you come apart piece by piece.”

Gods, he’s been direct before, but never that direct. Frankly, you’re surprised you don’t come then and there. Instead, you clench hard around his fingers and whimper, rolling your hips in time with his movements.

“Astarion,” you pant, unable to coax your mind into forming a coherent reply. “Gods, Astarion.”

He hums in response, flashing you a wicked grin. “That’s it, darling,” he encourages, shifting his fingers until they’re brushing against a spot that makes your vision black out. “Say my name. Let everyone hear you.”

You manage a laugh that quickly fades into a soft moan. “The entire camp will kill me if I wake them up.”

He nips at your thigh. “Let them try,” he muses. “They’ll have to get through me.”

He lowers his mouth between your legs again, and your head falls back against the pillow. It’s an embarrassingly short time before your muscles start to tense up, wiring you with pleasure from head to toe. One of your hands fixes in his hair, pulling tightly as white-hot pleasure sparks through your abdomen, and oh, gods, you’re coming-

Your vision cuts out again. Your mind fuzzes over, drunk with pleasure, leaving you shuddering, clenching around his fingers, moaning into your free hand.

You know he’d prefer to hear you, but if you actually disturb any of the others, you’ll die of embarrassment. One day, the two of you will have your own house with a real bed, and you’ll be as loud as you want. For now, you muffle your cries into your fingers and tremble through your climax.

Your body floats weightlessly for a moment in what must be Elysium, until you finally rejoin yourself and find your limbs heavy and uncoordinated. Astarion huffs, placing a final kiss on you until he crawls upward, kissing up your chest again.

He’s still holding himself back - you can see it in the way he moves, in the tension of his muscles and the coil of his shoulders. There’s a fire in his eyes, a hunger that you recognize so well. When he reaches your neck, you instinctively tilt your head, allowing him access to his usual spot.

For a moment, he hesitates, his warm breath fanning over the skin as your pulse hammers in your throat. Then he groans, grinding himself into your leg as he bites down, chasing his pleasure against your thigh as your blood spills into his mouth.

You know this routine so very well by now. The sting of the bite, and the numbness that follows. The ebb and flow of your blood, filling his mouth. The slight dizziness that comes before he pulls away, swiping his tongue over the bite for one final taste.

“Gods,” he pants, gripping your shoulder. Then, to your utter disappointment and confusion, he pulls away. “Wait here, my sweet. I need to - I’ll be right back. I promise.”

And before you can protest, he’s scrambling out the tent. For a long, numb moment, you stare at the tent opening, wondering if you’re dreaming. The silence of the tent grates on your ears, echoing the sound of your breathing until you can barely stand it. Then he’s pushing inside again, a scroll in hand as he closes the tent.

“Do I want to know what that is?” you ask.

“A scroll of Silence, darling. I’ve been saving it.” He flashes you a grin, murmuring the incantation as the scroll shimmers in his hand. Pure Weave, confined into parchment.

You don’t hear the spell take effect, but you feel it. It’s a thickness in the air, a heaviness in your movements.

Astarion doesn’t waste another second. He pushes up to kiss you, and it’s messy - your tongue against his, the sting of sharp teeth, your hand in his hair and his hand on the nape of your neck. There’s the taste of metal and herbs: your blood mixed with the remnants of a healing potion. He spreads your legs with his knee, then sits back on his heels and reaches down to undo his trousers.

You study him for a moment. The crease of his brow. The alabaster of his skin, sculpted out like a statue from marble.

If you were an artist, you’d make him your life’s work. You’d chip out his every feature little by little, painstakingly working away at the stone to define the look in his eyes when he tells you he loves you. You’d spend ages carving every wrinkle, every line, every perfect imperfection. The touch of it would be cold, like him, but it could never compare to how he looks as he settles over you, eyes blown dark with desire.

He inches closer, still on his knees, and takes hold of your thighs, lifting them up to meet his hips before gently easing inside of you. He lets out a sharp exhale as he slowly presses deeper, his grip shifting to your waist.

Nothing could compare to the way it feels as he fills you up inch by inch, murmuring praise, telling you how beautiful you are for him. “Darling,” he bites out, gritting his teeth at the pleasure. “If anyone ever tries anything like that with you again, I’ll tear them to shreds.”

You laugh a little, breathless, delirious in the delicious stretch of him inside you. “I won’t stop you. I just might ask to break their nose first.”

He shakes his head, but a small smile plays on his lips before he straightens and starts his rhythm. Slow, even thrusts that leave you grasping at the blankets beneath you, trying to steady yourself in the waves of sensation. He stares down at you, half-drunk on your blood, lips parted and his cheeks flushed.

“You feel incredible,” he breathes. “Gods. You’re incredible.”

Your eyes don’t quite know where to land. They never do. Now, they flutter over his abdomen, taking in the sight of the muscles that ripple and contract with the rolling of his hips. The droplets of sweat that slowly build on his skin, glimmering like crystals.

His jaw clenches, and his pace starts to quicken, and the feeling of him inside of your aching cunt is just so godsdamned good. His cock stretches you out like it was made for you, and soon your lungs are hardly filling with air. You can’t think, and you can scarcely breathe. All you know is that you’re not going to last much longer.

You tug at the blankets and shut your eyes, and he lets out another soft, aching noise as he thrusts deeper, faster, filling you up, the slick sound of your arousal echoing through the tent and mixing with the heaving of your breaths. You clench around him and he groans, shifting the angle of your hips, rhythm frantic.

“That’s it,” he pants. “Come for me, darling.”

And you do. Your body clenches around him as you cry out, back arching, pleasure overtaking every thought but one: Astarion. Astarion, Astarion, Astarion. Your breaths scrape shallowly through your chest and ecstasy burns through every inch of you, every nerve - until you feel paralyzed. Content, thoroughly fucked and sated, but paralyzed.

You’ve just started to come back to your senses when Astarion follows you over the edge, a moan tumbling from his lips that sounds remarkably like your name. His hips thrust a few more times, chasing after his pleasure, clumsy movements that slow to a halt as he shuts his eyes. He shudders, then slackens, carefully pulling out of you before he wraps his hands around your thighs and gently lowers them back to the bedroll.

You can barely move, still lost in the aftershocks of pleasure as he cleans you up, smoothing the hair out of your face as he lays next to you.

“You know,” he says, “I think I’m going to ask Gale to make us another one of those scrolls.”

And, gods, all you can do is laugh.

#astarion x reader #astarion x tav #astarion x you #astarion fic #astarion smut #bg3 x reader #mywriting

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jymwahuwu · 1 year ago

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CW: yandere, non-con, implied kidnapping

A little thirsty content, inspired by this post. He’s fucking you now, what happens if he gets a call 😚?

The insistent sound of water is accompanied by the smell of sex and the sticky feel. His thumb presses the flesh of your thigh to form a dent, holding your legs open while his thick cock slides and explores inside you, drawing out the electric pleasure. There was that peaceful smile on his face. "Jing- Jing Yuan…" You stared at him through the blur of tears, pushing him with both hands. "No…stop this…"

A burst of hearty laughter rose from his throat, and he pressed his thin lips to your face for a kiss, burying his face in your breasts.

A melodious electronic sound sounded. The general raised his face from your chest and snorted, "Who's calling now?" Before you could stop him, he had already connected, a holographic image, with only Jing Yuan's expression and some naked collarbones showing. Now in front of the subordinates. You stared in horror, not daring to move, swallowing those moans.

"General, we need to discuss business temporarily here…"

"Huh? IPC has put forward new requirements?"

"Yes, General…" The voice over there stated the documents and terms of the interstellar trade, and instead of withdrawing from your body or slowing down the frequency, the cock actually pushed forward further, squeezing your warm and smooth inside… You had to cover your mouth with your hands, trembling, afraid of being discovered, but at the same time you felt the pleasure rising to another level, stirring your mind into a fog.

As more details of the agreement are revealed and discussed, the general's waist swings faster. Your limbs tensed as your orgasm erupted, squirting all over his cock. He smiled and looked down, and you were at his mercy.

On the other side of the holographic image, they only saw the image of the general smiling casually, just like he always did.

"Okay, the meeting ends here."

#jing yuan x reader #honkai star rail x you #honkai star rail x reader #yandere hsr #yandere hsr x reader #yandere honkai star rail #yandere jing yuan #yandere jing yuan x reader #honkai x reader

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neuvistar · 2 years ago

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poly jingren x reader has been on my mind 4 so longgg.. ITS SO BADD. please give me more thirsts or thoughts abt poly!jingren x reader i’m lovin them rn | hint of fluff, mostly nsfw

short lil thirst ! jing yuan + blade x fem!reader (use of she/her pronouns), big dick jing yuan + blade foreal, reader implied 2 be shorter in height, degrading terms (whore, slut, etc), mentions of squirting, mating press + full nelson, SIZE KINK!! SIZE KINK!!, blade’s a lil mean but it’s ok bc it’s blade!, cum cum lots of cum (sounds funny but it’s okay </3) | overall suggestive content minors do not interact

poly!jingren who would have different tolerance of your brattiness. jing yuan having the highest patience for u n blade having the least! you always run to jing yuan whenever blade talks abt punishing u n he thinks it’s soso cute :(( he’s always protecting you, nuzzling against his chest with your arms wrapped around his huge body, ur so cute! a darling you are..

jing yuan always tried dodging the idea of you wearing short skirts in public, why? you would make his dick hard, easy. but, you decided it was a good idea to wear the shortest skirt known 2 mankind one day, paying him a visit at his office. imagine this, jing yuan would be at his office doing work at his desk n all of the sudden you walk in looking all slutty, a short skirt that just barely covers your plushy thighs and ass, he would brush it off at first up until you purposely drop the pen on his desk bending down to pick it up. once you stood up, you would already be bent over his desk. that’s what you wanted, after all. “are you trying to tempt me, dove? because it sure is working.” jing yuan has zero patience whenever you’re acting like a whore in public, he would plant kisses all over your back and pound into you like there’s no tomorrow, his big dick stretching you out :(( choked moans would leave your throat, rambling on about how rough he was being with you, and that people might hear you and walk in, but he didn’t care, infact that was the last of his worries. he savoured the feeling of your tight walls pulsing around his cock, cumming inside and cumming on your panties too! i hope u’ll enjoy the stickiness between your thighs <3 (he’ll snitch to blade too abt it, what a bitch)

poly!jingren would be protective over you, even though they’re a pain to be with sometimes due to their constant arguments and disagreements, dating them does have its benefits. they would stand on either side of you, one on your left and one on your right. geez, you look so cute compared to them, it’s like you were walking around with two dogs on your leash, reading to pounce at anyone who dares speak ill of you or touches you. speaking of size.. i feel like they’d both have a size kink, you’re just so short compared to them they can’t help but fantasize about bending you over and fucking you in different positions, i feel like they both each have their favourites on that.

jing yuan loves putting you in a mating press, he likes it becuz it makes him cum quicker! not even a few thrusts and he’s already cumming inside, loving how you squirt all over his cock. he would press your knees against your chest, folding you in half almost. he would gently draw circles on your knee while the tip of his dick kisses your cervix, he’s so sweet to you though.. whispering praises in your ear. he would catch you off guard sometimes due to how sweet he was with you, not noticing how much he came, staring down at the mess he made in your cunt w cum seeping out </3

blade would absolutely love folding you in a full nelson, bro has sm strength it scares you sometimes. he would hook his arms under your knees, thrusting his hips into you. “sucha’ whore for my cock, aren’t you? you like it when i fuck you hard like this, don’t you?” mmm also also maybe if he’s feeling it, i bet bro would let jing yuan would join too, but he wouldn’t impale you with his dick like blade is, no.. he would rub his cock against your slit, placing kisses on your legs. honestly, jing yuan is your saviour atp. cuz everytime blade folds you in a full nelson, he’s always concerned that he’ll break you, so he tries telling him to ease it up a bit with you <3

poly!jingren would have god like stamina and strength, great speed n strength comes w great consequences! whether it is in a non sexual way or not, i feel like their stamina n strength would be useful in your relationship, its a lil cute since ur kinda shorter in height n they would always tower over u n help i get things from the high shelf or cabinet, it’s so cute! <33 but yet.. it’s a lil scary in bed cuz they can last so long w u and fuck you until you forget your own name, but it’ll be fine!! you can handle them!

poly!jingren both probably didn’t realize they had a size kink until they got intimate with you, it was probably the last of their worries up until one night. blade would probably notice a cute little bump on your stomach, noticing just how small you rlly are compared to them, jing yuan would too! honestly they both just love how their huge cocks slide in and out of your pussy, the bulge on your stomach going down, up, down up, over and over again! you’re just so.. cute they can’t help but stretch your little pussy out a bit.

“cmon sweetheart, you got this. you’re so cute, mhm.. you can handle more right?“

“sure she can, she’s strong girl. if shes— mmp.. squeezing around us like that, i’m sure she can handle more.”

“mm.. mhm. i can see that.” jing yuan leaned down, bringing his voice down to a whisper, “do you like it when we stretch you out with our cocks like this, baby?”

“fuck yeah she does, look at her. she’s creaming on our cocks already. s’ messy.”

poly!jingren who would both try their best to be gentle to you, sometimes it backfires but you don’t seem to mind! what’s very true about them is they both don’t want to hurt you in anyway, sure they fuck you hard enough and punish you but their intentions r never to hurt u, they would always ask you if you’re okay, even if they see the slightest hint of discomfort or pain in your face. especially jing yuan, he’s rlly rlly sweet n same goes to blade but he shows it in his own way. u know that blade doesn’t mean half of the things he says (he knows ur a slut for their cock tho but that’s besides the point) n sometimes he can get carried away but he would apologize with a simple “sorry.” and ask you if he was too rough on you, both r sweethearts yk

#ᖭི༏ᖫྀ maryse’s diary ૮꒰˶˃̵ ^ ˂̵˵꒱ა #ᖭི༏ᖫྀ thirsts ૮꒰ᐡ ɞ̴̶̷ ̫ ᴗ̤ ᐡ꒱ა #maryse’s thoughts : poly jingren x reader <3 #jing yuan <33 #blade <33 #honkai star rail smut #hsr smut #blade x reader #jing yuan smut #blade smut #jing yuan x reader #hsr x you #blade x you #honkai star rail x reader #jing yuan x you #THEY SO FINE

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fairytsuk1 · 6 months ago

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a sense of belonging | (s)

pairing: alex quackity x reader

words: 2.7k

warnings: sexual content, loss of virginity, dry humping, p-in-v, vanilla sex, missionary, protected sex, pre-established relationship

request: like, imagine reader and Alex having their first time together, like, both of them losing their virginity together

You weren’t expecting anything. That’s what you tried to remind yourself; it was a date like any other. No expectations. Alex was your long-term boyfriend, and you trusted him! You could remember flashing adoring eyes at him across the lunch hall when the two of you were young, his cheese quesadilla stretching to the table as he laughed with his friends.

He was smaller back then, a bit nerdy-looking to some, but perfect to you. You loved looking at him. You always had.

Alex grins, teeth shining as music permeates the still quiet. He looks perfect today as you sit comfortably on his bed. Your lip gets caught between your teeth as your eyes rake over his black, wispy strands of hair, contrasting with his rosy lips in a way that makes your thighs squeeze together. You must look away, cheeks hot as your man settles next to you.

“Is Mac Miller okay?”

Alex breaks your reverie, nudging your side with his elbow. You nod eagerly as you try not to get ahead of yourself.

“You know I love him too.”

“Right! You get it,” Alex hesitates. “You look really beautiful right now.”

Your boyfriend sits next to you, and you can feel his body heat radiating towards you. His tone is aching with sincerity as he speaks; it makes your eyes well with tears. A hot rush of warmth courses through your veins, “thanks, ‘lex. You look really good, too.”

Your fingers graze his bicep as you compliment him, and you can feel the goosebumps that prickle his caramel skin. When your eyes meet his once more, they look a little more hooded and have a little more intent. It makes your clit pulse with need, and you know you’re soaking your panties.

“Thanks… hey, I love you.”

“I love you, too,” you murmur, “so much!”

Neither of you realizes how close your faces are, but your expressions reflect the same desire. Fuck me.

Alex swallows, brown eyes staring into yours for so long that it feels like forever.

“… Can I kiss you?”

The confirmation you utter is both whiny and breathless. Alex’s lips capture yours in a passionate kiss, and there’s a sense of urgency behind his movements when he settles a warm hand on your knee.

A saliva string connects the two of you when you break apart, “Alex…”

“Yeah?”

“I’m ready to… You know,” you start to laugh, your head falling into his chest, and he smiles at you. “You know what I mean.”

“I know, baby,” Alex pecks your forehead with a gentle kiss.

He’s not the boy he used to be. He’s a man now, the way he settles a gentle hand on your waist. Not only that, but he’s more confident now too, and it is so fucking sexy. You nearly purr when Alex helps you lay down against his soft bedsheets. They smell like him, some cologne he’d bought and insisted you smell. Do you like it? He asked with a soft smile. You had.

The way he kisses is heavenly, soft lips colliding against your own with an eagerness replicated in his grabby hands. You’d had heated make-out sessions before, but it’s different, the way you accommodate him between your legs with pouty lips.

“Are you okay?” he murmurs into your neck. “We don’t have to rush or anything…”

“I’m okay,” you assure with swollen lips. “I promise, let’s keep going. Unless you don’t want to! We can also stop–”

Alex kisses you again. His tongue slides wetly against your bottom lip, intertwining with yours in a sticky, hot kiss.

“I wanna keep going.”

Your moan is loud and embarrassing, and you shrink at Alex’s gleeful face. To you, it feels so lewd to cry out when he sucks a hickey on your neck, but your boyfriend feels differently based on how he grinds desperately against you.

“You’re really hot when you moan like that,” and he fucking shudders.

Something inside you burns hot and bright as his words, “Well, I want you to fuck me. C-Can’t help but moan when you’re touching me like that.”

It comes out as a light whisper but triggers a deep magnetic pull in Alex’s chest. He can’t help it, he wants you so badly, and here you are presented like a breathtaking present, ready to take his thick cock inch by inch till he’s balls deep inside of you.

“Yeah, well, I need you…!”

Alex breathes into your neck as you grind up against him. He’s so weak for you, nearly trembling. You’re not unshaken, either, clit rubbing just right against his bulge. You can feel how hard he is against you, and it's so fucking sexy.

His hands skim the bottom of your shirt, soft eyes asking for permission. You give a shy nod, and his hands give way to bare skin, “Jesus.”

“…What?”

“You’re just so beautiful. Seriously! I feel so grateful right now, being here with you.”

A ball of emotion wells in your throat as he slowly reveals the softness of your tummy and then your nude bra. You start to feel flustered as he takes a confident move to grope your tits, feeling them squish under his fingertips as you squirm. Alex kisses you again with lips that soothe like a balm. He pushes the cups down to leave you nearly naked, and he’s breathless at the sight.

“Wow, they’re really… I mean, seeing you like this is…”

“Sexy? Hot?”

“Yeah, exactly. All of that,” he kisses your jaw wetly before coming eye to eye with your hardening nipples, taking one into his warm mouth with a hum.

“Oh, fuck me, Alex. Be careful, ‘m so sensiti–ooh!”

He doesn’t even speak as he rolls your nub on his tongue, loud, wet noises echoing in the wake of your whimpers. Your hands tangle into his hair as you unconsciously pull him closer; the both of you writhe as if trying to mold your bodies into one. Alex sucks a hickey on the bottom of your breast and then pulls away proudly, “what do you think?”

It’s half to check in on you and half on him. You look at his eager-for-praise face for a second before grinning and pulling him close by his shoulders.

“I think… you’re really good at this.”

“You flatter me too much,” he croons into your chest whilst laying sloppy kisses on the column of your chest. “You just drive me wild, babe. I can’t explain it. You make me wanna do all these things…”

He pauses as he reaches the button of your shorts, giving you a careful eye as he settles more comfortably above you. You don’t mind undressing further, but you’re starting to feel curious about what’s under his black shirt and shorts. Manicured nails lightly scratch his bare stomach as you slowly push the cotton upwards, his breath stuttering as you move inch by inch. You’ve seen him before but hadn’t had the chance to see him until now.

It’s obvious he’s nervous as he pulls the shirt over his mussed hair. He kneels between your legs quietly as you take in the firmness of his pecks, how his nipples pebble under your thumb. You end up in his lap with him flat on his back, open, pliant, ready to be devoured. Your hips rock against his effortlessly as your hands glide over his chest and abs, feeling every breath inhaled into his lungs.

Alex’s rib cage expands and caves under your touch. He’s shy enough to keep quiet purposefully, but every other rock of your hips lets aching whimpers flow out of him. He was so noisy. It made you feel dizzy with power and want as you touched him.

“B-Babe, I, uhngh, wait,” and you pause immediately with worried eyes.

“I just, fuck, I needed to calm down,” he pants with eyes closed and bruising fingers on your hips, “any longer, and I would’ve–haha.”

The two of you laugh at the thought, but it leaves an indelible mark of love in your heart, thinking of how Alex is so deeply attracted to you. The mark grows into a phrase that just can’t be held back anymore, and you resist his hand strength to drag your hips over the length of his dick over and over—

“I need you inside me, ‘lex. I need to feel you fuck me, please? I’m so wet, I wanna know what you feel like,” your mewls leave him scrambling to unbutton your jeans. “Always finger myself thinking of you, imagining its you. Do you… think of me?”

“God, of course I do. You’re the only one I am thinking of,” his head tilts back, Adam’s apple bobbing. “Can’t wait anymore, baby.”

It comes mumbled out as a sigh, but you’re nearing the end of your rope as your panties stick lewdly to your pussy. Alex whines as you pull away to lay flat on your back; you grin up at him as you loosely hold the backs of your thighs.

“Are you just gonna stare, or are you gonna do somethin’ about it?”

“Shut up.”

He pins you down with a bruising kiss, and remember just how much Alex loves to be in control. You can feel it in how he insistently tugs on your panties, snapping them against your flesh, just to see it turn flushed. Tenderizing you, making you ripe for his picking as the meat of his hand pushes your thighs further back.

It seemed like he knew what he was doing, and you knew your sloppy pussy was drooling. Your thoughts were confirmed as he rubbed the flat of his thumb against your swollen clit, neglected and begging for his touch.

“She wants me, so wet, I really wanna taste you,” Alex rambles as a forefinger dips slightly into you before pulling back. “You know you look good, right? You have’ta know, babe, ‘cause I’m always saying it.”

Alex lays a gentle kiss on the inner bend of your knee. Featherlight and loving.

“I always want to show it,” he practically purrs as thick fingers deftly untie his bottoms. “I’m always thinking such… dirty thoughts when it comes to you. What can I say? You’re my favorite girl.”

You’re quaking as his voice strikes every nerve on the dot. Your legs fall and close in on themselves as you tremble, core swirling white-hot with arousal. Every nerve wants to keel over itself and just obey him.

“You’re making me flustered,” you grumble as he pumps his cock.

It’s so hard not to stare at how his hips twitch every thump of his fist against his navel. It’s even harder not to ask him to fuck you raw for every bead of precum that spills over his knuckles like syrup.

“I like you flustered. All loving and cute.”

The two of you are quiet aside from the desperate hiss that emerges as you feel his head just barely push against you. You know it’ll sting and that’s the nerve-racking part, but Alex intertwines your hands and pecks the corner of your mouth.

“We’ll go slow, yeah?”

“Yeah, just be gentle, okay?”

“Of course, baby,” he kisses your shoulder and rubs his nose against your jaw. “Whatever you want. It’s just you and me.”

He lets you hold his gaze as long as you need to, breathing shallowing as you remember all your reassurances: Alex loves you, Alex would never hurt you, Alex is your soulmate.

The last one leaves a warm rush of confidence, thrumming down your vertebrae. Your brain gives you a rush of endorphins, and you’re kissing Alex’s pink lips to say, “I’m ready.”

Your boyfriend nods and sighs heavily on his haunches. His dick sits thick and leaking. It’s so lewd how his hand grips the base, and he shudders from the barest pull of his fist. Alex’s eyes admire your sloppy pussy, and he can barely look away as he pats for a condom.

His teeth look animalistic, ripping the foil. His hands look even stronger and skilled as he starts to roll the condom on, and you feel intimacy call your name as you sit up to come close. All you can hear are the soft sounds of your needy breaths as you both roll the latex down his sensitive flesh.

“T-Thanks,” he murmurs with a blush crawling up his neck. “Lay back for me, hermosa.”

Your hole clenches around nothing, and you try to keep your hips from canting towards his, but it’s useless. Alex pushes the tip against you, eyes raking over your form as he squeezes your hand before moving forward. There’s a hot pinch of pain and your eyes automatically squeeze in tears, “‘m sorry, baby. Let me know when I can keep going, mhm?”

Alex sucks your nipple into his warm, inviting mouth, and you let out a pleasured sob. God, it feels so fucking good, and every shift has him moving an inch deeper every single time. Slowly, he fills you to the brim till you’re stuffed full and making grabby hands for him.

“Ohmygod, ngh, ‘lex, feels so good!”

“Fuck, you feel–fuck–so good, babe.”

There’s a wet clicking sound that echoes in your ears as Alex rolls his hips. He’s slow at first, heavy cock dragging down and splitting you apart before fucking himself back into you with a haggard groan. You mewl, fingers digging into pliable skin, when he angles his hips up and hits right there.

It’s so sloppy how your arousal sticks to both of you. Sticky strings keep you nice and wet as Alex grinds himself against you, tip kissing you so deep you arch back and sob out, “you’re fucking me so good, ‘lex. Ohgod, you’re so deep; I-I can feel you here…”

You can barely think straight as tears spring to your eyes. Alex is hardly holding himself together as he hones in on the way your walls greedily suck him in to slide home deep in your cunt. A creamy ring of white coats his base, and he lets out a shuddering wail, his hips jerking wildly and his eyes scrunching closed.

God, you and your pussy were fucking ravishing him.

“Yeah, yeah. Oh, I love you, baby,” his lip trembles as his hand clumsily squeezes your breast. “I love you so much, love how you can take me like this–ohfuck, I’m getting close.”

It’s obvious that Alex is losing it because his eyes roll back, and his moans grow higher, pitched, and needy. You feel it, too. Your hand comes down to rub tight circles on your clit, both you and Alex rippling and grinding desperately to reach your peak. His lips pant against your sweaty skin before giving you a loving kiss, “I want you to cum with me, please, can you?”

Both your mind and pussy are delirious, with only one thought coursing through you: AlexAlexAlex! You sniffle, hands scratching delicate flesh as you pull him close, walls clenching around him as if trying to fuse him with you.

“Oh! Alex, I’m so–feeling like I'm gonna cum,” you warble desperately, practically shaking like a wild animal as Alex talks you through it. “Fuckfuck, I’m gonna cum, ‘lex!”

The neighbors must be infuriated as your mouth opens into an “O” to let out a cry of pleasure. You don’t even realize you’re begging Alex until he sighs deeply into your ear, “fuck, I’ll give it to you, baby. Shit!”

His balls slap against your ass as he groans, hips tilting forward as he spills into the condom and fills it. It’s blissful warmth that leaves stray tears falling down your cheeks as you chase his lips for more. Alex shudders at your gummy walls as they spasm and milk him for all he’s worth. Alex rocks into you to ride out your highs, softening and letting you both come to.

Pulling out, your boyfriend is immediately leveling face-to-face with you. Alex goes to speak, but you have no time for words as you pull him deep into a kiss. He adjusts to your wants easily as he rests on his forearms and pulls you close. It’s tender. His fingertips brush so softly against your skin like they weren’t just making indents on the backs of your thighs.

“Like, wow,” he murmurs, hot and sweaty against your lips. “You’re everything I’ve wanted and more, seriously, mi amor.”

“Stoppp,” you’re too shy to do anything but simper at him.

Alex kisses you again, and then squeezes your hip. He doesn’t need to say much. You both knew.

“Hey, I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

You hadn’t been expecting anything. But, of course, Alex surpassed your expectations in every which way.

#quackity imagine #quackity scenario #quackity x reader #quackity x you #quackity x y/n #quackity fanfic #quackityhq x reader #quackity x reader smut #quackity smut #quackityhq smut

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1800titz · 1 month ago

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POMEGRANATE | Hades!Harry

>13.1K on patreon

Something pops. The world stretches apart into static. A bird croons overhead. You open your mouth wide as it wracks through you, but nothing comes out as your surroundings shatter like glass. Instead, the casing of your teeth can only echo what he murmurs into the gap. A word you can barely hear through the haze as bliss tears you apart. “Persephone.”

CONTENT: nipple play, pussy inspection, size kink(!!!!), slight humiliation, dom/sub undertones, p-in-v, anal play (if you squint), praise kink, slight degradation, spanking-ish (mostly just cheeky ass smacking)

preview

How do you come to terms with your own undoing? You always thought death would come quiet and sharp. Easy like a whip-crack. You wouldn’t have to wade the sticky deluge of awareness.

It would happen in a split second.

But you know it. Get it. This nauseating instinct burgeoning in your guts isn’t paranoia. It’s not the whisper of a footstep in a shadow. The dark alcove you pass in the city, feet moving a little faster to fall back under the yellow sanctum of a streetlight. Something bad can happen here.

This is the bad thing— the worst thing— this is justified fear. You feel it itching like nausea on the back of your tongue. Worming its way into your thunderous heart.

You thought you knew what it was like to be scared. But this twists in your chest and snakes to your stomach, coiling up and sitting heavy like a rock—

You are dying, and you are aware of it.

Something strange kicks in along the moribund stretch between here and there— the cognizance that cobwebs in little cracks across the foundation. It’s unlike anything you’ve ever felt before.

A sense of urgency. Late-onset hypervigilance (something you should have had on the road, with your hands on the wheel and your foot lingering in that safe-space between gas pedal and brake). You’ve never had to coach yourself into clambering off your deathbed before, but you’re distinctly aware that if you don’t start talking yourself out of it, you’ll fold yourself into the covers.

When he speaks, the sound is wedged into the twinging paradox of familiar and distant, all at once. Archaic— some sense of knowing buzzes along your bones. It sounds like homecoming to a place you’ve never been.

A place you don’t want to go.

The man leaning over your battered center console, your deformed gearshift— you, blinking up at him weakly—

Is an uncanny farrago.

Past the blurry vignette of your eyeline, the fuzzy streak that ruptures along the center, he looks almost human. Miming the perfect pastiche, down to the mussed coiffing of his hair, the ridging, pink line of his mouth. The flat, indifferent shapes of his face; the slope of his nose, the score of his lips. All entirely bereft of… emergency. Dread. Anything reasonable to the discovery of a sedan with its hood crumpled against an oak trunk. You, sandwiched between your tilted driver’s seat and the mangled steering wheel.

Instead, he stares down at you with the kind of undisturbed calm you’ve only found before a storm. The mirage of nirvana-like quiet along the cloudless sky, the tired, unmoving wind.

He’s the most handsomely apathetic man you’ve ever seen. Sculpted from marble and soft, borrowed flesh.

The kind that almost doesn’t belong. Too… simple. Just the mold of something familiar for you to grasp. The costume doesn’t bend itself enough to fit his shape, and so the imitation loses itself somewhere along the seams.

It’s the perfect example of beauty sewing herself into peril.

The biggest giveaway are his eyes. They’re bleary star-shapes through your gaze. Over-saturated colors. And they’re unlike anything sublunary you’ve ever seen before.

They make you feel like you’re drowning. Suffocating. A reminder that you’re too close to something much more than you.

Too close to the ghosting kiss of death.

They’re the greenest eyes you’ve ever seen. Preternaturally vibrant, almost glowing, framed in arsenic white. But it’s the charcoal black pools in them, like endless trenches, that make your lungs feel heavy. Their unfathomable depths. The way they refuse to echo the trepidation that lingers over your chest, bruising bones and stringing into the fibrils of your soft tissue.

You see a piece of yourself in them. Something waning.

It’s your own reflection. You’ve never seen yourself like that. Scared like a caged animal. Eclipsed behind the fear like the sun hiding in the shape of the moon.

“Time’s up,” is what he says. Low, and quiet, and pragmatic, gaze deadpan.

(Obsidian pits, unmerciful gemstones cut straight from the crust, gold-flecked like a reflection of the molten layer beneath.)

So unmoved. Indelicate. Like he’s got a horologe of your lifespan in his palm. You want to tell him to check his invisible wrist watch— that he’s wrong, it’s not.

Turn the hourglass, you think hysterically, almost feeling the granules you’re shedding as your time lapses. Crumbling around you. In on you, collapsing like a poorly-structured roof. Today, you’re built out of a flimsy house of cards.

You took three pages of notes on Hades in college.

Somewhere in your childhood home, the Greek Mythology notebook is wedged into a box in the attic from when you brought it home with you for winter break.

You watched animated renditions of the Grim Reaper dance across your TV in a hood, as a kid. Old cartoons off the floor with a bowl of cereal in your lap before school.

You learned about the devil in church.

Metaphysical kinship feels overdue, like a half-assed afterthought. But you stare up at the obscure wreathe of midnight black smoke wisping around the shape of his head, the nearly imperceptible, swirling coat of charcoal smoldering off his shoulders, and try to remember the words to prayers that were left to collect dust on your tongue years ago.

“You an’ I,” the seat crinkles when it shifts under his weight, the lopsided center console clicks under his forearm, “have somewhere to be.”

It’s not an open-ended invitation; come if you want, stay if you don’t. No. It’s an edict. You can’t chisel into the edges of dogma around it— the unspoken ones— but you know that this man is final. He is the law, the declaration, the order.

You’re not ready to die.

Too young, still wet behind the ears. You can’t wipe it off on the napkin your bucket list will be crumpled into— you’re still supposed to see Ayutthaya, and ride in a hot air balloon, and try that Thai place your friend recommended weeks ago; the one you’ve been putting off, because there was always more time. And that’s the thing, you think, it always feels like there’s more time. The bottle never runs out. You stare down into it and keep drinking like it’ll fill itself back up. The aspirations feel so nugatory now. The little army men maquettes your dad collected in the basement, speckling the peripheral ledges of this yawning, all-consuming demise. You sink into it. Flail. Sink deeper. Until— what?

The horrifying thought ripples the surface of the cesspool. These mountains stretch for miles. They arch, and roll, and recede; Gaia’s heavy-handed fingerpainting.

No one is here.

No one saw you.

And no one will know where to begin to look for you.

For what’s left.

And what is left of you? Inconclusive alphabet soup in the local newspaper? Headlines: missing; tragic accident; too young; thoughts and prayers. Eventually, a body to put into a box? A hole in the dirt, for tree roots to snake out like a cage and cradle your wilting, still heart?

You open your mouth. Close it. Mouth at the air, wordlessly, panting, like a guppy, with your tongue thick and numb and the words dangling precariously along the rim of your wobbling lower lip. You breathe them in shallowly, and they nearly die at the back of your throat.

How do you barter with Death? Look it in the eyes— the eclipse of your own, waning soul— and bargain?

It starts like this:

“I’m not ready.”

A time old tale. You intend for the words to be forceful— a kind of declaration. Rebellion is a trait that wouldn’t necessarily serve your case (but maybe he’d admire the dauntless passion). But they come out weak. Dizzy. Tired.

The console clicks again. Then, the sound of fabric brushing on leather. He’s closer. Leaning into you more. Over you. These are the only sounds besides your trembling pants, the rabitting pace of your heartbeat. A sharp contrast to his leisurely disposition. You feel it throbbing in your neck like a vice, like it’s swelling and taking up too much room the harder it thrums, too much space for your airway.

And you can’t look away from him. The supernovae whirling in the green beds of his eyes. Varicolored webs in motion, swirling like liquid, the way human eyes— so fixed, so temporary, so delicate— don’t. It’s the contrast of another world against your own— you stare into it like you’re watching two pools of another dimension unfold in his skull.

They’re not sorry for you. They sit on you. Magmatic. Unwavering.

“Tha’s too bad.”

The words shudder and bruise through you like a sucker punch. Cut into you like the edge of a blade. The gravity they’re saturated in sinks between your ribs. It’s not I’m sorry.

You almost flinch. Despite how harsh the words are, how cruel, his tone is nothing but unembellished. Prosaic. Dull with unsentimental truth. That’s too bad; he says it like an observation, and nothing else.

And you shouldn’t expect different— can’t— from …whatever he is. An impassive numen: Death; The Reaper.

A deity doesn’t grieve temporal flesh.

You can’t expect him to. You wouldn’t feel sorry, either you think— you’d be desensitized. But it feels so much sharper from the other end.

It doesn’t matter what you should do. What you shouldn’t. It’s what you can’t.

You can’t accept it, give in. Not like this. It’s human instinct— to fight. The drive worms under your skin and mangles whatever is left, twisting it into something noxious. Full of bite.

You wear it on your teeth when you bear them to spit, “I won’t go.”

It’s full of anger. Vicious. Anger at him. The clumsy doe. The circumstances. Yourself. And it’s stubborn. This pluck against a… God, against whatever he is, surely won’t do you any favors.

But he doesn’t give you the satisfaction of the fight. Your tone, the shuddery breath you take as you sit up a little, square your shoulders, doesn’t chip the veneer on his clean, unemotional demeanor. The haze around the borders of your vision is a bleary smear that pans in, and you blink it away, lashes fluttering to bat it off. It has a tear trickling down your cheek.

When he stretches his hand up, it makes you falter. A reflexive tick, chin tipping. Flinching away. But the knuckle in his curled forefinger grazes your skin. Slow. Featherlight, like coaxing a frightened animal out of the corner it’s backed itself into. And the heat you find there makes you gasp. It’s hot against the crest of your cheekbone, so hot you think you’re feeling the fumes of that molten core, the crushed flinders of magma that swim along his irises. So hot you’re sure, now, that he’s pooling boiling ichor, veins running like lavascapes under the pastiche of a man he wears.

It knocks your resolve. Throws you off. It’s so… against your expectations. The notion of death.

Death is supposed to be cold. It’s supposed to kiss you with gloam, and unspool shadows across your heavy lashes, and chill you like the Vinson Massif snowcap with its tongue.

But he burns. Running so hot, it’s almost a human touch. Too much. Too close.

“Sh, sh, sh,” he coos, curled knuckle bumping the side of your jaw. Your chin.

You can’t move. Can’t break. Won’t give, lost in his tar-black pupils, like two mirrored, bottomless polynyas. The marbled, snaking tendrils of sunflower-yellow and green framing them.

For the first time, he looks at you with something besides nonchalant indifference. It’s still cold over the surface. A cosmetic veneer that makes him solid and inexpressive— but it fractures like a chisel sawing an ice hole. You can’t decipher what you find. It’s a misslip. A kind of parapraxis— the way his eyes rove you, dipping like scoping the valley in the mountains. A Freudian slip. They linger on your eyes, then— fall. To your mouth. Your neck. The soft lines of your chest. His fingers skid from your jawline to the hair that’s fallen over your shoulder. He twists a piece of your hair around his forefinger.

It has something peculiar pulling apart in your head. With the crash, the circumstances, the way you’re slowly slipping into this territory you don’t know, the finality of death with its boots on your doorstep, you’ve grown so numb.

But this hits you like a freight train, pulls you out.

Awe. There is something undeniable in what’s oozing from behind the dispassionate shell— this is the way a man looks when he wants.

With instinctive drive— basal need. It’s too close to human longing. The way a man looks at a bar. The slow rolling eyes, in sultry descent, from the other side of the couch. Knuckles on your thigh, bare skin, come closer unspoken.

His eyes are on the coil around his finger. Your lips again. When you swallow, there’s cotton in your throat. Nestled in it is the last ditch effort.

“What if— I give you… something.” It’s silly. The words shake and spill before you can throw them back and chase them with acceptance. You’re not asking. Not begging. Offering.

Something flickers. It’s different. His eyes flash. And then, a slow-seeping smile trickles across his lips. Something like it. Amused, then, you realize. He’s amused.

His forearm splays back over the center console. Your hair falls back into its place, over your shoulder. He cocks his head. Hums. He is the picture of languid ease and you cup your fright between your hands like a firefly and pretend.

“Trying to bargain?”

His eyes are a little easier, then, not so unblinking. Eyelids drooping half-mast. You wonder if you’ve thrown a wrench into the script— added a splash of color into the monotonous bleak spreadsheet of a routine he’s been cycling through for aeons. His fingers drum against the tilted center console (your eyes oscillate to them. Back. To them. Back. Onto the other hand, sliding down his thick thigh as he sits up).

“Isn’t that just…” thump, thump, thump. His fingertip on the broken plastic. Your heart in your ears. “…the sweetest thing.”

You swallow. Your throat clicks. His mouth is a malleable, broken moon. Quicksilver. Crescent sharpening, falling dull. Sharp again. He leans in a little closer. Up close like this, you can smell him. Taste him on the back of your throat. A cold cave, the wet, dark layers of the earth when you dig into the dirt too deep, a fallen cypress, leaves you can crumble between your fingers. White lillies. Bereavement flowers in careful, somber clusters around a casket.

“And what do you,” his eyes oscillate from your gaze to your slightly parted mouth, “have to give me?”

Your heart is rabbiting. Head dizzy. Every joint aches and creaks like a rusty hinge. The rattlesnake of it all slithers around your lungs.

“Sex,” you bluster. Your eyes are wide. Brows notched. It sounds a little shrill, a little incredulous. Far too callow for the offer you intend it to be.

Silly little human. And this is where he laughs. Tilts his head, nostrils flaring as he huffs through them. White lily-teeth in neat rows at your gall. But he doesn’t laugh— not outright, anyways. Your pulse throbs thick in your throat but you cling to it, because it means you’re still alive. His eyes are embers. Live coal in the pit of a campfire, and you feel the heat of it through your skin.

“That right?” he muses instead of outright chuffing, oiled in mirth.

You close your mouth. Open it. Close it again. All retorts die ugly at the back of your mouth— you fluster beside him because you’re finally feeling the heat, razing you, and the taunt slicking his tone is like kerosene to the flame.

Three ruckles crease across his forehead when he raises his brows. You count them; one, two, three. They look so out of place— crinkles in the perfect, porcelain-smooth amalgam that is an almost-human face carved from marble.

“In exchange for…?” he probes, chin ducked. Staring at you from over the bridge of his nose.

“My life.”

He hums again. Musing. Mocking. It’s the slow roll of the summer into autumn. The dying breath of an orbit collapsing to stutter anew.

“Awful brave,” he gibes, white teeth— white like cold skin, like snowfall under glowing apricity— flashing for a second from behind the lopsided curve of his smiling lips, “negotiating with a God.”

So he is. Your eyes inch in increments like you’re taking in every particle of this being, soaking up the dust-dark wisping off his shoulders. All around him. Dumb, little girl. He says it like he means it that way— stupid, plucky little human.

“Thinks it’s that easy, mm?” he says, “You… spread your pretty legs and what—? Turn back time?”

“That’s what the offer sounded like, yeah,” you tell him from between your gritted teeth, tone flat.

There is still a pulsating in your head, thrumming in your temple. But the sound of fabric brushing in the front seat of your cramped sedan, the way he huffs, is unmistakable.

“Cheeky, cheeky,” he drawls, but it’s all ease. Saturated in mirth— perhaps you’ve caught Death in good spirits. “Got a mouth on you.”

It’s his next words that have you faltering. Both because you’re, maybe, biting off more than you can chew, and because of the unanticipated heat that melts apart inside of you at the tone. The vulgarity.

“Maybe that’s what you need for a mouth like that,” he tells you, all low, eyes as white-hot as his touch, “do you some good. A nice, hard shag.”

#harry styles smut #harry styles #harry styles x reader #harry styles x you #harry styles x y/n #hades!harry #harry styles writing #harry styles one shot #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles dirty one shot #dom harry styles #dom!harry x sub!reader #harry styles fic #harry styles fanfic #harry styles dirty fanfiction #harry styles smutty fanfic #patreon teaser

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ewanmitchellcrumbs · 2 months ago

Text

Linger

Pairing: Michael Gavey x f!reader Warnings: Angst, smut, tarot. Word count: ~4k

Summary: A chance encounter with a free spirited girl on a fresher's week night out leaves Michael frustrated, but is quickly forgotten by him. That is until he keeps running into her, and a battle of wills ensues.

Author's note: A (belated) birthday gift for @hoosbandewan - happy birthday, Erin! No tag list. Follow @fics-by-ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on post notifications.

Michael tutted as he flipped open his copy of Matrix Mathematics; a card had slipped from beneath the dog eared cover of the well used secondhand textbook, and fluttered to the carpet tiles beneath the table.

He sighed, pushing back the wooden chair he was sitting upon in the library, and leaned forward, retrieving the offending article from the floor. Flipping it over between dexterous fingers, he scowled upon seeing what it was. It was not the lurid yellow background, nor the floral smock that the figure upon it was wearing that offended him, however; it was the words in bold, black text across the bottom - The Fool - the term brought unpleasant memories of Fresher’s Week flooding back.

It had been the night of the welcome dinner, and Michael had been feeling hopefully optimistic. He had met a literature student named Oliver, and they had made arrangements to meet up in the common area of the Brasenose for a drink afterwards. It didn’t matter to Michael that Oliver was his intellectual inferior - mathematics was obviously the superior of the two subjects - he was just excited to have made a friend. It would be nice to have a conversation with someone that went beyond the realm of discussing which items to buy from the shop - the unwelcome dynamic between him and the girl staying in the room opposite him, who suffered from agoraphobia. He had unwittingly fallen into the position of getting supplies for her, as her condition left her too afraid to leave her room. She was the only person, besides his tutors and lecturers, that he had spoken to since arriving at Oxford. Oliver would surely change all of that, and it filled him with excited anticipation.

The common area of the Brasenose had been bustling with other students, all shouting to be heard over the thumping bass of a song, the only lyrics of which Michael was able to decipher were “sexy back” - not his cup of tea at all. He stood taller than most of the people gathered, so was able to search through the crowd for the much shorter Oliver with ease. He couldn’t see him, though craning his neck, he noticed a throng of people hanging around one of the sofas in the far corner.

Pushing through the press of bodies, and narrowly avoiding the sticky, sweet contents of a large bottle of WKD Blue, slopping onto the carpet as it was passed around, he slowly approached the sofa and was able to see what was causing all of the commotion.

A girl wearing a purple scarf as a headband, dressed in a floaty skirt, had cards spread out upon a coffee table, the crowd gathered around were all trying to get a better look, with occasional shouts of “do me next!”

She’d looked up as she’d seen Michael approach, and a lazy smile had spread across her face - she was pretty, but prettier when she did this - it lit her face up in a way that was bright as pure sunshine.

“Alright, Specs?” she’d asked casually, “you want a reading?”

Before he could answer, she had slid the card that had come to live in his textbook across the table. Michael had felt his skin grow hot with humiliation at the words “The Fool” and he’d snatched it up, turning and shoving his way back through the crowd. It was more than apparent that Oliver had decided not to bother meeting him, and he didn’t need some stupid hippy girl’s theatrical mocking to confirm how he felt in that moment - he was a fool, but it was embarrassing to have that made a spectacle of in front of people who were so far beneath him. Vapid cunts.

Michael sneered at the memory, half tempted to simply throw the card away, but in the end decided to use it to keep his place within the textbook. There was no use in throwing away a free bookmark.

The night that Oliver hadn’t shown up became a repeating pattern - more often than not, Michael would make plans with him, and end up waiting for over an hour, before giving up and going back to his room. Most people would have sworn off the friendship long ago, however, he was lonely, and Oliver did show up sometimes; often enough to inspire hope in Michael that he might not be stood up again. He always ended up bitterly disappointed.

It had been half an hour since Michael had arrived at the Lamb and Flag, and Oliver had yet to make an appearance, his agreement to meet Michael for a quick pint during a free period clearly forgotten. He sat in a far corner, Matrix Mathematics open upon the sticky table in front of him, though he wasn’t actually reading any of it; his gaze was continuously drawn to the door, waiting to see if his friend would walk through it. He was beginning to wish he hadn’t walked here so briskly from the library, as Oliver was clearly in no hurry.

He sighed, lifted his glass to his lips and tipped back the bitter remnants of his now flat Carlsberg in a thick swallow. Fingers brushed against his as he was about to pick up the ‘Fool’ card to place it back in his textbook, startling him. He froze, eyes focused upon the chipped green nail varnish adorning the nails of the dainty hand that covered his own. Slowly, he lifted his eyes, looking up into the familiar face of the girl from the Brasenose, who had given him the very same card they were both now touching.

From this close up, he could see she had a nose ring. A green scarf now served as her headband, and she wore a pair of peacock feather earrings. She was every bit as pretty as he remembered.

“We meet again, Specs,” she said, that familiar lazy grin lighting up her features, as she sat down on the bar stool opposite him, “this is mine though.”

She slid the card out from beneath his fingers, holding it up as if to make her point.

Michael cleared his throat, finally finding his voice. “My name’s Michael, not Specs,” he replied defensively, “and you gave that to me.”

She laughed, a breezy, effortless sound that made her earrings dance with the slight movement of her head, before giving her own name, and correcting him. “You stole it. You aren’t supposed to keep the cards from a tarot reading. You snatched this up and left before I could even start yours. Haven’t had a full deck since – until now.”

Michael watched silently as she slipped the tarot card into the tote bag she had slung over her shoulder, before dropping his gaze to his textbook to make a mental note of his page number - seventy-four - since he had now inconveniently lost his bookmark.

“Quite an elaborate way to take the piss, I’ll give you that,” he said bitterly, closing his textbook and stuffing it into his rucksack.

“What d’you mean?”

He sighed, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose with his index finger, and fixed her with an accusatory stare. “You were trying to call me a fool.”

She laughed again, and this time the sound of it grated upon Michael, he felt like she was making fun of him yet again. He felt his skin grow heated with annoyance, his brows pinching together as his eyes narrowed.

Seeing his expression, her laughter faded and she took a deep breath before speaking, her tone one of reassurance. “That’s not what the card means at all. If you’d just let me finish the reading, I could–”

“No,” he cut her off dismissively, “it’s a load of bollocks. I don’t believe in any of it.”

“And yet one little card was enough to make you so angry,” she said teasingly, raising an eyebrow. “Oh, come on, one reading won’t hurt. Looks as though you’ve been stood up anyway, so it’ll give you something to do.”

His skin blazed hot once more, a potent blend of humiliation and anger turning his cheeks pink as he shot to his feet, snatching up his rucksack. “I haven’t been fucking stood up,” he snapped, storming away, ignoring her as she called after him.

She was right though, he had been stood up, and it stung to have someone else acknowledge it. How had she managed to catch him again at such a low point?

As Christmas had approached, pigeonholes had filled up with invitations from Felix Catton, who would be hosting a festive themed party within his college, spread out across the common area and the rooms of a few close friends, before they inevitably descended upon the pubs of Oxford. Almost everybody was invited - everybody except Michael and Oliver, it seemed. It didn’t bother Michael, he had no interest in fraternising with the spoiled elite, all wielding their parents’ wealth in exchange for good grades. At least Oliver would be free.

However, despite having made plans to go for a beer at the Eagle and Child, Oliver had once again failed to turn up, and Michael’s texts to ask if he was still coming had gone unanswered. As he’d walked back towards the Brasenose, feeling dejected, the muffled sounds of Christmas music and laughter emanating from the party inside had soured his mood further.

“Alright, Specs?” a familiar voice called out, causing him to turn towards the girl he’d walked away from in the Lamb and Flag a few weeks ago.

“Sorry…I mean, Michael,” she corrected herself, pushing off of the bench she’d been seated upon, and crossing the lawn towards him.

She wore a faux fur trimmed jacket that she held closed with her fingerless gloved hands. Her hair was free of its usual scarf, falling loose around her shoulders as the glow of the lamplight above shone down upon it.

He was surprised she even wanted to speak to him, considering how he had left things the last time they’d spoken. He shuffled from foot to foot in an attempt to mask his discomfort, stuffing his hands in his coat pockets to stave off the chill that nipped at them incessantly. “Surprised you’re not at the party,” he said, attempting to sound nonchalant as he nodded towards the Brasenose.

She huffed, a slight smile playing upon her lips as she looked towards the building then back at him. “NFI,” she stated matter of factly, “not fucking invited.”

Michael was unable to mask his surprise at her admission, his eyebrows raised as he studied her, trying to decipher if she was being genuine. “Really?”

“Yeah,” she said with a slight shrug, “my appeal kind of wore off after Fresher’s Week, they all just think I’m a weirdo now.”

“Fucking losers,” Michael muttered, the words puffing out in a white cloud against the frigid air.

She giggled, her eyes sparkling even in the gloom of the lamplit lawn. “Maybe we can be weird together?”

“You think I’m weird?” He asked, stiffening as he could feel himself becoming defensive at the perceived insult.

“All the best people are,” she said with a grin, reaching out to playfully touch his arm.

He blinked rapidly, not knowing what to say. He was at a loss, thoroughly unused to anyone, let alone a girl, attempting to converse with him like this.

“New beginnings, having faith in the future, being inexperienced, not knowing what to expect, having beginner's luck, improvisation and believing in the universe,” she rattled off, as she clutched her coat closed once more.

“What?” Michael asked incredulously, his brow furrowed as he wondered if perhaps she was drunk.

“Those are the interpretations of the Fool card I pulled for you. Impossible for me to say which of those applies to you, considering you won’t let me give you a full reading.”

“Oh…right,” he felt his face flush at the reminder, the sudden warmth stinging against the chill of the air. “Not sure any of those apply to me.”

“Maybe they could,” she said, her eyes meeting his as she stepped closer, “to new beginnings?”

Before he could respond, she had closed the gap, her hands grasping the front of his coat as she’d leaned up and pressed her lips to his.

Michael froze, not quite able to comprehend what was suddenly happening. The scent of her filled his nostrils, heady and sweet, it reminded him of the incense his aunt was so fond of burning. Instinctively, his lips began to move against hers - soft and supple and slightly coconutty. As his eyes fluttered closed, his head spun, his hands reached out tentatively to rest upon her waist.

She grinned up at him as they broke for air, both panting softly.

“What did you do that for?” He asked breathlessly.

“Just wanted to see what it would be like. I wouldn’t mind doing it again. Here,” she reached out, grabbing his arm, pushing his sleeve up, before fishing an eyeliner pencil from her pocket and scrawling her phone number on the inside of his forearm. “In case you’d ever like to do it again too. Text me.”

“Where are you going?” He called after her, looking from his arm to her retreating form.

She smiled at him over her shoulder. “To bed, and you’re NFI. At least not this time.”

At least not this time.

Her words echoed in Michael’s mind, making his pulse race and his cock twitch in his cargo trousers. She was the antithesis of everything Michael believed; she was spiritual, chaotic and he didn’t know the first thing about her, yet he found himself drawn to her all the same.

His thoughts were filled with her as he made his way back up to his room, excitement fluttering in his stomach at the thought of putting her number into his phone and being able to text her. So distracted, it never even occurred to him to be careful when removing his coat as he stepped inside, the sleeve dragging over his forearm as he tugged it off.

Fuck.

His heart sank as he turned his arm slowly, attempting to delay the inevitable as he revealed the smear of black across his skin, what were once numbers were no longer legible. He had no way to contact her, he didn’t even know what she was reading. He only knew her first name, and that wouldn’t be enough to track her down.

Fuck.

He slumped down onto his bed, not bothering to undress or climb under the covers, allowing misery and hopelessness to drag him into unconsciousness.

As the weeks passed, despite the eyeliner on his arm having long been washed away, she never left his mind. He looked for her in every crowd, but never saw her. Oliver’s flakiness grew worse, which served only to make Michael feel more isolated. He had allowed his chance for romance to slip through his fingers, and his attempts at forging a friendship were failing too.

Having finally coaxed Oliver out for a drink at the Bull, Michael had gone to the toilet, only to find their table empty when he’d returned. Looking across the pub, he’d seen Oliver sitting with Felix Catton and his friends. He’d completely blanked Michael as he’d waved to him, and he had left the pub with his head bowed in dejection, vowing silently to make no further attempts at friendship with Oliver Quick. If he wanted to be a bootlicker, then Michael wouldn’t stick around to watch. He’d rather be friendless than humiliated.

He had kept his head bowed as he’d walked away from the pub in long strides, so he failed to notice the person walking in the opposite direction to him. Colliding with them, he had stumbled backwards, falling into a sitting position upon the hard pavement.

Great, as if this night couldn’t get any fucking worse, he thought.

Then he had looked up to see that it had been her he had walked into and his eyes widened in disbelief momentarily, before he had seen how flustered and upset she looked.

He scrambled to his feet, straightening his glasses. “Are you alright?” He’d asked, reaching for her, but allowing his hand to drop as she’d moved away from him.

“I’m fine,” she said hurriedly, continuing on her way.

“Wait,” he called after her, “you’re not fine.”

“You never text me,” she said, turning around slowly to face him, the movement encumbered by the guitar case strapped to her back.

His expression softened and he stepped towards her, his tone apologetic. “I wanted to. I would have, but I lost your number.”

“I wrote it on your arm!”

“It smudged…”

“Right…”

He studied her face, she looked on the verge of tears, her eyes big and glassy, as her bottom lip trembled slightly. A surge of acrid guilt filled his chest. “I’m sorry it upset you so much.”

“It’s not just that,” she said, her shoulders sagging as she sighed, “I played an open mic tonight and I got booed.”

“Oh…”

“Yeah, turns out Linger by The Cranberries is considered a bummer for a Friday night.”

“If it’s any consolation, my night’s been pretty shit too,” he confessed.

“Why’s that?” She asked, cocking her head.

“My mate ditched me for Felix fucking Catton,” he spat, failing to keep the bitterness from his voice.

She nodded in understanding. “Oliver, yeah? I always got a bad vibe from him.”

Vibes weren’t a social currency that Michael dealt in, but he failed to find fault in her logic. Oliver was bad news.

“I’ll walk you back,” he said, eager to change the subject. He fell into step beside her as they began to walk. “So, you play guitar. Are you reading music?”

She nodded. “Yeah, I’d like to be a music therapist one day, or perhaps teach music to underprivileged kids. I just think learning an instrument is something that should be accessible to everyone, you know?”

He looked at her in quiet admiration. When they had first met, he had expected her to be studying something pointless like history of art, he had grossly misjudged her.

“So, you’re on the mathematics course?” She asked.

“How’d you know?” He looked at her quizzically.

“My tarot cards told me.”

He turned his face towards her as they continued to walk, narrowing his eyes as he stared at her, his nose wrinkled in derision.

She stared back with eyes filled with mischief, before huffing out the laugh she’d been struggling to hold back. “I’m fucking with you. I saw your textbook that day in the pub.”

“I don’t think I’ll ever understand you,” he admitted, as they came to a stop outside of Christchurch college.

“People are people, Michael, they aren’t mathematical equations.”

“What do you mean?”

“Not everybody needs to be understood completely, and that’s fine. You want to come up?”

He blinked rapidly, taken aback by the invitation. “To your room?”

“Well, that is what I meant, but we could try the roof, if you’d prefer?”

“God, you’re fucking infuriating,” he muttered with a slight smile, pulling open the door to the building and gesturing for her to go in first.

Her room was exactly as Michael had imagined it would be; colourful textile hangings adorned the walls, there was a dreamcatcher above the bed and a scent that hung in the air, similar to the one he’d smelled the night they kissed, that suggested she regularly burned incense.

He watched as she lifted the strap of her guitar case over her head, before carefully depositing it in the corner. She kicked off her boots, and sat down upon the small double bed, leaning back against the headboard.

She patted the space beside her and Michael hesitated, realising how out of place he was in her world. What was he even doing here? His lips parted as he stared at her with uncertainty, quickly glancing around the room again before he spoke.

“Why did you kiss me?” He asked quietly, rooted to the spot where he stood.

She looked at him thoughtfully, fingers playing idly with the ends of her long hair. “I wanted to,” she answered casually.

“But why?” He repeated, beginning to feel exasperated.

“You have kind eyes, and you’re not like anyone else I’ve ever met. Now will you sit down? You’re making the room look untidy.”

Michael relented, somewhat placated by her answer and sat on the edge of the bed as he pulled off his walking shoes, before stretching out beside her.

He clasped his fingers together over his stomach, not daring to look at her as his mind raced with thoughts. Would she try to kiss him again? Why had she invited him up?

“Not knowing what to expect,” he finally said, a thoughtful musing almost to himself, “I think that’s the meaning I’d take away from that card, especially when it comes to you.”

“You remembered,” she uttered quietly.

He turned his head to look at her and their noses almost brushed as he did, the silver of her nose ring pressed gently against his flesh. Her eyes shone with affection, a soft smile upon her face as she looked at him. Without thinking, he reached up, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face, the gesture a silent admission of “of course I did”.

“I still think it’s bollocks though,” he whispered as he leaned in.

“Whatever you say,” she murmured, tentatively brushing her lips against his.

He tangled his fingers into her hair, as their mouths moved together, his breath hitching as her tongue licked at his bottom lip. He groaned as the kiss deepened further, the sticky sound of their saliva driving him to involuntarily move his hips against hers as she shifted beneath him.

As their lips parted, she trailed hot, open mouthed kisses along his jaw, and down his neck, pausing to suck at his pulse point. He screwed his eyes shut in pleasure, his fingers tightening in her hair as his other hand gripped the bedspread with such intensity his knuckles turned white.

He ground against her with reckless abandon, and she bucked her hips back, hooking a leg over his hip, her clothed core rubbing against his throbbing erection with such delicious friction that it made white hot sparks of ecstasy dance along his spine.

She pulled his face back to hers, moaning softly into his mouth as their kisses intensified, the sound of it shot straight through his body, the telltale tightening of his balls signalling what was to come. He was desperate to hold off, to not embarrass himself from a simple heated kiss, but as she tugged at his hair, nipping at his lip as she rolled her hips, he knew he was done for.

He held her tightly to him, groaning as his mind went blank, aching pulsations of rapture made his cock twitch as he spilled himself into his boxers. He pulled back, wide eyed and panting, the moment he was lucid enough to, uttering apologies.

“Fuck…I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to…I’ve never–”

She raised a hand, gently cupping his heated cheek, silencing him. “It’s okay,” she soothed, “new beginnings, remember? No need to be embarrassed.”

He stared down at her, her eyes were glossy and filled with sincerity, lips shiny from their kisses and slightly parted. She looked utterly radiant, and though he didn’t believe all of the things that she did, it was difficult not to believe in her. Perhaps there was some truth to being a fool after all.

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#michael gavey #ewan mitchell #michael gavey x reader #michael gavey x you #michael gavey x y/n #michael gavey imagine #michael gavey smut #michael gavey fan fiction #michael gavey fanfiction #michael gavey fanfic #michael favey fan fic #saltburn

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l0standn0tf0und · 2 months ago

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Remus John Lupin headcanons, but it gets more angsty with each paragraph

pt.2

TW: mentions of chronic pain, self-harm, blood, grief, trauma, anger issues, smoking, sexual content.

Remus John Lupin, who loves and hates rings at the same time. He likes how they look, he likes the idea of them, he thinks it's the nicest type of jewelry but he can't stand the feeling of rings on his fingers. They shackle him even if they are a few sizes bigger and gonna fall off if he shakes his hand. Wearing a ring feels worse than a mosquito bite that constantly itches for him.

Remus John "the tallest Marauder" Lupin

Remus John Lupin, who wears meaningful rings on a simple chain around his neck. He genuinely wants to wear them like normal people do, but that's the only option that works for him. Remus John Lupin who reassures himself with the fact that this way the rings are closer to his heart after the thought of making another failed attempt has crossed his mind.

Remus John Lupin who picks at scabs of his unhealed wounds when he's nervous. And Remus John Lupin, who only realizes what he's doing when he feels the stickiness of blood on his fingers.

Remus John Lupin, who needs a cane. Not all the time, but after particularly tough moons. It's just for a couple of days, and he knows it. Remus John Lupin, who, each time, looks at this piece of wood with a special kind of hate in his eyes and sighs heavily before taking it and starting his day.

Remus John Lupin, who limped through the Hogwarts corridors, gritting his teeth in pain because he refused to use a cane. Too ashamed to admit his weakness and the extent of the damage he had done to himself.

Remus John Lupin, who limped through the Hogwarts corridors, gritting his teeth in pain until James got knocked off his broom in the dying minutes of one of the matches. Which led to his broken leg, several weeks of proud stag gait on crutches, and even more stag-like attempts to persuade Remus into the "high speed" race through the corridors. And also led to Remus coming to terms with using a cane.

Remus John Lupin, who you look at and can't figure out what he's like. Is he a shy nerdy guy who reads books voraciously? Or is he a thug who's gonna break your nose if you look at him the wrong way?

Remus John Lupin, who can't figure out himself what he's like.

Remus John Lupin, who hates the cane even more now. Remus John Lupin who looks at this piece of wood with a new kind of rage in his eyes and sighs hopelessly because each and every time he hears the echo of James's laughter after he finally agreed to the race and recalls as amusement gave way to confusion and then back to unbridled joy on Prongs' face when they almost crashed into Minnie on their way.

Remus John Lupin, who's gonna actually break your nose if you make him angry.

Remus John Lupin, who actually reads books voraciously.

Remus John Lupin, who has anger issues.

Remus John Lupin, who wears the coziest "grandpa's" sweaters.

Remus John Lupin, who genuinely wants to quit smoking.

Remus John Lupin who burned his couch once because he fell asleep with a cigarette in his hand.

Remus John Lupin, who throws the most punk leather jacket over his cozy "grandpa's" sweater.

Remus John Lupin, who lit up a cigarette right after extinguishing the fire. Because his biggest regret in this burned couch situation is the ashes, that got on the photo, leaving a burnt hole instead of the month, in the " September 1st at Hogwarts, 1976" in Sirius' neat handwriting.

Remus John Lupin, who questions himself if he was born with uncontrollable anger or if it's his "fluffy problem." And in general, what of his character belongs to him, and what to the wolf?

Remus John Lupin, who hates to call it the "fluffy problem." Because why for fucks sake use the word "fluffy"? Fluffy, it's something nice, sweet, and comforting. The wolf inside him is far from being nice, sweet, and comforting.

Remus, who cried himself to sleep because a random ginger girl knocked on his door, trick or treating.

Remus John Lupin, who gets extremely needy and horny before each full moon.

Remus John Lupin, who regrets that he didn't tear himself apart completely after each full moon.

Remus John Lupin, who can't stand to see anyone during the first few days after the full moon. Because it makes him think about Peter, who used to sneak chocolate past Madam Pomfrey to cheer him up during these first few days in the hospital wing.

Remus John Lupin who tries to hold back his tears and fails each time he hears "Happy Xmas" by John & Yoko.

Remus John Lupin, whose war was not over until he took his last breath.

And Remus John Lupin, who had known since childhood that his war would not be over until he took his last breath.

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superblysubpar · 3 months ago

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series masterlist | chapter two

chapter summary: Steve brings his daughter to her first day of Kindergarten.

the song: My Girl by The Temptations

6,251 words | please see the masterlist for warnings! | my blog is 18+

Steve can’t be sure if the sigh that escapes his lips and clouds up in front of him is due to the anticipation of the inevitable sticky situation that’s about to occur or annoyance in himself for continuing to provide her the jam. He supposes it could just be a sigh of acceptance, finally coming to terms with the new and almost constant state of his hair lately. Most likely though, it’s just a content, tiny burst of affection.

Because that’s the overwhelming feeling that blooms in his chest when sticky, sweet strawberry smelling fingers land in his freshly styled hair. His eyes flit up from the green sparkly laces between his fingers to see her tiny lips forming her patented pout.

Hair a bit lighter than his, curls slightly in a mind of its own kind of way beneath little pig tails, bouncing just above shoulders that are tucked up to her ears as she tilts her head to look around his. Big, curious eyes that he claims are like her mom’s, but everyone is adamant are also a carbon copy of his too - just like her nose that scrunches all too familiarly, dotted with tiny freckles that seem to multiple every day.

Steve taps the side of Charlie’s ankle as he finishes the first bow, and she sticks her other foot out for him, yellow lights at the center of daisies flashing as she stomps it down on the gravel. He glances back up to find her eyes still trained on the playground behind him, the furrow between her eyebrows only growing deeper as her fingers tug in his hair - either for his full attention like it isn’t already on her, or the aforementioned jam predicament, he isn’t sure.

“Daddy?”

He finishes the second bow, and removes her hands from his hair gently, running his thumb over the back of her knuckles and he sighs again. She is so sticky.

Steve shakes his head at his own thoughts and releases her hands to search his pockets, the other chucks the side of his knuckle under her chin.

“Talk to me, Goose.”

Her pout disappears, a giggle slips past her lips just like always, but it’s not long lasting when a shriek comes from the playground behind him. Her voice lowers as she asks in a wobbly tone, “Who will do the underdogs?”

“Well, uh, I’m sure your teacher knows how to do them, cutie,” he reassures while his forehead wrinkles and he tries to determine if she’s looking for some reason not to go suddenly or if she’s just genuinely curious. She does take her swings seriously, so it’s not an out of the ordinary question.

Steve finds a napkin, and decides it’ll have to do for now, grimacing as the paper material hits his tongue.

“But what if she can’t, daddy?” Her voice whines as he continues his stand off with the sticky residue.

That’s it. He’s suing Smuckers.

He hums, squeezing her fingers that wiggle between his and the napkin doing absolutely shit all.

“Then we’ll just have to teach her, right? Everyone’s gotta know how to do the underdogs.”

Charlie huffs, but she shrugs her shoulders in some sort of agreement it seems. He wonders how someone so tiny can be full of such complicated emotions, curious thoughts, and brains that he absolutely can’t keep up with, yet still need her shoes tied and someone on jam removal duty most mornings.

Steve stares at her tiny hand in his palm, green sparkles on clear nails that make him swallow down something stuck in his throat, make his free hand run down his nose and swipe underneath it.

Don’t you dare cry, you fucking loser.

But he can’t help but feed the worm that’s been digging deeper and deeper inside of him for months: What if she’s not ready?

And he knows, he really knows, after all the long talks and preparation for this very moment, that it’s him who’s not ready, not her.

She’s so ready, and going to wow the socks off of every teacher with her brilliant and funny little brain and she is the greatest, most precious thing in the world and nothing bad is going to happen to her, dingus.

He recites it to himself over and over, verbatim what Robin told him as he tries to move on to her second hand. But as the gold heart shaped locket dangling from her neck hits his forehead, all he can think is, that starting today, the room full of people he trusts with her safety is expanding. And the problem with opening that door to the room is not Charlie exploring beyond the safe wall’s he’s built, it’s who can get in when he’s not there 24/7 to guard that door.

Visions of flashing Christmas lights, baseball bats meeting gray flesh, Russian guard’s hands and their beady eyes, potentially rabid bats and, you know, just the earth cracking in half and the world almost ending multiple times, while losing people he really cares about, threaten to overtake his mind and he huffs in then out, a quick and calming breath.

Steve wets the napkin with his tongue once more, but pieces of it stick to it this time and he sputters and blows a raspberry, and Charlie’s giggles soothe any worry that was climbing over him like writhing vines.

He let’s go of her hands and makes a bigger show of removing the wet clumps of cardboard tasting napkin from his tongue and coughs loudly. She laughs harder and his eyes widen and his mouth drops in a dramatic gasp.

“Are you laughing at your dad?” He jabs at her sides lightly, tickling and poking her while the napkin falls to the ground and she giggles harder. “Huh? That’s not very nice!”

Steve picks up Charlie, squeezing at her wiggling and gasping body as she laughs so loud he can’t even remember what he was so worried about. He blows a raspberry into her neck so she shrieks in a laughing protest, “Daddy! Too much…” she laughs and wiggles more, gasping around her words, “Too much happy!”

He’ll take the sticky fingers and messed up hair and cardboard taste in his mouth and worrying about another human more than he ever could about himself every day if it means he gets to hear that every once in awhile.

“Mr. Harrington?”

Steve spins at the sound of his name, slowing his tickling. As his body turns and he’s met with your smile, he nearly drops his kid.

You are so pretty.

His mouth goes dry, like the entire napkin is balled up inside of it. He’s sure his cheeks are turning pink from how warm he feels while staring at you. Your fingers wrapped around a bright yellow thermos tap at it while a clipboard rests wedged between your side and elbow. Your light gray tshirt is decorated with sparkly planets and the slogan “Kindergarten is out of this world!” and is tucked into a bright green skirt that he can sense Charlie eyeing appreciatively, though apprehensively from her new residence tucked into his neck.

He runs a palm down Charlie’s spine, reassuring her as you tilt your head and smile wider at her, your nose scrunching up when you do. It takes your kind eyes turning their gaze to him again for him to realize you’ve never met and you were asking if he was Mr. Harrington.

“H-hi. Yeah, I mean yes. I’m Mr. Harrington. I mean, I don’t, kids at school call me that, and I guess parents, but I mean that is my name. I’m Steve, Steve Harrington.”

He squeezes his eyes closed shut as if to erase that moment from existence forever. He can practically see Robin drawing a line on a whiteboard in the ‘You Suck’ column.

Your laugh drags his eyelids open, and it tugs at something inside of his chest that he thought disappeared a long time ago. Your hand extends and he bites his cheek, cursing all jelly and jam brands. He raises his hands up almost in surrender and Charlie clings to his neck harder, her face hidden in his shoulder as the back of her thighs balance in the crook of his elbow.

“I’m afraid we had a bit of a sticky jam situation this morning, so I don’t know if you want to proceed with a handshake.”

Proceed? With a handshake? Dude, you’re killing me here.

Your shoulders shrug, your voice all soft and smooth and a little sleepy as you joke, “They literally make us Kindergarten teachers take a class where they simply throw sticky substances at us, and if you flinch or grimace, you’ll never graduate. It’s all a part of the job.” Your hand clasps around his gently, but in a firm shake, as you introduce yourself, “I’m Miss Honey.”

He can’t help but notice the Miss not a Mrs.

Charlie perks up at your name, her forehead knocks his chin and he blinks rapidly from the sensation and her shout directly in his ear, “You’re my teacher!”

“I am?” You gasp, excited and smiling at her when you do and he thinks he might already be in love with you.

Charlie nods and then exclaims, “Daddy calls me honey!”

Steve fights a smile and his arm wrapped around her waist squeezes as he whispers, “How do we introduce ourselves?”

Charlie beams at him and slides down his front, foot pushing off of his thigh for leverage. She jumps to the ground forcefully, and almost trips and falls face first into the cement.

Steve’s already moving forward in anticipation of big crocodile tears, but stops himself when he sees you don’t move a muscle and simply watch her find her balance. He watches as you bite your lip in a way that tells him you’re hiding a smile as Charlie sticks her hand out towards you.

When you take it, she shakes it and takes a deep breath before slowly reciting, “My name is Charlotte Maxine Harrington. I live at six eight two Poppy Lane and my daddy’s phone number is seven six five four two…five-“

“Woah cutie,” he stops her, hands resting on her shoulders, and kisses the top of her head. “We don’t have to give her the whole speech, how about just the name?”

Crouched down to Charlie’s level now, you tilt your head at her, eyes widening as the tone of your voice turns to something syrupy sweet that he recognizes in the way he talks to her himself sometimes as you ask, “You memorized all of that Charlotte? That’s amazing! And there’s more? A whole speech?!”

She nods, eyes big and wide and voice excited as she hums, “Mhm. For policemans like Mr. Jim and firesmens like Uncle Eddie and teachers like Auntie Robin. Cause every-eveybody calls me Charlie, but if I’m scared and I need help they need my whole name and daddy’s phone number and if any food makes me itchy.”

Steve knows without a shadow of a doubt that not only are his cheeks pink, the tips of his ears are now too when you look up at him with raised eyebrows and something twinkling in your gaze. He clears his throat and focuses on his hand running through Charlie’s curls instead of you.

“Daddy’s gotta make sure his right hand gal’s got all the facts, right?” He kisses the top of her head again, inhaling her L’Oreal mangoes and strawberry and something distinctly his daughter that he is certain would be what the sun smells like if it could be bottled.

She tilts her head back, resting against his dark Levi’s so she can see him. Her grin is wide, showing off dimples she didn’t get from him as she nods again. “Right. Always be pepared.”

Steve brushes his thumb down her nose, and something stings behind his eyes again. He looks back over at you, slowly standing from your crouch with a fond gaze staring back at him. He swallows before his lips part, prepared to tell you that it’s all wrong. He’s not Steve Harrington, this is not Charlie Harrington, and no way is anyone starting Kindergarten today, but Charlie’s shriek never lets the words leave his mouth.

It’s like a bucket of ice cold water dumps over his head as he spins to watch Charlie race towards the parking lot, about to yell far too loud from fear, when she comes to halt right at the curb. Impatiently bouncing as her favorite person waves and runs towards her.

The familiar honey tinged red waves bounce as Robin scoops Charlie up in a hug that can only be comfortable for the two of them, all squeezing and no grace, kissing all over her face as she gushes and fawns over her like she literally didn’t see her last night.

“Hey babe! You look splendidly spectacular this morning! Did you do something different with your hair?”

“No!” Charlie giggles and spins once back on the ground, as if to show off her outfit. Which is pretty cute, if he does say so himself. Robin taps a finger to her chin. She holds up curls and circles Charlie, inspecting.

“Not the hair, not the hair…aha! Your nails! Green nail polish!”

Charlie shakes her head and puts her hands on her hips, and Steve relaxes as she tells her that Auntie Robin you painted them last night and how could she forget already, no it’s not that.

You’re watching him closely when he turns to look back at you, rubbing the back of his neck under your appraisal. Your smile all knowing as you reassure, “She’s gonna be fine, Mr. Harrington. Stopping to look both ways and being aware of cars is first week stuff, she’s a natural. And that speech? Time for you to relax.”

He knows he was never one for hiding how he felt from his facial features, but after having a kid and becoming a teacher, he’s had to learn to keep himself fairly composed. So he’s not sure if you can already read him that well or this is just the speech you give to all the parents. Nonetheless, he smiles back at you.

“I’ve never heard of that word before, what does it mean? Relax?”

Your laughter at his terrible joke makes something in his chest swell, almost as sweet of a sound as Charlie’s. He glances over to see Robin smacking her forehead and exclaiming that oh of course it’s the fabulous new green overalls.

“Also, call me Steve, please,” you smile politely and he knows you won’t, because he does the same thing to parents who tell him the same thing, “And I think it’s in that packet we had to fill out, but I’m a teacher over at the middle school, um, art, and so I’m only like ten minutes away if something happens, and she should be really good, she’s a great listener, but I know how she can be so please tell me. Seriously. And I know she didn’t do pre-school, but she’s so smart, she’s just struggling with her R’s and H’s sometimes, but I honestly think it’s because she talks so fast she just doesn’t care to slow down-“

Your fingers touch his wrist, catching it as he talks with his hands and he stops immediately, blinking at you with a held breath.

It’s like touching his skin shocks you and your fingers release from around his wrist quickly before you take a step back, shaking your head while biting your lip.

“Sorry, sorry, I didn’t mean…”

“No, it’s oka-“

“Dingus!” Wing woman extraordinare interrupts, “Why on earth did cutiepie here just tell me she did not get a picture in this fabulous first day of school outfit?”

He focus’ on the pair walking towards him hand in hand with a scowl he quickly hides, rolling his eyes at Robin when Charlie quips, “Yeah, dad!”

Steve rubs the side of his cheek, glaring at Robin as you make yourself busy with your clipboard. “Because, we were gonna be late after we were so focused on finding the green overalls, and the green hair ties, and the green shoelaces and the green-“

“Because green is the best,” Charlie interrupts while putting her hands on her hips as if it weren’t clear how exasperated she was with him from her tone.

Robin snorts from behind her and mirrors her pose before sticking her tongue out at him. “Yeah, dad!”

Your laughter reminds Charlie of your presence and she tugs Robin’s matching polished fingers with her own forward.

“Miss Honey, this is Auntie Robin. She lives at…um…oh yeah…four one three-“

“Woah kiddo!” Robin whispers and crouches down, looking around dramatically like a spy. “Does Miss Honey know the super secret password? ‘Cause, remember, only the friends who know the super secret password get to know where Aunt Robin lives.”

Charlie gasps like she’s just recalled this important fact and nods, face seriouos. Robin mimes zipping her lips, locking, then throws the invisible key over her shoulder. Charlie copies her, then promptly steps towards you and loudly whispers: “Pickles.”

Steve bites his cheek and Robin laughs, running a hand over her curls. “We’ll keep practicing the whole locking of lips thing, huh?”

“Kay,” Charlie shrugs before she tugs on Steve’s pant leg. “Daddy?”

“Yeah?” He watches her grip the side of jeans in her little fist and stare at the swings with that pout on her lips again.

“Can I swing?”

A lump in his throat forms when he looks up at you, you glance at your watch and nod with a smile.

“Sure, cutie.” He starts to take off her back pack straps and she’s already racing across the gravel and he calls out loudly, “Don’t forget to be nice to new friends! Take turns! Say please!”

“Tank you!” She shouts back over her shoulder.

Steve groans at it all, her racing away, her forgotten H. He watches her slow down as she reaches the swings and point to an empty one next to a boy already pumping his legs. He nods eagerly and Charlie talks animatedly with her hands as she climbs into the swing.

He lets all of his weight drop against Robin, Charlie’s backpack limp in his fingers when his temple knocks hers and he whispers, “I can’t fucking do this.”

Robin sniffles and his head whips up.

“Are you crying?”

She swats at his chest and avoids his gaze, “No. I have something in my eye. Both eyes. Like a branch or something. Just…” she holds out her hand and blinks blue eyes that have turned a little more shiny, “Give me your keys so I can go get the polaroid, ‘cause I know you brought it, you sentimental idiot.”

He drops the car keys into her palm and she quickly turns away from him before he can catch the tears slipping down her cheeks. When he turns back around you’re hiding a smile behind your thermos again.

Steve clears his throat and runs his thumb and forefinger down his nose, squinting at the playground.

“It’s okay to cry you know, most parents do.”

“I’m not,” he clarifies, words thick in his throat and a struggle to get out.

“Okay, I believe you,” yours easy and tinged with laughter.

“I’m not,” he begs, pleading with someone in the universe so the burn behind his eyes doesn’t fully form and fall.

You must hear it, and decide to give him an out, because you pull up your clipboard. “I actually did need to ask you a few questions, you were my last parent to snag before we all go inside. We never got your authorized pick up list? Just if you can’t ever pick up Charlie, who we’re allowed to send her home with? We tend to also use this as an emergency contact list if there was ever some reason we couldn’t get a hold of you.”

The word emergency makes his heart beat harder and he looks over at Charlie swinging to make sure he can still see her.

“Oh,” he nods, licking his lips as he thinks through it. “How many people can I put?”

“As many as you want,” you shrug before adjusting your coffee thermos in the crook of your elbow so you can write on the clipboard.

“Here,” he grabs the thermos, “Let me. I feel like if I let you spill coffee on that skirt, Charlie might actually never forgive me, as you heard, we’re in a green phase.”

He’s awarded that laugh of yours again before you whisper a quiet thank you. Your lashes kiss as you blink at him, pen poised on the paper. It’s when your eyebrows lift expectantly that he realizes you’re waiting for him to say something still.

“Oh! Um…honestly…” he looks at Charlie who’s smiling at Robin holding up the camera now and nods towards her. “Robin Buckley,” he lists her phone number before adding on, “She’s a teacher here, music, um, honestly she might be picking her up most days. I coach soccer here in the fall after school, so I should make it, but in the spring I’m over at the high school for baseball.”

“Okay great,” you smile as you finish writing her number and look up at him, “Anyone else?”

“I guess Eddie Munson?”

“The ‘firesmens’?” You ask as you write the name.

Steve laughs, fiddling with Charlie’s backpack in his hands, “Yeah, and I guess I should do Nancy too…”

He gives you both of their numbers along with Hopper and Joyce and he doesn’t even want to imagine what would be going on that you couldn’t get a hold of him, Robin, Eddie, or Nancy and had to resort to calling them. And what’s worse, if you couldn’t get a hold of them either.

“We almost never have to call even the second person on the list Mr. Harrington, she’s gonna be just fine.”

“Right,” he nods, but doesn’t really believe you.

“For relationship, Robin is Charlie’s Aunt is what I gathered?”

“Oh,” he laughs and rubs at his temple, “Um by blood? No. She’s just my best friend, but I mean, I guess, to Charlie, yeah. Closest person to having a real one I think.”

“Oh, okay, gotcha” you nod, glancing down at the list and writing.

Steve feels the need to clarify when you hover over Eddie and Nancy, and he isn’t sure why. “They’re married, shouldn’t have said that. And again, family friends I guess, but Charlie calls them Aunt and Uncle. And Jim and Joyce, do you know Hopper? The chief? Anyways, they’re just Mr. Jim and Mrs. Joyce, but they’re essentially her grandparents I guess? I don’t really know…”

Your face does that thing that he hates, the look like you wanna tell him you’re sorry, or you want to comfort him but don’t know how. And it’s not like he doesn’t appreciate where it comes from, he just hates anyone thinking he can’t handle it, can’t handle her, all by himself, or feeling sorry for him in any way. Because there’s nothing to be sorry for, not when he has her.

Your mouth parts, but before you can speak, thunder rumbles loudly overhead.

“Oh, shit,” Steve groans, looking up at the angry clouds. The clear morning sky slowly turning gray without him noticing and he looks over to see Charlie already running for Robin’s legs.

“Not a fan of thunderstorms?” You ask as you watch her and several other kiddos get scooped up by parents.

Steve shakes his head, lips turning down in a frown as Robin whispers in her ear and starts back towards him. “No, she really doesn’t. No matter what I say or do, nothing helps. I honestly don’t know where it came from, I don’t think it’s the loud noises of the thunder, we’ve never lost power…I feel so helpless. Or useless. Like I can’t fix it for her. ”

The smile you offer attempts to reassure, but Charlie’s eyes fill with tears and Robin rubs a hand down her back, looking over her head at Steve with worried eyes.

“Sorry, I gotta…” he apologizes but he’s already moving towards her and he hopes you understand.

Charlie’s sniffles grow louder as another rumble cracks overhead, burrowing her head into Robin’s sternum and kicking her shoes against her thighs so hard, the little daisies light up.

Robin grimaces at the rough kick, and Steve gives her a mouthed apology as he relieves her of her comforting duties. “Hey, calm down honey. I’m right here. It’s just the rain being a little loud, announcing it’s coming soon, remember?”

He watches you and Robin and some of the other teachers start to gently guide parents and kids inside, smiling and distracting from the incoming rain, and he starts to follow but Charlie wails in his ear as he gets further away from the car.

“Dad-dy, nooo,” she sobs, shaking her head, “I don’t wanna go.”

His eyes blur as he sets her down in the entryway, kids running past as parents give him kind smiles when they walk around them.

“What?!” He tries to sound excited, but he’s wavering, throat too tight and eyes burning, “Why don’t you wanna go now? You get to color, and meet new friends! You get to go play music with Robin!”

“But,” she hiccups around a big sob and his thumb catches a new fat tear trying to trail down her pink cheeks. “You-you leaving and and I don’t like the storm and-“

“I don’t have to leave yet! We get to go put your backpack away, and see your new classroom together. Can we do that? I was so excited to see where you get to sit and draw me pictures every day.”

He’s grasping at straws as she shakes her head no and tries to climb into his lap. And he doesn’t even care if he shouldn’t, he lets her. And he squeezes her and kisses the top of her head as he cradles her, walking deeper inside.

Steve whispers in her ear about how Miss Honey must be magic cause guess what? Char, your cubbie is green. How’d she know? And oh my gosh, no way, someone has a sleeping beauty lunchbox. All the while humming her favorite lullaby between the exciting things he hopes grab her attention. And soon she’s not crying anymore, wet lashes tickling his neck as she peeks at the things he’s pointing out. Soon she’s climbing off of his lap as he forces his voice to sound happy about her hanging up her power rangers backpack she just had to have, and holding his hand as she walks to the doorway of the classroom.

All the parents are gone, aside from a few taking last peeks at their kids drawing or playing and Charlie clings to his knee as he hesitates in the doorway himself.

You’re knelt on the ground pointing at some books with two kids when you spot them. He’s not sure what you say to them, but then you’re walking over to them and not even looking at Steve as you crouch in front of Charlie hiding behind his leg, your sole focus on her and making her feel better.

“Thank goodness you’re here, Charlie!” You tell her, thoroughly relieved, “I have the biggest hugest favor to ask you, will you help me?”

Charlie looks at you, and takes a step forward as she quietly asks, “Help?”

Your nod is so enthusiastic, and you reach out your hand for hers, waiting until she rests her fingers in yours to lace them together. “I heard you are your dad’s best helper, and I need help finding all of the green crayons, can you do that with me? There’s so many in this bin! We need them for a special project we’re going to do later.”

She’s about to nod, he knows she is, when lighting flashes outside, and despite the blinds being closed, she knows. Charlie flinches and starts to retreat but you sigh, and nod your head, smiling still. “I know, rain can be scary sometimes. Do you know what I like to do when it rains?”

Charlie shakes her head no, and you smile encouragingly at her as she gets closer and places both of her hands on your arm instead of holding your hand, squeezing close to your side. “I love to bake cookies. They make my house smell so good. What’s your favorite kind of cookie?”

“Um…” Charlie swipes at her cheek and looks around the room at kids playing and laughing. “Monstermashes.”

“Monstermashes? What are those? I’ve never heard of them, can you tell me what all goes in them while we find all the green crayons?”

She let’s you lead her to the table with the bin where two other kids coloring smile at her and say hi. She sits and you squeeze her shoulder as she tells you all about the cookies. It’s when you risk a glance at the door that Steve realizes he’s just standing there, crying.

Your smile is kind, but your head tilts ever so subtly, telling him to slip out while he can and he knows he should, but the fact that he doesn’t get to hug her goodbye or say have a great first day or I love you is ripping him apart and he squeezes his eyes closed.

He’s not sure how he makes it out to his car with how clouded his vision is, but he does. Thankfully he doesn’t have a sob leave his lips until the maroon door is slammed and his forehead presses to the leather wheel. He notices a little stack of polaroids under an orange post it that says “You sentimental idiot” on the passenger seat. He cries more when he sees the curled fingers around his. He cups his cheeks and slaps them, clearing his throat while muttering under his breath to get a grip.

And he does, eventually.

He goes to teacher workshop and sets up his own classroom and lesson plans and catches up with his co-workers. The thunder only lasts about a half hour, and then it’s just a normal rainy day, which he hopes you’ve managed alright with her. He only calls Robin once but that’s only because she yells at him that of course she’s fine, you think she’d let anything happen to that sweet angel? And he only grabs his keys to go early three times, but never makes it fully out to the car. He does have to take something from his little orange bottle when his breath isn’t quite right when lights flicker for no reason, but turns out it was just the custodian doing some checks. And then finally, it’s already time to go pick her up, and he’s not proud of this, but he speeds at least ten over the whole way there.

So maybe he’s a little early.

He’s slow to approach the classroom, and leans against the wall on the other side of the doorway, just out of sight. He hears your voice singing some sort of clean up song and the kids responding, he closes his eyes and tries to focus on if he can hear her. When the song is over, he opens his eyes to find you smiling at him from the doorway. Your shirt is stained, your hair messier than it was this morning. You’re clearly exhausted but absolutely overjoyed that this is your job as you call for anyone who’s favorite color is green to come grab their back pack. Charlie races towards the door with a few other kids and waves excitedly at him from her place in line.

When you tell them to grab their backpacks, she exits the room and leaps into his arms when he crouches down, expecting the hug. He squeezes her tightly, “Hey cutie, did you have a good day? I missed you so much!”

“So so so so good daddy, we played with cars and colored planets and Auntie Robin taught us a new song and and oh my gosh there’s too much happy to tell you.”

He gets a little choked up at that, a sob threatens to hiccup out of him that he tries to cover up with a laugh, kissing her cheek. “That’s so great! Go get your backpack, I think Miss Honey is waiting.”

“Oh!” She jumps out of his arms and skips to her cubbie, and brings it to you where you slip some papers into a folder, notably sparkly and green, into her backpack after you do the same with three other kids and three different colored folders. The others go sit down on a rug and you smile at him.

“Hi Mr. Harrington, Charlie had such a great first day! She was my awesome helper and she has some art projects to show you that I think you’re really gonna like. There’s also a note about what we did today for you in there, that also has some dates to keep in mind and it’ll always have announcements for things like snack rotations.”

Charlie tugs at his pant leg as Steve smiles at you, “Hold on, sweetie.” He runs a hand over her curls before turning back to you and lowering his voice, “Thank you. For this morning, but also, you know, the whole day.”

“It’s literally my job,” you joke, but you smile warmly at him, “But, you’re welcome. You just need to sign Charlie out and then you’re all set!”

You grab a binder from it’s place by the door and flip to the H’s, and hold it open for him. Typed up information about Charlie on top, and the dates of the month in a calendar for signatures, and at the bottom, the list of names. He gets a little emotional seeing: ‘Robin Buckley - Aunt’ and all the other relationships you’ve given instead of family friend.

Charlie tugs harder, this time on his belt loop and he laughs, picking her up. “Hey, I said hold on, what’s got ants in your pants, huh?”

She taps at his cheek, big eyes blinking at him as she whines, “Daddy, this is so impotant, I promise. No ants.”

“Okay,” he laughs, signing his name in the today’s box, “What’s up?”

“What are the crunchies?”

She asks it so seriously and he has no idea what she’s talking about, he looks to you for help.

You’re thanking the kids for the calm and listening bodies before you’re calling up kids who’s favorite animal is a penguin, so he looks at Charlie who’s waiting expectantly. “What are what?”

“The crunchies daddy. What are they? Miss Honey doesn’t know them.”

“Cutie, I don’t know what you’re talking about. What are crunchies?” He bends down with her to grab her backpack that’s still on the floor and he hears you laugh.

“Daddy the monstermashes,” Charlie whines, like he should know this.

“Oh,” he draws it out, “The M&M’s? The chocolate candy I put in?”

“No,” Charlie whines, and she turns to you with a pout. “Daddy doesn’t know too. It’s no use! Hopeless!”

He doesn’t know how or where she learns these phrases so quickly and how she uses them so correctly but he does know that he’s not alone in thinking it’s the cutest thing ever when you smile at her.

“Hold on, I bet we can figure it out together!” You tick off on your fingers as kids who love potato chips go to their cubbies and get their equally different folders and a second parent enters the hallway. He starts to wonder how many folders you bought to be prepared for all their different interests. Colors, animals, shapes, characters, sparkles and no sparkles. He wonders what else you did today.

“Let’s see, we have peanut butter…” Charlie nods and you gasp, “Is it crunchy peanut butter? Peanuts?”

She makes a face, much to his dismay they’re a creamy peanut butter household, so Steve shakes his head no and you tap your chin. “Okay, and it’s not the m&m’s or…” you smile at Steve, emphasizing the R’s in a way that tells him the very important letters were left out of the word, “Butterscotch.”

Charlie nods and the two of you are silent so he chimes in with, “Rice Krispies? The cereal?”

You smile and Charlie nods, “That’s it! Krispies!”

Crunchies, krispies, he has to give it to her, that’s pretty close. And from the way you react, he knows you knew all day, you just wanted to keep her distracted.

“I’m so glad we figured it out! I had such a great time learning with you today, Charlie, I’ll see you tomorrow?”

Charlie nods and waves, shouting in his ear, “Bye Miss Honey!”

You wave back, smiling at the two as the next parent takes his place and you call up a boy named Matt.

Steve heads down the hallway, looping her backpack over his shoulder as he whispers, “Should we make Miss Honey some Monstermash cookies tonight? You can bring them tomorrow?”

Charlie shouts yes directly in his ear again and his hair gets trapped under her hand in her excitement and all he can do is sigh.

A content, tiny burst of affection, for sure.

#superbly subpar's writing #My Girl universe #steve harrington #singledad!steve harrington #teacher!steve harrington #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington series #steve harrington fic

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escapingrealtiylovinginsanity · 6 months ago

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Jay Halstead NSFW Alphabet

This is a small apology for my hyper-fixation on my Rewind, Remix, & Replay (Burgstead story). I know it’s not a common pairing or a reader insert but it has been so much fun to write. I’m totally hooked on the couple. If you have any interest you can check it out HERE.

Anyway, enjoy some sexy Jay Halstead content! (I forgot how long these take to write)

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

Jay is all about aftercare. He will only leave the bed to clean himself and you up, or grab you something if you need it. Jay’s favorite way to give you aftercare is through physical touch. He wants to hold you, kiss your skin, tangle his finger in your hair. He wants the intimacy of having pillow talk or the playfulness of wrestling around or tickling you until you are begging him to stop.

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

Jay’s favorite body part of himself is his hands. They are rough and calloused from hard work and his time carrying around a gun in the desert. They can hold a sniper rifle and make perfect aim as well as run through your hair when you lay together in bed, or pull an orgasm out of you as you ride his fingers.

Jay’s favorite part of you if asked would be everything. He loves your body and always claims he can’t pick just one part of you to be his favorite. But you have noticed his fixation on your ass. He is always slapping it as he walks by, grabbing it during sex, or sliding his hand into your back pocket. He had even bit your ass a few times when he had the opportunity.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

Jay loves to come inside of you, it makes him feel connected to you. He will stay inside of your tight warm core until he goes soft. When he finally pulls out he likes to watch his come drip out of you and down your thighs mixing with the wetness of your arousal. He will clean the sticky mess but takes gratification in knowing that his DNA will linger on you long after he has wiped it away.

D = Dirty secret (pretty self-explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

One of Jay’s favorite things is to be woken up by you giving him head. There is just something about starting his day with his cock in your mouth. He doesn’t even care if it's just a warm-up and you guys end up finishing with sex.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

Jay has plenty of sexual experience. While Jay prefers committed long-term relationships, he had his Casanova days in his early twenties and after bad breakups. He has learned and perfected how to please a woman. But Jay knows that no woman's body is the same and he makes it his mission to learn how to please you.

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

Jay’s favorite position is with you on top. He likes watching you bounce on his cock. Your breast in his face with easy access to his mouth. His hands can grab your hips or ass to urge you on. He can kiss you and rub slow circles on your clit. He can let you take charge letting the pleasure roll over him or he can rock up into you to meet your thrusts.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

Jay can be goofy during sex. He likes the banter your relationship has and it often leaks into the bedroom. Sassy comments or jokes can have you both laughing into each other's kisses. Once or twice you had got each other laughing so hard that you had to take a break mid sex to catch your breath.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

Jay keeps himself trimmed for the sake of hygiene when he is single. When he is busy it drops low on his list of worries well below food and sleep. When he is in a relationship, he is more on top of it making sure it stays in his normal routine. He is more aware of the length of his facial stubble too. He doesn’t want to leave you with a constant healing beard burn.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

Jay wants intimacy in his relationships. It’s not romantic in the normal aspect of flowers and fancy dates. It’s getting to know you, the banter you share, the drag of his stubble against your skin as he kisses every inch of your body. It’s being tangled together naked afterwards sharing soft kisses.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

Jay was in the military for years so he knows how to jack off quick and efficiently. Jay doesn’t masturbate a lot. He does it more for stress relief than anything else. He usually does it while in the shower for quicker cleanup. If he is in a relationship, he will get himself off if you are not in the mood, but he has to go without for a while before he even considers it.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

Jay likes to have sex in public places. The threat of getting caught makes the experience more thrilling. He also has a praise kink. He wants to know how good he is making you feel. He loves to see you flush with his praises and tell you what a good girl you are.

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

Jay's favorite place to have sex with you is on the bed. There is plenty of room to do an array of positions with the comfort of a soft mattress and sheets. Jay is also a sucker for having sex with you pressed against walls. Whether it's your hands holding yourself up as he pounded into you from behind or your legs wrapped around his waist nails digging into his shoulders. Jay is also a fan of having sex in semi-public spots- he enjoys the thrill of almost getting caught.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

Jay is pretty easy to get in the mood. Flirty banter, heated looks, and caressing touches will pull his mind to dirtier things. Jay is a visual man so seeing you in lingerie or his clothes is a big turn-on. The two of you pulled an all-nighter when you were draped across his bed in nothing but one of his flannels unbuttoned, red lipstick, and his dog tags hanging between your breasts.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

Jay will not do anything that could cause you physical harm. He is okay with spanking, restraining, and even some light choking- leaving little bruises and love bites but never wants to cross the line where something could actually hurt you. Jay is very monogamous. That along with his possessiveness and jealousy makes the idea of another person joining you guys in bed an immediate no.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

Jay has a talent with his tongue and it’s not just for his sassy smartass remarks. His oral skills are otherworldly. He can get you off in a matter of minutes with just his mouth if he isn’t in a teasing mood. He is a fan of using his fingers too. If his mouth or fingers can make you feel pleasure on their own, how much will you receive with both? Jay doesn’t like to stop when he starts either. Your legs are shaking and have come twice already and are edging on overstimulation. You’ll just have to wait until he is finished.

Jay loves receiving as much as he enjoys giving. He will thread his finger through your hair pulling it back into a ponytail. He likes to tug the strands but mostly it makes it easier to see your eyes. It does something to him to see you on your knees, your face flushed, cheeks hollowed, sucking on his cock eyes locked with his. Jay likes to thrust into your mouth and loves it when you swallow but he will never force you to do either and will give you a warning before comes.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

Jay knows there is a time and place for both. He leans towards the more rougher side pace. The friction of your bodies together, the bouncing of your breast, his hips snapping against yours. There are days that he wants slow intimate lovemaking. He will lay you down and worship every inch of your body, caressing all your dips and curves. He will rock into purposefully letting you feel every inch of his cock rubbing inside of you.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

Jay loves quickies. Life is busy and there isn’t always a lot of time for long drawn-out sex. If an opportunity arises for a quick fuck he almost always says yes. He had on more than one occasion locked the two of you in a bar bathroom, hushing you as he fucked you from behind. He likes the thrill of not having a lot of time and having a chance of being caught.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

Jay is a risk taker, the man has spent years in the army and likes a good adrenaline rush. He is down to try any position you can find or come up with. Jay likes to have sex in public, he likes the risk of being caught. It’s a challenge for him- can he get you off or fuck you while keeping you quiet enough to not get caught? Can he turn you on enough for you not to care if you do?

You guys have got caught once in a bar parking lot. Luckily the person in question didn’t know you were having sex and just thought you were making out heavily. You were still fully clothed except for your panties. The skirt of your dress was spread over his lap covering the fact that he was buried deep inside of you. Both of you were so turned on that you continued with minimal thought after the person had made it to their car.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

Jay has a high stamina. He is more willing to give up sleep to pull an all-night sexathon. If you are up for another round, most likely so is he. He just needs fifteen to thirty minutes for his refractory period. He is more than willing to keep you warm up with oral, fingerfucking, or just making out with caressing touches.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

Jay isn’t a huge fan of toys. He won’t be offended if you ask to use them with him or add them to your sex play. He will use them and use them well but he would rather get you off himself. He is more into restraints and blindfolding his partners.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

While Jay is a massive flirter and likes to tease you outside of the bedroom, he isn’t a big teaser sexually. He is a complete pleasure junky- your pleasure. He wants to make you feel good and is more likely to overstimulate you with orgasms than to edge you with teasing. He does it occasionally when he feels like you are being a brat and needs to be taught a lesson.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

Jay isn’t necessarily loud but he is a groaner when he has sex. He likes to dirty talk in bed and loves to make you moan as loud as he can. You can get him to be pretty loud too with the right encouragement. Mostly it is a string of curses that turn into moans as you clench around him.

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

Right after Jay returned from deployment he was touch starved. He didn’t feel like himself enough to build new relationships or even maintain old ones. He spent his first few months bouncing from one girl's bed to the next using a fake name. During that period the sex felt mechanical and didn’t do much for him but it did give him the physical contact that he was craving. He would completely wear his partner out so he could lay there and hold them after they fell asleep. Unfortunately, it never really helped barely taking the itch away. He often left their beds feeling more empty and isolated than before.

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

Jay has an athletic build, and his body all smooth lean muscles. He has strong arms and broad shoulders. He had a washboard stomach with six-pack abs and a cut V of his hips. Jay is above average in the length of his cock easily hitting six and a half inches when he is hard. His dick is on the slender side but still thick enough that it takes your body time to adjust to him when he first slides in.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

Jay has a high sex drive. He would prefer to have sex three to four times a week if you are willing. He is insatiable when he comes back from long UC operations. He can’t keep his hands off you or his lips to himself. When he is working bad cases or is having PTSD flashbacks his sex drive tends to drop drastically or cause dry spells.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

Jay wants to make sure you are taken care of after you have sex so he stays up until he is sure you have gotten the aftercare you need. He enjoys basking in his relaxed state, clear mind, and tired body, after his orgasm for as long as he can. You usually fall asleep first unless it has been a multiple-round night and you are curled up with him. Jay is a light sleeper from his time in the army and will wake up if you get up or move around too much in your sleep.

#jay halstead #jay halstead imagine #jay halstead x reader #jay halstead x you #chicago pd

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