#and paying two rents while going between is too much

[mspeevee]

I was complaining to coworker ABT the neighbour roach situation and dealing w my roommates and she said she might be able to help me find a place cuz she knows a guy and I was like, omg that'd be so good tho I can only afford 500/mo... So here's hoping fucking praying

[theorist-fox]

Never had a thing

Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader

I never posted on Tumblr. Is this okay? Anyways, Simon Riley brain rot. That's it. That's the post. Also, you can find this on AO3.

Part 1 >> Part 2

Summary: Simon has to lie low and go dark for an undefined period of time. While trudging along the unbearably long, dark alley that's his life, he finds the light at the end of tunnel, and it's shaped like you. 18+

Word count: 10k

CW: Roommate Simon Riley. Smut (fingering, p in v unprotected sex), jealous simon riley, pining, strangers to friends to lovers.

Masterlist 🦊 | Series Masterlist 🦊

Simon had groaned like a battered dog when Price gave him the news that he needed to lie low. “Someone in Konni’s got your name” he’d said. “We don’t wanna take any risks. Just for a few weeks.”

He was sure those few weeks would turn into a few bloody months if he didn’t get a move on. For that, he’d hastily packed his things from the poor excuse of a flat the army had granted him, and started looking for a place to stay that wasn’t in Manchester.

Initially, Simon almost fantasized about buying his own flat. Maybe a piece of land and fulfill the wishes of the outcast that he was – living away from people, giving them the same treatment they’ve always given him.

Too bad he was legally dead. He had nothing to his name if not a grave that didn’t even exist, all his possessions were cursed memories and metaphorical things – a rank he didn’t hold, a flat that wasn’t his. Even his name barely pertained to him anymore.

The SAS wasn’t offering any accommodation, the tightwads. He couldn't buy a house, or rent one. He couldn't lean on any of his teammates, or he'd put them in danger – he wouldn't do it, not to them. Taint their lives with his name and the death it inevitably brings.

Price had helped him settle in a glorified motorway hotel. But he wasn’t picky – after all, he only had to stay for a few weeks.

A few days into his exile, he’d entered a Tesco with his head bowed and his hood on, a surgical mask on his face. A pack of Marlboro was all he wanted since the dodgy motel he was staying at (hiding) didn’t care if he smoked within the room. Plus, he reckoned that the smell of nicotine and combustion was a much better alternative to the rancid stench of mold.

However, as he plucked ten quid from his wallet, his eyes absently fell on a bulletin board behind the store clerk. There were tons of leaflets there: missing cats or dogs, people looking for a job or offering one. And then, a bright yellow paper caught his eye. Whoever printed it lacked taste but sure as hell knew how to catch one’s attention. He’d stopped in his tracks, a tenner between two fingers.

DESPERATE!!! PhD STUDENT LOOKING FOR A FLATMATE. NO SPECIFIC GENDER OR AGE AS LONG AS YOU CAN PAY RENT ON TIME. Two-bedroom flat, third floor, no elevator. If interested, please contact this number.

At the end of the flyer, the paper was cut into tear-off strips, so that interested individuals could rip the section with the phone number.

He liked that first word: desperate. He wondered if this person was as desperate as he was. Would they accept a man who wore a balaclava and looked proper sketchy? How desperate were they, really, if he asked to rent on verbal agreement – no contracts, no signatures whatsoever?

He decided he wanted to test that before he died of mold poisoning.

Nevertheless, when he dialed the number on his burner phone a few hours later, he wasn’t expecting the voice coming through the line. A shriek. A goddamn banshee. Chirpy and cheery, sounding like those damn advertisements on the telly for children’s toys. Whoever was on the other side of the phone was trying to sell.

The obnoxiously happy voice he’d heard through the receiver surely did match the person he found at the door of the flat a few days later - and the apartment itself.

It was a splash of colors Simon wasn’t even sure matched, from oranges and greens in the living room to yellows and blues in the kitchen. Walls of the same room were painted differently, and a brown leather couch lay on a round and fluffy turquoise carpet. A glass coffee table stood in the middle of it, hosting a clay vase with orange tulips.

You were a splash of colors yourself. Bright clothes, vibrant smile, and matching eyes.

Notwithstanding the loud energy that came with your presence, he could see you were tense as you guided him through the apartment. Simon didn’t blame you – he wasn’t the most trustworthy-looking lad. While he’d ditched the balaclava and had decided to go for a surgical mask, even hewould walk on eggshells around himself.

“Only a few weeks.” He’d said, deciding that he could withstand the eyesore that was the decor of that flat. “I’ll cover the rent while you find someone more permanent.”

And to his utter surprise, you’d accepted. He thought it was much too naïve of you, to let him rent without a lease. Without a document, without anything to prove that he'd pay as he'd promised in that listless fashion of his. Maybe you were as desperate as your tasteless leaflet said, in that dive of a Tesco.

He moved in in the span of a few days. You helped him with the boxes, although it was clear he didn't need a hand – especially not from a tiny thing like you. Not that you were small, he was just built like a brick house and you – well, you were made of wood, like in those cautionary tales mums tell their children. Pigs and wolves and shite.

You didn’t question why he wore the balaclava, nor why he never left his room, but sometimes you’d knock on his door to ask if he wanted pizza too, since you were ordering. He’d eat it (and any of his other meals really) in the cramped space he'd managed to rent, hosting only a bed, a poor excuse of a closet, and a desk.

Until one day he heard booming noises coming from the telly in the living room, so he peeked from the door he’d left ajar only to be greeted by Tom Cruise’s mug – Top Gun. 

Silently, he joined you on the sofa and he started correcting the way Maverick held the gun or grunting about how an aircraft couldn't make that maneuver. You never asked how he knew, but it had been a few weeks since he’d moved in and he’d already gathered how brilliant you were. You didn’t need to ask questions to connect the dots.

Simon wasn't keen on giving you his phone number, even the one on his burner phone. The paranoid that he was, and with a bit of experience to back it up, he didn't want to leave you with anything that could connect you to him.

So, you started leaving post-it notes on the fridge.

Dinner leftovers on the second rack. He’d tick off the sentence to let you know he’d read it, whether he ate them or not. Simon had this inborn ability to ghost people even without the use of phones.

Tried a new recipe. Tupperware with the blue lid. He’d write a score out of ten on the corner of the note.

I used your milk for breakfast!!! Sorry!!! He had huffed and grumbled when he’d headed out for groceries afterwards, but ever since that day, he started buying two cartons instead of one.

And he'd leave post-it notes for you, too.

Out for a few days. That’s how he would vaguely tell you he was being deployed. You would always draw a sad emoji next to it.

Watered your plants. Bloody things were more dead than alive. You’d mark down a very happy emoji, going as far as to add two poorly drawn thumbs up.

He barely noticed when his meals started happening on the kitchen table instead of his desk. Similarly, he couldn’t recall when he’d stopped taking pains to ensure your mealtimes wouldn’t coincide.

Friday night pizzas were always shared; it was a silent house rule you’d both agreed on. The both of you on the settee with the carton boxes on your thighs, two cold beers on the glass coffee table, and the telly playing a movie.

Your cheeky arse often chose a war film, and Simon had to refrain from rolling his eyes at how obvious you were being – trying to get to know him.

Zero Dark Thirty.

“Is it true you use callsigns?”

“Yes.”

“You have one?”

“Yes.”

“What is it, then?”

“Classified.”

“Oh, c’mon.”

“Negative.”

The hurt locker.

“You ever defused a bomb?”

“Yes.”

“No shit – oh my God. How was it?”

“Dangerous.”

“Why thank you for the chat.”

“No problem.”

“When did it happen? Like, what was the situa-”

“Classified.”

You made a face and mocked his accent. “Classified.”

Apocalypse now.

“You are a bit like Kurtz.”

He gave you a look. “Mental?”

You huffed. “No. I meant the things he says, not the whole insanity bit.”

Simon scoffed but otherwise stayed silent. The film rolled in the background.

He murmured, then. “The horror, the horror.”

And you laughed.

He found it inexplicably easy to strip down for you, until he stood metaphorically naked in front of your eyes. Until he told you his full name and gave you his personal phone number. Until he showed his face.

Until he noticed you'd stopped looking for a flatmate, and his weeks of rent turned into months like he’d initially foreseen, but for another reason entirely. Months turned into years, but he could’ve never predicted anything in his life to last this long.

Until two summers later, while sporting a mundane black surgical mask and casual clothing, he took a photo with you in your doctoral gown, in front of your Uni. The same picture that now hung next to the entryway of your flat.

Until two years became three, and then four.

Until he just kind of… stayed.

𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬

Simon’s day has worn him to the bone. The only thing he wants now is to go home, down a beer in two gulps, and knock himself out on any flat surface available.

He’s risked his fair share of speeding fines on the motorway, parked the car in the building's garage, and trudged up the three flights of stairs that led to his apartment. When he unlocks the door, he finds a sight that melts his frustration into a puddle at his feet.

You’re lying on the sofa, absolutely unbothered, looking lovely and homely. A lousy romcom plays on the telly. One hand is hiding in the crinkling shell of a packet of Walkers, and your other one is curled around the neck of a Stella Artois. Simon gathers that your workday must've finished a little earlier than normal because you’re already in your loungewear: a pair of loose sleeping shorts and a t-shirt he knows all too well.

All too well, because it’s his. 

And he could give you the benefit of the doubt; after all, you often wear oversized clothes. It could’ve been a laundry mishap; you could’ve absently taken it out of the dryer without a second glance, thinking it was yours. But the blatant British Army patch on the sleeve and his surname written in white block letters on the back give him very little to work with to excuse you. He doesn’t even remember he still owned that tee, probably because, factually, he doesn’t anymore.

It's clearly yours, now.

He drops the house keys in the tray lying on the floating shelf next to the doorway, before closing the door behind him. The sound must’ve alerted you, because your head drops backwards, rolling against the armrest of the sofa.

"Evenin'." You beam, looking at his downward image. Your head lolls and your mouth looks busy chewing on a handful of crisps.

Ever the vigilant bastard, he wants to flick your forehead and remind you that chewing upside down could lead to choking, but you aren’t a child. Although, with the crumbs of what smells like salt and vinegar crisps littering the corners of your lips and the baffling, chaotic way your hair is tied in a bun, you sort of look like one.

You curl your legs to leave a free spot for him, patting your foot on the sofa’s cushions. "Wanna join me?"

Simon hums quietly; his eyes flicker over to the TV for just a glance. He isn’t in the mood for a romcom, not at all. But he does want company. He sighs and shrugs off his jacket before toeing off his boots. His balaclava is snatched off by a tired hand, and dropped somewhere he doesn’t care to check. Only two wide steps with his annoyingly long legs and he’s already by the sofa, flopping onto it like a wet rag slapped on the leather cushions.

He eyes the bag of crisps in your hand and raises a questioning eyebrow.

You’ve learned how silent communication works with him because most of the time (especially after particularly hellish days or long deployments) he wanders around the flat like a haunting specter more than a living being.

You mockingly raise your own questioning brow, but alas, you hand him the pack of crisps he’d wordlessly asked for. And just because you can, and because he’s never said anything when you did it, you stretch your legs to rest over his thighs.

That earns you a grumpy side-eye that softens just as quickly when he spots the checkered pink and green socks he gifted you for your graduation.

Simon doesn’t know much about things like that. He isn’t daft, he knows how big it is to earn a PhD. But presents aren’t his thing, nor are the pleasantries built around big achievements.

At the time, he was just tired of seeing you walk barefoot around the flat and thought you needed those more than anything since, apparently, slippers weren’t all the rage in your book. Surely, before his life-changing present, Simon was used to you asking if he’d seen your other slipper while you stumbled about the flat only wearing one on your feet. He’d find them everywhere: under the sofa when vacuuming the carpet, hidden in a groove between the floor and the kitchen counter, forgotten on the washing machine or in the washing machine.

He’d figured that the only way to ensure you’d avoid knocking your pinky toe on the corner of some furniture was to make sure you couldn’t simply drop the footwear. Socks were it, apparently.

He remembers how your eyes had shone like the bleeding sun when he’d given them to you, how you’d clutched them to your chest as if he’d just gifted you a pot of gold. It had been a lovely sight, one he carefully keeps tucked in the almost empty corner of his mind, the one reserved for happy memories.

Nevertheless, Simon has rarely minded your habit of lounging with your calves across his thighs. The opposite, actually. Your friendly sentiments make him feel like, for once, he isn’t about to get stabbed in the back. Moreover, the fact that he is letting you invade his personal space like that, when he never allows anyone else to so much as touch him, truly is a testament to the monumental trust he’s placed in you.

You take a sip from your beer. "Alright?"

“Peachy.” He grumbles dryly.

Your lips purse to conceal a smirk, but hell is it hard. His dry humor never fails to rob a halfhearted smile from you. He has subconsciously started using it more often than socially acceptable just because of that.

You wiggle your toes against his abdomen, trying to steal a smile of his own from him – even if those tend to appear once in a blue moon.

What you are given, however, is only a slap on the ankle.

Catching on his mood, you down one last sip from your Stella and then you wiggle the bottle at him.

"There," you offer. "Seems like you need it more than I do."

He tosses the bag of crisps on the coffee table and accepts the beer from you, taking a rather large gulp from it. He isn’t a light drinker by any means. In his defense, it takes a whole lot of alcohol to knock him out. He has the metabolism of a properly trained soldier and his liver has processed much worse things than a bloody Stella Artois.

“Why are you being particularly friendly today?” He asks with thinly veiled sarcasm.

He isn’t complaining, per se. But he is a pessimist, one who can’t seem to grasp the notion that people can act accommodating without asking anything in return. Even if that has been your only behavior for the past four years.

Therefore, Simon understands why you narrow your eyes at his question, all offended and a tiny bit sour, as if he’s just asked something outrageous. However, he also knows you’ll brush off his comment because it is true, what he said.

You are particularly cheery.

"I'm back in the game." You state, sounding as if you've achieved some great thing. "I have a date next Friday."

That.

That is what Simon needs to hear in order to give you a genuine reaction.

He raises a single blond eyebrow and glances away from the TV to look at you with that signature hooded gaze of his – the kind that could cut through steel.

“A date?” He grumbles. “Who’s the bloke?”

In response, you squirm a little on the couch to lazily reach for your phone on the coffee table. One of your legs swings to keep your balance, and if Simon didn’t have the reflexes of a sniper, you’d have heeled his face. He automatically grabs your ankle to both prevent your fall and save the integrity of his nose, releasing a sigh – bloody used to it.

You're absolutely unaffected by whatever's happening at the other end of you, awfully concentrated on your task at hand. Fingertips graze the phone enough to slide it closer until you finally manage to have it in your grasp. It’s painfully clear how you can’t be bothered to stand.

You lie back down on the sofa with a sigh, as if that has been an exhausting endeavor.

Simon scoffs.

Your legs return to his lap with apt nonchalance. Then, you swipe through your screen. Simon can only see the phone covering your face from that angle, how the screen light illuminates your features – brows furrowed and the tip of your tongue peeking between your teeth, all focused on finding something on it.

After painstakingly long seconds, you turn your phone to him. Simon squints at the screen and then focuses on the picture you’re showing.

The man is… somewhat handsome, he has to admit. Brown hair, blue eyes, charming smile with possibly fake teeth. Definitely older. Probably a boring, pretentious tosser. Probably wouldn’t appreciate your carefree nature. He wouldn’t return your lost slippers at your door. He wouldn’t buy you socks so you’d stop whining about being on the verge of breaking your toes. He definitely wouldn’t let you paint only one wall of the living room orange, because, in your opinion, having all four would be “too flashy” - as if one on its own isn’t obnoxious enough.

He has to admit, however, that you look beyond excited, and maybe a little enamored. It’s an adorable view, really, and he hates himself for being unable to rejoice about it with you.

"Adam." You tell him his name, even if he never asked. "Thirty-nine. Associate professor of Linguistics at the Uni where I graduated. Found him on Bumble.”

Simon has to physically stop himself from giving a scoff in response to that.

“Looks like a knob.” He takes yet another large gulp of beer, finishing the last drop. You frown, and before you can interject, he adds. “Looks old. Tory, probably.”

You roll your eyes and nudge his thigh with the tips of your toes.

"He ain't a Tory." You scoff. That little frown still lingers on your features, carving a small line between your brows, as if he'd personally offended you.

His comment prompts you to turn your phone to yourself and look at the picture of this Adam lad you found on Bumble of all places.

You look back at Simon and his deadpan stare. Then back at Adam and his million-dollar smile.

Your eyes swivel back to Simon again, and you tentatively ask, "You think he's a Tory?"

Simon places the empty beer bottle on the glass coffee table. The sound somehow makes you take a metaphorical step back. "Nah. He can't be."

You purse your lips, concentrated and slightly, just slightly amused.

Eyes back to Adam. Then to Simon. "Right?"

Simon looks that ounce of smug enough to be considered annoying once he notices how you’re about to go cross-eyed in changing your focus, all hesitant and that bit concerned. He already knows how you have zero faith in your own judgment of character even if you refuse to make peace with it.

A little too naïve for this world. A tad too innocent. When the topic would come up, you’d get all riled up and primitive in your frustration, muttering indiscernible words and expletives that sound like grunts. Brows all furrowed and pretty lips scowling. He'd remind you how you let him in your flat without a single proof that he wasn't a serial killing sociopath, and your mouth would lock in place.

His hand lands on the curve of your foot, smoothing down towards your ankle; the warmth of his palm bleeds through the fuzzy fabric of your socks. He sighs, a little overdramatic as if he were about to tell you some sad, sad news. "Definitely a Tory.”

You want to reprimand his lack of faith in your choice of men. But his hand on your ankle feels so nice and you’re a sucker for physical contact. Begrudgingly, you settle that your bruised ego and your wounded pride are worth the gentle giant’s warmth.

However, the lingering touch does nothing to discourage your fire, so you glower. The least believable thing he's ever seen.

It takes much more to upset a special forces operator with a series of achievements as long as Simon Riley’s. A doctor with a mop of hair lazily tied in a bun, checkered socks in his lap, and residues of crisps around her lips surely isn’t it.

"Well." You huff, crossing your arms over your chest. "I'll ask him on Friday when we’ll have dinner."

He scoffs.

“You’re gonna bring up politics at dinner on a first date, yeah?” A condescending pat on your ankle. “Sounds really romantic.”

His dry humor again. It wins in its intent to steal a chuckle from you.

The fight leaves as quickly as it entered your bloodstream, and you flop on the couch with a sigh, your phone falling somewhere on the turquoise carpet.

"Gotta make sure I ain't dating a conservative." You quip.

Simon watches you clasp your hands over your belly as it ripples with the first waves of a breathy laugh. You crane your neck forwards, eyes squinting in mirth clocking his own.

"He looks like he’d vote Tory." You concede with a laugh and pinch the air in front of your face. "A tiny bit - just a tiny bit."

“A tiny bit?” He snorts. “Lad probably has a framed photo of Margaret Thatcher in his bedroom.”

You laugh again, rubbing an idle hand over your eyes as you shake your head, utterly defeated. He can see in the way your shoulders sag that he’s shattered the careful castle of hopes and dreams you'd built brick by brick around the man.

"God no." Equally as exasperated as entertained, you sigh. "Can't imagine shagging him with the ol' Iron Lady staring at my tits."

He scoffs again at the mental image you have just provided him with. He doubts he’ll ever forget the picture, to his dismay. “Christ. Didn’t need that in my mind.”

In the afterglow of that belly laugh, you don’t notice how he’s somewhat tightened his grip around your ankle. Simon knows you aren’t one to pay attention to those subtleties. Too focused on other people's well-being to realize when yours is being put first. He can already imagine how your heart is unraveling with the knowledge that you’ve managed to make him quirk a smile, however small, even if his day had been a proper shitshow.

The selfless angel that you are.

You turn your eyes to the ceiling, looking for something that clearly isn’t written on the colorful paint of the walls.

"All jokes aside," you murmur. "I hope it goes well."

Your eyes touch his. There’s a melancholy in yours you only allowed him to see. Thinly veiled vulnerability, heart bare just for his eyes.

"Really need a confidence boost," you say with a wistful smile. "And some love on the side."

He mutters under his breath. “Right.”

Simon tries not to wince at your words and what they imply. He thinks you’re too good to rely on other people (men, above anything) to boost your confidence. As if what he thinks are mouthwatering looks, a striking sense of humor and a brilliant mind aren’t enough to make you feel a peg above everyone else.

He hates that you don’t seem to understand it. Hates that you require other people’s approval even when you have a brain that could put most to shame and a series of achievements to boot.

He hates that despite how sharp you are, you’re slow when it comes to emotional intelligence. And it’s Simon fucking Riley who’s saying it, the most emotionally unavailable man he himself knows. It isn’t that you can’t discern signs and tells, you aren’t stupid by any means, but it’s painfully obvious how you just can’t fathom why people would be attracted to you that way. Thus, you’d always dismiss compliments and advances with annoying levity.

In four years, Simon has witnessed all your relationships wither because your lack of self-confidence made you question everything.

Seemingly aware of the tense air your comment has caused, your cheeky grin makes a comeback just to lift his spirits. You wriggle your foot under his grip to get his attention. "You think he'll like my socks?"

Simon has to admit (finally, at least true to himself) that your tireless search for reassurance about your date isn’t exactly doing wonders for his heart or his sanity.

“He’ll love them, you muppet.” He deadpans.

You chuckle at the comment, and then you relax, thinking the conversation over. Comfortable with your eyes on the telly and your hands clasped over your stomach, that gentle feeling of home and familiarity lulls you into a soft rest.

Simon on the other hand, is anything but relaxed. His jaw clenches involuntarily as if he despises even the mere idea of another man getting to see you like this: lying down, all soft and sweet and sleepy in the fuzzy socks he’s bought you. With his surname plastered on your back, of all things.

His eyes flick to the hand on your ankle. He wants to keep holding on tighter and stop you from leaving altogether. Keep you tethered to that couch without ever needing to stand up.

He could tell you to drop it. He could.

But you’re a grown woman, in her prime, with her doctorate and her big girl job that gives her enough money to start a war of her own but for some reason has never decided to pick up her things and leave that shabby flat she shares with him.

And he is poor with words. Communication is a skill he’s never learned, unless it involves extracting precious intel from skin-trading bastards or bloodthirsty pricks. He surely isn’t going to communicate with you that way, even if it's the only one he knows. The realization makes his lips dip into a scowl of self-hatred for being seemingly unable to keep you.

Simon’s eyes rake over your body – your silhouette concealed by his shirt, softly draped over you like finely carved marble. With natural flow, his hand follows the path traced by his pupils, and very deliberately slides up your leg, towards your knee.

Initially, the movement only prompts you to steal a glance from him. But when your eyes land on that frown, as if he were deep in thought, it feels natural, instinctive, to give him your undivided attention again.

Softly, you ask for the second time that day, "Alright?"

He nearly lets out a huff of laughter. Such a simple question yet so goddamn loaded he’s on the verge of blowing a gasket – his patience wearing thin. 

He locks his eyes with yours, only to snark once more. “Peachy.”

His humor this time isn’t successful in the effort of stealing a smile. In Simon’s defense, he hasn’t used it to make you crack one at all.

You frown, a tiny fracture between your brows. A little confused, mostly concerned. He can see it in your doe eyes, how you’re already miles away – overthinking every minute detail you might have missed during the conversation. You always thought so much Simon had joked, once or twice, that your skull was too small to host all that.

Your eyes shift from his face to his hand. Simon dares to be bolder and slides his palm a little higher. His fingers curl around the plush of your thigh.

"Peachy, eh?" You inquire, clearly suspicious of his antics. "You look far from peachy.”

A low scoff slips past his lips.

He is anything but peachy, he’d give you that. He is anything but sweet, far from it. Bitter, would fit better. Jealous, would fit best. He is downright pissed, but not at you. Never at you. He wishes he were a gifted conversationalist, so he could put into words what the idea of you shoving your tits in the face of some twat is making his hackles rise. He barely entertains the thought of you talking and laughing with him, never mind brushing with the concept of you riding the life out of that bastard. God forbid you brought him over and did all that in your flat – his flat.

He swallows in a piss poor attempt at juggling his feelings. His eyes shift to the TV to further conceal them.

“Just thinkin’ about work is all.” He mutters. Simon can almost hear Soap’s Scottish lilt calling him a “pining sod.”

Oh, but you’re an insistent little thing, aren’t you? Simon can hear the sheer doubt in your tone when you hum in response. The slight changes in the vibration against your frowning lips, the curves in the intonation of that simple, but so very telling sound. He catches each and every one of those details like the guard dog that he is.

In his peripherals, he sees the shifting of your eyes, from his hand to his profile. He sees you take in the crook of his nose, broken a few times (a tough job and a harsh childhood did that to him).  His furrowing brows, light honey, like his hair – all ruffled and staticky from removing his balaclava when he got home.

"Work." You deadpan, but it comes out softer than intended.

His fingers aren’t as sneaky as before when they slide further up your thigh. Simon knows you feel that same electric spark because your quadriceps stiffen under his palm.

“Work,” he affirms, his jaw tight as his hand journeys farther to reach the hem of your shorts. His thumb rubs from side to side over the skin at the edge of the fabric, and Christ, he’s fighting the growing itch to just pull them down.

While the two of you have watched plenty of films on this same sofa, in this same position, Simon has never touched you.

As in, touched you, touched you.

He’s averse to that, to anything that isn’t a noncommittal gesture. This one, however, obviously isn’t.

His hand is so big against your thigh, that plush skin underneath his callouses almost makes him feel guilty. The hardened palm used to disperse death shouldn’t touch such soft things. He feels the peachy fuzz brush against the pads of his fingers, he sees how they leave divots in the meat.

It makes his heart beat a little faster, blood pumping in all the wrong places but his head.

His expression is blank, dull eyes staring straight at the television. However, his mind is not as quelled as he portrays. It’s leading him to a very unholy place, where he wonders if your skin is as soft on your belly as it is on your thigh. Whether you’d whimper or groan if he were to flick his tongue over your breasts. If your eyes would roll back, were he to plunge his fingers deep into your core.

So many ifs he wants to put to the test.

He gently skims where your thigh meets your hip, and Simon swears he hears you gulp. He can tell you’re absolutely blindsided. You've been living with him as your flatmate for four years. Four fucking years, and if he ever tried to give you anything more than his usual snark, he might have been a little too subtle about it.

Simon glances at you, before returning his focus to the telly. One look is all he needs to hear your thoughts as if they were his own – the self-deprecation, the anxiety, that tormenting feeling of not being enough.

How torn you look. Stiff fingers curl around air only to release it right afterwards, fighting an invisible enemy. Let him do what he wants, let his hand slide up your shorts, and find the cotton lace of your panties. Or, pull away and retreat into your safe bubble, where no one can hurt you.

As if he’d ever lay an ill hand on you. All you have to say is “Stop” and he’ll take back his arm – cut it off for good measure.

Your eyes are hooded as they turn to look back at the malleable flesh of your thigh in his hold. His fingers disappear under your shorts until the first knuckle. He brushes along the hem of nice lace undies, feeling the rough fabric under the pads of his fingers.

Your voice is deliciously breathy. "Wha' about work, then?"

Avoidance. Normally, he'd let you. If it were any other situation, he'd brush it off with you. He'd keep up with the chat, coddling you in that safe place you seem too keen on spending time in.

Not now.

His head turns back to you; hungry eyes fixed on the way your mouth parts to yield that soft whisper. It makes his eye twitch, a splinter in his veneer.

“Reckon work can wait,” he rasps.

Simon is hyper-aware of how close he is to your core – a knuckle away from the throbbing heat between your legs. He sees your bowed head, eyes lidded with that primal desire he is instilling in you.

You look as if your brain has turned into soup; the ingredients a mix of shared memories and touches – even the most indifferent, neutral ones. To his utter joy, for the first time in your life, it almost looks like you’ve finally turned off your thoughts.

Your jaw clenches in a desperate attempt to get a grip on yourself. He knows you’re confused; he is too. Because it’s wrong to indulge in intimacy when more than just a friendship is at stake. Money's involved, a roof over your heads, a bed to kip, and food in your bellies – four years of shared everything is involved.

But you agree. You nod your head a little dumbly, and suddenly work can wait. To Simon, the fucking world can.

Your voice is a mumble. "Yeah, guess it can."

“Mhm.”

His gaze flicks up to your eyes, depriving your lips of the attention they were given, and he is delighted to see that you’re just as affected as he is.

Simon's fingers get squished between your thighs when you clench them together. He squeezes, feeling how the flesh rolls between his fingers, how it folds where the stretch marks crinkle.

“Lift your leg up for me,” he rasps.

Breath is stuck in your throat in utter anticipation. Simon knows it's been a long time since you've been touched in any way, shape, or form. You could've gone out and found a man willing to have a shag, it wouldn't have been hard to find someone who needed it too – someone as desperate as you look right now.

After all, that single word is the one that led him to you in the first place.

Yet you never did it. Simon has never seen you bring a man, or a woman, back to the flat. Sometimes you’d disappear with a text, saying you’d be sleeping out, but you never brought anyone home. And he never asked why – mostly, because he thought it wasn’t his business. Another part of him, however, was afraid that if he did, you’d take it as an invitation to do so. Obviously, he wasn’t too keen on the idea.

After giving it little thought, you part your thighs for him. One still rests in his lap while the other dangles off the sofa.

There's very little resolve left in you, Simon can tell by the way your eyes are so focused on his disappearing hand, and by the way you shatter when he experimentally glides one finger over the damp line on your panties.

“Fuck.” You hiss, tilting your head back.

You must want him dead, he thinks, as he gawks at the way your throat curves.

“Christ.” He mutters under his breath. He pushes the pad of his thumb down the cotton, feeling how it sticks to your slit. “Barely touched you.”

He wants to take his sweet time. He does. Wants to take it slow, reduce you to a mess of please and more before he finally gives you what you want. But he’s just as desperate as you are, isn’t he? He’s craving, clawing at the walls, to feel you clamp around him. Feel you drip down his hand until his callouses are coated, slick flowing down the crevices of his palm.

He’s no better than you are, currently.

So, his fingers slip under your panties just enough to touch your folds.

You can't help but tilt your head forwards again, only to look down at the bulge under your shorts created by his hand.

But when your eyes flit back to his, he stops.

Maybe he’s gone too far, he thinks. Maybe you’re realizing this is one hell of a mistake that can only end with you going your separate ways, something he will never forgive himself for.

However, it’s then, that you nod. That worry line between your brows, ever-present, seems gone. Smooth skin between your beautiful, beautiful eyes. And Simon feels whole again, feels wanted. The battered hound dog that he is, only useful for one thing and one thing only – sowing the seeds of death, and reaping them afterwards – is wanted.

Not tolerated. Not required, or needed. Wanted.

He knows your brain is turning its cogs, fighting against the fog of a kind of hunger that can’t be extinguished, one that only wants to be sated – by him, and him only.

Why is he doing this. 

What does it mean.

Is it because of the date you should have the next Friday. 

Is it because he's frustrated at work and you’re simply there, lying on a silver platter.

So many fucking questions it irritates him that, somehow, while his middle finger is tracing lazy patterns to part your folds, you’re still thinking. 

He doesn’t allow a single one to leave your lips, because he plunges one finger inside your cunt.

His first if is answered, then. Your eyes don’t roll back like he’d expected.

Your brows flutter to your forehead, and your mouth parts to form a pretty oval. Your chest swells as if you've just taken the first breath in your entire life. Your eyes, hazy and blurred, hold his own. And somehow, that is the hottest thing he’s ever seen.

Your leg on his lap is taut and stiff, toes curling under those loud socks you’re wearing.

Simon takes in the sight of you – all flushed and panting. The only sound in the air is the quiet drone of the telly in the background and your sharp inhales.

He can only describe himself in that moment as wrecked. Maybe even more so than you are right now, all rigid in anticipation of his first movements.

“Keep your eyes on me," he growls out, and when you nod, he curls his pad inside of you.

Your fingers seem to mimic his own, but they grip the edge of the sofa’s cushions instead. Your nails scratch at the leather with such voracity they leave beige lines against the dark brown.

He struggles against the double layer of fabric entrapping his hand to your cunt – the lace scratches the knuckle on his thumb, the cotton of your shorts is a manacle on his wrist. But fuck if he cares about all that when your hips twitch to encourage his movements.

You look ruined. And he loves that – the effect he has on you, the fact that he’s the one to have you like this.

He moves his finger in slow, long strokes. He doesn’t do it to torture you, no. He observes, because for once his constant vigilance is not only useful to quell his paranoia, but also to feed your desires. He tests movements, tries different spots, looking for that one within your walls that will make you scream. 

And he finds it, then – to his utmost delight. Here you are: your breathy moans, soft and honeyed, turn into a stuttering and almost pained "Oh." And he knows he has you under his thumb, all perfect and yearning, unraveling with just one of his fingers. He’s looking straight at your face, not wanting to miss a single twitch of an eyebrow. Your pretty lips are all slick with your spit and they part to release the sweetest sounds he’s ever heard.

His strokes intensify, drawing back as much as he can with the limited movements he has, only to push in and hit ever so slightly that rougher patch of nerves he’s located. He doesn’t want to make you squirm, but he has something tickling his brain – questions. Or better, one question.

He places his thumb over your pearl, unsheathing it from the fleshy hood with a glide. He drinks the way it makes your breath hitch and stutter in sudden hypersensitivity. He rolls his pad tentatively, only to see you grit your teeth and groan – muscles and sinews all tensed up in your neck. It's like molten lava in your belly. It's syrupy hot and gushes out of you in long, sticky droplets that pool on his finger, down to the knuckle.

“D’you think you’ll need to go on that date on Friday?” he rasps and rolls his thumb again.

His question doesn't seem to make you falter; your hips are unrelenting in their chase for release, as you push against his hand, grinding like your life depends on it. However, he can tell that it irked you. That blissed-out look pinches in frustration.

You're breathless, on a feverish hunt for that taste of heaven his finger’s promising, and Simon has the gall to bring up another man? One he's been mocking for the past half hour? He's surprised by himself as well.

You whine. "Does this look like the bloody time?"

“No,” he concedes, sounding a little patronizing.

He has the upper hand, quite literally, and to give you a friendly reminder of the power he holds, he slides another finger in.

You're absolute putty in his hands now. Your fingers grip at the sofa, your cheeks all flushed and warm. Your back arches, and he knows he just gave you that fullness you've been chasing. The sensation that causes the right amount of pleasure and pain of the stretch. He’s knuckle deep inside of you, his fingers trapped by your velvety walls as he strokes harder, lingering a little longer where you like it, but not faster. He keeps that steady pace that takes your breath away, not forgetting to lavish your clit with attention, and leaves you with just enough air for you to free those clipped and breathless moans.

He’s shameless as his other hand clamps your shin on his lap and pushes it down onto the painful tent on his jeans. He shifts his hip upwards to grind against your calf and hisses when it causes the zipper to graze his cock.

“Gonna cancel it, then?”

It’s bliss. You look like an angel.

"Yeah," you breathe out, a little incoherent. "Cancel it, 'course."

Your voice is more of an unintelligible mumble than anything else – two fingers in and his thumb on your nub drawing idle circles. Perfect pressure. Perfect fit.

He’s never seen you look this beautiful, all abandoned and relaxed, with your big brain he loves so much shut off completely. Synapses only working to generate a wish for release, so sweet and simple, and nothing else. And who is he to deny such a plain request, you sweet thing.

Simon would give you the moon if you asked.

He’s powerless in your presence, undecided if to focus on your face, or to stare at your hardened nipples. They brush against the black training t-shirt he once owned – right below the two crossing swords painted under the royal crown. It should be blasphemous. Should be bloody illegal to sully the name of the monarchy that way.

That is, if he gave a fuck about it. And even if he did, he’d see no wrong in it – because what can you taint when you’re the purest thing he’s ever touched.

Your hips move in tandem with his fingers, your face scrunched in that desperate look of someone who has a piece of heaven just out of reach. He watches you as you fall apart under his fingers and keeps your leg down so he can grind against it. If the situation were different, he’d feel like a wild animal in that regard, but there isn’t a spot on you he doesn’t wish to worship.

Especially now, when you look like this. With your hair sticking to your forehead and loose locks escaping your low bun.

He can’t take his eyes away from you – you have him absolutely entranced.

“s too much.” He hears you whine amongst the mist in his brain

“It ain’t.” He manages to grunt as if it's an order.

And you’re a little insubordinate, because you try and squirm away. But your shorts are his shackles as much as they’re yours – they fasten his hand to your cunt, while locking you against his unwavering fingers.

“Simon,” your voice is so wrecked when you beg. “Please - fuck.”

And how he finds the strength to snark is beyond him. His voice is thick and heavy. “’m tryin’.”

He drags his fingers deep down where yours can’t reach, where he’s found that patch of nerves that reduces you into a puddle of yourself. His thumb on your clit is steadfast, rubbing just above the hood where you’re not as sensitive, only to drag down again and make you see stars.

And the way that string of “Yes” leaves your lips, in that euphoric wheeze that tugs at the corners of your lips, makes his cock ache to be anywhere but in the confines of his jeans.

Your eyes are all glossy when you prop yourself on your elbows to fuel his resolve. Petal lips red and shiny, catching your teeth in an attempt to muffle your moans – bone-deep ingrained insecurity you can’t seem to get rid of. He doesn’t force you, though – he wants to hear you, sure, but most of all he wants to see you crumble to shreds. And if hiding your voice is what you need, then feel free to be his bloody guest.

Your hips stutter and your belly ripples under his large tee draped over it, and he’d recognize those signs anywhere. 

“Cum f’ me,” he orders. “C’mon, love. Give it to me.”

It takes a few more pumps of his fingers, and Simon feels it before he sees it. You clench around his fingers in rippling waves, thrumming rhythmically. Your cunt deliciously threatens to cut them off just above the knuckle.

And fuck, aren’t you a goddamn sight. 

Simon thinks it's almost cathartic to simply watch you. How your head tilts back to hit the armrest of the sofa, the way your toes curl in his lap and your foot on the floor rigidly lifts. The sway of your hips as they undulate to meet his thrusts and the liberating groan that leaves your lips, touching the sky with your fingers.

He unconsciously guides you through it, but truthfully, he has absolutely no idea what to do with himself – not with you looking straight out of one of his most unhinged dreams. His fingers slow down but keep moving relentlessly.

However, it would be a lie for him to say he knows what he’s doing.

You come down from it and your eyes are blinky and unfocused, staring at the ceiling. Your body deflates on the couch, limp and sated. Syrupy and warm. With your chest free to move now that the heavy weight on it has finally been lifted. He allows you this moment of privacy as you recollect yourself, although he truly wants you to look back at him again. He doesn’t want to miss a beat of this, yet he sort of understands.

Your breath comes out in puffs. He’s not faring any better on that note.

"Simon," you breathe, his name exquisite from your lips. "Christ."

He’s gawking. Watching your face for a moment more, he meets your eyes as they flick back to him down the slope of your nose.

Thumb still on your clit, the movements are gentler and featherlight. His voice is hoarse and rough as he speaks. “Alrigh’?”

You chuckle, breathless and a little nervous now that the appetite has been sated – much more self-aware than before.

His fingers are still inside of you and you’re already overthinking this. He knows it. He just hopes, deep down, that you’re not regretting it – because he sure as hell isn’t.

"Peachy.” Is your reply.

Oh, how the tables have turned. Joke’s on him, he’s fed you enough sarcasm for you to start throwing it back at him. Simon feels too weak to even smirk. However, his eyes do narrow, in a similar manner to how yours would at his snarky comebacks.

He gently slides his fingers out of you, mindful of your current sensitivity. He brings the hand up, seeing the gleam of your slick shamelessly coating their lengths down to the knuckles.

“Fuckin’ look at that.” He murmurs, unable to discern whether he’s talking to you or to himself, “Messy girl.”

He thumbs his middle finger and rolls the juice between the pads, thinking; tongue out to lick his lips like the voracious beast he is.

Simon reaches over and brings his hand towards your mouth. A jerky nod of his jaw, “Open.”

He knows he’s already crossed a line the two of you never even dared to toe before. And if he’s going to lose you after this, if you’re going to turn your back on him and leave the flat (leave his life) then he’s going to make the most of it.

Your brows are pinched in sudden uncertainty. A contradicting spectacle, if mixed with the way your chest is still heaving and how your cunt is still wet.

But tonight, you seem eager to catch him off guard, because you oblige. Your lips part and you offer your tongue, never breaking eye contact.

Each time he thinks you can’t look more beautiful you prove him fucking wrong.

He hums lowly in approval, and there’s something dark in that sound. He gently runs his fingers across your tongue, coating it with your taste. Fingertips slide and follow its curve. He stares at you with such an intensity, like he could consume you if he had a mind to. You devour him first, wrapping your lips around his knuckles.

When your tongue delves around his fore and middle fingers, he has to close his eyes. He has to roll his head, releasing the tension in his jaw. He has to, or he’ll cum in his goddamn jeans. The sharp inhale he takes almost burns his nostrils; his sigh heavy and anguished when his lips surrender to it.

“How d’you taste, dove?” he asks, blinking his eyes open.

The way his voice rasps out that pet name, rough like sandpaper, makes a shiver run down your neck. He sees it, the tremor of your shoulders, the goosebumps on your arms.

Simon reluctantly pulls his fingers away only so you can answer. His wasn’t a rhetorical question, and by that blush on your cheeks and the embarrassed hint of a smile on your face, you’ve guessed it already.

"Not as sweet as I thought."

His lips twitch.

“No?” he asks, his voice much too broken for his liking. He brings those same fingers to his mouth and sucks, tasting your spit and your cum. A low rumble of a chuckle escapes him – must be a blue moon tonight. “I think you taste pretty sweet.”

This can go two ways: a fairy tale ending, like those romcoms you like to watch, or an absolutely dreadful one – in which you leave. And truly, Simon doesn’t believe in a higher power; God has abandoned him more times than he cares to count. However, he hopes that whoever’s up there realizes that he's owed big time for all the crap he’s been put through.

And he asks for nothing, but you.

His face is hot, and he gathers his cheeks might be a little pink. The rare sight must give you some comfort, the fact that he’s just as overwhelmed as you are, because he feels your leg relax in his lap.

You purse your lips to hide a bashful smile - as if you have any right to be coy right now. "Flatterer."

He hums, seemingly wanting to bite back at you but unable to find the spirit for it. His eyes rake over your body, from your flushed face to your chest covered by his tee, until they land on your quivering thighs, still splayed open for him.

For him.

His hand travels up your leg, following the same route that has led to this. When his palm finally cups your hip, his fingers curl at the waistband of your shorts and tug.

“C’mere.”

You do.

He sees you bend your knees and shift on the sofa so you can crawl to him on shaky legs. As the gentleman he never thought he’d be, he helps you swing your thigh over his own and deposits you in his lap with your knees on either side of his hips.

Afraid you might say something hinting at regret, he selfishly grabs your jaw and pulls you down, finally tasting you the way he’s always wanted. His lips mold with yours, and they’re so soft he has no business claiming them as his own. His fingers tilt your head so he can deepen the kiss, and only when he sees your eyes flutter closed through the slit of his eyelids, he allows himself to surrender to you.

Your lips peck the thin scar on his cupid’s bow, but before you can run away from him (as you should), he captures you once more. He never wants to let you go, so his tongue slides across the seam of your mouth, and you, so pliantly, oblige him.

Your hands are resting on his shoulders when the kiss starts tentatively, while his slender fingers follow the curve of your waist.

But then your nails dig at the fabric of his t-shirt, as if eager to rip it, and his palms journey to your rear. He grips at the flesh through your shorts, before shoving out of the way their distressed hem and directly groping the plump meat of your ass.

The two of you never part. If anything, everything gets more heated.

He doesn’t recall when it is exactly that you start grinding your hips, nor does he remember when his shirt was removed – whether you did it, or if he’s taken the matter into his own hands.

However, he does snap out of it when he feels your palms leave his shoulders to grasp at the hem of your tee. While he wants to feel his skin on yours as much as you do, what’s separating your chest from his is not a mere layer of cotton.

He pulls away and – to his pleasure – he sees you lean in to have more. His hand lands on yours, stopping you.

“No.”

He sees you blink, dazed. A myriad of emotions travel through that pinched expression you wear, thinking like usual that you’ve done something wrong.

He quells your fears in seconds, when his other palm skims over your arm. It journeys unhurriedly, leaving gooseflesh in its wake, until it lands at the base of your throat. His thumb brushes over its column, forcing your neck to tilt backwards and your back to arch, presenting your chest.

Simon models you like clay under his warm fingers, and he takes his time to drink you in and sculpt you as he wishes. Because you seem so docile now that his intents are less covert, clearer.

He brings his mouth to your throat, and his nose scrunches when he presses it against your neck, keeping you still with one thick arm around your waist. With sluggish movements, he tastes the salt of your skin and the tang left by your perfume.

Simon pulls back only to run his tongue from the hollow between your collarbones up to your jaw, feeling right under the muscle how your throat bobs when your breath lodges in between. He curves his head and digs his teeth into the plumper flesh on the side of your neck, enough to get a taste but not enough (never enough) to cause pain.

“Keep the shirt on.” He breathes against your skin, “I wanna fuck my name into you.”

And he does just that.

It’s effortless how he lifts you in his arms, guiding your ankles to lock at his tailbone. Clothes, both yours and his, freckle the floors in a trail that leads to his bedroom. He’s famished; there isn’t a single surface along the path he follows where he hasn’t placed you – if only to savor every piece of you for a little longer.

Until he has you on that bed, the one he should’ve gotten only for a few weeks and instead became his own alcove.

You look wonderful on it.

But you’re even more gorgeous when he sits at the edge of the mattress, facing the full-length mirror in his room, and places you on his thighs to straddle his lap – your back facing the reflection.

He runs his hands over your chest, riding up the t-shirt to your neck only so he can feast on your tits. Grabbing greedy handfuls of fat and muttering unintelligible praises when his mouth all but devours every inch – sucking on your puffy nipples and grazing his teeth around each peak.

Another if is answered by the whimper that escapes your kiss-bitten lips.

You look like an angel, when your soft hand goes to grab the base of his cock and, without much ceremony, you guide it inside of you – sinking on it easy and slow.

You feel like heaven, too, impaled on him. Perfect fit, always made for him, and him only.

Simon’s not sure what he did to deserve you, now riding his cock like you’d been deprived of it your whole life. Unbridled, free. You moan and groan without a care in the world, the hesitation he saw before vanished into thin air – and oh, he couldn’t be more grateful for it.

His hands curl at the hem of your (his, his, his) shirt, lifting it up slightly at your waist, only so he can see in the reflection how your ass slaps against his thighs each time you drop. Or, how your glutes clench when instead of trying to pleasure him, you please yourself – rolling your hips to grind your clit against his happy trail.

Simon’s hands leave the shirt only to grab more of you, kneading at your hips to guide your cunt down his cock until he has you filled to the brim. Your eyes roll back, breath stuck in that pretty throat of yours. He bites at it - laps at the skin like a starved dog.

Simon shattered his chains the moment you came undone on his fingers, and now he knows no restraint – not when he has you like this.

“Look at you,” he growls, slapping your ass only to watch how the fat ripples in recoil in your mirror image.

He grabs the back of your neck and tilts your head downwards. Your foreheads touch as he guides your eyes to look at where your bodies join. The foamy ring at the base of his cock, how the folds of your vulva hug around his shaft and tip at your unhooded clit, all puffy and red.

He tugs at your mound with his thumb, stretching the flesh to expose more. With a deliberate roll of his hips, he makes a show of how effortlessly his cock slides into you, how your cunt greedily stretches to welcome him whole. 

“Look at that.” His voice is equally as raspy as it’s enraptured. “Perfect.”

Using his hand on your nape, he angles your face to kiss you again. He thrusts into you only to have you part your lips in a stuttering moan, and he drinks it dry.

When you resume grinding your hips, he whispers in your open mouth, “Fuckin’ perfect.”

Simon sees how your thighs quiver under the strain of the effort, hamstrings taut and probably burning in the attempt to wrap around his hips. He won’t keep you like that for long, don’t worry. He’ll take good care of you, like he always has.

But now, he indulges in a selfish moment.

Spare seconds in which he watches your reflection bounce on him, and you’re too lost in the feeling to notice how his hooded eyes take in the view.

The profile of your face in the mirror (his little cherub), with your mouth parted and brushing against his temple as he nuzzles your shoulder through the fabric of the shirt. One hand ecloses his nape and your other palm is on his cheek, keeping his head close to your breathless lips. Your eyes are closed in bliss – lashes shy against your flushed cheekbones.

In the scantly lit room, the reflection in the mirror of you two is as dark as everything else, but the stark white writing on the back of your tee has never looked brighter. Your hair sways with your movements, and that RILEY that peeks through your locks has him impossibly enamored of you.

And you’re so smart, he thinks. So clever, because you know, even when your senses are clouded by euphoria and your eyes are closed. You know he’s never had a thing. You know that whatever he’s held, no matter for how long, has always slipped through his fingers before he could even get a taste of it.

“I’m yours,” you whisper in his ear.

And so, Simon surrenders. He’s at your mercy, you have his trust and whatever’s left of his heart – and he knows you won’t break either.

He helps you out of his t-shirt only to hold you bare against his chest. He brings you down with him, lavishes your skin with his palms and his lips. Nose buried in your hair, Simon breathes you in. The smell of sex and the smell of you and how it has him drunk when it whirlpools with his own – a new fragrance, one that burns itself into his brain with the threat (sweet promise) of never letting go.

Because he’s never had a thing, his name barely pertains to him anymore. But the moment he saw it on you, he finally realized where Simon Riley belongs.

[samaraxmorgan]

Your Roommate Sukuna

“That Time He Got Jealous Of His Twin Brother”

Modern no curse AU, Sukuna X Reader

Synopsis: This housing crisis sure is no joke huh? Rent is just too expensive to live alone, so you put out a listing for a roommate and ended up living with none other than the tattooed bad boy Ryomen Sukuna! This is part of a series of drabbles and oneshots showing glimpses into you and Sukuna’s living situation!!

Contains: brothers au, pure fluff, slight Yuuji x Reader but we all know who you’re really here for, Sukuna is down bad, narration is mostly from Sukuna’s POV

Word Count: 1.80k

Series Masterlist - My Full Masterlist

Sukuna is a fucking geinus.

His plan is full proof. His brothers put him in charge of buying the tickets for some stupid ass movie Yuuji wants to go see, and you always write your work schedule down on the calendar taped to the fridge. Sure, yeah, maybe he had to call out sick for today because this was the only day that Choso had work and you didn’t, but now he knows that his plan will fall perfectly into place. Yuuji is already at the apartment, you’ll come downstairs eventually, and Yuuji will invite you to come to the movie in Choso’s place, making it look like a total coincidence and definitely not something he’s been meticulously planning all week.

Could he have just, I don’t know, asked you to go on a date with him? Of course not, that’s fucking ridiculous. This makes so much more sense.

I mean, you absolutely loved The Human Centipede, definitely weren’t covering your eyes in terror and disgust when he showed it to you, so it’s a no brainer that you’ll just adore Human Earthworm. Hah! What a fuckin’ joke, you’ll be dragging Sukuna out of the theatre within five minutes and begging him to take you out somewhere else without his annoying twin brother.

It’s perfect.

Him and Yuuji are lounging on opposite ends of the couch while Yuuji is going on and on about an Elden Ring boss he can’t beat. Sukuna has his boots propped up on the coffee table and his arms resting behind his head as he half listens to his brother, and more so keeps an ear out for your footsteps upstairs.

“I was gonna try and beat her without summons but she’s kicking my ass, how many tries did it take you?”

“One.”

“Ugh!” Yuuji flops backwards on the couch, grabbing a throw pillow and shoving it over his face, his defeated whines muffled through the plush cotton, “She’s so impossible!”

Footsteps, finally. As you walk into the living room Yuuji uncovers his face, and you stop dead in your tracks, pointing at him, and then his brother, back and forth a few times before rubbing your eyes.

“Holy shit, there’s two of you?”

Oh yeah, I never mentioned my family huh?

Sukuna just gives you a smug smirk, “Three, but the emo one couldn’t make it.”

Yuuji perks up, jolting upright on the couch and giving you a bright smile, “Hi! I’m the normal one!”

You pull a chair out from the kitchen table, plopping yourself down into the wooden seat, “I think I’m gonna faint.”

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

Sukuna is… a fucking idiot.

He knew his brother had a bubbly personality and could get along with literally anyone, but how was he supposed to know that you two would hit it off so well? Yuuji is pulling out all the stops, holding the door open for you, offering to pay for your popcorn, god it’s like he’s trying to get on Sukuna’s nerves.

Granted, it’s not like Sukuna told him that he likes you, but I mean for fucks sake that’s his twin brother! Shouldn’t he have some sort of sixth sense for this kind of thing?

That pink haired fucker has you wrapped around his little finger, you’re looking at him with googly eyes and cheesing like it’s fucking picture day. Ridiculous. Why don’t you ever smile like that for him? He’s funny!

I’m never letting him in the apartment again.

The three of you walk up to the top row of the nearly empty theater, Sukuna making sure to sit right between you and Yuuji. Previews are rolling on the screen as Sukuna is trying his damndest to hide the scowl on his face, his large arms crossed over his broad chest as he watches the way the large screen reflects different colors into your eyes. He didn’t really think this far ahead, he’s got you next to him at the movies but… what now? He’s mentally kicking himself enough as it is for not considering his overly charismatic brother, and now he’s realizing that he doesn’t even know what his own intentions are.

Did he just want to take you somewhere? Is he trying to sleep with you? Does he want to be… romantic with you?

God, what has he become? He’s supposed to be the tough fucking scary guy and he’s not only getting shown up by his nerdy brother, but also getting nervous at the thought of making a move on you.

Yuuji flings popcorn in your direction, making you squeal out a giggle as it gently lands in your hair. Sukuna groans, hardly paying attention as he’s deep in thought, running his finger through your hair and flicking the popcorn away. He’s so consumed in his own head that he completely misses the blush that tints your cheeks at his tender touch.

Should I have even bothered with this? I feel like staying at the house would’ve been better at this point.

A piece of popcorn flies into his eye.

“Ugh,” This is so stupid, Sukuna rubs his eyelid with his thumb, “Watch it, brat.”

Yuuji tosses his hands up defensively and you giggle again, leaning over the armrest and placing your pointer finger on Sukuna’s cheek, tilting his face to turn towards you. Have your eyes always been that bright?

“Ooh, bullseye.” He can feel your breath fanning on his face, you’re so close, but just as abruptly as you leaned in, you lean back into your seat. God, he wants more than anything to tell you to come back, but the words wouldn’t be able to escape his lips if he tried. Unfortunately, all he manages to do is glare down at you and make you shift awkwardly under his gaze, mumbling out a quick apology.

Fuck. I think I scared them.

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

From what you’ve been able to gather, this movie is weird. Is it horror or romance? You’ve been having trouble paying attention, far too distracted by Yuuji leaning over the very annoyed looking Sukuna to excitedly whisper tidbits about the movie to you. But every time you look over to Yuuji your eyes can’t help but wander to Sukuna’s profile, the flashing lights of the large screen illuminating his tattooed skin, his bottom lip tutting out to blow the loose strand of his pink hair resting on his brow out of his eyes-

Ah dammit, I’m doing it again.

You’re so confused. Sukuna has been giving you mixed signals all night, sweetly running his fingers through your hair one moment, then glowering at you like he wants you dead the next. He’s so unpredictable, and you’ve been so distracted by him all evening that you’ve hardly been able to pay any attention to poor Yuuji, giving him bright smiles and fake laughs while your mind is completely consumed with Sukuna.

He’s been so grumpy the entire evening, you’ve been feeling like he’s… disappointed? Is he mad his other brother couldn’t come? Is he mad that you took the emo one’s place? Would he rather somebody else have gone to the movie with him? It was Yuuji’s idea for you to tag along, so it’s safe to assume that if Sukuna wanted you here he would have just invited you, right?

But then every now and again his eyes flicker to you, watching. Why is he looking at you like that? With his gaze so uncharacteristically soft, scanning your face like he’s searching for something, from the corner of your eye you can catch him looking at your lips.

Is there something on my face?

You’re ripped from your thoughts as a blood curdling scream erupts from the speakers, making you jump in your seat. You catch the tiniest glimpse of a smirk creeping on the corner of Sukuna’s lips as he sits like a rock, completely unbothered as per usual. You gently kick his foot under the seat, and he presses his large boot onto the top of your sneaker, pinning your shoe under his and keeping your foot locked in place under the sole of his steel toe boot.

You cross your arms over your chest, letting out a frustrated huff at him that only makes his grin grow wider, his face still pointed towards the large screen as he flashes his canines at you. He props his elbow on the armrest between you, resting his chin on the ball of his palm as he peers down at you with a smug grin.

“You ready to get out of here yet?”

Cocky fucker, I swear he gets off on making me mad.

“No.” You snap back defensively.

Unbeknownst to you, his question was not rhetorical. But you’re in it now, determined to sit through this entire movie even if it kills you. You’re bothering him enough just by being here, the last thing you want to do is make him feel like he needs to leave.

His smirk shifts into a grimace as he taps his boot on top of your shoe. You slide your sneaker away but he loops his calf around yours and pulls your leg towards him, gently kicking your foot. If you didn’t know better you’d almost think he was… trying to play footsies with you? You’re not really sure what he’s trying to do, all you know is that he’s still leaning on the armrest between you and probably unintentionally pulling you closer by your leg.

Your arm brushes against his as you try to maneuver your elbow onto the armrest, quietly muttering to him “You’re hogging up all the space.”

He leans down slightly to whisper in your ear, “Tragic. Use the other one.”

You nudge his forearm with your elbow, “Just move your arm.”

He lets out a quiet “Tch” and raises his arm to rest over the back of your seat instead, “This better, brat?”

You nod your head as a blush creeps onto your cheeks, luckily hidden by the darkness in the room. When you relax back into your chair you can feel his arm pressing into the back of your neck and his fingers lightly graze against your shoulder. It feels… kinda comforting, you can’t help but wonder what it would feel like to lean into his touch and your heart starts to pound at the thought.

You don’t dare to look at Sukuna, deciding to quietly enjoy the moment. Which is a real shame, because if you did look at him there’s a chance you’d catch the way he’s gnawing on his bottom lip with a face that looks almost as flustered as your own.

He might be enjoying this more than you are, and he might even be thinking that having to sit through this movie might not be so bad after all.

A/N: POV you and Sukuna are two idiots who are into each other but neither of you have the balls to do something about it. Also writing Sukuna’s POV for the narration was SO FUN!!! We love our delusional king who sees you god forbid smile at another person and immediately assumes you’re in love with them Dividers by @adornedwithlight

Let me know if you want to be added to the taglist!!

[catssluvr]

dating pre-crash natalie scatorccio <3

⭑.ᐟ The type of girlfriend to make a tape with all of the songs that remind her of both of you or just you in general and gift it to you on some anniversary.

⭑.ᐟ Will get you a yellowjackets shirt with her name as joke just to be looking starstruck at you when you actually wear it to her games and practices.

⭑.ᐟ Talking of practices, she’ll come up to you while you’re sitting on the stands waiting for her after it’s finished, wrapping you in her arms from behind and peppering your face with kisses while you complain about her being sweaty.

“Nat!”

“I thought you said i look hot when im sweaty :(“

⭑.ᐟ Half of your make out sessions are cut off by her giggling, Nat just really can’t hold herself in when anything gets serious. But it’s mostly just her being silly in love for you.

⭑.ᐟ As soon as she’s comfortable enough around you, be prepared for her to be doing full on dance presentations in front of you while screaming the lyrics of the song playing in the radio

⭑.ᐟ Her favorite nights are when she gets to sleepover at your house, glad to be away from her house. You’ll watch rented movies while eating tons of snacks that she insisted on buying until you get too sleepy and fall asleep bundled up together.

⭑.ᐟ Nat always saves money to buy you something nice on your birthday or on your dating anniversary, she thinks it’s a great way too show you how much she appreciates and loves you in her life.

⭑.ᐟ Smiles so wide when you buy something for her, even if it’s just a new nail polish because she ran out of it.

⭑.ᐟ Absolutely loves to tease you about simple things just to make you blush.

⭑.ᐟ Is sooo giggly when sleepy and loves to be babied too, making grabby hands at you while you’re doing your skincare and begging you to join her in bed soon.

⭑.ᐟ Has a lot of cuteness aggression towards you and will randomly playfully bite your bicep, giggling when you scowl at her for doing so.

“It’s just a love bite :>”

⭑.ᐟ Comes up with a nickname for you that no one else uses but also likes to call you ‘angel’ or ‘baby’ when you two are alone or in intimate moments.

⭑.ᐟ All of her teammates tease her about going soft for you and breaking all of the badass performance just for you. To which she mostly responds with an huff, knowing it’s mostly just the truth.

⭑.ᐟ Tells you that she loves you in between sweet kisses that she presses to your lips, fingers grasping your shirt to make sure you stay close to her until she’s ready to let go.

⭑.ᐟ Seeks you every time she needs comfort, knowing she can trust you with her life. Climbs up to your window if that means she’ll get to spend the night by your side and away from what isn’t actually her home.

⭑.ᐟ Has and will continue getting into fights if anyone bothers you or ever makes fun of you, not really minding the consequences when she gets to have you cleaning up her bloody nose.

⭑.ᐟ Loves it when you do her makeup before a party, making you sit in her lap while you do so and running her hands up your thighs while telling you how pretty you look.

⭑.ᐟ Throws little notes to your desk during class whenever she’s bored out of her mind and not sitting next to you - probably because the teacher realized she wouldn’t shut up and pay attention when she was with you.

“you look amazing, angel <3”

“ughh how are you not bored?? this sucks”

“meet up at the convenience store after school? we can go to the lake and make out till the sun sets :)) so romantic, rightt?”

⭑.ᐟ Nat definitely slips her hand into your back pocket or slips her fingers into your belt loops while walking with you, more out of need to be close than anything else.

⭑.ᐟ Turns into a golden retriever when she’s around you, opposed to the whole black cat persona she’s known as. Absolutely giddy as soon as you walk into the room.

[blackeyen2kisses]

hii !! I just wanted to say your seunghyun/top post was so cute :’) i love it sm !!

I was wondering if you’d be comfortable writing something similar for jiyong? Maybe something based off that one interview where he says he acts more “childish” in a relationship as opposed to the “cool type” people assume he’d be!

If not, no worries !! I still love your writing regardless and am excited to see more ^^

soft bf!jiyong (headcannons)

summary: the reality of a relationship bf!jiyong.

an: hello! thank you for your kind words, they mean the world to me :,) i hope i did your request justice. enjoy!

bf!jiyong who: despite his image of the, “hard to get, playboy” is the complete opposite with you.

bf!jiyong who: before you started dating, wanted desperately to have all of your attention, every single ounce. he would always act silly and make jokes in order to get you to laugh. (which did not slip past the rest of bigbang.) it made his stomach do flips to be the cause of your smiles.

bf!jiyong who: could never bring himself to tell you he liked you, he was terrified of ruining your friendship. he couldn’t bring himself to risk it. so you could imagine how surprised he was when he came to see you backstage after he performed,(which was nothing out of the ordinary) and was met with you shyly handing him a handwritten letter. decorated with swooping letters, white lace, and, glitter hearts, declaring your love for him. he tried to be the picture of nonchalance as he rubbed the back of his neck as he admitted he had liked you for some time too. but, he was really doing jumping jacks in his head.

bf!jiyong who: is the most loyal person you’ve ever met who will defend you with his last breath. (you two were getting out of jiyongs drivers car. heading to a small cafe for a date. the paparazzi were surrounding the two of you as you tried to push through. a hand on the small of your back made your head shoot up, looking at your boyfriend, who carried a slightly annoyed look on his face. you were almost at the entrance when a voice called through the crowd, “hey lady! move out the way, i cant get a good shot!” you turned to see one of the paparazzi shooting you a glare. before you could respond, jiyong left your side and walked between you and the aging man. “hey! dont talk to her like that!” he barked as he smacked the camera away from his face. shooting the guy one last death glare, he raced back to you, intertwining your hands and pulling you inside.)

bf!jiyong who: when you guys go to places where you have to take your shoes off before you enter, kneels down infront of you and carefully unlaces your shoes and pulls them off, and when you leave slips them back on and laces them back up.

bf!jiyong who: insists on paying for everything the bill when you guys go out to eat, the rent for your shared apartment, for groceries, for the cable bill. no matter how much you insist you want to help, he declines every time. he likes to spoil you.

bf!jiyong who: learned how to braid hair��via youtube video, because he knew you hated when your hair was in your face.

bf!jiyong who: makes homemade gifts for you. such as, origami roses, oragami swans, origami hearts that, when unfolded have messages on the inside. he likes to do origami when he’s feeling overwhelmed. he finds it relaxing.

bf!jiyong who: has a love language of acts of service.

bf!jiyong who: loves to take care of you. wiping food from the corner of your mouth while you eat, doing your skincare after a night out, and you’re too tired to do so yourself, cooking you your favorite meals, massaging your neck after you slept wrong the night before.

bf!jiyong who: when he gets anxiety clutches your hand and draws circles on your palm.

bf!jiyong who: wears a silver bracelet engraved with your name on it and wears it religiously. the only time he takes it off is to shower.

bf!jiyong who: gave you one of his favorite rings. which, you wear on a chain around your neck at all times.

bf!jiyong who: has a photobook filled with Polaroids you take of each other, and, together. he likes to have physical photos of the two of you.

[rhyrhy]

HELLO LUV BUG

I HAVE A REQUEST IF YOU DONT MIND

I’ll stop yelling now

Anyway

Virgin Abby x experienced reader.

Like things are getting hot and heavy and Abby admits she’s a virgin and experienced reader gets off on being Abby’s first ever while being really sweet and gentle.

Have a good one eat, stretch, drink something

-saturn

And they were roommates .ᐟ

Virgin! Abby ݁˖°✧

꒰࣪ Warnings:꒱ bits of plot, mostly A! Receiving, body hair ˖ . ݁˖°✧ mentioned, jealousy, talks of virginity (duh), hair pulling, loser Abby, oral, Mdni!

-oh my god, they were roommates?

Roommate, roomie, the woman you share your space with. That’s Abby—friend of three years, roommate of a few months.

Perfect roommate would be an understatement. So, of course, when your old landlord raised rent too high for your liking, she was the first person you asked to help look for a new place. Only to catch the way her eyes sparkled when you found one—quiet neighborhood, not too far from work. The extra bedroom was originally going to be an office of some sort, but plans changed.

She cooks, cleans, respects your space, always knocks before she enters your room.

—Well, usually she did. Except for last night.

Those usual soft knocks or “Can I come in?” fell on deaf ears. After moving in, things had unknowingly shifted between you two. An unspoken understanding to not make things awkward. However, one fateful night of her not knocking led to a sleepy, on-the-couch discussion days later, after a long work shift.

The scene was something straight out of a wet dream, (un)fortunately engraved in her mind.

The image of her wholesome roommate—the one who always compliments her cooking, offers to redo her hair when she’s too tired, and has her reach the top shelf. The classic excuse of “Putting those muscles to good use,” you’d say in the sweetest tone. All of that, down the drain the moment her eyes locked onto the woman beneath you. Writhing in pleasure. One leg tossed over your shoulder, the other splayed somewhat behind you. Pornographic whines and pleas smacking Abby in the face the second the door creaked open.

She’d completely forgotten what she even came in there for. A shirt? Where the dustpan was?

Fuck, she had no idea.

The door slammed shut harder than she intended, guilt pouring over her as she realized she’d walked in on such an intimate moment. Hookups for you weren’t uncommon. Always the same pretty faces. One stood out, though. Tall, more on the butch side. Clearly a gym rat. Her arms weren’t nearly as impressive as Abby’s, but she hated herself for even making the comparison.

She’d even bumped into her one morning in the kitchen during breakfast, eyes narrowing at the sight of her mug in the woman’s hands.

“You don’t mind, do you?”

It felt like a taunt. Abby told herself she was being delusional, trying to shake off the bubbling irritation.

The week passed, you two still hadn’t talked about it, along with a few other things—the time she ended up zipping your shirt for you and her hand lingered on your hip even after she was finished. Even that small glimpse of your bare skin reminded her of that night. Or how you always found yourself brushing your teeth next to her in the morning, feigning that you were “just saving water.”

It all whirled in her mind, even as she exhaustedly turned her key, prying open the front door.

Fallen boots and a thrown jacket into the hall closet later, she found herself slumped onto the plush couch. Already hearing your nagging about how her neck would pay for not taking the few extra steps to her bedroom in the morning. The warm yellow light reflected on the flooring, indicating you were home, tucked away in your room.

On Friday nights, you two usually watched a few episodes of one of the many TV series you started together and vowed not to watch without the other. She hadn’t seen much of you since the walk-in, although between your opposite work schedules, that wasn’t alarming.

Her teeth caught her bottom lip, eyes flickering between your door and the TV. She wanted to come get you, act natural. She really, really did, but her thoughts snapped back to that night. How her thighs shifted uncomfortably together, the heat that pooled in her gut when her mind replayed your sounds. How the recurring face you slept with oddly resembled hers.

“Hey, Abs.” She was too deep in her own thoughts to realize you’d emerged before she could call out to you.

“Oh! Heya,” she said, followed by a small head nod.

Even now, as you pushed off the wall, you seemed at ease, completely unaffected by the thoughts that threatened to consume her own mind.

She’d managed to act semi-normal over the past painfully slow thirty minutes. The uneasy feeling caused her to blurt it out before she could stop herself.

“Sorry about the other night. Random, I know— I just, uh, had to get that out.”

“No, no, my door should’ve been locked. Got caught up in the moment and—well, I’m sure you get it.” You waved off with a laugh.

“Yeah, of course,” she answered, a little rushed.

A lie. A big lie. She had no idea. In fact, the closest thing she’d ever allowed from someone else was a few hickeys and semi-decent make-out sessions—always pulling away right before things got too handsy.

Fear wasn’t holding her back, nor was insecurity. For her, it was comfort. She was dating the past, yeah, but the companionship  was craved more than the lost clothes and complaints from neighbors during a heated moment. Although, she knew this only stayed true up until you guys grew closer. With her presence becoming like a second skin to yours, of course, loose t-shirts without a bra and underwear as pants happened. Seemingly unaware of how it sent heat to her cheeks.

But you did know. Of course, you knew. Gracefully adding to the list of teasing. Seeing if she’d crack. And tonight, she did.

It started with a joke, in Abby’s mind—the nuisance that clung to you through the weeks. A joke about if someone could do it better, then maybe you’d stop calling her. It turned into more ‘jokes,’ turned touches, turned into a sudden cup of her cheek and a crashing kiss.

This was one of those moments where you’d get lost and discuss it later. Or, at least, it was—because as quick as it came, she pulled away.

“Sorry—was that too much? I just thought—are you good?” You pulled your hands back from traveling lower than they already were.

“What—?” She blinked, snapping back. “No, I just—yes, I’m good.”

The murmur of the TV did little to ease the tension. The heat never left the room. The whispered words you’d said in her left ear bounced inside her mind. Her slipped comment about how badly she wanted you, unsure if she should’ve said it.

“Soo… you haven’t then?” You knew the answer, but confirmation in this moment was beyond needed.

“If I answer, will you laugh?” She sighed.

“Laugh? Of course not.” Your expression softened.

“I… haven’t.” The words felt heavier out loud. “It’s just, I wanted it to be special.” She turned her head back to you. “Is that silly?”

“No, dude, what? I wish I would’ve waited.” You shook your head.

She scoffed. “You’re just saying that—”

“I’m serious.” You shifted closer. “Your body is a temple and all that jazz. You should be glad you’re waiting.” You finger quoted.

You continued as Her eyes flicked over you, thoughtful. “Whoever gets to tap this”— you gestured vaguely toward her frame—“is lucky. As hell. And.. if you were serious about earlier, Abs… it’s still on the table, okay? Don’t rush anything you don’t want. It’s not going anywhere, and neither am I.”

You smirked. “Literally. I live here.” You said dramatically gesturing around the living space

She laughed shaking her head. “You’re such an idiot.”

You grinned. “Oh, fuck you. I was trying to be sentimental.”

“I know… and I appreciate it.” Abby exhaled, running a hand through her hair before reaching for you, fingers grazing your arm. “But, uh—can we circle back to the part where you were taking your shirt off?”

Your breath caught. “You sure?”

“more than sure.” She took a deep breath. “Just gentle, yeah?”

˖ . ݁˖°✧

As nice as kissing her was, your lips were slightly swollen at this rate, and you weren’t sure how much longer she planned to drag this part out. She seemed comfortable, but her hands stayed rooted at her sides—stiff as a board.

“You say you’re relaxed, but your shoulders are telling a different story,” you teased, pressing your hands to them, feeling how tense she was. “See?”

Abby huffed, exhaling sharply through her nose. “Yeah, okay. Maybe a little.”

But before she could dish out another apology. You spoke back up “Don’t apologize. You’re not doing anything wrong. But if you’re not ready, we don’t—”

“—No, I am.”

“Okay, so let’s start small.”

“Smaller than you kissing me?” she muttered, a smirk tugging at the corner of her lips.

“Shut up. Just do me a favor—take a deep breath. In and out.”

Your eyes followed the rise and fall of her chest, so close that her breath fanned against your skin. “You feeling okay enough to keep going, or are you planning to suck my lips off my face first?”

Abby huffed a quiet laugh. “Not my fault you taste good.”

“Oh? That right?” you teased. “Then tell me what you want.” She hesitated, shifting slightly under your gaze. “Don’t get shy on me now, c’mon—it’s just us.”

A beat passed, pools of blue locked onto yours. “I want you to touch me.” a little rushed, like she’d forced the words out before she could second-guess them. Then, quieter—“Please.”

“Good, that’s a start.” You nodded. “Now tell me where.”

She swallowed, jaw tightening for a second. “I-Shouldn’t I be…?” She trailed off, tilting her head to expose her neck without finishing the thought.

“Uht uht, don’t worry about me right now.” You pressed a lingering kiss to the pulse point at her neck, and her breath hitched—followed by a sharp exhale through her nose. “Oh, you liked that, huh?”

Her hands finally lifted, gripping the fabric of your shirt like she needed something to hold onto. “Yeah… do that again”

She shivered at the touch, her eyes slipping closed. Each kiss was slow, teasing, drawing out that shiver, that soft gasp of your name. Her fingers pressed into your back, nails leaving faint red lines against your skin through the thin material.

“Yeah.” She breathed out. “Just like that.”

You smiled against her skin as you traveled south, kissing along the rim of her shoulder, gently pulling her head to the side to give yourself more room. “You’re so vocal, Abs.”

She sighed, her head lolling to the side, offering herself up more. The grip on your shirt loosened as her breathing quickened just the slightest. With her head tilted, a soft mewl escaped her parted lips—a reaction to the tender kisses that made their way across her skin.

“It’s your fault,” she murmured. You giggled at her retort, hands finding the hem of her tank top, fingers tracing the fabric. You kissed over her shoulder a few more times before pulling back to look at her.

“You ready for me to take this off, or do you need more time?”

Abby chewed her bottom lip, her gaze flicking down to her tank top and then back up to your face. The flush that dusted her cheeks extended down to her neck, faint red marks from your ministrations littering her skin. She swallowed, eyes lingering on the way your fingers toyed with the fabric, before huffing out a:

“I—uh… yeah, I’m ready.”

“You sure? I’m going at your pace, no rushing needed.”

You asked for confirmation, thumbs stroking the skin of her abdomen under the fabric gently.

She inhaled sharply at the gentle touch, her mind clouded by the way your thumbs swiped across her skin. It was hard to form coherent thoughts while your touch burned with the promise of something more.

“I’m sure,” she murmured, her voice just loud enough for you to hear. “Wanna feel your hands on me.”

“Okay, lift your arms for me.”You scooted closer to her, gently lifting the hem of her tank top.

She obliged with a small nod, raising her arms in the air. The motion caused the fabric to ride up, revealing a sliver of her toned stomach. Her breath hitched as the tank top cleared her head, leaving her exposed—chest and torso bare, save for a few freckles and moles that dotted her skin like constellations.

You trailed a finger down her shoulder to her arm, keeping your gaze on her face.

“You’re so pretty, look at you.” You smiled, scanning over her torso momentarily.

“Shut up.” Even though there was no real bite behind it, she shifted slightly, trying to hide the way her chest rose and fell with her shallow breaths. Pinkish nipples pebbling as the cool air passed them.

You laughed.“Don’t be embarrassed—look, I’ll take mine off too. That better?”

She took a deep breath, trying to regain her composure with little success. Seeing you strip too? Yeah, that sounded better. Her gaze raked over you, taking in every inch of exposed skin as you removed your shirt.

“Yeah,” she breathed out. “That’s better.”

Her gaze wandered shamelessly over your body, taking in the sight of your exposed shoulders, the way your bralette hugged your chest. Her gaze lingered there a moment before drifting up to your face—eyes, nose, lips. She nodded, words failing her at first as she tried to regain her composure.

You hummed in reply, trailing your hands to her collarbone, gently moving down to her breast, cupping the warm skin. “How does that feel?”

She let out a soft moan as your hands needed, the warmth of your touch. Her back arched involuntarily against your hands, trying to press herself closer.

“God. That feels…” She huffed out, struggling to find the words. “So, so good.”

˖ . ݁˖°✧

Thankfully once she was more relaxed, her thighs instinctively parting a bit as your hands continued their way up her legs. The gentle touch had her squirming gently, trying to get closer. Trimmed blonde happy trail leading to her oozing folds. arousal dripping down to her anus.

“H-hah—” abby’s eyes fluttering shut at the contact of your lips on her lower abdomen, her back sinking deeper into the couch. Her soaked through boxers somewhere lost on the floorboards. Glistening skin, slowly coming into view as you grew closer.

“Still okay?” You asked, between kisses.

Half-lidded eyes met yours, watching as you trailed lower, teasingly slow. She could only manage a nod, anticipation buzzing through her body.

“Use your words.” looking up at her through your lashes.

Her breath hitched. “Mhm… still okay.”

“Gonna start now”

A sharp exhale, fingers curling into the cushion beneath her. “God, please—” The words broke into a sucked-in breath the second your lips made contact where she needed you most. The feeling was new, almost overwhelming. Her fingers threaded themselves into your hair, tightening with each flick of your tongue.

Her muscles flexed with every breath as they grew heavier. She was wound so tight, every nerve alight, and god, if you could just stay right there—

She gasped, one hand gripping the side of the sofa. It wasn’t hard to find her clit, but she was still only partly spread out, hips shifting like she was chasing something just out of reach.

You’d glance up occasionally, feeling your own wave of heat pass through you at the sight. Her face was contorted in pleasure, her full-blown whines ringing out. Eating your roommate out after a semi-awkward encounter wasn’t on the agenda for the night, but the movie was now long forgotten.

“Please, d-don’t stop.” Her plea wasn’t louder than a whisper, eyes squeezing shut as you continued your ministrations on her sodden core.

If reducing a woman who could bench press you without breaking a sweat to a whimpering mess was a kink? You definitely just discovered it.

Air wasn’t an option when her hips kept jerking up involuntarily, seeking you—your tongue, her orgasm, everything. She let herself revel in the selfish need teetering on the edge, chasing it, desperate.

Soft breaths came in ragged gasps. “Don’t stop. God, don’t stop—” The white-hot pleasure you were giving her consumed every thought. Abby—composed, polite Abby? She couldn’t think. Nope. Couldn’t form a single coherent thought except please.

She chanted it over and over until she couldn’t hold back anymore. The pressure in her gut snapped, sending a rush of euphoria crashing over her like a tidal wave. Her back arched, fingers tightening in your hair—a full-blown tug—as her climax tore through her.

“F-fuck—” she choked out, voice breaking as she rode it out.

You soothed her, voice gentle. “I got you.”

The death grip on the couch and your hair finally loosened, her body still trembling under you, breathless in the aftermath. A sheen of sweat beaded down her caved-in abdomen as she tried to catch her breath.

“Jesus Christ,” she gasped finally, dazed. Her eyes stuck on the ceiling.

And all you could think as you rubbed her thigh gently was—

If reducing a woman who could bench press you without breaking a sweat to a whimpering mess was a kink? You definitely just discovered it.

˖ . ݁˖°✧

Line dividers- strangergraphics

[multch]

Thoughts.

Art the clown x reader [18+]

CW: actually smut \ afab masterbation

Your boss admires your dedication to staying back late to finish off repairing most nights. What he doesn't know is affiliation with the ‘Miles County Killer’.

Who knew sewing pays in a good view…

You whipped back as the bloody black and white suit whacked you in the face. If art was anything- it certainly wasn't subtle. The smell was revolting but what did you expect? Daisies? Of course he’d smell like a dead animal, he’s a murderer for Christ's sake! Still, you would've appreciated it if he at least let you set down the jacket you had to repair first- or had the decency to cover up a little instead of walking around the studio with everything out on display.

Tonight marks the 3rd year since you had first encountered this killer clown. You worked at a humble costume shop- Often very late to scramble enough of a paycheck to pay rent, utilities, whatever, ect.

On the strange night you two met, he had walked in- completely skipping past you- and searched for some sewing supplies. He went so far as to have even checked out the staff room you had accidentally left unlocked. Regardless, he eventually waddled up to your counter and dinged the bell on your desk several times. He had waved his hands around like a maniac trying to make sense until you realised he was gesturing towards the sewing needle in your hand. If he wasn’t so charming, maybe you would’ve called the police on him right then and there.

Maybe you should’ve...

Since then, you always patched up his ripped and tattered clown costume and he would repay you by helping out around the shop when you worked late. Repairing shelves, moving boxes and pestering you incessantly while doing so. 

It was a shock when you had first discovered his more malicious side. The ”Miles county killer” plastered on every television screen for miles. You couldn’t tell what had scared you more; Art’s heinous acts or the simple fact that he seemed to spare you.

But why?

The question haunted you. Your moral compass never seemed too correct however you understood the evil that seemed to possess him was devilish. What you couldn’t understand was what a being so sinful could've thought about a seamstress that made him show not only mercy, but companionship…

Honk! Honk!

Art could’ve killed you with how well he’d scare you. They didn’t call him the ‘Terrifier’ for nothing you thought. You were just minding your business- lost in thought- until Art practically made you jump out of your skin from his infuriating infatuation with his stupid little hand horn.

He had crept right up behind you and placed himself close enough to feel the cold air escape his lungs. You didn’t know how you didn’t notice but his horn was practically touching your ear. The sound it let out was more than enough to make your eyes widen. It had startled you so much you fell backwards on your stool. Luckily for you though, Art was there to catch you.

His skin was smooth and frigid. His hands having responded by grasping your waist with his rough hands- You were accidentally pressed right up against his naked chest. 

His touch felt electric. The contrast between your human heat and his icy exposure was a feeling like no other. He helped you back up onto your seat but by then it was too late. Fuck.

Seeing him naked was one thing but feeling his bare touch was another. Your minor interest in him had easily turned into obsession over the course of the last few years. A mysterious stranger showing up out of the blue. Saturated in blood. Torn up and often mutilated.  How couldn't you be intrigued?

It felt like there was no one else in the world he treated like you.

You felt special.

Protected, even.

You tried your best to resume your repair but by the time you reached the hole by the gusset of his suit, you had lost it.

*

Maybe excusing yourself to “go to the bathroom” might’ve been a bit overkill but there was no way you wouldn’t melt in the heat that you felt just simply looking at him. His playful taunts. The way he bats his eyelashes at you. Even his disgusting black smile!

These ‘normal’ acts of his felt misconstrued into one big flirty mess. 

Despite your efforts, you were clearly just too horny to stop. Every time you think about him in this moment, you couldn’t help but remember how he’s outside right now in nothing but a mask and his flimsy little top hat. In times like this, you couldn’t help but shake your fist in the air at Art’s infamous refusal to wear anything under his suit.

(You tried to convince him once by buying him a pair of boxers, but in retaliation he had ripped out the crotch and walked out- giving you the full view of his “pencil”)

Maybe it was the sleep deprivation talking but deciding to work one out sounded great right now.

You lent up against the red tile wall of the staff bathroom. It was cold. Perfect.

Slowly fondling yourself, your hands snake around your skin. One climbing up your stomach to slip under your bra. The other sneaking down the waistband of your shorts.

God, he made you so wet from just one touch. You slid in one finger first- wincing back at your contraction around so little. It made you only more hungry for what your eyes had feasted on so often yet you had never been given the chance to taste it yourself.

Seeing it made you understand why this clown always went commando because he really was hiding away a whole balloon animal. It was BIG.

Imagining it made your mouth feel empty..

You slip in another 2 fingers. Thrusting into yourself enough to make you press hard against the wall behind you. You were so cold but inside was a warmth you wanted him to feel so badly.

Your eyes squeezed down hard. You wanted to see him. His face. His body, as he thrusted into you.

You wanted him to trap you beneath his form with his inhuman strength.

To be scared he'd rip you in half if you ran away was a major turn on for you -the idea of becoming less than a victim of his by becoming a slave for his enjoyment.

Imagining it made your pussy throb, feeling empty despite your aggressive movement…

You tried to muffle your moans but the more you indulged in your fantasy, the more you struggled to show some self restraint.

A fourth finger, then a fifth.

Pounding harder and faster into your core, you thought back to all the toys you brought reimagining them as his girth. 

Art was more than a friend to you. You ached for him nightly. You felt him in your core. You've dreamt of his touch and woken up in a hot, sticky sweat because of him.

You wanted to be honest with him but only Hell knows what he'd do to you if he didn't feel the same.

The possibilities made you salivate. Being his victim would be an indulgent death for sure..

You feel yourself very quickly feeling your release build as an air of tension fills the room. It's sickly sweet.

Rubbing your pretty little pussy until it's puffy and squirting when he's in the room outside was your tipping point.

You let out one final wince before your knees give out- causing you to crouch down on the frozen tile floor. 

You can't help but imagine it's him holding you after a scene of absolute passion.

*

It's only been 10 minutes since you had excused yourself but once you had made your way back out, Art was nowhere to be seen.

You're embarrassed to say the least but you decide to push forward with your plans for tonight. 

You turn around to close the bathroom door behind you only to find a familiar face greeting you instead.

There stood Art the clown, leaning up against the wall with a shit eating grin- All while still being fully naked.

Oh god no…

[prkhaven]

garage band guitarist jay who you know you should stay away from but who gives you the best sex of your life that you just can’t help yourself everytime you go back to him everytime he calls

kipoo!! sorry that it took me so long to get to this but i hope you enjoy <3

jay could play me like a guitar. ANYWAYS.

warnings: smut minors do not interact, car sex, oral (f rec), squirting, praising, petnames(darling, good girl)

JAY was your next door neighbor turned into sudden roommate when times got tough. the proposition for this arrangement? you don’t pay rent, both of you fuck. it’s a win-win.

anytime you and jay just so happened to be in the same mood at the exact same time, it takes much words for one thing to lead to another.

while you know jay may not be the best of influence for you. he’s always out while you’re more of a homebody focusing on getting money up while he spends it likes it’s nothing.

he brings you out when you’re supposed to be getting ready for your shift which you never end up going to because you’re in some cramped up venue watching him and his band play.

tonight was no different, you don’t remember the last time you were even at your job but you were too focused on maintaining eye contact with jay as he loosely smiled at you, his precious guitar in arm as his long fingers ran over the strings to ring out the rumbling tune before the song came an end.

he shot you an obvious wink before waving towards everyone else. your cheeks burned as you nibbled on your bottom lip to move your gaze from the stage to the barricade where you rested at before squeezing between people to go back stage.

your phone has been blowing up with calls and text from coworkers and managers wondering where you were for your shift but you turned off your phone when a pair of arms wrapped at your waist.

jay rested his head on your shoulder as he messily kissed the side of your face. “how was i darling?” a pet name you despised from other but loved from him

you turned your body around with a loopy smile as you brush back his hair from his face, “amazing like always, guess those late night practices did pay off instead of just keeping me wide awake” you chuckled but stopped when he grabbed your wrist mid air

“can i make up for keeping you up all those nights? i know i was neglecting you too” jay slurred and your heart thumped as you weakly smiled and nodded

thats how you found yourself in the back of jay’s car. your lower half completely bare, your shirt crumbled up to expose your chest, his ring and bracelet lathered calloused hands grip onto your breast tightly as he protruded his tongue into your hole.

your hands weakly grabbed his hair, your hips rocking in the motion for more friction, his nose nudging at your clit making you squeal.

the cold metal of rings touched your garden nipple making you breathlessly gasp, he pinched at them to get an extra stimulus causing you to jolt. you could feel his smirk against your folds as he messily ate you out.

a loud gasp fell out when he pushed in two fingers to replace his tongue, “was just being asked to be filled up” he softly hummed as he pushed deeper into you until the base of his ring hovered near your hole.

“just be a good girl f’ me, promise to properly make it up to you”

your head lulled to the side as you watched through squinted eyes of how jay’s mouth and hands did wonders on you. his hand on your breast tightened to spill in between his fingers, his tongue now working around his pumping fingers.

“i’m going to- Jay!” you squealed as you tried to pull away knowing how much jay cared for his car

he popped up from your core, a string of salvia connecting him to your folds, his fingers suddenly curling up into your walls feeling the gummy walls.

jay felt like in paradise. he dragged himself back in, “come for me. make an absolute mess” he planted kisses onto your pussy, his finger simultaneously calculated

his tongue strides across your folds, picking up the wetness that seeped out onto his tastebuds. it messily lathered around down to his chin and seats but he needed more.

he sucked as much as he could, the essence of you tasted devine and he needed more. it wasn’t enough. his thumb rubbed down on your clit, adding to the sensation.

you shook your head as the knot of your stomach grew tighter. you let out a loud gasp, your back arching off his seat when you came around his tongue. he pulled out and strung at your folds to ignite more of your juices to spill out.

jay noticed as you tried to stop yourself from spilling more but he didn’t allow it. he pushed more out of you until your body was lightly shaking and your moans were broken into shivers.

but when you heard the faint sound of his belt unbuckling and you looked at him through hazy eyes and noticed his side smirk as he stroked the side of your face.

“Forgot to mention but you’re late on your half of the rent”

——

[kabr0ztrousers]

Kabr0z writes, Episode 2: The Previous Tenant

Find Episode 1 here

########################################

Content warnings: Semi-public nudity, minor cumflation, implied ghost fucking, receiving cunnilingus, creampie sex, heterosexual sex, gratuitous sex

########################################

The flat was cheap, for where it was in the city. Large bay windows, a good view over the park, way bigger floorplan than it has any right to have costing what it did. The catch? The strange rumours about the place. It'd apparently been vacant for over a year before you moved to the city for university and were suddenly in need of cheap lodgings, preferably ones without sharing a bathroom with your fellow students.

You were skeptical when you first moved in late Summer. Things don't just go bump in the night. It was all an urban myth and you weren't about to be intimidated into paying the frankly silly rent for a similar flat in such a good location. You moved in with the help of some of your neighbours and even held a housewarming party, but nobody seemed to want to stay much past midnight.

That was that, a few weeks of getting your feet on your course and exploring the city. Not even a peep of anything supernatural around, though you did keep mislaying things. Nothing all that strange, maybe you'd be looking for the TV remote and it's on the couch rather than the coffee table. Maybe you'd find the scissors in a different drawer than they usually go. You chalked it up to being in a new environment, things would find their place, right?

It wasn't until November that the dreams began. It was vague at first. You would dream of pleasure and sensations, waking up to find yourself flushed and wet. Over time the dreams became more specific, forming into the shape of a lithe, long haired man. Every night he would grow bolder, groping your ample breasts, biting your neck, kissing you deeply. It wasn't long until you would start waking up with your fingers already rubbing at your needy clit under your pajamas.

That's how it stayed for a while, you would be visited nightly by your dream lover and he would have his way with you, until one night in early January. One night while he was worshipping your dripping cunt with his tongue your orgasm awoke you. It was cold, much colder than you normally keep the flat. You noticed after only a moment you were naked, sitting in the open bay window. If it weren't the dead of night you would be visible to anyone in the park. You covered your hard nipples and as much of your exposed flesh, covered in goosebumps and shivering against the cold. You didn't go back to sleep that night.

You set up a camera to record yourself as you slept over the next week. Every night you would rise from your bed and move to a different part of the flat. Sometimes your sofa, sometimes your office, sometimes the kitchen. The favourite spot was there next to the window. Every time you would sit and start unconsciously playing with yourself. Your fingers rubbing your clit, squeezing your breasts, sometimes entering your pussy. There weren't any microphones so there was no audio, but you could imagine yourself moaning as you watched your head loll and your questing fingers run across your sensitive body. Strangely you never seemed to finish yourself off, judging by the way you moved and the needy wetness between your thighs each morning.

One night it was different, where the man would appear in your dream and start to touch you, tonight he was different, rougher. Where normally his kisses would be tender and gentle, that night they were forceful, his tongue invading your mouth as his hand grasped at your pussy. Two of his fingers curled into you, rubbing against your g-spot as his palm ground against your clit. The sensation was almost too much and you could feel the pressure in your abdomen building. He grasped your ass and pulled you closer to him as you built to your climax. It wasn't long before he got what he wanted. Your whole body quivered and you called out as you squirted over his hand and woke with a start.

Your eyes snapped open. You haven't left the bedroom. He was still kissing you. His tongue still intertwined with yours and his hand still working your throbbing cunt. Your knees buckled as you came again, your pulse pounding in your ears in time with the tingling throbbing from your soaking pussy. He pulled away from your face, your jaw lolling open as you moved to keep him pressed against you

"You're mine, pet, you've been such a good girl waiting for me, and now I'm going to take what's mine"

He lifted you like a ragdoll and threw you onto your bed. You landed on your back, reflexively opening your legs for him "please" you moan "I'm yours, just please"

He doesn't waste any time. Before you see him move his nimble tongue is between your legs and lapping up your juices. You could feel your back arch as you writhed into him, his tongue going impossibly deep into you. You'd been eaten out before, but you doubt any of your previous lovers could have managed this. He was licking at every part of you, moving maddeningly from the deepest part of you, savouring the journey back out, never missing the opportunity to flick at your most sensitive places and tonguing your clit in ways you didn't think possible. It wasn't long until you were cumming again and again against his face, grasping at the sheets, his hair, your breasts, anything you could lay your hands on.

Then he stopped. You whined and moaned, trying to push him back down, but he moved against your hands like you weren't there. By the time your vision cleared, he was looming over you, your hands on his waist and his legs between yours. You could feel his cock on your tummy. Fuck it's big, and already oozing precum onto your skin.

He lowers his mouth to your ear, "My turn"

"Yes" you can smell yourself on his face as he pulls his hips back and positions the head of his cock against your aching hole.

Slowly, he started to push it in. You could feel it pressing in and moving up, its monstrous girth making you gasp. You feel him at your cervix, but you can feel there's more to go

"All mine" he whispers, as he presses his hips down into you. You yelp as the last few inches push in and his balls hit your ass. He waits for a moment, until your breathing calms a little. Then he starts thrusting into you. His hips rocking up and down, your gasps turning to moans as you become accustomed to him.

He speeds up, and reaches down to rub at your clit. As soon as he touches it you can feel your climax coming again. Your back arches and your moans turn to screams of release. Your eyes roll back and your head swims when suddenly he pushes into you, hilting himself again as rope after rope of hot cum paint your insides.

You rest there for a moment, both panting and gazing into one another's eyes. He starts again, pumping his hips in and out, sending your eyes rolling again as your overworked cunt leaks a mixture of your fluids. He rolls you onto your stomach and lifts your hips a little. You squeak at the new sensations but you're too exhausted to say anything more than that as his cock drives into you again and again. He goes on two, three, four more times, each time filling you with more of his molten cum and each time only giving you seconds to recover before starting again.

At last he pulled out, and the last thing you remember before falling back to an aching sleep was him kissing your cheek "Good pet" he whispered, "We'll have plenty of time to train you, won't we?"

By the time you awoke, he was gone. As silently as a dream. You wouldn't have believed it were your belly not still slightly swollen and his cum not still dripping from your pussy through the next day.

That was three months ago, since then you would wake from your dreams at least twice a week to him, sometimes with his fingers in you, sometimes his tongue, sometimes with his cock down in your pussy or down your throat.

You don't think you ever want to move out

[imnotkaizer]

slip up. jujuwatkins x reader.

wc 1.7k

during one of your teams live, you accidentally exposed your relationship with juju watkins whos on the opposing team.

you always knew dating juju was risky, not because she wasnt worth it, God, she was so worth it, but because of the rivalry, the pressure, the eyes constantly watching both of you.

UConn versus USC, But still , she caught your heart like a no-look pass, and ever since that moment at Team camp, things had never been the same.

every stolen glance during practice. every whisper over facetime late at night, every quiet moment in hotel rooms when your teammates were asleep and you were curled up on the phone with her, just listening to her breathe.

nobody could know, thats what you both promised.

but your teammates found out eventually, maybe it was the way your phone always lit up with her name, maybe it was the secret smile you had whenever USC played and you saw her drop thirty like it was nothing, but your UConn girls, they knew, and surprisingly, they didnt judge, they actually protected your secret like it was their own.

“i mean, its juju watkins” Ice teased once “i'd risk my scholarship too.”

you laughed it off, because what else could you do? As long as the media didnt know, everything was fine.

but then came that night, you were chilling in your dorm, exhausted from back to back practices, some of the girls had just wrapped up a workout and decided to go on instagram live while you were half dozing on the common room couch, you didnt even realize the phone was rolling, you didnt notice the red circle, didnt hear the comments flooding in.

you were just... tired, tired and aching in the space only JuJu could fill, so when someone mentioned USC in passing, you sighed and mumbled, without even thinking “i miss juju so much…”

the room froze, you blinked, sat up “what?”

kk's eyes widened, nika slapped her forehead, ice started laughing “that was live” she said between gasps “that was on live, girl.”

your heart stopped “what?” the phone was still in kk’s hand, comments blowing up the screen like fireworks.

“Wait, JUJU WATKINS?”

“UConn girl dating USC???”

“NO WAY this ain’t real!”

“We need receipts!!”

“Did she just say she misses JuJu???”

panic set in. Your chest tightened. Your fingers trembled as you reached for your phone, already seeing the notifications.

texts from JuJu.

|babe??

|what happened???

|theyre tagging me like crazy right now…

|tell me whats going on.

|are you okay??

you didnt even know how to answer, the rest of the night was a blur, your Instagram was swarmed, people were either shipping you two like it was a damn fanfic or trashing you for “disrespecting the rivalry”

you curled up in your room, overwhelmed and silent, until your phone rang again, it was her.

you almost didnt pick up, almost, but her voice was the one thing that grounded you “hey.” you closed your eyes “im sorry, i didnt mean to—”

“i know” she said softly “i know you didnt”

you swallowed “they werent supposed to find out like that, i was tired, i wasnst even thinking…”

juju was quiet for a moment, then “you miss me?” your heart cracked open “so much it hurts.” she laughed gently, but it had a shaky edge to it “i miss you too, baby.”

You stayed on the phone for a long time that night, she made you laugh through your tears, told you she didnt care what anyone thought, that she’d be damned if she let the media take away what you had “let them talk” she said “we’ve been hiding too long.”

“but what about Coach? what about your team?”

“they dont pay rent in my heart” she said, her voice fierce now “you do.”

the next day, she posted a picture.

it was from that weekend in L.A, when you visited her under the radar you were in her hoodie, smiling into her neck, and she had her arms around you like she never wanted to let go.

Caption: " my love."

the internet went wild, your names trended for two straight days, USC’s media team had to release a statement, UConn’s PR scrambled to shift the story to the “power of love and sportsmanship” angle, but you?

you finally breathed, because after months of hiding in shadows, you could finally walk in the light with her.

and when UConn played USC later that month? The energy in the arena was electric, every camera was on you two when you locked eyes across the court, she winked, you smirked.

—ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁

later That Night, the hotel room is dimly lit, warm and quiet, a stark contrast to the chaos of the outside world, the city hums beyond the window, headlights flashing against the curtains, but none of it matters in here, in here, its just you and her, no cameras, no rivalry, no expectations, just the two of you and the weight of everything you held back for far too long.

she drops her duffel bag by the door, rolling her shoulders like shes finally letting go of the tension from the game, you watch her from where your sitting on the edge of the bed, your hoodie pulled over your knees, feeling the familiar ache in your chest, its the same feeling you always get when you have to love her in stolen moments, when time together is measured in whispers instead of forever.

she notices the candles flickering on the nightstand, the soft glow making shadows dance along the walls, a slow smile tugs at her lips.

“you remembered the candles” she murmurs, stepping closer.

you nod “figured we deserved a little peace.”

her eyes darken slightly as she stops in front of you, theres something different in the air now, charged, heavy with unspoken words, her fingers reach for your chin, tilting your face up to hers “this feels like home” she whispers.

“i hated leaving you after the game” you admit, your voice muffled against the fabric of her hoodie "every time i saw you out there, i just wanted to” you pause, breathing her in “i wanted to run to you.”

she kneels in front of you, her hands slipping under your hoodie, fingers tracing slow, familiar patterns against your skin “i felt the same way” she murmurs, her breath warm against your lips ��every time we locked eyes, I forgot the scoreboard even existed.”

her confession makes your chest tighten, you cup her face, thumbs brushing over her cheekbones, memorizing the way she looks at you in this moment, completely yours “kiss me” you whisper.

she doesnt hesitate, the first kiss is slow, like shes relearning the shape of your lips, the way you sigh against her mouth, but theres something behind it, something deeper, more desperate, a kind of need that has been building for months, stretching between late night calls, secret hotel rooms, and quick touches stolen in empty hallways.

her hands slip under your hoodie again, pushing it up inch by inch until you lift your arms and let her pull it over your head, she stares at you, eyes dark and hungry, before she leans in again, her lips pressing to your collarbone, your shoulder, the soft curve of your neck.

“you drive me crazy” she murmurs against your skin.

your fingers curl in the fabric of her hoodie, tugging her closer “then do something about it”

she laughs, a low sound that sends shivers down your spine, and then she’s pushing you back against the mattress, her body fitting perfectly between your legs, the kisses turn rougher, more urgent, her hands map out familiar territory, your ribs, your waist, the small of your back, until theres nothing between you but heat and longing.

clothes are shed slowly, deliberately, every inch of exposed skin is met with reverent touches, like shes worshipping you, her name tumbles from your lips in a breathless whisper when her mouth finds the places she knows drive you insane, she takes her time, drawing out every reaction, savoring every gasp and shudder like shes memorizing you all over again.

when she finally gives you what you need, its overwhelming, you arch into her touch, your hands tangled in the sheets, your breaths coming in broken, desperate whispers of her name, she holds you through it, her lips never straying far from yours, grounding you even as she completely unravels you.

the night stretches on, tangled limbs and whispered confessions, bodies moving in sync, slow and deep and intoxicating.

it’s love in its purest form, unhurried, consuming, endless.

by the time you collapse against her, breathless and spent, the city outside has quieted, her fingers trace lazy patterns along your spine, her lips pressing soft, lingering kisses to your temple.

“i wish every night could be like this” she murmurs, you smile sleepily, curling into her warmth “one day” you promise “it will be”

she tightens her arms around you, and for once, you let yourself believe

MORE WORKS .ᐟ

🔖 — @addl0vee @tndaqlwifwy @mrsarnold @melpthatsme @bellaprintz25 @janaelalfysblunt @ellehoops @belsoulss @apbueckers @uwupaige @janaelalfysloml @paige05bby @azzisbueckers @paigeluvvr @giavonnii @jupitermoonbaby @shootingstarrrrr @dalilahissilly @luldejamleer @d7dream @gabbyygoo @bravemode @latenighttalkinqwp

[zlut4rina]

Imy♡

Storyline: Working overnight at a busy office job wasn't everyone's cup of tea, especially not your clingy girlfriends.

Pairings: Student!Ning x Businesswoman!reader

Warnings: public sex, phone sex, dirty talk (ithink)

Note: Both are 18+, obviously, ik I said I was making ning fluff, which I am obviously, but i wanted to make it two parts, and this just came to mind for part 1. Sorre

Word count: 2k (pretty short, idk how you could make 5k+ with just phone sex 😭)

___________________________________________

You hated your job. It was one of the most insufferable places on earth. But the money was good, you needed the money. You weren’t struggling to pay rent or for food. You were actually quite ahead on your bills. The reason being was because of this job, also with the help of your pretty roommate. After the fallout between you guys and a mutual friend, she was kicked out of their house. So you decided to take her in, of course. Unlike you, she was tight on money but somehow still managed to stay in her uni without problem. Ever since then, you two have been living together, then long after you bloomed a relationship with her. She was now your girlfriend of one year and three months, and you couldn’t be happier.

Present time

While finishing up a few papers left by your boss, you noticed some unopened emails on your screen. When opening them, you see at least 5 different request sent to you by a few employers and your boss. You sigh in annoyance, having a feeling you’re going to be here a bit longer than planned. Scrolling through your inbox, skimming through everything, you finally click one and start working. That’s when a coworker walks up to you, leaning on your wall divider. “How long you plan on being here, I thought only six of us had the night shift.” His question sounded genuine with concern in his voice, looking around the office as if scanning to make sure his count was right. “Seven is an odd number y’know” he lets out a stupid chuckle, one you’ve hated for so long. Looking up at him, taking you from your concentration, you spoke. “I have extra work I need to get done. Maybe I’ll be promoted, who knows. Doubt you would.” The last remark was snarky. You gave him a sarcastic smile, turning back to your work. The man left with a scoff, not before whipping a few papers off your desk, scrambling them in the process. You clicked your teeth at this. It wasn’t anything new. It wasn’t something you weren’t used to by now.

Continuing your work, already done with three of the assignments listed to you, your phone rang. Feeling the buzz on your thigh, you take it out, to your realization it was your girlfriend. You turn your head to the bottom corner of your computer screen to check the time. Seeing it was two hours past when you’d usually be home, a bit of sadness washed over you. Picking up the phone, you put it to your ear. “Hey baby, sorry I’m not home yet. I’ve got extra work I’ve gotta get done.” You spoke quietly into the speaker of your phone. Not to draw attention to yourself, your coworkers were all across the room, some just a row behind you. “It’s fine. I was just worried, is all” your girlfriend said, shuffling in bed, to get comfortable. “How long till you can come home, I miss you” she said in a whiny tone, her voice a bit hoarse due to being tired. She must’ve just woken up, you thought to yourself before answering her. “A while, baby, not too long, though. Don’t miss me too much, cutie.” You chuckled a bit as you spoke, earning a playful whine from the other side of the phone. “Hey I’m gonna connect my headphones so I can finish this work, okay, cutie?” The other girl responded in a hum as you pulled out your airpods and connected them to your phone. I'm sitting right next to your keyboard as you get back to work.

Half an hour had passed with you giggling and snickering at your phone. Finishing some more work, the other end of the call was a bit silent sometimes. She didn’t answer you with words mostly with hums or a few “uh huh’s” there wasn’t a problem in that at all, she was probably sleepy I mean its way passed 10 so of course she’s a bit less talkative. “I miss you” suddenly the other side of the phone spoke. Your eyes widened a bit, taking you out of your trance, and the corner of your lips formed a small grin. “I wish you were here right now” your girlfriend spoke in a soft tone. Barley able to hear her. “Me too, baby. I hope you're keeping the bed warm for me when I get home.” You let out a soft chuckle as she giggled quietly. Once again, you heard shuffling through the phone her sighs we slightly audible too. “Are you sleepy?” You asked after the other end went silent. It took a while to gain a response from her. “No, I can’t sleep, not yet” You laughed a bit at her words. Between the two of you, Ning was very clingy she held onto you like a lost puppy. You two were always together. She would even follow you to the bathroom sometimes. She loved being your little spoon, too, anytime you two cuddled. “You should sleep, love, I won’t be home till maybe around one in the morning” saying this caused you to frown. You really wanted to be in bed right now. Holding your favorite girl, planting sweet, soft kisses on her. But no, you just HAD to notice those emails. “I tried, I need you here, holding me. Your arms wrapped around me, I need you.” Hearing her voice, she sounded so needy, desperate. She really did need you, especially at this very moment.

“I miss you too. I can’t stand being away from you for this long. I haven’t kissed you in forever.” You whined out quietly. It really has been long, seeing as two of your coworkers have already left and headed home. “There’s a lot you haven’t done to me in a while …” the other side spoke, catching you off guard. You froze. Ruffling and strange movements were heard from your phone. It lasted a while, too. Coming to your senses, you finally connected a few dots “Like what baby” you asked in a mocking tone, smiling to yourself as well. “I think you know” her voice was husky, yet her words flew out smoothly. “Hmm I’m not sure. Maybe you could refresh my memory?” You teasingly asked her, your smiling becoming a bit bigger. “Fuck why can’t you just get here already ..” She let out a sharp sigh as she spoke. You giggled at her words, she really does miss you huh “So impatient baby, hmm I wonder what would I be greeted with if I were there right now.” You leaned back in your chair, you felt a bit cocky in this moment crossing your arms behind your head. “Your very needy, wet, horny and spread girlfriend that’s what” you could hear her soft sighs and whines through your headphones. It was a bit too quiet for your liking so you turned your volume up. “That’s a sight to see y’know, fuck I’d love to be there right now and ruin you. I bet that’s what you want huh, my fingers deep inside your aching pussy” a few moans were heard along with a few wet sounds from her fingering her pussy. “Your so disgusting, touching yourself at this hour, begging to be fucked senseless”

Giggling to yourself in the moment you check your surroundings, seeing nobody is paying you any mind you continue to focus in your desperate lover. “I bet you can’t wait for me to get home. Can’t wait for me to fucking ruin that pretty body of yours.” You bit your lip at the thought of it, sighing to yourself. Your girlfriends’ moans were getting louder, you heard a soft thud as your girlfriend placed her phone down beside her. “Fuck, I need you so bad right now!” Ning wasn’t really the time to vocalize her needs like this, she was quieter and let her body do most the talking when it came to sex between you two. Seeing this side if her changed something in you. You had to get this side out of her more often. “I can’t really hear you that well though baby, doesn’t sound like you miss me that much.” You tease her tilting your head placing your chin in your hands, staring at your computer screen. Imagining what she looks like right now. “You wanna hear how bad I need you, yea?” She took her phone in hand and turned her camera on. The camera facing the ceiling, before she slowly brought it down to her milky fingers going in and out of her drenched pussy. You could only stare at your screen, has she lost her mind ? This isn’t the same girl a few hours ago. This isn’t the same girl you gave breakfast in bed to earlier. Snapping you out of your thought, she moved her camera in all angles giving you the greatest views of her soaking wet body. “Fuck baby, see? See how bad I need you right now, you’re telling me work is more important than pleasing this?” her voice became higher in pitch the more she went on, bucking her hips into her hand. So desperate for more, so desperate for you.

The sound of her moans and the way her body moved into her hand was driving you crazy. That should be you. You should be the one pleasing her right now. Except you're stuck here watching your pretty girl work for her orgasm. Licking you’re lips at the sight, your hand slowly went down to your pants, unbutton them swiftly. Looking around the office for any wandering eyes. Your hands slipped down to your soaking panties circling your clit slowly. A soft sigh left your lips as you closed your eyes gently. Your motion on yourself fastening, closing your legs ever so slightly due to the feeling rushing inside you. “Baby ..” you whispered head falling down, biting your lip a little. Roughly enough to leave a mark. Moving from your panties you put your hand inside playing with your wet fold. Slowly teasing your entrance, moving your fingers in and out, but not the full length of them. Your girlfriends’ moans were louder than before the camera shaking, hips bucking up and down. Her tiny whines and quiet curses driving you nuts. “You close baby?” you asked working your fingers in yourself. “mhm …” She answered her voice whiney and needy. Flipping the camera she faced it to her exposed chest, cupping one breast and playing with her nipple. Of course taking her hand away from her heat upset her a bit, but she knew you loved seeing her touch herself. Just for you and nobody else. “So pretty baby, you look so good. Fuck I wish I was there to taste you” your words making her whine and bite her lip, putting her fingers back into her soaking wet pussy. “I wanna feel your tongue deep inside me, taste how good you make me feel.” You couldn’t help the moan that escaped your lips, and honestly you didn’t care if anyone heard. Your too focused on the beautiful piece of art in front of you to care.

Your pace with your fingers quickened inside you, spreading your legs a little wider for easier access. Biting your lip to conceal your moans, you threw your head back against the head of your chair. Phone in one hand and the other in your pants. You could feel your climax reaching near. You could tell she was close too with the way her body was moving and how fast her hand had gotten. “You better cum baby, just for me, ruin those sheets” you gritted your teeth together and you felt closer and closer to the edge having forgotten all about your work, the time, and if the people around you were aware of your little situation. “Fuck baby I’m so close, I wanna cum in your mouth all over your face.” Her words sent you over the edge cumming all over your hands and in your pants. You wanted to close your eyes but you couldn’t look away from her perfect body and how it reacted to finally releasing all that built up tension in her code. She let out high pitched moans and cute whines as she came, not stopping after wetting her fingers she played with her clit a little more. The fast circles she was rubbing on herself made her squirt all over the bed her camera catching all of it. Her body squirmed at the pleasure and release. The call was almost quiet, all that could be heard was the heavy breaths your girlfriend was taking. Her small gasp and her little whimpers. You watched all this go down, finally growing tired of waiting you buttoned your pants up and packed your things to head out and head home to your girlfriend. “Fuck, hurry home, okay? I miss you” your girlfriend said before ending the call.

___________________________________________

[ghostlyglimmer]

The Fun Zone Part 1

You can find more chapters here

Summary:

Danny Fenton’s part-time job at The Fun Zone—a chaotic arcade and entertainment center that’s secretly a gang front—was going great until a certain vigilante stormed in to shut the place down.

Danny Fenton leaned against the register at The Fun Zone, his eyes half-lidded with the bored expression of someone who had already been on shift for far too long. The arcade’s lights flickered with their usual neon brilliance, and the sound of pinball machines, whirring go-karts, and kids screaming in the indoor playground provided a steady background cacophony. It was chaos incarnate, but Danny didn’t mind. The job paid surprisingly well for a Gotham gig, and it let him afford textbooks and a halfway decent apartment.

That, of course, didn’t make up for the downsides—namely, the fact that the place was a gang front. Danny had figured it out about two days in. The suspicious packages delivered after hours, the shady clientele that frequented the private lounge, and the way his manager, “Big Sal,” always seemed to have armed goons lurking nearby. None of it really phased him. As long as he kept his head down, he didn’t see any reason to care.

But apparently, the local vigilantes did.

“Hey, kid,” a gravelly voice startled Danny out of his stupor. He looked up to see the Red Hood himself looming over the counter, his arsenal on full display. Guns, knives, and explosives hung from his tactical gear, his crimson helmet reflecting the pulsing lights of the arcade.

Danny blinked. “Welcome to The Fun Zone. Can I get you a family pack for laser tag, or are you just here to threaten the boss?”

Red Hood’s head tilted slightly, his helmet hiding what Danny assumed was either a glare or the equivalent of a facepalm. “You know this place is run by a gang, right?”

“Yeah,” Danny deadpanned. “And they pay me twenty bucks an hour plus tips. Do you want to buy tokens or not?”

Hood seemed taken aback, the air of intimidation slipping just a little. “Do you even care that they’re criminals?”

“As long as they don’t ask me to do crime, I’m good. Rent’s expensive, man.”

Before Hood could respond, the double doors to the bowling alley burst open, and in stormed Big Sal, flanked by his usual goons. Sal was a mountain of a man, with slicked-back hair and a perpetual sneer that seemed permanently etched into his face. His eyes narrowed as they landed on Hood.

“Well, well, if it isn’t the Red Hood,” Sal growled. “You’ve been poking around my turf for weeks. You think you can just walk in here?”

Hood drew a pistol in response. “I don’t think. I act.”

The goons raised their weapons, and Sal barked out orders, but before the situation could escalate further, Danny loudly cleared his throat.

“Hey!” he said, waving a hand lazily. “Can you guys not do this in front of the register? I just mopped over here.”

Both Sal and Hood turned to stare at him.

“What?” Danny shrugged. “If there’s going to be a shootout, at least take it to the parking lot. I’m not cleaning up blood.”

Hood’s shoulders shook with what might have been a laugh, though his voice remained gruff. “You’re way too calm about this.”

“First week on the job, I had to break up a fight between two dads who got into a brawl over mini-golf,” Danny replied flatly. “This? This is Tuesday.”

Hood holstered his pistol, much to Sal’s visible annoyance. “You’re a weird kid, you know that?”

“Thanks,” Danny said. “So, if you take over this place, do I still get to keep my job?”

Sal sputtered indignantly. “You little—”

“You shut up,” Hood snapped, leveling a finger at the gang boss before turning back to Danny. “If I take over, yeah, you can keep your job. Might even give you a raise for putting up with this crap.”

“Cool,” Danny said, as though he hadn’t just witnessed a life-or-death standoff. “Want a soda while you’re here? Employee discount means I can get it for like, fifty cents.”

Hood stared at him for a long moment before shaking his head. “I’m starting to think you’re the most dangerous person here.”

Danny smirked. “Nah, I’m just good at customer service.”

As Hood turned back to deal with Sal, Danny leaned against the counter again, sipping a soda he’d poured for himself.

The standoff between Red Hood and Big Sal continued, the tension thick enough to cut with a knife. Danny, however, remained entirely unfazed, sipping his soda and watching the drama unfold as if it were a reality TV show. His coworkers, who had been hiding behind various attractions, occasionally peeked out to catch glimpses of the action. None of them seemed inclined to intervene. Not that Danny blamed them—this was well above their pay grade.

Big Sal, realizing that Red Hood wasn’t going to back down, snarled and gestured to his goons. “You think you can just walk in here and take what’s mine? This is my turf, Hood!”

Hood’s voice was calm but laced with menace. “Not anymore, it’s not. You’ve been running weapons and drugs through this place for months. The Fun Zone’s under new management now. So, unless you want to end up in Arkham—or worse—you’ll walk out of here while you still can.”

Sal bared his teeth, but before he could respond, one of his goons hesitated and took a step back. “Uh, boss? Maybe we should listen. It’s… it’s Red Hood.”

Sal shot the man a glare that could curdle milk. “Coward.”

Hood tilted his head toward the exit. “Smart guy. He should take you with him.”

The goon glanced nervously at Sal, then at Hood, and bolted toward the doors. A few others followed, their loyalty clearly not strong enough to stick around for what was about to happen.

Danny watched the exodus with mild amusement. “Wow, Sal. You really inspire loyalty, huh?”

“Shut up, kid!” Sal barked, his face red with anger. “You’re on thin ice.”

Danny raised his hands in mock surrender. “Just saying. If I were you, I’d consider an employee morale retreat or something.”

Hood let out a low chuckle, his guns still trained on Sal. “You’ve got guts, kid. I’ll give you that.”

Danny replied with a shrug. “So, what’s the plan here, Hood? Are you shutting this place down, or do I need to update my résumé?”

Hood’s answer was interrupted by a sudden crash from the go-kart track. Everyone turned to see a group of kids who had somehow bypassed the barricades and were now gleefully racing around, oblivious to the standoff happening mere feet away.

“Seriously?” Hood muttered, lowering his weapons slightly. “This place is chaos.”

“Welcome to The Fun Zone,” Danny said with a wry smile. “Where the games never stop, even during a hostile takeover.”

Hood let out a heavy sigh, clearly debating whether this was worth his time. Finally, he holstered his weapons and gestured for Sal to leave. “You’ve got 24 hours to pack up and get out. If I see you here after that, you won’t be walking out.”

Sal opened his mouth to argue but thought better of it. He stormed out, slamming the doors behind him, leaving Hood, Danny, and a scattering of terrified employees behind.

Hood turned back to Danny. “You still want to work here?”

Danny shrugged. “Depends. You hiring?”

Hood stared at him for a moment before shaking his head in disbelief. “You’ve got nerve, kid. Fine. You’re hired—you get a fat raise and fewer shady dealings. Just… try not to question too much about what happens in the backroom.”

“Cool,” Danny said, finishing his soda. “Do I get a new uniform, or do I keep the one with the mustard stains?”

Hood sighed again, rubbing his temples. “I’m already regretting this.”

Danny grinned. “Welcome to management, boss.”

[annwrites]

⸻ billy hargrove being in love with you would include:

at first, he'd be unbelievably irritated over it.

and he most certainly would not initially admit that what he feels is love.

no, it's just a stupid fucking crush.

you just happen to get his dick hard—that's it.

but why, then, can't he get you out of his fucking head—off his mind?

like, why does he want to hold your hand, & cuddle you, & say sweet shit to you?

admitting it is not something he would ever do up-front.

instead, he'd, quite honestly, prob be a bit mean to you over it. somehow feeling like it's your damn fault.

but, when he sees how his words hurt you, he fills with guilt & does what he can do undo it/dial it back.

so, he offers to start giving you rides to & from school.

maybe even makes invitations to hang out—just not at his house. he doesn't want his dad ruining whatever the fuck he has, or, at the very least, wants to have with you.

so, you guys go to the starcourt mall, or the movies, or hawkins video to rent something to take back to your place to watch, or to the hawkins arcade, etc.

he just needs an excuse to spend extra time with you that isn't strictly in a classroom.

and he buys you things: pays for your movie ticket & snacks, pays for the movie you rent for the night, buys you gifts from the mall, etc.

and by insisting it's not a big deal—kind of like a self-fulfilling prophecy—he makes it one by stressing how much it really doesn't matter. it's just a few bucks.

in time, he offers to teach you how to drive his car.

just likes that he'll get credit for being the one to teach you how to drive in-general.

the more time you spend together, the more intimate he gets.

he's been flirtatious & handsy the whole time, but being 'sweet on you' is different.

it includes soft, nervous touches on his part with shaking, uncertain hands, waiting for you to mock him for it.

when you don't, he starts paying you nice compliments, like how he likes what you're wearing, or that your hair is really cute today.

starts holding your hand in public & around school, too.

speaking of intimate, he's usually rough when it comes to sex, to keep up that masculine façade, until he shyly asks you if you want to try ❝y'know, makin' love, or whatever the fuck❞.

and everything is slow and sweet and gentle & he lies in your arms afterward with his head resting between your breasts and he just feels so safe & loved & wanted & cared for.

is 100% the jealous type, so don't even think about hanging out with other guys. he needs that security in knowing you won't abandon him, too.

he, in time, tells you—begrudgingly—about his childhood & his mom. he tries to brush it off, but really wants you to give a shit. and when you do—hold him & tell him how sorry you are—he knows that he's fallen entirely.

it scares the shit out of him, though. because he's not like other guys: hearts & chocolates (he's capable of being a sweetheart, but because he hates himself so much, he can't see it). he's terrified of becoming his dad. what if he's not the best thing for you? what if he hurts you? the list is endless.

but when he thinks of being alone again? of losing you? he can't let that happen.

so, he says it. those three words. and he feels like he might vomit when he does.

and then you say it back and he cries.

once the two of you graduate, he works his ass off to get you a nice home or apartment.

he wants to leave hawkins as whole & take the two of you out west.

and you get there.

and he returns to surfing & teaches you as well.

he loves sharing it with you.

and once the two of you are comfortable & settled, he pops the question.

he's a trembling, breathless mess while doing it, but he gets through it.

and once you've had some time to enjoy married life, it inevitably happens (he gets you knocked up)!

he promptly freaks out.

then spends all his free time working on a nursery.

snaps at you when you try and help put anything together.

❝you need to be in bed with your feet up, or something. just let me take care of it, alright?❞

he just wants you to be pampered, in truth.

but once your little one has entered the world?

dad mode all the way.

he's always holding it, helping change diapers (even if he bitches about them sometimes), changing its clothes, playing with it (loves this part—always a huge smile on his face, especially when the baby is smiling, too).

he becomes everything his dad never was: a good man. and he has the love of a good woman that he knows is his forever.

until death do you part.

[seamistgale]

Bernard was being haunted.

His sus-o-meter isn't up to 100%, but if he's being real, it never is. The downside of being into conspiracy theories was that you were only partially sure which one was more skewed than the other. One day he could be convinced Batman is more cryptid than man, and then he'd stumble on some fascinating witness accounts that make him rethink the Vampire hypothesis.

This time, however, he's fairly sure this sort of freaky shit only happens to people in those cookie-cutter horror movies.

… Except this particular ghost might be of midwestern decent, or something, because they sucked at properly haunting.

Example number one:

It was rare that Bernard had dishes piled up. He lived alone, and occasionally Tim would come to his apartment; with a couple of games, some takeout boxes, and a movie later, there would be way more things to clean up than a whole weekend on his own.

The last time Tim came over, Bernard didn't bother cleaning up for the night, and then the trash just…. Disappeared.

Not like 'a burglar broke in for some weird fetish reason, and my trash is now gone' gone, but more 'the trash is in bags, the dishes are clean, and I swear the air smells fresher' gone.

That was strike one.

He brushed it off because Tim had been there. It was unlikely he just went on a stress cleaning spree at Bernard's place but… Well, Bernard's caught him doing way weirder shit. It's fine.

(it's not fine. You just didn't move things around on someone else's turf.

"…Clean up?" Tim echoed back from the phone, sounding as confused as Bernard felt the following morning. "I-- no, of course not!" and then hurriedly continued to reassure Bernard he'd never do that. Because Tim was nice like that, even after Bernard low-key accused him of giving him the Gotham equivalent of pissing in someone else's yard.

So, that was strike one in the back of his hindbrain that something was up.)

Strike two and three came together.

See, in Gotham's economy, sometimes your employer doesn't have your paycheck the week it should be. Who cares if you need to pay rent through or your landlord will double your rent? Neither your boss nor the landlord in question, obviously. So what he usually did was have a nest egg the size of his rent just in case.

But this month Bernard had splurged a little too much, so he was short. It was nothing big, he was just five bucks short.

The issue was, that his landlord was paranoid and was already breathing down his neck for not paying the next month's rent the day before the new month started. Like clockwork, his landlord put a warning under his door, ready to evict him the same day the month started if Bernard didn't have the rent in cash the next morning.

He knew the eviction notice was at the door, but chose to ignore it because it didn't matter, he'd get those five one way or another by the end of the day.

By the time he came back, two things were out of place. The first was the eviction notice on his table. Again, no one moved someone else's shit around.

Strike three happened while counting his nest egg, and would you look at that! He had more money than he'd counted. Nothing ridiculous, just… He had those five bucks now.

All these little things were easy to miss, or misremember, but Bernard was not most people. But the catch here was… All these things were good things. Sort of.

So not only was this happening when he wasn't around, but they were happening to his… Advantage? He'd even call it good fortune if one was willing to ignore the lack of privacy… And maybe he would have, if this wasn't Gotham. Privacy was a mix between a luxury and a currency. Sometimes a kindness.

In some ways maybe it would have been an effective scare tactic, to mess someone's shit up, but this was not the way he'd personally go about it if he wanted someone to leave the building.

So here Bernard was, staring again at the dishes he had placed as bait, because he wasn't an idiot and tempting a ghost into anything remotely violent was stupid. The dishes were cleaned.

He squinted at the ceiling, then at the rest of his apartment, trying to gauge whether trying to make first contact was going to get him more haunted, killed, or turn him into a Saturday morning cartoon.

Finally, he picked up a cup. Not a glass cup, because why would he give the ghost any ammunition, but a couple of fairly clear plastic cups, a marker, two sticky notes, and filled both cups with tap water decently enough so a mild tremble would be noticeable.

The first sticky note said "Yes", and the second, predictably, said "No."

"So." Bernard sat in front of the cups, feeling halfway like a dumbass for doing this in the first place, and halfway like he's about to do the worst decision of his life because it might just work. "You from out of town, or are you just really shitty at this?"

[sophiethewitch1]

What We Want - Chpt. 1 - Not Quite An Isekai

In Which A Romantic Breaks The Universe

(Yandere!batboys x f!reader) 18+ MDNI!

SUMMARY

Another lonely birthday, another empty year. You miss your family. You're late for your bills and rent, and even then, you got robbed last Tuesday.

Still, you buy yourself a cupcake, because you need it. I mean, hey. What's dessert for if not to get over cheating boyfriends and dead relatives?

As you blow out the candle, watching the clock switch from 11:59 pm to midnight of the next day, you make a wish.

And because the world doesn't like to make much sense, it comes true. Your life is suddenly flipped on a dime, and you're stuck trying to catch up with it. Fantasy becomes reality. You're a Wayne now, apparently. Or you used to be. You're loved, you're rich, you're talented and powerful.

Well, sort of. Careful what you wish for, right?

(TRIGGER WARNINGS AND MASTERLIST HERE)

PREV - NEXT

You awake to the sound of your phone ringing. You slap to the edge of your couch, aiming for the rickety side table. Your wrist smacks against the corner, and you hiss in pain. It’s a few inches too high, and wood, not metal. Seems you somehow got to your bed during the night, but you didn’t remember it. Still, you get your phone. Through squinted eyes, you find the screen, its 3:15, far too early for your drunken suffering- Wait no, it’s mid-afternoon. Still, you feel tired, and you want to sleep.

You answer the phone anyway, putting it on speaker and resting your head back against the pillow. Your head doesn’t hurt that bad anyway. God was smiling down on you today.

“Miss, are you awake?” a man’s voice rings through your apartment.

Who was that? Who called you Miss of all things? Your boss didn’t remember your name sure, but he just called you ‘intern’ instead. You’d been an official employee for six months now. Right, conversation, paying attention, replying like a normal person.

“Hm, yeah, I’m awake,” you say, fighting back the urge to yawn.

“You don’t sound very awake, Miss,” the man replies, his tone familiar.

“Who is this?”

He sighs, “Miss, are you being sarcastic?”

“What? No, I’m serious,” you confusedly answer.

“…This is Alfred, Miss. Now, Master Wayne has asked me to-”

“Master who now?” you cut this Alfred off, doubly confused now. Wayne? Like, the Wayne family? The rich, philanthropist one?

He sighs again, “I understand the relationship between the two of you is quite strained, and this is a personally difficult day for you, but he insists on seeing you. Your birthday gala starts at 7, as I’ve told you, and your assistant will be over at 4. I ask that you unblock both their accounts, as I would much rather I didn’t have to talk to you when you’re like this.”

“What?” you repeat, like the idiot you are.

“Good day, Miss. And happy birthday.”

He hangs up. You blink down at your phone. And then you roll your eyes, because oh my god are Molly’s pranks getting ridiculous. You never should have told her about your weird fascination with the Waynes, she was getting back at you hard for your drunken mistake.

You make a lot of those. Well, life goes on. You’ll put glitter in Molly’s car’s vanity mirror or something.

You turn off your phone, and let your face slam right back into your pillow. For a while, you try to go back to sleep.

…Something about this isn’t right. You, like the freak you are, take a deep inhale of your pillow. It smells like you, like the laundry soap you use, but it also smells like… Well, you don’t know. All you can think about is your new boss’s wife and her awful perfume that swallows the office space like noxious gas.

Your pillow… kind of smells like that. Your first ungodly thought is that, somehow, you spent a torrid night with your boss’s wife. The second is that Molly needs to die for her crimes.

You let your crusty, bleary, stinging eyes blink open.

Hm. Why is there a chandelier in your bedroom? You shoot upright in the bed, silk sheets falling to your lap. Silk sheets you can’t afford. You look around the room, eyes widening at the space. The bed is king-sized, while you had barely been able to afford your twin-sized mattress. The living room isn’t in the same space as the bedroom. You can’t see the kitchen and the bathroom to your right has shining marble tiles. And even then, the decoration’s are luxurious and clean, compared to your livable chaos.

You look to your left, and your mouth drops open.

A floor-to-ceiling window, showing the Gotham horizon with the morning sun. Fog and clouds twist around spiralling gothic towers, reaching down to the people down below. You’re looking out over the bay, and you can see the Narrows barely peaking through the mist, desperately clawing for any sunlight.

The sun rises on the right of your building, not the left. You don’t have a view, you’re on the fourth floor and there’s a brick building directly across from your window. You live in the Narrows.

You live in the Narrows. You press your face to the cool glass and look down. Oh my god, you can’t see the streetside. You’re too high up. You’re somehow on the opposite side of Gotham City.

Stumbling away from the window, you do your best not to touch anything, because you know it’s all too expensive for your peasant hand. Let’s start thinking… whatever was happening to you, through. Molly might kidnap you for a joke, sure, but she was barely any richer than you, and that was just because her boyfriend lived with her. She could not afford this level of fuckery.

So… so… is this, what? A big joke from the universe? Did someone else kidnap you? You have to have been kidnapped, right? Why the fuck would someone kidnap you?

Did the Joker kidnap you? Was he coming to finish you off? End your family line?

You reach down and pinch yourself hard enough you yelp. When the dazzlingly perfect apartment doesn’t disappear, it’s much harder to force yourself not to panic. Okay, okay, okay. It’s fine. This’ll be fine, and it could still be a dream. That whole pinching thing was a myth, right? Argh, maybe you should’ve listened to Molly when she was trying to get you into astral projection.

Wait, Molly!

You go back to your bed and pick up your phone.

It’s… it’s not your phone. What was this? The iPhone 27? You didn’t keep up with those sorts of things, but it looked expensive. Everything here looked expensive.

You think you’re going to go into anaphylactic shock. Wait, no, it’s hyper-something. What was it? Argh, you can’t do this right now!

You press your thumb to the ‘on’ button, and luckily whoever this phone belongs to is not worried about their privacy because there's no password. Stupidly, you look for Molly’s name in your list of contacts.

BLOCKED - ‘Bruce Wayne’

BLOCKED - ‘Damian Wayne’

BLOCKED - ‘Dick Grayson’

BLOCKED - ‘Tim Drake’

‘Alfred :)’

BLOCKED - ‘The Wicked Witch of the West’

You drop the phone. Because the floors, even in the bedroom, are marble, it shatters like glass. You make a sound like a dying chicken as you watch the piece of technology make a bouncing break for the bathroom. It slides to a stop against the giant hot tub, and you pick it up and cradle it between your palms like a newborn.

The screen still works. Even if it’s cracked to high heaven and takes multiple attempts to turn it on, it still eventually does. Thanks God, won’t forget this. You hiss as you open the contacts again, pricking your fingers against the sharp edges.

As fate commands, you click on the ‘Bruce Wayne’ contact. The description is very simple.

‘Massive dickhead. Hope you jump off a building and fall like a rock.’

You go back. Click on ‘Dick Grayson’.

‘Massive dickhead’s beloved firstborn. Most annoying man on earth congrats.’

Again. ‘Damian Wayne’ this time.

‘Massive dickhead’s massive dickhead. Demon? Grinch? Somebody kill it with fire please.’

And finally, ‘Tim Drake’.

‘The only acceptable one.’

…Well, at least your kidnapper liked one of the Waynes. Maybe they kidnapped you because you were their opposite or something? You definitely wouldn’t call Bruce motherfucking Wayne a massive dickhead. Or maybe they wanted to kill you.

The Molly prank idea was becoming more sound. Maybe she won the lottery and didn’t tell you.

You click on ‘Alfred :)’. He’s the one that called you earlier and also called you ‘Miss’, for some reason.

It’s just a bunch of heart emojis. Coherent, sure.

You go back, and click on the final of the list, ‘The Wicked Witch of the West’.

‘Don’t listen to Alfred. She wants to eat you.’

She wants to what?

A knock at the door has you jumping a foot in the air and nearly banging your head on the bathtub’s lip. You hear someone call your name through the door, and you freeze. Who… how? They call your name again, this time their voice louder. They bang on the door.

You creep over to the door.

“Ma’am, if you don’t open this right now, I’m quitting! We both know Alfred contacted you this morning, and he’s going to be very upset if I do so. There’s only so many assistants in this city!” from this close, you can recognise the voice belongs to a woman. She rattles the doorknob.

You lean down, peering through the peephole. The woman has a harsh face, a perfect pencil suit and her blonde hair in a pretty updo. Her makeup is impeccable. You get the feeling this woman is also more expensive than you can afford, despite her calling your name.

Bewildered, you open the door. She slams through like a battering ram, strutting 6-inch stilettos into the space.

She huffs, and then turns around. You can see very clearly she’s trying to keep her calm, but you did leave her at the door for like five minutes. It wasn’t your fault, you thought you were hallucinating or something.

“Ma’am,” she stresses the word, “Please unblock me.”

You blink at her, “Uh, sure.”

She waits, her hands clasped together in front of her.

“Oh- oh, right now?” you stutter, pulling the phone out from your noticeably lavish pyjamas.

Wait had someone changed you in your sleep? What the hell was going on? Maybe you should be more concerned about that, honestly. Still, you do as she commands.

She watches you like a hawk as you stare at the cracked phone. Your eyes flick up at her, and then back down at the screen. Slowly, watching for her reaction, you unblock ‘The Wicked Witch of the West.’ She nods, not even commenting on what was apparently her name in ‘your’ phone.

You were still slightly concerned about the ‘She wants to eat you’ thing, but she seemed… alright. Kind of scary. But not cannibalistic.

Still, this was Gotham after all. A healthy dose of fear was what kept people like you alive.

“Ma’am, did you just wake up? It’s already 4 o’clock,” she gives you a subtly disapproving look, and your shoulders sink like you’re being scolded.

“Yeah- yeah, sorry about that,” you stammer, embarrassed for some unknowable reason. This really was just like a dream. You could tell something was very obviously wrong, but you were still going along with everything like it wasn’t. Everyday life.

You were going to focus on that, this had to be just a dream. Just go along with… this, and then you’d wake up. And if you could manage to get over the uncanny valley-ness of the very obvious wealth surrounding you, maybe you could enjoy it.

You had always wanted to be rich. This was just your brain spewing out random information. Better than the nightmares you usually get.

You’re abruptly pulled back into focus when the woman clears her throat loudly. Ah, shoot. Had she been talking? You definitely hadn’t been listening.

“We need to get you ready, Miss,” she says like she’s repeating herself. You nod, because yes, of course, getting ready.

Ready for what? You think if you ask her she’ll yell at you. So when she grabs your arm and tugs you along, you follow. She pulls you into the bathroom, sitting you down in front of the mirror on a stool. Because this bathroom has stools in it. You stare at your reflection warily, before glancing up at her behind you.

“The stylists will be here in about forty minutes, and the makeup artists in two hours,” she pauses, giving you a strange look, “I appreciate you being so cooperative today. I understand this is all a delicate matter, but I am under Mr. Wayne’s orders first and foremost.”

“Wayne… like Bruce? Bruce Wayne?” you ask, even though there’s really no one else it could be. Still, you have to check.

Because it’s impossible. Even if it’s a dream, it still feels completely impossible. There was just something inside you that said ‘that can’t be right’, even if you knew none of this was real.

You realise, quite late, that you don’t even know this lady's name. ‘Wicked witch’

“Yes, Ma’am. Bruce Wayne of Wayne Enterprises,” she answers you, pulling out her phone and flicking through it. She doesn’t even respond to what you have to assume is an inane question. Maybe ‘dream you’ often asks stupid questions.

‘Normal you’ certainly does.

“Oh… okay…” the conversation drifts off, and she makes no attempt to fill it. Aren’t P.A.s supposed to… you don’t know, fix that? Or maybe she’s not your personal assistant, just an assistant. Silly you, making assumptions.

This bathroom deserves assumptions. You wonder if the gold frame of the mirror is, y’know, real.

The blonde woman walks out of the room without speaking another word to you. You think maybe you should follow her, but instead you just sit there with your hands on top of your knees. Your leg bounces up and down, and you glare it into submission, ignoring the way your muscles jump.

You look at yourself. You look… different. The bags under your eyes are worse than usual, and your gaze sunken into your face. Your hair is sad and oily, knotted in places. Your skin is almost waxy.

You look sick. You look like… you remember, you look like…

In the light of the day, you refuse to think about it. You’re not allowed to, you’ll break if you do.

You just don’t. Even if your reflection just confirms that you have to be dreaming.

Instead, you turn your gaze to the tub. You raise your hand to your hair again. Back in your apartment, you’d had a shower. It was a surprisingly good shower because you’d invested in a showerhead with better pressure. Still, it wasn’t a bath.

You missed bathes. You get up, close the door, lock it, and sink inside the tub. You take off your silky pyjamas inside the bath, and then you toss them on the floor beside you. Sitting there, you watch through the giant window at the world down below. At the ravens and pigeons that fly through the fog, at the few people you can see through the windows and balconies.

You press your cheek against the glass. It’s cold. You’re cold.

You’re sitting in an empty bathtub naked. What are you doing?

Rubbing at your eyes, you reach over to what you think are the controls. They all look very complicated, but there’s a switch that goes from blue to red, so you turn that. It takes another button press for the water to start flowing out. Steam fills the room, and you let out a sigh of contentment.

“Ma’am! Ma’am, the stylists will be here in ten minutes, and you need to get out. Ma’am? Ma’am!”

You shoot up in the bath, splashing water over the overflowing sides. Blinking, you turn your head back and forth and then sink back down. Oh. You’re still here. You went to sleep, but you’re still here. Maybe it’s one of those dreams where you think you wake up, but you haven’t. Or, ah, something similar.

You feel so tired. You really, really didn’t miss this feeling.

Quickly, you wash your hair and body, scrubbing furiously at the oily sweat on your skin. You stumble out of the bath on shaky legs, dry yourself off, and almost trip in your haste to get out the door. Showing off your negligible intelligence, you only realise you’re still wearing just a towel till she manhandles you towards the closet.

A walk-in closet, because of course it is. You think it’s bigger than your apartment. It has a flat bench in the centre because evidently all the walking around you’ll be doing will require a fainting couch.

The woman gives you, horrifyingly, a set of lacy, racy underwear. When all you do is just gape at her, she sighs, takes them from your hands and gives you a simple black set with no frills. You look down at them clasped in your wet hands. They’re clean, and they seem to be your size.

Still, this is a bit…

“Are these… new?” you ask, because there’s no tag or anything.

“Yes, Ma’am. But if you want, we do have some sets still unpacked at the back of the closet,” she says, going along with your weirdness. Even if she was a bit scary, you were grateful for that, at least. You guess celebrities were usually quite eccentric, so maybe this wasn’t out of the ordinary for her.

“Yes, please.”

She gives you a pair of Victoria’s Secret bra and underwear, plain beige and still in their plastic packaging.

“Cool, sweet, thanks,” you say, and she shakes her head just slightly.

She puts a white bathrobe down, and leaves the room, closing the door behind her. You lock it, and then you put on the underwear that you did not buy. The whole experience is strange, but still, you just go along with it. You’re a go-along-with-it kind of person.

You were… you were starting to not like that all of a sudden. Still, out of your depth in an odd dream is no place to start doubting your entire personality. You put on the bathrobe too. And the fluffy slippers that are tucked under them, with great pleasure.

You hear the many voices before you open the door. When you step through it, you feel like you’ve stepped onto the set of a movie. Or well, the backstage at least. Women and men are flittering about the chic apartment in the sort of rush you’d only seen working at BatBurger.

The woman from before spots you and you feel like a rabbit under a hawk's gaze when her brown eyes narrow on you. She strides over to you and then, once again, clamps her grip around your wrist and drags you over. You wonder as you stumble after her if she’s got some meta-human in her because no slim, perfectly put-together lady should be this damn strong.

She pulls you towards a set of three people. You can immediately tell they’re the heads of the operation, with an aura that squashes you like a pancake. Two women, one man. They’re all dressed to the nines, in their own unique ways.

They all look at you with assessing glances. You fear you do not measure.

“I’m surprised, Jeanine. You actually got her this time,” a woman with a black bob and a rocker look comments, her red lips twisting into a grin. You realise, with a start, that the blonde woman who was not incorrectly nicknamed ‘The Wicked Witch of The West’ was actually called Jeanine.

Lovely, you were getting the hang of things.

“Yes, she was very agreeable this afternoon. I’d like to apologise once again for any past issues,” Jeanine says, all business. You still have no idea what’s going on, and definitely no idea what they’re talking about. But what you assumed was the jist of it… was that ‘dream you’ wasn’t a very harmonious person.

Lovely, lovely, lovely. This was a bit of a personal nightmare for a people pleaser like you. Actually, it was a literal personal nightmare. Lovely.

“The disrespect I’ve faced is immeasurable. But, Monsoir Wayne pays exceedingly well. Still, it’s nice to actually have our dear client before us,” the other woman says, appraising her french tip nails. Which, considering she said ‘monsoir’ and the whole accent, would make a lot of sense. She’s closer to a classic beauty than her punk rock friend, with brown hair coiled and beautiful pearls across her neck.

“I don’t know, I thought I’d be getting paid for doing no work tonight. Ruins my plans,” the man teases, and you’re relieved at the kindness in his gaze. He’s wearing a suit with a dazzling but trendy red tie. His tie has an odd metallic sheen to it, a fabric your peasant mind couldn’t place.

If Molly were here, she’d jab you in the stomach with an elbow and whisper “One of those homosexuals, me thinks” even if she was bi herself.

You wish Molly were here.

“Yes, well, I’d like it if we could all work together tonight. And get to it quickly, the drive to the Wayne Tower isn’t a quick one with the evening traffic, so, if you’d please.”

And that was that. No introductions, no extra pleasantries. You were swept away in a whirl of fabric and hair products.

They stuff you into a gorgeous evening gown, its colour reminding you of a sparkling midnight sky. Rhinestones dot down the sides, coalescing at the bottom. You hope they’re not real diamonds. Gloves, a bracelet, a necklace, and dripping pearl earrings. It was all impeccably put together, and you felt uncomfortable with such items on you. You didn’t dare ask how much it all cost, despite being desperately curious.

They slip towering 6-inch stilettos on you despite your protests, cake your face in enough powder to make you sneeze. Dramatic liner and eyelashes that felt heavy on your face, a lipstick that had to be coated twice because you chewed on your lip with nerves.

And then you’re done, dizzy and confused but thoroughly made up.

You get one quick look at your reflection before Jeanine is pulling you up and out of the seat.

They’d gotten rid of the signs.

You ignore the part of you that desperately wants them back and follow Jeanine out into the elevator.

Despite the fact that it is, in fact, a very long drive to the Wayne Tower, she does not seem inclined to say a single word to you. The ride is awkward and quiet, broken only by the sound of you pressing buttons in the back of limousine, and even that stops when you get an unimpressed look from her.

So you just sit there, vibrating at frequencies unseen by man.

When you finally arrive at Wayne Tower, the crowd shocks you. There are so many paparazzi, nearly overflowing the flimsy barricades and onto the carpeted marble entryway. The tower itself is a display of outrageous wealth, towering over the rest of Gotham City easily. You think for a while it’d been the tallest building in the world, but you couldn’t remember your elementary school education all that well.

It wasn’t like this information would’ve been useful at any point in your life. You still don’t think it will be, as this is all a very vivid dream.

The door opens, and immediately you’re overwhelmed by the camera flashing. You hunch away from the lights like a vampire, but Jeanine pushes you forward.

“We’re already very late, Ma’am. No time for faffing around,” she says from behind you, hand placed squarely against your back.

What? But all you’d done was rush around all afternoon! You know, if you’d just taken one of the trains or even the Skyrail you’d have been able to avoid this. Still, you’re out the door, up the steps, not given a moment to react to the questions thrown at you.

“Miss! Miss, are you here to celebrate your birthday? Don’t you think it’s a bit callous to ignore the tragedies of today?”

“Miss! Is it true you’ve been disowned?”

“Miss, miss, about your family…!”

Oh, well, even if what they’re saying is awful, it’s a relief. It’s your birthday again. You think the guy who had called you said happy birthday. That meant none of this could possibly be real. See? It had to be a dream. Had to, had to… You decide to ignore literally everything else they say, letting the words float through your very hollow brain.

Life’s a lot easier when you play it a little stupider.

The heels and the stairs are an awful combination, and if it wasn’t for Jeanine’s herculean strength you’re certain you’d be tumbling down them right now. Your assistant… secretary… lady is careful not to let that happen, however.

Maybe you judged her too quickly. You appreciated anyone who made sure you didn’t fall flat on your ass. It was a good quality for a person to have.

You don’t get to appreciate the Wayne Tower all done up. You don’t get to stare at the lights and flowers strung into the art deco rafters. You don’t get to stare and gape and look like an idiot, because Jeanine wants you to look like an idiot elsewhere.

In the middle of all these fucking random rich people you don’t know. Hurray!

You’re shoved into a group of people, with Jeanine at your back. She starts rattling off names and titles and relations, and you can’t make heads or tails of any of it. You turn to look at her with what must be a genuine deer-in-headlights fear, and she stops and then starts speaking slower.

Thank God for that. Well, since she’s making an effort, you do too.

“This is Lianne Jenkins, wife of Senator Jenkins,” Jeanine whispers into your ear, and you nod. You knew him, you’d voted for him, in fact. How the fuck were you here talking to his wife? She’s not looking at you, instead talking to someone beside her. She turns, and you put on the best smile you can.

The socialite physically startles when she sees your face. Great.

“Oh- oh my!” her voice stutters over your name like she can barely even remember it, “I didn’t know you’d be here tonight, it’s a pleasure to see you!”

It… it was your birthday party, right? Your name was on a giant banner at the back of the room, so you had to assume it was. Dream logic. Just- just blame it on dream logic.

“Oh, look it’s Gerald! I’m sorry my dear I really have to-”

And she just ditched you. At your birthday party. You blink at the space she just evacuated and then turn around to Jeanine. You probably give her some sort of weird Kubrick stare, and she winces. She then looks around for someone else for you to talk to. From the growing despair on her face, you can assume she doesn’t find anyone.

“I don’t want to be here,” you say.

“I said I’d quit, remember?” she replies. You think she’s lying to you. She looks about as desperate as you feel, which is a lot. You were seeing a lot of sides of ‘The Wicked Witch of the West’ today. She seemed less wicked and more generally insane. Hey, at least the two of you had something in common.

You turn away from her, eyes roving over the party. You recognise some people, because you know, they’re all rich and famous. That guy over there was in a movie you pirated recently. The one on your right seems to be someone important in online tech spaces. You think he did NFTs or something, which made you sad because you did not want that sort of person at your birthday party. Oh, the woman on the other side of the room eating canapes is an Instagram influencer, you think. The fantasy of a Wayne party gala is fading fast, falling out of the sky like a comet of fire to bring doom and death to mankind.

You are so out of your depth.

You turn back around to Jeanine.

“I really, really don’t want to be here,” you repeat, and Jeanine, shocking you, grabs your hands in hers.

“Please stay. Just for thirty minutes, please,” she begs you, her dark eyes pleading. And because you are the living personification of a doormat, you sigh.

“Alright. But only for thirty. And I’m getting very, very drunk.”

“Thank you, thank you. I’ll be right beside you the entire time-”

You decide, oh so kindly, that you are totally ditching Jeanine, too. Spinning in your dress, you make a grand effort to get away from her, but she dogs you loyally. The goliath-like heels you’re wearing don’t make it any damn well easier. Still, you don’t stop trying to outrun the tiny, control freak of a woman. Because while she definitely seems to desperate to stay near you, you are also very desperate to not be near her.

Your hand itches. Randomly, it itches quite a lot. You don’t know why you only notice what must be a bug bite inside the gala, but you do. Awkwardly, you scratch your palm with your other hand, staring down at the skin. It doesn’t look red yet, but it honestly it’s getting kind of annoying.

You sigh again, and turn to ask Jeanine if she had any lotion or something, because you assume that’s what stalking personal assistants are for and… she’s not there. Somehow you lost her, without even noticing.

You throw your arms into the air. Yippee! Now, it’s time for alcoholism, as is the answer to all problems in life. It’s what the loving and maternal arms of Gotham had taught you, after all.

You stumble your way to a wall where there’s a set of food, and a server with a silver platter carrying a bunch of champagne glasses. You stop the guy before he moves again, your hands in the air like you’re trying to soothe a scared animal.

You point at the tray, “I want that.”

He looks at you with mild horror. You thought rich people were weird, like he’d be used to something like this. It wasn’t like you were asking for the shirt off his back or cocaine or something. If it wasn’t obvious, you really didn’t know anything about what rich people did.

“It’s my birthday. It’s totally cool. I asked Bruce myself,” You bald-faced lie, like you’d ever even met the man. Like a predator, you watch the man carefully put the tray down next to the rest of the food, and then he slowly backs away from you. Well, okay, you could admit that was kind of weird. This night is getting to you. God knows this loud-as-fuck party was more overstimulating than anything you could usually stand. And so bright. What a shitty fairytale ball.

You grab one of the flutes of champagne and swirl it, sniff it, and then once you’ve gone through the polite checklist of drinking you throw it back like it’s a shot of vodka. There were people watching after all. Wait, they’d probably seen you corner that poor server boy.

Hmm, this requires cake. You choose a random slice that looks like it might be strawberry something, and dig in eagerly. It tastes fucking fantastic. The cream is sweet and soft, and the jam has a pop of flavour you totally weren’t expecting. And the cake itself was a lovely, spongy texture.

Grand. Maybe if you just sat here like a wallflower and ate food and drank liquor you could handle this. It wasn’t any different from how you behaved at Molly’s college parties.

So, you decide to work your way up and down the buffet table. Most of it’s delicious, but when you try things you can’t quite recognise, there’s a twenty-percent chance it’ll be disgusting and you’ll have to spit it out to avoid poisoning. You’re careful not to try the caviar, despite your own curiosity. You’d heard that it just tasted like salty water, and that didn’t mix well with whatever you were currently putting in your stomach.

You look down at your hand. It’s another piece of the sponge cake, wedged between a napkin so your dirty fingers didn’t touch it and you didn’t have to bother with another plate. You giggle, because it really is that good.

Ah, this is great. You could do this forever, screw thirty minutes. You eye the entrance the servers keep coming in and out of, and wonder if Jeanine would get mad if you tried to follow them into the kitchens. Probably, probably…

The question was, was it worth it? You’re debating the merits when the sound of someone's shoes stops next to you. You think it’s a man, and you consider barking at him to get away from the buffet, but decide you’ve tried everything and can probably share again. It takes great strength, though. You decide you deserve some more champagne for the kindness.

It’s after a moment that you realise he’s not taking anything.

“Oh, so you actually showed up? Colour me surprised,” a familiar, calm, masculine voice speaks from behind you. Your mouth drops open, and you spin on your heel. If you hadn’t been clinging to the table cloth you’d have fallen over, but still, you drop the champagne flute, and it bursts in a spray of liquid and glass against your dress.

It also splatters on the dress shoes of one Tim Drake.

First the phone, now the delicious drink. You really wished you’d stop dropping things.

MASTERLIST - NEXT

[immortalityforthegoddess]

𝐊𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐟 𝐁𝐮𝐬𝐚𝐧 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬

Alright this is what everyone voted for! Baek sang will be next 🦈

W A R N I N G S • NSFW • SFW • Manipulation • Jinrang Gang • Soft Jinrang • Possessive • And more!

• Jinrang is very welled mannered but swears like a sailer

• Jinrang is a very quiet man because he doesn't see the use of talking so much. Of course that doesn't go for you, you have a reasoning! Keep him intertaned.

• Your friends/family were shocked to meet Jinrang. He's literally a fucking tank. Your family has wanted to meet the man that buys you diamonds like they are just an every other day gift, but Lord.

• Your friends/family probably didn't know how to act, with jinrang being so quiet but his presence having so much power and authority.

• Jinrang, on the other hand, wasn't fazed at all. He was his normal chill, calm, laid-back self.

• Imagine your friends/family shocked when they learned of who he is. King of Busan.

• Jinrang wouldn't really have a 'type' mainly because he doesn't like labels.

• When you're in a relationship with Jinrang, then it has to be official; like I said, man doesn't like labels. But! Whenever he says you're his, it's not a label, it's simply a fact.

• When you first move in together, he makes it clear that rent, bills and food are all on him and that's final.

• Jinrang would differently be the type who doesn't care if you work or not but makes it known that your paycheck goes to you and you only. When you live together, he pays for everything.

• Jinrang is the type to let you decorate the house however you like, as long as it feels like home to you.

• He would 100% be a workaholic but always tried to make time for you as well.

• You're married to the king of Busan, the Jinrang gang are your besties. Baek sang and you fight for the attention of jinrang a lot even though he is YOUR husband.

• Jinrang is the type to just stare you down when a fight occurs between you two and than just walk away. He's not being rude, he just thinks you need space!

• Jinrang rarely ever wears ties because they make him feel suffocated. But will wear one if you beg enough.

• Jinrang will comfort you when your upset by simply sitting there quietly and listening to you. If your to the point of snacking and hyper ventilating than he'll sit you on his lap and just hold you.

• when you're on your period and are having bad cramps, he'll try and help by offering sex, he had red something about sex being the most accurate thing when it came to getting rid of cramps, if you refuse than he'll by you lots of medicine and chocolate.

• Jinrang is a very overprotective person when it comes to his crew and family. You being his wife, that especially extends to you; he won't let you leave the house by yourself after 8:00; when he leaves for business, and you can't come, there will always be someone from the Jinrang gang there to check up on you.

• he enjoys it when you and his pack get along. It's like a sigh of relief when he sees how well you fit in. His crew is his pack, his family so yes, they do mean a lot to him.

• Jinrang gets jealous. It's not that he doesn't trust you, it's that he doesn't trust the world.

• While he had never not wanted kids, he also has never seen himself having kids. Due to his past and all his trauma he more than likely say yes to have kids like it's nothing but inside he is freaking out, wondering how to be the best father he could be.

- 𝐍𝐒𝐅𝐖 -

• Jinrang is very gentail in bed. Well...as gentail as he can be, being built like a tank and having the cock size of nearly your forearm.

• Jinrang tries his best not to get needy or too hard, he knows that the after math of him filling up your insides are are painful to say the least, not to mention you can't walk for literal days. And even than a limp is clear as day.

• Jinrang is always at least half hard, you found it's just his nature. Plus, it's not his fault; look at you.

• Jinrang isn't one to use dildos or anything of the sort. Won't need a machine when he has a monster in his pants. (Sorry not sorry 😎)

• While Jinrang doesn't like getting anything other than you and him involved in bed, he doesn't mind when you wear lingerie. He finds it sexy.

• He enjoys moments when during sex, your so cock drunk you can only say his name.

• He's found himself getting hard all over again after sex when he sees you gentaily rubbing your sore, swollen private parts.

• If you're on your period and having bad cramps, and you do say yes to sex, he'll be so gentle and soft. Use your period blood as lube for when he enters.

• He very much loves when he can just eat you out. You on your back, legs up and around his shoulders, as his head is in between your legs, licking, biting, sucking your needy and wet folds. Gentail kisses around your entrance and on it.

• Jinrang LOVES your boobs. They're like big soft pillows. He enjoys sucking and biting your poor nipples. Leaving dark hickeys and bit marks along your them.

• Jinrang hates being interrupted during sex. One time, your friend called while he was balls deep inside of you; he proceeded to answer the call, then started pounding into you while holding the phone in his hand near you, making you scream and cry his name over and over until you orgasmed on call. Your friend was very traumatized, to say the least.

• Jinrang would be the type to manipulate his spouse into doing what he wants. You don't want sex? He's been away for so long, all he asks is for a bit of love but in a more nonchalant type of way.

• Jinrang is just as possive as he is protective. Your his to protect, provide and care for in any means necessary. So in bed he makes sure your needs and wants are always met no matter how needy he may be.

• The aftercare is very good. Cuddles, bath, more cuddles. He is very sweet and makes sure you have everything you want. He'll bring you snacks and rub your sore legs.

• he'll literally do anything for you. It doesn't matter if he is tired or anything; your wish is his command.

• overall, Jinrang and his past trauma would try very hard to take care of you, but also, sure, you didn't feel like you were on a leash. His crew/pack also approved of you which calmed his nerves a lot.