#cheap riding jacket

[leathercollectionus]

Sport Bike Racing Jacket

A superb sport bike racing jacket from Chaz Davies suit he wore to participate in WSBK 2020 from Ducati, providing the best of what a racer or a rider desires.

Sport Bike Racing Jacket

[upsidedownwithsteve]

Steve Harrington x fem!reader [4.2K] loosely based on the movie float, lifeguard!steve, a summer full of swim lessons. mentions of drowning, eventual smut 18+

SWIM LESSON SCHEDULE

LESSON #1

“Oh, come on,” the guy coaxed, voice wheedling and a little slurred. 

You didn’t really know him, a friend of a friend's cousin who was visiting from out of town but he’d been cute enough to entertain five beers ago. He’d grown sloppier now, a little leery, his hand around your wrist as he udder you towards the dock that overlooked Lover’s Lake. 

You’d dug your heels in, smiling through your teeth as you shook your head and tried not to spill the cheap wine Robin had brought down the front of your shirt. The small beach that was hidden in a cove was surrounded by trees, green in the summer, full and making the crescent moon strip of land perfect for a bonfire and for some drinking. 

There were small crowds of people all over the sandy patch, sitting on blankets and cheap camping chairs, familiar faces lit by the small fire, people you didn’t know as well lingering between, bare feet on the edge of the shoreline. 

You’d came with Eddie, riding in the front seat of his van with a rucksack full of corner store liquor on your lap, the smell of weed coming off strong from the pocket inside his leather jacket. 

“A night full of potential clients, sweetheart, please,” he’d pleaded with you, brown button eyes wide. “The Jacksons have their cousins over from the backass of Georgia, they’ll pay for the rest of our summer if I show them the good shit.”

So you’d agreed, albeit grudgingly, letting your best friend haul you off your sofa and to the get together that you didn’t really want to go to. But Robin was there, and Nancy too, a few people you hadn’t seen since senior year, back for the summer to visit their folks and well - it wasn't all bad. 

Then the evening faded into night and the lavender skies turned inky, the same shade as the lake water. And when people got a little looser, whisky and bud light warming their veins, they laughed as they stripped down to mismatched underwear and dove off the dock, splashing and shrieking in water you couldn’t see the bottom of and god—

You’d, grimaced, turning away from the shoreline and sticking close to Eddie, the boy’s arm always brushing your own even when he was busy dealing, twenties fisted in his hand as he passed over baggies to a twenty something girl you’d never seen before. 

But then that guy found you, relatively sober and sweet until he wasn’t, sloppy with his arm around your neck, breath smelling like smoke and beer and he was pulling you towards the people in the water, telling you it was all part of the fun. You’d protested immediately, intensely, eyes wide as the water came closer and your feet hit the wooden planks of the dock. 

Between the gaps, you could see black, dark water rippling, the moon overhead glinting white off the tips of the current. Eddie hadn’t noticed you were gone until the stranger had dragged you half way down the decking. Your wrist burned from how tight he held it, how hard you tried to twist it from his grasp. 

“Hey— hey!” Eddie had barked out, loud and brash and aggressive enough to make a lot of people around him startle. He broke free from the circle that had gathered around him, lips set in a snarl and determination in his eyes. You knew fine well that when Eddie got his hands on this guy, it wasn’t going to be pretty. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing? Let her fucking go—”

But Eddie couldn’t reach you in time, not when his boots dug too deep into the sand and there were too many people to push out of the way. The guy laughed at a joke you weren’t a part of and then he pushed. 

Your arms swung wildly, windmilling as gravity took over, your balance gone and you were too near the edge of the dock to do anything about it. Your hands grabbed at the air, fingertips just brushing your new acquaintances shirt and his grinning face and beer blurred eyes were the last thing you saw before you back hit the water. 

It was as dark underneath the surface of the lake as it was above it, an icy shock despite how warm the day had been, how the heat still lingered in the night. You gasped, immediately inhaling, murky water filling your mouth and throat and you kicked, hoping that the direction your hands were clawing in was up. 

But nothing happened and your body didn’t move. 

On the beach, people were murmuring, too drunk to consider the consequences, too stoned to fly into action. Besides, only seconds had passed. Bubbles were floating in the spot you’d gone under, ripples evidence of the fact that you’d once been there. Eddie was sweating, shoving at people as he ripped off his leather jacket and prepared to vault himself onto the water after you but someone at the bottom of the deck beat him to it. 

Steve Harrington had dropped his beer at the first sign of the commotion, his part in the conversation with Jonathan Byers and his friend from California dying off as he turned to watch a guy he didn’t know drag you down the dock. The stranger had been laughing but you hadn’t, and before he could say something, Steve only had a second to look at the absolute horror on your face before you were forced backwards and into the lake. 

He was on his feet immediately, facing back up the dock to where you’d disappeared from, watching wildly for signs of you returning to the surface. And then Eddie was yelling at him, pushing past some underage kids from out of town, half of his jacket hanging from his shoulders and he was yelling. 

“Steve! Steve, she can’t fuckin’ swim, man—”

If Eddie finished the sentence or said anything else, Steve didn’t hear it. He launched himself off of the side, hitting the cold water with a splash he didn’t hear. Water filled his ears and fuck, he could barely see. But somewhere a little below him there was a flash of white from your shirt that had tangled itself up around your neck, your arms flailing wildly as you tried your damn hardest to kick up the way. 

Steve had grabbed your arm, your panic making you slip before he curled his fingers around your wrist and then you were being hauled against him, your back to his chest as he moved with a confidence you could never imagine for yourself. You’d been under for a minute, maybe a little more, maybe a little less, but Steve had your head breaking the surface of the lake in seconds. You were gasping and coughing, your fingernails tattooing half moon lines in Steve’s forearm as you held onto him, fear gripping you as hard as you did him. 

You thought you’d heard his voice, a low murmur in your ear that was fuzzy from the water lodged there, from the buzz and clamour that had then awoken on the beach as the music stopped and people were gathered by the shoreline. 

Eddie had been knee deep in the water, readily meeting you and Steve as the boy swam closer with you, and once your feet hit the sandy bottom, you lurched forward, hands held out to grab Eddie’s waiting ones. 

Steve’s were on your back, keeping you upright and steady until he saw that Eddie had you. You and Steve were both dripping and Eddie was swearing, his cheeks red and his eyes wide, unsure whether to rush you to his van first or hunt down the creep that had put you in danger in the first place. 

But Nancy was rushing forward with a blanket, wrapping it around your shoulders and taking in your chattering teeth and panicked stare, the vice-like grip you had around Eddie’s fingers. “He’s gone,” she said to the boy. “He ran off when he saw Steve dive in. Just get her home, Eddie.”

Steve Harrington had ended up in the front bench with you in Eddie’s van, your shivering frame sandwiched between both boy’s and no one said anything until you all got back to Eddie’s trailer. 

You hadn’t said anything as you’d headed for a hot shower, your wet clothes slapping on the bathroom tiles as you had stripped, slimy weeds and grains of sand stuck to your cold skin and your hands were still shaking as you twisted the squeaky handle to turn the water up hotter still. 

And when Eddie was ripping his room apart for dry clothes for you and Steve to change into, his eyes watery with anger, his throat tight with rage, Steve had been leaning against his door frame with his arms crossed over his damp chest.  

“We’ll get him,” he’d said quietly, just in case you could hear above the spluttering of the old pipes. “We’ll find out who he was and— and we’ll deal with him and then I’m gonna teach her how to swim, alright?”

Eddie nodded, movements sharp and jerky and he handed Steve a pair of black sweatpants and an old Metallica shirt. 

“Alright?” Steve had repeated, chin ducked to make Eddie meet his gaze. He had been so serious. “I’m gonna give her lessons. This won’t happen again.”

The sky was still half pink as you biked down the empty sidewalk. 

A blue-lilac colour, softer than you’d usually witness due to the early morning hour. The sun was still low, the town still asleep, the watch on your wrist telling you the seven am was still to come. Your bike chain whirred softly, brakes squeaking as you slowed by the chain link fence. 

Hawkins community pool was sun bleached and well loved, the old bunting that draped over the water barely red and blue, the shutters for the food stand still rolled down and locked. The aquamarine slide was now more white and it looked like it would give you an infection if your skin was to snag on one of the exposed bolts. But the gate was open, only just, and you sucked in a deep breath as you let your bike lean against the wall. 

Chlorine filled your nose as you walked in, the generator humming and the pool filter trickling, the sun loungers empty and still stacked against the changing rooms. Despite your early wake up call, the air was already warm, a humid kind of heat that Indiana summers brought, sticky and sweet smelling, like someone had left a jug of peach tea on their porch all day. 

The tiles that surrounded the pool were wet, recently hosed down and cleaned, and your sneakers slapped noisily as you walked towards the waters edge. You didn’t go too close, not at all, grimacing at the bright blue rectangle like it would force you in itself. It seemed somehow more menacing when it was still, a glasslike surface reflecting the cotton candy sky above it, no splashing and screaming kids to fill its depths. 

Then a boy appeared - no, more man than boy - from the staff building. 

He had red shorts on, the fabric sitting above his knees and an old white shirt that you assumed must’ve once said “lifeguard.” He was barefoot and tanned, sunglasses sitting on the bridge of his nose and he didn’t even notice you at first, too busy hanging a net back onto the wall. 

Steve Harrington was pretty and tall and he had really good hair. He was quieter than when you’d know him in high school, softer looking than he’d once been. But you didn’t really know him and he didn’t really know you. But he was friends with Eddie and you were friends with Eddie, so somehow, someway, that meant you were kind of, almost friends with him too. 

Except you weren’t and you had no idea why you’d agreed to this. 

“You can change in there.”

You hadn’t expected his voice, so you startled, arms wrapping tighter around your body and crushing the small rucksack that housed your suit and towel. You frowned at the idea, because changing meant one step closer to going into the water and you weren’t quite sure you wanted to do that yet. 

So you said nothing.

Steve just watched you from across the pool, brows raised. And then he shrugged and muttered something that sounded like “suit yourself,” before he threw his sunglasses onto a plastic chair and tugged his shirt over his head. 

You’d barely gotten a chance to really look at the quick flash of tanned, bare skin he exposed before he dove into the water, barely causing a ripple. You were slack jawed as you watched him move seamlessly below the surface, his body a pretty shade of blue as his muscles flexed, strong back and broad shoulders stretching as he swam. 

When he reappeared, much closer to you, Steve braced his forearms on the edge of the pool and dragged a hand through his wet hair, strands of it plastered to his forehead, water clinging to his lashes. 

You didn’t know where to look. 

“You’re not going to learn much if you don’t take your clothes off.”

Despite the way his words warmed you, skin heating up the same way the morning was, you scowled. You didn’t want to be here. Not at the pool, not around water, not with Steve Harrington and certainly not at seven in the morning on a Saturday. 

And now you were standing under the morning sun and the same boy that saved you from the lake was squinting up at you from the pool below and you were only really here because Eddie had begged you. 

It had been a whole week and you could still taste lake water on the back of your tongue. 

“Changing rooms are over there,” Steve motioned to the building behind you with a tilt of his head.

You tried not to look at him, or the water, when you nodded tightly, dragging yourself off to the ladies section. And when you came back out, the sun had risen just a little more and Steve was still in the pool, floating easily on his back as he used his arms to move slowly around the water. The rays were glinting off of the water and him, toned shoulders and soft stomach glittering with water droplets and suddenly the pool seemed an even scarier place to be. 

The old swimsuit you’d managed to pull on was a little on the tight side, all black and supposed to be modest if the too small size hasn’t been cutting into the swells of your ass and chest. It had been a good few years since you’d had reason to put it on, and even then, you hadn’t gone near water. A beach day on the Fourth of July with enough space between you and the ocean that you hadn’t even minded the sand too much. 

So you stood with your arms crossed over your chest, trying to hide the expanse of skin there, your knees pressed together and you looked downright mournful about your current predicament. If Steve hadn’t remembered the fear in your eyes that night in the lake as you scrambled for him under the water, he would’ve cracked a joke or two. 

Instead, he swam over to you cautiously, fingers curling around the edge of the pool as he swiped his wet hair from his forehead. “Hey,” he began gently. The town still hadn’t woken up yet, not really. It was just Steve’s voice and the hum of the pool filter, some cicadas buzzing in a bush behind the far side of the fence. “Nothing bad is going to happen, alright? Not here.”

You looked at him like you didn’t believe him, eyes wide and lips drawn into a tight line. You didn’t move an inch. And it wasn’t because you didn’t trust him, not really. You were exactly friends but Steve was close with Eddie and if Eddie trusted him— well. He got an automatic pass from you too. 

Eddie didn’t trust a whole lot of people. 

But the problem wasn’t Steve. It was most definitely the rectangle full of blue water, shimmering and pretty as it was, it looked deep, the slope of it going downdowndown and Steve’s body was distorted under the ripples, his legs looking broken and mangled, the surface lapping way too high across his shoulders and neck. 

Your body felt like lead, a dead weight ready to sink to the pool floor, legs unable to push yourself back up. 

You took a step back. 

“Okay,” Steve sighed and he tried really hard to not sound impatient. The day had barely begun and he’d make a promise to Eddie, one he really didn’t want to break. “We’ll take it back a little, yeah? Come over here.” 

You watched as he pulled himself out of the pool with an impressively low amount of effort. The muscles in his shoulders and back bunched up and he swung a leg onto the tiles before standing, water dripping off of him, cool and splashing your toes. He made a point of not looking at your and all your bare skin as he walked around the edge of the pool, right towards the back of the lot where there was a set of stairs that led into the shallow end. 

He didn’t look over his shoulder to check if you were following and you only hesitated for a second or two before you did. And when he reached the top of the steps, he waited for you and held out his hand, brows raised expectantly. 

You stared back. 

The water didn’t look as scary here, but not by a whole bunch. It was lighter blue, the white tiles on the bottom of the pool about more visible and the numbers that were flaking and painted on the side of the wall said the depth was only two and a half feet. 

You could drown in less, the voice in your head told you. It sounded a lot like your mom. 

So you kept your arms crossed for a little while longer, teeth gnawing unkindly at your bottom lip. Steve just waited, hand extended palm up and after a minute had passed, he took one step into the pool, standing ankle deep in the water on the top stair. He caught your eye then, smiling in what he hope was a reassuring way. 

“D’you trust me?” He asked, eyes squinting in the bright sun. There was a mole on his cheek that disappeared into the lines of his skin when he smiled. “S’okay if you don’t yet, but, I’m a lifeguard here, so like, legally? I can’t let you die.”

You surprised both yourself and the boy when you snorted unexpectedly, a sharp sound of amusement that you used a hand to cover up. But it seemed to encourage Steve, ‘cause he positively beamed at you, his hand wiggling, vying for your own. 

“C’mon, I promise I won’t let you go,” he swore. He leaned further forward, his fingers close enough to brush the softness of your stomach, if he so pleased. He didn’t. “We’ll start nice and easy today, alright?”

It felt momentous, when you slid your hand into his. He was still warm despite his pool damp skin, like the sun lived inside his bones. He grinned, victorious, nodding encouragingly when you moved to the edge of the steps. 

“We’ll do them one at a time, alright?” Steve moved to stand in front of you, his other hand catching your free one until he was guiding you closer and closer to the water, walking himself backwards with every step you took forward. You flinched when your foot hit the first step, the water warmer than you’d anticipated, brushing up just past your ankle. 

You had two feet in the pool and two hands in Steve Harrington’s and it felt like the entire world was about to implode on you. 

“There you go,” Steve murmured, warmth and a little hum of pride in his voice. “See? S’not bad, right? I’ve still got you.” So you took another step and another and suddenly the water was lapping at your knees. You froze, grip tightening around Steve’s fingers and your wide eyes found his, all too aware of the way you were very much in the pool now. 

“Hey, hey,” Steve’s thumbs rubbed over the back of your knuckles, the skin there burning from holding him so tightly. “Listen. Do you trust me?”

There was no joke that followed the question this time. His eyes were earnest and warm, serious as they looked at you, searching your face for any signs that you were going to flee. It took you a few seconds, swallowing dryly and taking a deep, staggering breath before you nodded. You did, you did trust him, and that was as surprising as you being in the pool. 

“Yeah,” you told Steve, voice a little weak and hoarse. “Yeah, I trust you.”

He squeezed your fingers and his smile was gentle, an achingly kind thing that made your eyes water in the corners and Steve let you stand on that middle step for a little while longer. “Good,” he finally said and his voice was as soft as yours had been. You tried not to look at the way the chain around his throat caught the sunlight, the silver turning golden, just like his skin. “Good. ‘Cause I’m not going to let anything happen to you, okay?”

You nodded, feverish and your movements jagged and you tore your eyes from Steve to look at your bare feet on the steps, your toes waving under the ripples, longer and skinnier and then fatter and wider. The sight made you dizzy, stomach tumbling a little but even still, you wished you’d had the forethought to paint your toenails something pretty. 

“Two more steps, alright?” 

Steve’s encouragement broke your senseless wanderings and you nodded again, words caught in your throat and he was leading you forward, hands wrapped around your own and he grinned when you took another step down, the water hitting your upper thighs. It was cooler as you went deeper, a stark contrast to the warm, sticky air above it and your skin prickled, mouth falling in a quiet gasp. Another step, happening almost too fast for you to overthink it, the water at your hips and making you swear as you rose onto your toes almost instinctively. 

Steve laughed, not unkindly, as you moved closer to him, unthinking as your hands left his in favour of clinging to his upper arms. It felt safer like that, anchoring yourself to his solid frame, but there was so much bare skin involved and not a lot of space left between you both as you held on for dear life. His fingertips brushed the sides of your waist before he must’ve thought better of it, cheeks burning before his hands cupped your elbows and he took a little step back so your chest didn’t touch his. 

“You’re alright,” he murmured. “You did it, yeah? That’s it. You’re in.”

Steve was grinning and you tried to smile too, trying to feel proud of your little accomplishment but the rest of the pool was stretched out behind Steve’s shoulder and the water there was so much more blue, cerulean leading into indigo until you couldn’t see the bottom anymore. 

Steve must’ve noticed cause he shook his head, the hand cupping your elbow smoothing up your arm until he squeezed, water dripping from his palms and coasting down your skin. “Hey, hey, none of that. That’s for another day. We’re staying here, alright?”

You grimaced at the idea of ‘another day,’ but his words still didn’t ease you. You licked at your lips, dots of chlorine on them and despite how stupid you felt, you asked anyway. “What if— what if l, like, float over that way? Accidentally.”

Steve smiled like he couldn’t help himself, laughter in his eyes and a grin that he quickly tamed. “We’re not gonna catch any waves in here, this isn’t Maui,” he was still smiling, teasing, just a little. But sensing your growing worry, he continued. “And if that had to happen - which it won’t - I’ll come and get you.”

You stared at him, heartbeat in your throat and so many other questions on your tongue. They died there, fizzing into nothing as Steve held your gaze, a silent promise in his brown eyes. You’d never noticed how long and thick his lashes were, still wet and spiky from when he’d been swimming as you changed. 

Maybe there was doubt in your eyes, or maybe Steve just felt the need to reiterate his statement, but when he said once more, “I’ll come get you, just like last time,” you really did believe him. 

[auroralwriting]

second chances

bucky barnes x reader (no use of y/n, next-door-neighbor trope!)

you once came face-to-face with the winter soldier, will bucky barnes be any different?

word count: 1.6k. | no warnings

The Winter Soldier's face was etched into your mind since the day you'd seen him. It was one of those average days in New York, you'd just gone out for some shopping. Sometimes Avenger sightings were normal, but seeing Captain America in full sprint was a sure fire sign something was amiss. That was when the shooting began.

You were quick to move people, ducking them under tables, shooing them further up the street, making them take corners to evade the flying bullets. It was just an instinct, there were too many people who could get hurt.

Then, you saw him.

His face was covered by a mask, but that arm, his left arm! It was completely metal. That was one of the features you burned into your brain, along with his hair color, skin color, height. The pure adrenaline and fear had pushed you to stop, freeze in place, and memorize the man.

It was then you were ushered to move by the man you found out was The Falcon. You were safe, but the smoke, the bullets, the explosions, it was all muted and dull compared to The Winter Soldier.

Years had gone by, you'd been a victim to what they called The Blip. Five whole years had forced you to relocate to Brooklyn, some cheap ass apartment building you were sure was haunted. You'd been living there for five months, got some furniture, meet the neighbors, it was a place content with being home. The one aspect that kept you up was the empty apartment next to you. It had been rotting since you moved in, you wondered who would fill its void, make the place a home once more.

It didn't take more than those five months for your answer to appear. It was grocery day, a list in your pocket and your wallet in hand, you'd just stepped out the door. Turning around, there he was.

It had been so many years since that fateful day, but you knew that stance, the hair color, height, everything about him. Through a peek in his jacket, you saw the hint of metal.

It was obvious he knew what you were thinking. The way your breath was heavy, eyes widened, there was no way he didn't know exactly what was rushing though your mind. He opened his mouth, but you rushed down the hall before he could say anything. The elevator ride down was when it hit you; he was your neighbor.

It had taken a week and a half for Bucky to gather the courage to face you. That look in your eyes was pure fear, he knew it all too well. He'd checked his list a hundred times, but your name wasn't on it. Okay, maybe he'd done some light digging into you, just a quick ask of some of the neighbors and he learned your name. He'd never hurt you, but that also didn't mean you'd never encountered him, either.

White fur of his cat, Alpine, brushed between his legs. The cat stared at Bucky, giving a soft meow. Bucky sighed, scratching between her ears. "I know, girl." He sighed, "I just need to get it over with."

The walk to your next-door apartment felt like it took ages. Bucky felt himself ridden with guilt when he softly tapped his knuckles on the door.

With the chain lock still in place, the door was opened a crack. "What do you want?" Your voice came out quickly, but it was laced with fear.

"I just.. wanna say hi to my new neighbor?" Bucky hesitated. That wasn't what he had planned on saying.

The door closed, and Bucky almost turned away when he heard the familiar sound of the chain dropping. The door opened and you slipped your way through. "You want to say hi?" Your asked in disbelief.

Bucky rubbed the back of his neck with his flesh arm. "Uh, yes. And, uh, apologize. I know- I know you know who I am, was. And uh, I'm not that guy anymore. It's really complicated-"

"I have time," Your response took him back. You were looking at him expectantly, your door now pushed wide open. "Are you gonna come in?"

Bucky's story was unlike any you'd ever heard. He spoke in such detail, starting from the forties to now. You'd given him some water, a soda for yourself as you sat on your couch, listening to his whole story. By the end, you felt such sympathy for the guy. He even went as far as to show you his little book (it broke your heart even more when you were told it was Steve's), amends he needed to make, movies and music he needed to see. There was a lot more to him than you expected. Much to both of your surprises, a friendship had blossomed that very day.

From that moment on, anytime Bucky would leave to go cross another name off his list, Alpine would stay at your place. You kept her company, fed her, gave her water, loved on her. Then, sometimes you found yourself missing her, so, naturally, you began going 'round Bucky's to play with her while he was home. Eventually, he began to stay around you both, watching tv or making dinner for the three of you.

Sooner or later, you had clothes at Bucky's apartment, and he kept som at yours, too. It was just friendly, of course. You just spent so much time together that it was natural to keep some belongings at each other's places.

The real change was the night you heard the loudest knocking, no, pounding, you'd ever heard on your door. The adrenaline left you jumping out of bed to go see what was happening. Throwing open the door, a disheveled, sweaty, and tearful Bucky stood, chest heaving as his hands gently grasped your face. His eyes met yours, scanning all over your face as you softly shushed him. You lead him into your apartment and laid him down in your bed. You sat next to him until he fell back asleep. He'd told you his nightmares were bad, but never this bad. It left you feeling guilty leaving him all alone in a bed he'd never been in. So, you slipped under the sheets next to him, just so he would feel a sense of comfort when he woke up.

Then that became the new normal for a few weeks. Anytime Bucky would have a nightmare, he'd slip into your bed with the key you'd given him after the second jumpscare of his fists colliding with your door.

The biggest change in your odd friendship was the night Bucky showed up at ten, before either of you had gone to sleep.

"Bucky?" You called from your spot on the couch, watching as he walked in, clad in his pajama pants and loose, grey tee-shirt. He didn't look panicked yet, you were confused why he was here so late, yet so early.

The soldier gave you a small smile, "Hi," You watched as he fumbled with his fingers, "I was wondering if I could stay? Didn't feel right bein' alone tonight." And so he stayed.

That's when the new habit began. Occasional nightmare-induced sleepovers turned into spending every night together, slowly merging to his apartment, too. You'd bring a book or your phone as Bucky would watch whatever was on tv quietly, sometimes he'd read too. Spending the night together became the new normal, you didn't know how you'd gone so far in your life without being with him like this.

Like what, though?

I mean, sure, you slept over together, he'd cook you both meals, you basically shared custody of his cat, shared apartments. But.. what? That wasn't something just friends did, but you'd never gone as far as to do anything people who were more than friends did either. So, you avoided him for approximately three days before Bucky had you cornered.

"Doll, where've you been?" Bucky asked. You could see it in his eyes, the hurt. "Been missin' you. I haven't seen you 'round, lately."

You gave him a small shrug, "Just been busy, Bucky." you answered.

Bucky knew your schedule like the back of his hand. In fact, he probably knew it better than his own. Unless something sudden or serious came up, there was no way you'd been that busy, unless..

"Why are you avoiding me?" The soldier questioned. "And don't lie to me, either. I know when you're lying."

The nerves crept up your spine as your mind raced through different answers to give him. "I've just been busy helping my aunt."

Bucky's eyebrow shot up, "Your aunt?"

"Yeah, my aunt."

"Which aunt?" Bucky questioned further, prying into your lie.

You felt your heart race, "My Aunt Leah,"

"The one who lives in Kentucky?" Bucky's face clearly showed he was not buying it.

"What are we, Buck?" You suddenly asked, feeling overwhelmed by his questions and your lie.

Bucky's face morphed into one of surprise, "What?" What did you mean, 'What are we?' You were his best friend, his everything. Wait, his everything? Bucky felt hopelessly stupid when he realized he'd never even acknowledged the fact that he could even like you.

"We sure as hell aren't just friends," You continued, "And I know for a fact that best friends don't sleep over every night, or eat every meal together, go shopping, watch movies," Your rant continued as you grilled into Bucky. "And I don't think I can keep going unless I'm yours,"

Your words had Bucky breathless, "Doll, 'course you're mine." Like a twist of fate, his words now held you breathless as you stared at the man, wide eyed. "I'm the stupid one, I should've made my intentions more clear from when I first started feeling more."

With a shake of your head, you gave Bucky a small smile, "You're not stupid, Buck."

"You wanna go get dinner tonight?" Bucky asked, "Officially as my girl, my treat."

A smile gleamed on your face, "I'd love nothing more."

[casualhedonists]

✩ it don’t need your loving, it just needs attention ✩ (chapter four)

pairing: Coriolanus Snow x Reader

warnings: NSFW (18+), snow being snow, themes of sex work (not the reader), cuckolding, eventual smut, fake relationship, unprotected sex, themes of voyeurism & mild exhibitionism, murder/violence mention (but no actual murder) (not yet at least?), MAJOR manipulation/gross power dynamics + generally darkish themes, roughhousing, overstimulation, insane amounts of teasing, some mild dubcon scenes/allusions to dubcon, some power play, lots of switching between dom/sub dynamics, oral sex, thigh riding, face sitting, degradation, dirty talk, edging/orgasm denial, eventual piv, i’m new to full on smut bear with me here (and pls tell me if i forgot anything!)

chapter: 4/?

SERIES MASTERLIST

words: 6.3k (🫠)

i do not give permission for my work to be reposted/translated anywhere, under any circumstances.

a/n: thank you for your patience while i got my shit together (christmas edition). enjoy, this filth seems to get longer with each chapter. i’ll be gone for a few weeks over the holidays, so no chapter updates for a bit, but have no doubt i’ll be back for more in the new year <;33

Coriolanus Snow was not a patient man. He’d played the long game enough times in his climb to the top of Panem to know that once he got up there, he wouldn’t be sitting on the sidelines anymore, waiting for life to happen to him. He would take what he wanted from whoever he wanted, with no delay.

Who were you to tell him what he could and couldn’t have? Who were you to deny him, walking away like you’d won, like you’d just played him like a fiddle and left him out in the dust? He replayed your self-satisfied smile as you disappeared from his view and he stood there, considering his options. The most tempting would be to follow you back to your room, to shove you up against a wall, to tear off his jacket and watch that smug look melt right off your face.

The second would’ve been to send for the whore, but it would’ve been a cheap thrill and besides, you’d made a point of getting rid of her.

He’d almost had you, he could see it. Could see the quiver in your lip as your blown-out eyes had rolled open, before you’d climbed off his lap. He was certain that if he chipped away at enough of your resolve, you’d give in. The thought of having to work for this incensed him, who were you to make demands from the President himself?

But the calculating part of his brain decided, with disdain, that he would have to be patient for once. He doubted you could go very long before giving into him; he’d seen it in your eyes, it had taken everything in you to leave him that night.

You wanted to go on a power trip? Fine. Snow knew it would be short lived, and you were making enough of a spectacle of yourself that it should prove entertaining to him. He decided he was going to let you have your fun, brief and fleeting as it may be. He always did enjoy a chase, and he wasn’t one to back down from a challenge.

You wanted to play? Fine.

He closed his door, leaving it unlocked.

Let the games begin.

Breakfast was a sweet kind of torture. You’d wrapped a short, silk dressing gown around your underwear set from the night before, confident after your first good night’s sleep in weeks. Headed downstairs early, so you could be there when he walked in.

“Morning, sweetie.” You smiled as you sipped at a cup of coffee.

Snow’s eyes narrowed. He sat opposite you without a word, pouring himself a cup and buttering a piece of toast. His morning paper was neatly folded on the side, and you eyed it quickly, before taking him in.

It was subtle – something probably only you could pick up on, knowing what you did – but it was there, in the slight crinkle of his usually perfect shirt, in the way he took coffee instead of tea, in the way he focused carefully on spreading the butter to every edge of his slice of toast. You glanced down again, a mischievous sense of pride filling you up.

You’d gotten under his skin.

Finally.

“Well,” you cleared your throat, “I don’t know about you, but I slept like a log. You?”

His eyes met yours heatedly, but he didn’t reply. One of his footmen stood posted by the door, eyes straight ahead.

“No?” You faked pity. “You look a little tired, Coriolanus. Rough night?”

Nothing. He didn’t respond to your taunts, but instead took his paper, unfolding it, and you watched intently with a glint in your eye as you saw him react to something slipping out of the pages and into his lap.

He let out a surprised scoff, lowered the paper, and looked straight at you. Your eyebrows raised in response.

“What’s wrong?” You asked, with a lilt in your voice.

When he finally spoke, his voice was steady.

“Leave us, please.” He said to the footman, without breaking off his stare once. The footman obliged, closing the door behind him. His eyes bored into you with a similar intensity as they had the night before.

“You think you’re funny, don’t you?” He asked, but it was flat like a statement.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” You batted your eyes, feigning innocence.

He lifted his hand from his lap, holding up the pair of white lace panties you’d tucked between the folds of his newspaper. Raised his eyebrows in a question.

“Oh,” you smiled. “Whoops. I’d been wondering where I left those.”

His stare remained unfaltering, and you rubbed your legs together.

“Very cute, sweetheart.”

You smirked.

“You think so? Just something to remember me by. Lucille said you’ll be gone until tomorrow for work, I wouldn’t want you forgetting about last night.”

His eyes darkened, never leaving yours as you stood, making your way down the table.

“It’s a shame, really. I feel a little guilty about what I did. I got you all worked up for nothing.”

He scoffed, watching as you got closer.

“Yeah, you seem all torn up about it.”

You hummed, reaching him, and nodded at his lap, where his hand gripped the white lace.

“May I?”

“Be my guest.” He said tightly.

You straddled his lap again, and he looked up at you. You felt another surge of that power, standing over him with very little between you, as you ran your palms over his jacket, smoothing it out, then plucking the white rose from his breast pocket, and tucking your panties inside. As you pushed the rose back in, you smiled, satisfied.

“I should be more careful about misplacing things,” you mused, “Could’ve sworn I threw those in the laundry. You want to know something funny?”

“What?” Snow watched your hand pull away, and you met his gaze again.

“I’m not even sure I’m wearing a pair right now.”

It happened so quickly, it knocked the breath out of you. One second, you were balanced with your legs either side of his, and the next, you were pushed back onto the table as he stood, grabbing your waist, and leaning over you. A plate shattered on the floor, but Coriolanus didn’t flinch.

You squirmed but he gripped your hips harder, sliding one hand up to support your back and stop you from toppling straight onto the table. The cold wood pressed into your bare legs, and a glass dug into your back. You realised with a shaky breath that your dressing gown had fallen open. He was stood flush between your legs, pinning you down.  

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” He snapped.

“I told you, didn’t I?” A hum as his hips rolled into yours. “Whatever I want.”

“I could force your hand, you know.” He commented. “Right now.”

“You think I wouldn’t want you to?”

His face was unreadable. His head dipped towards yours, and when he spoke it brushed against your lips.  

“You really are a whore.”

“Maybe. Or maybe I know you’re all bark and no bite. You want to know why I know that, Snow?”

He huffed.

“Why?”

“Because I think you like chasing me.” Your eyes lowered to your legs, pressed apart by his hips. Your ankles wrapped around his lower back and pressed him in further. His jaw clenched.

He followed your gaze, and you felt his breath hitch when he saw that you weren’t lying, there was nothing between the two of you except his pants.  

“Fuck.” He whispered.

It did something to you, hearing him so desperate. You pulled him in again with your heels, and he looked back at you. He rocked his hips, velvet cloth rubbing against your bare cunt, and you gasped at the feeling, still sore from last night.

Any time now.

“You want to fuck me, Snow?” You whispered. “Do it. Right now, I won’t stop you.”

His breaths were heavy as he rocked his hips again, firm, and it was obscene, really, how you could feel the outline of his cock pushing against you through the thick material, and his breath was getting laboured.

Almost there.

“Knew you’d give in.” His voice was rough as he pressed in harder, and you whimpered, eyes fluttering shut, “So fucking desperate. Didn’t expect you to open your legs this soon, though. Thought you’d rile me up for a few days first. But look at you,” he rambled, “giving up so easily. Where’s all that fight now, sweetheart?”

A loud rap sounded at the door.

There it is.

You couldn’t keep the smile from spreading across your face as he stopped still.

“Oh,” you blinked innocently at him, “I wonder who that could be.”

“President Snow? We’re ready for you, sir.” The footman’s voice was muffled through the door.

“Well, would you look at the time? I guess duty calls, Mr President.”

He scowled, shooting ice cold daggers at you.

“You bitch. You knew.”

“And you fell for it.” You smirked, digging your heels into his back again. “Who’s desperate now?”

He scoffed, meeting your eye again.

“You think you’re so smart, little girl. You really think I’d mind if they walked in on me fucking you into the table?”

“I know you’re not against having an audience, Snow. But what are you gonna do, hang the health minister if he walks in? I know you’re not above it, but it’d be a slight inconvenience. Surely there are wiser ways to spend your precious time.”

“Yeah? Try me.”

His nails dug into your back as he pulled you in closer. For just a second, you had a doubt. But not long enough.

“I’m calling your bluff, Coriolanus Snow.”

He shook his head. Peeled himself off you with a huff, and tried to smooth out his shirt, glaring at you the whole time.

“I’ll be right out.” He called.

You slid off the table and stood, tying your gown, then reaching to fiddle with his collar. He batted your hand away.

“Let me.” You reached out again.

“Fine.”

Your hands smoothed over the material, straightening it out, then once you were satisfied, they rested on his chest for a beat.

“You look handsome.” You confessed quietly, not meeting his eye as you spoke. You could feel his stare burning into you as you did. When you finally looked, his expression had shifted to something unreadable again. Confusion, perhaps. It was times like these when you wished you could read his mind.

The moment finally passed and you cleared your throat, trailing a hand over his breast pocket, a physical reminder of the game you were intent on winning.

“This was fun.” You declared with a smile, putting the mask back on. “Hurry back. What time shall I expect you?”

“No later than noon.” He watched as you stepped away.

“I look forward to it,” you smiled, playing with the string of your gown, “sweetheart.”

With Snow out of the house, you jumped at the chance to head straight upstairs, making a beeline for his room. Something inside you just knew the door would be unlocked, that he wouldn’t be able to resist. You were right.

At last, you were able to take a good look around the room, touring it as if it was some art museum. And it wasn’t far from it; with wood panelled walls and strong beams on the ceiling, plush velvet throw pillows and bedsheets, with crisp white linen tucked underneath. You wandered around for a while, brushing your fingers over the sides, taking it all in. It was perfectly neat, almost jarringly so. You wondered if he always kept it like this, or if it was for your benefit. Since he’d probably guessed you’d be going inside, you took little guilt in peeking into a few drawers, and flipping through the pages of the book on his nightstand.

Your curiosity then took you into the bathroom, where, after scanning the shelves, you decided to undress and take a shower, steam and the smell of his soap filling the large room. You took the opportunity to slide your hands between your legs and replay the morning’s events, filling in what you’d have had liked to have happen instead of him leaving. When you were finished, you wrapped yourself in a soft towel, and walked out, spotting a glass bottle of cologne on the edge of the sink. With a smile, you gently sprayed a little on your wrist, breathing it in, sighing deeply as the smell of him went to your head.

You got dressed again, thumbing through his closet, basking in the buzz you had from being in his space. You sat on his bed, taking his room in from a new perspective. When you were satisfied, you headed back to your own with a smile, only coming back that evening with a handful of your things, before falling into a peaceful sleep under his sheets.

A few days passed after that morning, and you barely saw Snow. He’d come back, but gone straight to his office, where he proceeded to spend long hours on the phone, stuck on some important business you had no business nosing about.

So, you waited, your games paused and painfully anticlimactic. You hated feeling like a helpless housewife, but this was apparently what you’d been reduced to. You saw your friends some of the evenings, and your family on others. Then you’d come home to hover outside Snow’s locked study to listen to the sounds of pen on paper, peppered with the occasional sigh. You would have waited for him to come out, but you gave up as the hours drawing longer. He stayed holed up in his office, night after night, and by the time he’d finished the evening’s work, sleep had long carried you away.

It hadn’t all been dull; you’d fallen into a habit of sneaking pairs of your underwear in with the clean laundry that was carried up to his room, and that had earned you a little attention, but it was merely in passing. A few heated glances at the dinner table, a brush past each other in the hallway. You’d go so far as to say it was almost like flirting, only laced with the undertones of something far heavier. It wasn’t enough for you now that you’d tasted what you could have if only you reached for it, and you started to go a little stir crazy again.

One of these nights, you’d slipped into his empty room after dark, and lay in his bed, trying to stay awake as long as you could, but sleep caught up to you and by morning, you woke alone, wrapped in soft sheets, no sign of Snow except for a slightly warm dent on his side of the bed that had long been abandoned.

You got nothing. Not a touch, not an argument, not a kiss. For a week and a half, until he was called away again. Your annoyance had started to creep back up on you tenfold by then, and you were practically crawling out of your skin.

You saw your family for dinner more and more, making a habit out of filling the empty space he'd left with small talk and laughter. It was on one such night, when you'd been silently mulling over what move to make next, that your mother mentioned a name you hadn't heard in years, and you knew right away what to do. You were done hiding away, you wanted to make yourself known. Make every second Snow spent in your presence a living hell, and a reminder of what you’d denied him. You'd hoped for something outrageous, something that would push him to the very edge. And if this didn't work, nothing would.

Nathaniel Greene was an old flame of yours. He’d always been good to you, warm and well-meaning; and he was handsome, in a gentle, boyish way. When your mother mentioned him, a beautifully cruel idea struck you. You weren’t naturally as cold-hearted as Coriolanus, but as the weeks had gone by, you’d begun to believe that maybe, in order to win this, you needed to be. Nathaniel would be perfect; the two of you had been school friends, you had history, something Snow couldn’t compete with, and you knew that would drive him insane. He was all soft edges, smiles, and pleasantries, everything that Snow wasn’t.

You felt a sliver of guilt as you began putting your plan together, but you reasoned that you and Snow had bruised each other, and low blows were what it would take for you to press into his the hardest. This was always never going to be simple; it was a messy game, and you needed to get your hands dirty.

Besides, he’d paraded a whore around the house for you to watch him fucking for weeks on end. It was fair game, you reminded yourself. So with that decided, you rose to the occasion, and the plan was set into motion.

That was how it came to be that on the day Snow returned, he walked in to find a guest sat in his living room. You were all false smiles and batted eyelashes when you saw him.

“Coriolanus, you’re back. I’d like you to meet Nathaniel, he and I used to be friends at school.”

Nathaniel rose from his seat on the sofa, and leaned toward Snow to shake his hand.

“Mr President, sir, it’s an absolute honor to be in your company. You have a lovely house.”

Nathaniel missed the slight tick in Snow’s jaw, but you didn’t. He offered his hand in response.

“The pleasure’s mine. Any… friend of my girl is always welcome here.”

My girl. The words went straight to your head, and Coriolanus pulled you in for a kiss that lingered half a second longer than usual, like he knew.

“Would you like some tea, sweetheart?” You asked, “Nathaniel and I were just catching up.”

“I remember that summer.” You laughed. “Your aunt took us to the coast, and we swam in the ocean at least twice a day. It was so cold one morning, your cousin’s lips turned blue. And on the way home, we had to stop at that inn, do you remember it?”

“With the owner and his crazy beard.”

“The crazy beard owner!” you exclaimed. “And the room you and I stayed in was so laughably small, the bed touched three of the walls all at once. Cozy, though.”

Nathaniel glanced awkwardly between the two of you, clearing his throat.

“Yeah, those were, uh… good times.”

Fire ran rampant through Snow’s eyes. You didn’t look directly at him, but your peripherals gave you plenty of satisfaction.

He was enraged. Good. You’d been mercilessly torturing him for the better part of an hour.

“Oh, Nathaniel, that reminds me, I’ll go get the book I was telling you about earlier.”

“Book?” He frowned, “I don’t-”

“You know the one! I’ll be right back.” You interrupted, then practically bounced out of your seat and walked toward the library. At the far end of the large room, you paused, pretending earnestly to scan the spines for a particular title.

You were quiet, making sure you could hear the echo of Snow excusing himself, followed by steady footsteps approaching you from behind.

“Something wrong?” You asked, keeping your back turned.

He grabbed your waist and spun you around. Backed you up until you were pressed to the wall, wooden shelves digging into your spine.

“Give me one good reason,” he spat, “why I shouldn’t kill that boy right now.”

You blinked.

“What’s wrong, Snow? Can’t take a little jealousy? Surprising, given your recent choice of company.”

“So that’s it? All this to get a rise out of me? You shouldn’t have gone to the trouble.” he scoffed.

You smiled, meeting his eye.

“Oh, but maybe I should. See, Coriolanus, here’s the thing.” you leaned towards him, running a finger down the front of his dress shirt, catching over each shining button as it glided down. “I haven’t decided if I should fuck him, yet. What do you think I should do?”

“I think,” he snarled, grabbing your wrists and pressing them against the wooden shelves, then dropping his voice down to a whisper, his breath mixing with yours, “that I should fuck you right here while he listens in the next room, and show him who you really belong to.”

You faltered, if only for a few moments. Your pride wavering as you heard the want drip from his voice, still getting used to his eyes skating across your skin the way you’d hoped and prayed they would for months. If you wanted it, you could take it right now, and you almost folded. He moved in ever closer, and your head dropped against the bookshelf, letting his lips graze your neck, blonde curls dusting your shoulder. You stayed there, suspended, letting it roll over you like water.

“What would your little friend in there think, if he could hear how much of a whore you really are? I wouldn’t even let you cover your mouth. I’d just hike up your slutty little dress and send you back out there with cum dripping down your thighs. How do you think he’d like you then?”

Your breath hitched, and you squeezed your eyes closed, pressing your legs together. Tried to rationalise the logic of throwing your plans to the wind and letting him stake his claim on you.

You considered it. Briefly.

But you were already in so deep, you had to see this through. Snow had fucked with you, then left you out to dry, and you had to make sure he would never do it again. So no, you wouldn’t be the one to fold. He would, on your terms. And now wasn’t the time, not yet.

So you collected yourself. Pulled away, batting your pretty eyes at him.

“Oh, but I’m having so much fun.”

“Don’t test me. You’ve proved your point.” he seethed, stepping closer, and one more inch and you might burst-

“Nathaniel’s waiting. I’ll see you at dinner, Coriolanus.”

With that, you slipped away, silently catching your breath.

You’d just finished dinner alone, no Snow in sight, and you were walking back towards the hallway when the doors swung open.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Your hands were above your head as Snow pushed you into the dining room wall. This was starting to become a habit. A sly smile pulled at your lips.

“Stings, doesn’t it? Getting a taste of your own medicine.”

He got in close, rage burning hot in his eyes.

“What you did was different, and you know that."

"I don't know, Coriolanus, was it? I've just been so bored, lately. Idle hands, I suppose."

If looks could kill, you'd be a goner.

"That's your excuse? At least I had the decency to fuck a stranger. Tell me you didn’t-”

You laughed.

“You really think I’d do anything without making sure you watched? God, Snow, you don’t know me at all.”

He moved in closer.

“If you ever do that again, if you so much as look his way, I’ll have him whipped in the middle of the city. Or maybe I won’t bother. I’ll just have him hung, and I’ll make sure you’re there at the front of the crowd to watch him drop, knowing his blood is on your hands. Do you understand me?”

You set your jaw. Shrugged.

“Okay.”

He frowned. You took pride in the way you could see it, him trying desperately to figure you out.

“Okay?” He repeated.

“You heard me. You think I really care enough about him, that I’d invite him into the house just to make you jealous, then expect him to end up alive? How stupid do you think I am?”

You did care about Nathaniel, at least enough to not want him dead, but Snow couldn’t know that. Not for this to work.

“You’re bluffing.” But you could hear in his voice that he wasn’t sure.

“Am I? Your threats don’t phase me, Coriolanus. Do your worst, I don’t care anymore. What, did you think I’d try to talk you out of it? You think I’d beg?”

His bewilderment caused him to drop your wrists, and you took the chance to push yourself away from the wall.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? But I won’t fold. I meant what I said that night. You want me to be yours, you want to own me? You have to earn it. My way. You’re not going to get anywhere trying to scare me into submission. It won’t work.”

Disbelief flashed across his face. You stood your ground, raising your head up high, leaning in.

“I don’t want to fight you, Coriolanus.” You confessed. “Your room. An hour. Don’t keep me waiting.”

Say what you wanted about Coriolanus Snow, but when you asked him to be on time, he obliged. You didn’t even need to hear his footsteps to know he’d come, which you’d grown finely attuned to by now, enough to hear them leave his office two rooms away and walk the short distance to his room, swinging open the door you’d left decidedly ajar.

And you made sure what he walked in on was a sight to behold; you, sprawled out on his bed in nothing but a white shirt of his, unbuttoned all the way down, falling to your sides. Your head pressed into his silk pillowcases, legs parted lazily as your hand rubbed slow circles on your clit beneath the red lace of your underwear. You could tell from the look on Snow’s face when you rolled your head to the side and looked at him that you’d had the desired effect, that you’d orchestrated this perfectly, because he couldn’t take his eyes off your hand, hips rocking into it, the visual made all the more lewd by the scrap of fabric hiding your movements, leaving his brain to fill in the blanks.

You slowed.

“Glad you could make it.” A small smile formed on your lips.

“I see you’ve made yourself comfortable.”

“I have. Your bed’s a lot softer than mine.”

He hummed, crossing his arms.

“Why did you ask me here, sweetheart? This is my room, after all.”

Your tongue darted out to wet your lips, and even that small motion wasn’t lost on him. Your hand stilled.

“I waited for you.” You said quietly.

He let out a sigh, ragged and tired.

“I know. I’m sorry, sweetheart. If you knew how badly I wanted to see you-”

“Don’t. I don’t want your apology.”

His expression gave way to confusion for a split second.

“Okay. What is it you want?”

You paused, gaze flitting between his eyes and his mouth. Then you swallowed, your voice an embrassing whisper.

“I want your mouth on me.” It almost hurt to hold his stare, but you did.

“That so?” was the response. You cleared your throat.

“You say you’re sorry, Snow? Prove it. I’m right here.”

He paused, like he was mulling you over. Like he was figuring out just how to play his cards. Then a small smile pulled at his lips.

“Take your hand away.” His voice was rough, and it gave him away.

You obliged, watching him step towards the bed, towards you. He rolled up his sleeves, eyes on yours and your stomach twisted.

There he is.

“If you’re going to be making demands, it’s only polite that you ask nicely. Wouldn’t you agree?”

You nodded, flushing under his stare.

“You want me to take these off?” He smoothed his hands up your thighs, thumbs hooking into the band of your panties. You'd missed feeling his hands on your skin.

You nodded again, and he tutted.

“Yes.” You corrected. “Please.”

“Good. It was about time you learned some manners.” He slowly slid them off, and you lifted your hips to help him. His gaze slid between your legs, and you shifted your knee so you were covered.

“Not getting shy now, are you? Open your legs for me.” He instructed, and you obliged, burning under the heat of his gaze as he unbuttoned his shirt, slipping it off before moving in towards you, kneeling on the ottoman. You were already soaked, and you could feel the heat building even more, just from having him near you, having him see what a dripping mess you were.

“Shit.” It was no louder than a whisper, but your perked ears caught it and you pressed your lips together.

He tentatively pushed his thumb through your folds and you whined, a look on his face like he couldn’t quite believe what he was looking at. Did it again, and it caught on your clit, your breath hitching in your throat.

“Please.”

“Good girl. You know how many times I’ve thought about this over the past week? I’ve lost sleep over it.”

“Coriolanus.”

He smoothed his hands over your thighs again, and you yelped as he suddenly pulled you forward, hooking your legs over his shoulders. He kept staring, and you couldn’t take it, blood rushing from your head, so you dropped it back onto the pillows.

“Look at me.” He squeezed your thigh.

You did. You felt a sliver of pride as you noted the slight flush in his cheeks, like maybe he was more worked up than he was letting on.

“You know how many times I came all over those pretty panties of yours, wishing you were wearing them? Think I lost count.”

You couldn’t stop the whimper that escaped you as his breath brushed over your folds, wound so tight you thought you would burst.

“Tell me what you want, sweetheart. Say it again.”

“I want your mouth on me. Please, put your mouth on me.”

You didn’t need to tell him twice, because with a sharp inhale, he pressed his mouth onto your cunt and dragged his tongue over your clit, slowly, firm and deliberate, like he had an itemised list of exactly how to cause your undoing. You gasped at the sudden contact, and your hips bucked off the bed, before his fingers gripped into your hips the way they had the other night, and slammed you back down.

“So fucking needy. Were you really that worked up? Parading your little boy toy around will do that, huh?”

“I’m sorry.” You gasped, as he worked his tongue over your clit again, tracing slow, firm circles that made your legs weak. You grabbed a handful of his hair, blonde locks twisted between your fingers as he pulled away again. You whined.

“See, that’s the thing. I don’t think you are. But you will be.”

You didn’t have time to wonder what that meant, because his tongue was all over you again, lapping at your entrance, lips sucking loudly at your clit as you moaned, free hand twisting creases into his bedsheets.

“Fuck.” You keened as your hips bucked harder, searching for friction that was so close to being enough. Your heels pressed into his back and your hand tightened in his hair, to which he retaliated by digging his nails into your thighs, scraping against the almost-healed bruises that were left from the previous week. The pinch brought you further into that headspace, where you could feel yourself slipping away, crying out as you thrashed under the pressure of his tongue on your cunt.

You kept rocking your hips, hopelessly trying to grind against him, but his hands held you down firmly, keeping the pace torturously slow. You couldn’t help your spaced-out brain from slipping back to weeks ago, when you’d watched him do the same to his whore on this very bed, and you made a sound of protest that just melted in with the rest of your noises, going unnoticed.

You didn’t want to feel this way, to feel disposable, like he could just have his way with you and throw you out. You knew that if you didn’t do something, you’d lose yourself altogether. And you couldn’t bear that thought, of having to give in. Not like this. Not when he held all the cards again.

“I want to sit on your face.” You breathed without thinking, strung out and desperate. Coriolanus pulled back. A smirk on his lips, which were swollen red and covered in your slick. You whimpered as the soft light caught him, showing you the mess you’d made of his face, dripping down his chin.

“Do you now?”

“Please. I’ll ask nicely, I’ll – I’ll beg, if you want me to. Just please, let me sit on your face. I can’t take it anymore, I’m so-” You broke off, gasping as he pressed a soft kiss onto your clit, causing your legs to jolt.

“Poor thing. You really want it, don’t you?”

“Yes. Please, I’ll do anything. Just… please.”

“Good girl.” He murmured, trailing soft kisses down your thigh. “Since you’ve asked so nicely, I’ll let you. Just for a few minutes, okay? Think you can cum that fast?”

“Fuck, yes. Thank you.”

A messy tangle of limbs as he pulled his shirt off, sliding flat onto the bed, hands guiding your shaking legs as you inched over his torso. It was nearly too much, watching his pretty face as you lowered yourself onto him, but you couldn’t look away, hands grabbing the headboard to steady yourself. You couldn’t help but think back to that night, riding his thigh like you were being paid for it. As he carefully eased your hips down, thighs either side of his face, you knew this was going to be a hundred times better than that. And Snow didn’t disappoint, lifting his head to nuzzle your clit as you sucked in a breath, hips jolting forward. You dropped a hand to grab onto his hair, and he didn’t retaliate this time, letting you wind your fingers around his curls as you started to move slowly, rocking your hips against his mouth.

This was much better. The angle was perfect, pressure everywhere you needed it, and you tipped your head back as you moved, one languid lick causing it to drop forward again to look at Snow.

The only time he really moved was to pull you in firmer, and the motion reminded you of how he’d pulled you into his thigh, and before you knew it the ache in your stomach was growing into a throb, burning you up until it felt molten, until you felt drunk from it. The coil tightened further as you got into it, rolling your hips, tugging Snow’s hair to the point where you were sure it must’ve been hurting him, but he either didn’t care or just didn’t stop you. As your hips bucked faster and you looked down at his face, eyes hazy as he ate you out like he was starved, you couldn’t help it, you just started talking, rambling near nonsense and it wouldn’t stop.

“Fuck, that’s it, right there. You’re gonna make me cum all over your face if you keep that up. Holy shit.” Your grip in his hair tightened, so hard it was pulling his head back so you could grind against him just right, clit catching on his nose, cunt spasming against his tongue, and he winced, a broken sound escaping the back of his throat, but it only egged you on. Your voice breathy but taunting, getting cockier by the second.

“Does that hurt, baby? Am I pulling too hard?” His eyes narrowed, but his tongue only fucked into you harder. “You can take it though, can’t you? Fuck. You’re being so good for me, letting me fuck your face like this. Feels so fucking good. Shit, I thought you’d take more convincing, but look at you, eating from the palm of my hand.”

His hands gripped into your hips again, nails digging crescent moons into your skin, and you tightened your thighs around his head which only made him dig harder, the pain tipping you over the edge as you shouted out, hips jerking as your thighs shook, and Snow only pressed in firmer with his tongue as you came, riding out your high with a strangled sob.

He didn’t give you chance to come down from your orgasm, instead pushing you off his face and flipping you over. You landed on your back, scared for a second that you’d be punished for getting carried away, but his lips met yours in a sudden battle for dominance. You moaned into his mouth as you tasted yourself on his tongue. He’d never kissed you like this before. It lit another fire in your stomach, just when you thought you were done.

After what felt like a lifetime getting drunk off each other, he pulled away, and you got to see the mess you’d made of this man. There he was, propped above you, the most powerful man in the country, blonde hair a sweaty wreck of tangles, parted lips sore and swollen, your cum smeared across his mouth and chin, mixed with the trail of your wet tongue in the places you’d just cleaned him up.

You tasted it on your lips, heard it in his laboured breath, saw it in his blown-out eyes, felt it in the small space between you.

This was what power felt like.

He was shaking his head incredulously, like he couldn’t quite believe you. Then, ignoring your hiss, his head dipped between your legs again, smooth tongue rolling over you like cool water on a burn. You flinched, a broken sound slipping from your lips.

“Oh, come on. You can give me one more, right?”

Fuck.

“Coriolanus, I can’t-” You whined as his hot breath lit you up, long fingers sliding inside you.

“You will. Come on, baby. You can take my fingers, can’t you?” His voice mimicked yours as he opened you up, speeding up a little. You hummed as he pressed against your sweet spot, and you hated how it seemed like it was so easy to him, to take you apart like this.

“Good girl. Look at me.” He scolded, when your eyes rolled back, squirming from the overstimulation, pressing his thumb against your clit just to watch you jolt.

“You’re going to do something for me. You’re going to promise me you won’t ever see him again.”

“What? Who, Nathaniel? I-”

He pressed into your clit again, mean, and you squeaked.

“Don’t say his fucking name. Promise me, right now. Say it.”

“I promise. Never again. I’m sorry, fuck, I’m so sorry.” You sobbed.

“Good girl.” He smiled.

“Don’t want anyone else, just you, please. Please, Coriolanus. Will you promise me too?” Your words were airy, and your voice shook.

He slowed his fingers, and shifted himself up to place his lips on yours.

“I promise, sweetheart. It’ll just be us.” His fingers pressed into you harder, scissoring lazily, but every movement lit all your nerve endings on fire. You were so wet it was almost humiliating, or it would be if you weren’t so turned on, obscene sounds bouncing off the walls as he worked you open. Coriolanus could tell, smiling as he whispered praises, sweet nothings into your ear and added a third finger, thumb brushing across your clit as the sensitivity quickly morphed into more pleasure.

“You close again, baby?”

You only whimpered in response, head jerking as your eyes squeezed close, arm sliding down to grab his wrist, pushing it further. You were wrecked, and he knew it. It was his doing.

“Ah.” He knocked your hand away with a knowing smile. “Tell me what you want, sweetheart. I’m listening.”

You paused, at a mental crossroads, but as he twisted his fingers just right, pressing deeper, you dropped all your inhibitions. Squeezed your eyes closed, cunt gripping his fingers, and confessed.

“I want you to fuck me.” You whispered.

You knew full well what it meant. You didn’t care anymore; you’d had your fun, and you were ready to fold. Lay all your cards out on the table. This ache inside you had never felt so loud. You refused to open your eyes, which were threatening to fill with desperate tears.

“Ask nicely.” He pulled his fingers back, dragging them along your sweet spot. You were starting to lose feeling in your legs.

“Please. Please, fuck me. I’m done, now, I promise. I won’t do it again, Coriolanus, I’m so sorry-”

“Say it again. One more time. Look at me.”

You sighed, eyes flooding with hot tears. You finally opened them.  

“Please, Coriolanus. Fuck me.”

He smiled, but as quickly as it arrived, it morphed into something sinister.

“No.”

His hand stopped, fingers slipping out of you before you could stop them. Your high started to slip away. You rocked your hips, confused out of your mind. Driven to your edge, and then in the same breath, catapulting to a stop.

“I- wait, no… what?” You sounded delirious.

He shrugged, casually lifting his fingers, sucking them off with a pop.

“I don’t think I will. You’ve done quite enough, and I’ve had a long day. So I think you should be on your way now.”

You gaped, dumbfounded. The tears threatened to spill down your cheeks, but you held them in like they were your last shred of pride.

“But… you said we wouldn’t… I thought-”

He traced a hand across your check, gently, and it took everything in you not to sob.

“I meant what I said. But I’m not quite ready to forgive and forget. You should go and get some sleep.”

“Coriolanus, I- please.” You begged him, eyes wild and desperate.

“Stings, doesn’t it?” He raised his eyebrows and something inside you sank like a heavy cruiser. “A taste of your own medicine.”

a/n: sorry mom

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[devilstruly]

SUB (?) JASON TODD (18+)

pairing - red hood x fem reader

includes - bondage (m), masturbation, vouyerism, riding, sub turning to dom (if that's not a thing it is now), pet names (princess bc jason is 100% a princess guy and i will die on this hill)

a/n - i think about this man 24/7 i have nothing to say for myself

Imagine tying this 6'5 man down to a chair. it's near the bed, angled just right so he can see everything you're doing. Now you're no fool, tying him down with something as weak as a rope simply won't do.

So you do the next best thing, two sets of handcuffs, not the cheap ones, the actual metal ones that have a key, currently hanging on a chain around your neck. A chain that he gifted you and that he's sure you wore on purpose.

Anywho, he’s sitting in his Red Hood suit, helmet and jacket off, hair sticking to his forehead with sweat, cock straining painfully against his pants.

'Eyes on me, Jay, c'mon. I'm doing this for you.'

Your voice is an octave higher and you barely manage a full sentence due to your ragged breathing.

Jason groans, growls more like it, eyes narrowing at you.

'You're playing dirty, princess.' He grits out, arms flexing and hands clenching into fists.

'Who? Me?' You bite your lip to suppress a moan as you curl your fingers. 'Dunno what you're talking about.'

His eyes watch like a hawk when your thighs flex and shake, your head thrown back in a loud moan of his name.

He curses violently, tugging at the restraints for the milionth time. The keys jiggle with your breasts as you move from the bed slowly, throwing your legs over his to effectively straddle him.

Jason's eyes don't leave your body for even a second, completely in a trance. It's only when you hook a finger under his chin and force him to look you in the eyes that he regains focus.

'You're driving me fucking insane, I hope you know that.'

The admission makes you smile, almost seductively and Jason swears he feels his dick twitch in his pants.

You start grinding on him slowly, spelling his name with your hips. His eyes roll back in ecstasy, strings of curses leaving him between breathless moans and whimpers.

He takes one look at the keys between your breasts, deciding he's had enough of your games. Taking you by surprise he leans forward and snaps the chain using his teeth.

Somehow he manages to take it in one of his hands, quickly escaping the first set of cuffs.

'Hey! No fair-'

You protest, still straddling him, hands on his chest. Jason merely grunts as he unlocks the other pair in record speed, hands flying to your hips immediately.

'You've been in charge enough, princess. Now it's my turn.'

His eyes are blown with lust as they rake over your figure and the small pout on your face.

'But I wanted to- Ah!'

Any complaints you might have had are shut down immediately when he starts moving you at a pace he likes, a loud sigh of relief escaping him.

'You were saying?'

[bumbleboa]

I am back with more sketches for @calysto1395 's AU!

Fic snippet of her writing behind the cut:

EDIT: Fic is also now available HERE

“Fine, fine! I’m going. Stop shoving me.” Law throws his hands up and steps onto the train.

“I don’t want to see you for at least 24 hours.” Bepo retorts, his paws on his hips and blocking the doorway like a bouncer. If Law wasn’t so fucking exhausted from a ten hour surgery session he would have a clever comeback right about now. As it stands, he can only repeat Bepo’s words at him in a mocking tone. He flips Bepo off as the train doors close between them for good measure before he turns to find a seat as they slowly roll out of the station. 

There is as usual only one other person on the train. Hiriluk Hospital Station is usually the one where everyone gets off as the line continues out of town into the shitty outer district where Law has his dirt cheap apartment. It’s a good thing too because Law usually has no patience for anyone after work and before work he needs to save what little he has for his patients. 

His usual companion is a young man, maybe around Law’s age, who has tan skin and green hair who nods at him when Law falls into one of the empty seats. He’s always there before Law gets on and doesn’t get off anywhere before Law does. Law sees him as often as he does his coworkers so he would say they are almost friends. Save for the part where Law has no idea who he is besides a passenger and incredibly attractive.

“Trouble in paradise?” The guy asks, snorting with a smirk. He’s huddled into one of the seats that run sideways along the walls of the train, jean jacket and a hoodie today, legs propped up on his huge backpack with the long case sticking out of it. 

Law just rolls his eyes and lets his head fall against the headrest. It’s part of the routine at this point. Guy will make a comment or greet him and then it will be silent for the rest of the ride, just the way Law likes it. The stranger on the train might be Law’s favorite person, right after Bepo. Then again Bepo humiliated and bullied him onto the train today so maybe the stranger has taken top spot. 

“You got blood on your cheek.” The guy says and Law feels the annoyance at the routine being disturbed before he processes the words. His eyes blink open and he rubs at his cheek with his sleeve, feels the crusted flakes rub off and sees them clinging to the fabric of his hoodie. 

Law stares at it for a long time, feels his eyes losing focus for a minute before he blinks and shakes his head. Maybe Bepo had a point in sending him home. He sighs deeply, feeling the exhaustion deep in his bones. “Yep.” He says and rubs his cheek once more just to make sure he got it all. 

Stranger just gives him a nod when he shoots a questioning glance at him before he buries his hands in his jacket pockets and closes his eyes, settling deep into his seat. Law takes it as his cue to do the same. Just to rest his eyes for a little bit. He has about twenty minutes until he’s at his station and the conductor usually doesn’t check tickets this late at night. Law tells himself it's just for a few minutes. Just until his retinas stop burning. 

Then before he knows it there is a hand on his shoulder. He jerks, flailing wildly and smacking something before he gets his bearings. 

The stranger is standing next to his seat, looking down at him, hand falling to his side from where it had hung outstretched between them. “That’s your stop right?” He asks. 

Law blinks, confused. Head swirling to look outside the window to see the Tang Station sign out front. “Shit.” He manages to say, scrambling with his bag to hustle outside just in time before the doors close on him. He’s catching his breath on the platform, heart racing in his chest when he looks back at the train and sees the guy standing there still. He leans down a little to wave through the window as it sets back into motion and Law’s sleep deprived brain doesn’t manage to respond in any way before they are out of view.

[fatehbaz]

In just eight blocks of sidewalk in quiet neighborhood, walking through the not-quite-rain of a sunshower, today I encountered four missing shoe soles. Little pieces of plastic and rubber, detached from pedestrians' shoes, now lonely on the concrete, with the weeds.

No such thing, really, as a "weed", though. "Weed" is not a botanical term. Instead, describes perceived pests, at the discretion of the observer. At the discretion of the authority. Designated as weed by the one with power over that land. The agronomist, the rancher, the plantation manager. The weed wastes space that could otherwise be given to a monoculture cash crop, an "economically significant" plant. The weed interferes with the productivity of the plot of land. The weed interrupts the extraction. The weed diminishes the value. The weed doesn't belong in this place.

People are made to be weeds, too.

Some cities will designate you as a weed, and then they'll take action to pull you out. They'll uproot you. But it's not always explicit, like "we're outlawing loitering" or "we're outlawing taking a nap in the park" or "we're defunding the library". Sometimes it's quite clever, it's written into the physical landscape. Self-congratulatory "progressive" cities learn to co-opt language, to obscure the violence, to use and abuse space.

Thinking about things you might encounter, you might perceive, after you've been destitute, broken, lived at a homeless shelter, for years. Little signs of other peoples' misery. Indicators of desperation that some might overlook. And the way that environment shapes, and is shaped by, these miseries.

A friend asks "why is there always an unusual amount of scuffed detached missing shoe soles on this particular stretch of sidewalk? There are hardly any homes around here, it's all asphalt and empty lots, so where are all these be-shoed people coming from?" Because even though this is a wide expanse without either home residences or any kind of commercial or recreation space someone would want to visit, these blocks are the straight-line direct path between a low-income apartment complex and the cluster of corporate big box stores, and there's no bus line that runs between the two areas. "But don't the vast majority of customers of shopping malls and box stores drive vehicles, hence the obscenely massive parking lots?" Sure, customers drive, but guess who actually has to work at those places? An underclass of people living at that apartment complex with harsh restrictions and cheap amenities, who can't afford car insurance or who might be too physically disabled to bike. And so that apartment complex is a de facto "company town", the residents are essentially in confinement. It is written into that landscape. It can be read. "Why is there always debris, wrappers, coins, etc. in this particular quiet couple of blocks of the boulevard?" Because these blocks are between a thrift store and a same-day drop-in clinic, so many impoverished people will routinely be walking between these two locations. They attend their appointment, and then have forty-five minutes to kill before the bus comes back around, so why not check out the thrift store? The city and county collaborated and placed all the low-income assistance offices on the far side of town, which conveniently forces the poor and disabled to both stay away from the luxurious downtown district and also to waste their time making a four-hour commute, catching various connecting buses or else riding the bikepath, across the city just to attend a ten-minute-long appointment.

Then this spatial layout, this city's physical environment, will shape the physical body. This violence writes itself into the flesh. The way the denim is chafed and discolored on the left shoulder of someone's jacket from carrying a small backpack around by foot, day after day after day. The way someone's heart rate increases when they see a white and black vehicle in the periphery of their vision, subconsciously recollecting institutionalization and institutional abuse, or fearing what a ticket fee would mean for their budget (they might not be able to afford rent). The way someone develops a painful limp, maybe occasionally depends on a cane, because they had to walk great distances every day to get to work and their shoe sole fell off on the sidewalk, but they can't replace the shoes because their employer is underpaying them, and they're forced to stand all day at work anyway, and they already had some modest nerve damage in their foot because they've been rationing their insulin and can't afford their prescriptions, and federal medical insurance keeps denying them because their physical letters in the mail always show up too late or not at all, and groceries are too expensive so it's hard to get good nutrition to heal, but the diabetic nerve damage has by now damaged their digestive tract too so they have a strictly limited bland diet and can't enjoy the simple pleasure of a home-cooked meal (if they can even afford a home, at this point), and all those "little" miseries add up, and now they're hungry, and in pain, because they were forced to walk kinda funny for a long time over all those decaying sidewalks with all those other weeds.

[after-witch]

Death by Stereo [Yandere Chrollo x Reader] [Vampire AU]

Title: Death by Stereo [Yandere Vampire Chrollo x Reader]

Synopsis: You’re just a nobody living in a small town when a mysterious stranger with a leather jacket, good looks and a penchant for kissing your hand rolls in, just in time for the ever-popular summer carnival. Things are going great, until dead bodies start piling up. 

Word count: 17,510

Notes: yandere, vampire AU, descriptions of dead bodies, some violence, gore, abuse

Thursday

Is there anything more wearisome than a small town? Small towns grind you down so slowly that you don’t realize your feet have been eroded into useless nubs before it’s too late, and you have nowhere to run, even if you had the inkling to get away. 

A small town has its charms, as they say--but it has its burdens, too. You know all the faces, but all the faces know you; some of them have even known you since you were just an ultrasound picture carried dutifully in your mother’s purse, pulled out at coffee shops and book clubs. 

They know when you got your first period (age 13, in the middle of gym class--you were wearing white shorts); when your first boyfriend dumped you (at the school dance, right before he made out with the third most popular girl in school); what colleges you applied to, and later--why you dropped out (your dad got sick) and how he was doing (not so great but getting better) and where you worked, how you liked your coffee, and all these impersonal and personal details that made up the monotony of your life. 

It was a trap, this small town life. A faux bubble of intimacy that your parents embraced, but you’d never fully believed. Because despite knowing so much about you, no one here really knew you. They could tell you that you looked just like your mom at her age; they could sling down a mug with your coffee order without you opening your mouth (black, 1 sugar, 1 cream, no milk)--but they didn’t want to hear about how much you wanted to travel; how much you wanted to see.

Did it matter? You weren’t getting out anytime soon, anyway.

Like all small towns, yours had a claim to fame. While others might boast being the hometown of some B-list celebrity or the site of an all-you-get-eat seafood festival, your particular small town had one edge over the others: a summer carnival right on the beach, designed to appeal to nearby tourists who came to much larger, resort-friendly beaches for the summer season. 

The tourists loved to flock here on that singular summer weekend, pretending they were enjoying a quaint local carnival where they got drunk on cheap beer and sampled funnel cake until they puked. And if the locals hustled them as much as possible, overcharging for drinks and parking and sightseeing maps, was that so bad? Small towns needed to leech off new blood once in a while, after all.

The carnival was four days long--Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday. Sunday was, of course, the grand finale. There was a massive fireworks show on the beach, a huge concert with local and sometimes vaguely familiar bands. A lot more booze traded hands on Saturdays, and the beach was lit up with more than just fireworks; the local volunteers always spent the next week picking up cigarette butts and discarded joints in the sand.

The carnival can be fun. Although like anything that happens every single year in a small town you’ve lived in your entire life (save the one year of college you managed before your dad’s test results came back) it gets wearisome.

Still--you go. What else is there to do? Besides, you’d be stupid to deny that it’s more fun to spend your summer weekend wandering the carnival, riding a few rides, speaking to people, than to sit at home or pick up an extra shift at the diner. 

That’s why you’ve wandered into the carnival today--Thursday. Thursday is your favorite day of the carnival, because it’s the most quiet, relatively speaking. There are tourists here, sure, but they’re not rowdy yet. Not as overcrowded. There aren’t gaggles of kids running around with lobster-red faces and arms because they’re parents didn’t understand the necessity of sunscreen; there aren’t groups of women traveling in packs with matching sunglasses and hats, enjoying a summer break away from their rich and distant husbands.

It’s mostly locals on Thursday. People like you, bored coffee shop workers with nothing better to do on a Thursday evening.

Or people like Jake Jenson over there, currently aiming a colorful dart at a row of balloons in one of many carnival games that would hustle drunk tourists out of their money this weekend.

Jake was the town drunk--a title he gave himself, and others were only too happy to oblige him. He stuck to himself most of the time. During the carnival, he won as many carnival prizes as possible, and traded them to tourists with shitty aim for beers or cigarettes. 

And over there--the early birds. They’ve come three years in a row, you think from somewhere in New  York. They’re attached at the hip, constantly rubbing their noses together like some twee movie couple, and you’ve heard them complain that the boardwalks in their part of the country are a lot more “authentic.’ 

Sure, there’s the familiar faces, but unfamiliar ones, too. An older gentleman and his wife, who walks next to him more slowly, with a cane. He’s balancing a plastic plate with a fresh funnel cake in his hand. They’ll find a bench to sit down and enjoy it, maybe people watch, like you.

It’s time for one of your favorite games: making up stories for the various tourists you probably won’t ever see again. This couple--this is the last trip they’ll take together, because the wife got an awful diagnosis, and they’re spending what would have been the rest of their retirement savings on the dream vacation she always wanted to take. They met during the war, decades ago… he was a soldier and she was a nurse, and he hurt his leg, maybe, and wound up in a field hospital.

It would have been terribly romantic. 

Your eyes shift away from the couple and onto a few other new faces. 

Maybe that’s why you liked the carnival. It was nice to look at new people and imagine where they came from, what they did. The kind of life they had, which was surely more interesting and worldly than yours.

With people watching in mind,  you abandon your bench in front of the games and head deeper into the carnival, weaving yourself in between snack and ticket booths, stepping over large black cables that kept the rides running. 

Dusk had already settled in, and the warm glow of the summer had been replaced with a deepening sense of evening. The carnival lights had already begun to play against the darkening sky, creating that magical atmosphere that couldn’t be replicated during the day.

You don’t notice the stranger at first. It’s dark, the lights are a bit dizzying, and there are plenty of people simply wandering around and taking in the sights. What’s one more stranger, when over the course of the next few hours and days, the summer will be increasingly filled with them?

But this particular stranger shows up in the corner of your vision and immediately strikes you as… odd. He’s just standing there.

Watching you. Staring--right at you. What the fuck?

He’s wearing all black, and there’s some sort of scarf or cowl over his face. His eyes look impassive but there’s something awful in them, even in the brief glances you get from catching him from the corner of your gaze.

What a creep. 

It sours the mood, and you decide to leave, or at least take a break and shake off whatever out-of-towner decided to pull off his best edgy horror movie impression to creep you out. It wouldn’t be the first time a tourist behaved like a jerk, or a weirdo, especially if they’d be drinking. 

Something about nighttime at the carnival made people go wild. 

So you head away from it all, from the couples trying to win stuffed animals, from the giggling shrieks of people on rides that spun them upside down until they wanted to puke. And maybe you should just head right home, but it’s not fair to waste a night of good weather.

Cool, but not too cool. Pleasant. The moon is out and the stars twinkle overhead.

Heading out on the dock might be nice. Tourists don’t bother with it, at least not on Thursday, when the beach isn’t lit-up and there’s no particular reason to head out this way. 

But you’d been to this beach in the evening before; you weren’t scared of the dark. By contrast, you liked the way the beach sounded at night. The water moving in and out, slow and sure. The occasional sound of wildlife splashing in the water. And the din of the carnival behind you, all rainbow lights and indiscernible human happiness.

Your joy is cut off by the sound of footsteps. Your heart leaps in your chest and your hands slam into your pocket instinctively, fumbling for your keys. Fuck, how were you supposed to use these in self-defense again? Put them between your fingers?

Your heart hammers and you slowly turn around, squinting as you make out a figure approaching you in the dark.

“I’m sorry,” a voice calls out, penitent. “Did I scare you? I’m trying to get reception.” The man wiggles a small silver object in the air, raising it above his head. A small LED screen lights up and your heart rate begins to calm, slowly but surely.

After a few beats, he sighs, and shoves the phone in his pocket. 

He turns, apparently to leave, but then looks back at you. “Are you all right? I really didn’t mean to startle you.”

You swallow, lick your lips. Feel stupid for the keys in your fingers. He seems nice enough. A typical tourist. “Um, yeah.” You laugh, an empty sound. “I guess I’m just a little jumpy tonight.”

The moonlight doesn’t give you a clear view of the man’s features, but you can see him tilt his head a little. “Jumpy?”

The keys in your pocket rattle when you let them go, and pull your hands out to point back towards the carnival. The man follows your finger with an almost studious interest.

“Someone was following me, maybe? Or he just seemed a bit creepy.” You laugh again, a habit ingrained after years of dealing with men in odd situations--defuse, tread lightly, always. “He was staring at me, but I couldn’t see his face. He had a scarf over it, I think.”

The man in front of you hums in acknowledgement after a moment. He almost seems a little amused, which is both irritating and relieving in its own way. You were just being silly, jumpy, overreacting, weren’t you? Maybe the guy wasn’t even looking at you in the first place.

“Can I walk you back to the carnival? It doesn’t feel right to leave you here alone.” 

Ah, no, you think. Sure, the man in front of you might just be a tourist in search of reception, but that doesn’t mean you’re stupid. This is how people get murdered. Or attacked. Or like, hoisted into white vans and never seen again.

“No, that’s okay. I was going to stay out here longer and look at the stars. I’m going home soon, anyway.” Not a complete lie, since you did really want to go home. Something like this is usually enough for most people to take the hint, right? 

The man doesn’t turn around. Instead, you see the shape of his smile, lit only by the moon in the sky above.

“You want me to walk you back to the carnival,” he says simply, and offers his arm out, like some kind of old-fashioned gentleman. 

Oh. Of course you do. What were you thinking, staying out here on the dock at night? Mosquitoes would eat you up, anyway. 

You smile in return and take his offered arm, stepping lightly as you make your way back to the carnival with a complete stranger.

Only by the time you make it back to the threshold of the carnival, which seems to be eaten up by the darkness surrounding all of the twinkling lights, he’s not really a stranger, is he? 

And as you get closer to the carnival, the natural darkness of the beach gives way to an abundance of artificial lights that allow you to see him better. He’s cute--no doubting that, with dark hair that frames his face, and a bandage around his forehead. Maybe an accident, or an unfortunate birthmark. 

Even if you weren’t familiar with most of the town’s residents in one way or another,  you’d know he was an outsider from the way he’s dressed. A slim motorcycle jacket and dark jeans… not the type of guy that hangs around here for long.

As you stop at the border of the carnival, he asks where you live, and you tell him--”around.” He admits that he’s only in town for the carnival week. 

“I figured,” you say lightly enough.

He raises his eyebrows. “Is it that easy to tell?”

You put your hands into your pockets and look around you. 

“I mean, it’s a small town, right? Everyone knows everyone, after a while. A new face stands out pretty easily.”

His smile is charming. Practiced, but charming. Or maybe being practiced is how it’s so charming in the first place.  “That makes sense.” He considers you for a moment. “You like to watch the tourists, then?”

You shrug and gesture with your chin towards a mom with a toddler clinging to her hand, pulling her along towards one of the games with enormous stuffed animals.

“I like people watching, I guess. Sometimes,” and as you’re saying it, you don’t know why you’re telling him this so openly. “Sometimes I like to make up stories about people I see. Like, where they’re from or what they do or a backstory like they’re from a movie or whatever.” 

Your cheeks feel suddenly, stupidly hot. Christ, you meet a handsome stranger on the beach and your first major conversation involves you admitting you make up stories about people? You’ve got to get out of this town more.

But he doesn’t seem like he’s judging you. If anything, he looks interested. 

“And what would you imagine for me?”

The question is unexpected. 

“I think…” You try to force your mind to wander like it does when you people watch organically. What would you imagine, if you came across him walking around the carnival in the evening? He’d be on his own, surely, maybe his hands in his pockets. Quiet. A soft smile on his face, maybe? 

“I think you’re some sort of… librarian. Or a curator. A collector?” You shake your head, unsure of exactly where you want to go with this one. “The point is, you’re traveling around the country, looking for things to add to a museum or library or something like that. And you came across an ad for a summer carnival and thought you’d take in some local culture.” You gesture towards the carnival--the lights, the crowd of people, the humanity on display. “But walking around here makes you feel lonely. So you walk down to the beach in the hopes of distracting yourself. Only,” you add, with a cheeky grin. “To come across the most amazing small town waitress in 100 miles standing on the dock like a weirdo.” 

He doesn’t smile at your story. Not exactly. Instead--and you look away when you notice, feeling too rude for staring--his eyes widen just a smidge and he purses his lips in a thoughtful way. 

“My name is Chrollo,” he says. “May I have yours?”

Chrollo is kind of old-fashioned, you decide. Perhaps you were more spot-on than you realized with your story. 

Maybe you shouldn’t give your name. But there’s a giddy feeling inside your chest. Something akin to what you used to feel when you were a teen and you snuck out in the middle of the night for bonfire drinking parties.

I mean… a handsome stranger in a motorcycle jacket who escorted you back from the beach wants your name? You’d be stupid to say no. 

So you give it. 

At that, he finally smiles again.

“Well, then,” he says softly, saying your name in such a way that makes you hope he’ll say it again in the future, “I hope I’ll see you tomorrow night.”

--

“Help! Someone help me! For God’s sake!”

Jake Jensen cried out these words as loudly as he could--as clearly as he could, with booze slurring his words and making his mouth all mumbly. But he wasn’t loud enough. No one heard him. Not over the music and delighted screams of the carnival.

He had been chased away from the beach, past the dock, into a little storage shed used for kayaks rented to tourists during the summer. His worn out body protested with every movement, his lungs hacking from years of cigarettes. 

His attackers, who blocked the door frame, said nothing. They only looked at one another, silent words passed between them, and the taller of the two grinned in the darkness. 

Jake Jensen died screaming.

--

Friday

You tell yourself that you’re only sitting here on this bench, munching on fresh hot popcorn, because you had a hankering for carnival food. Definitely didn’t come here in the hopes of seeing a certain someone. You tell yourself this even as your eyes dart here and there, looking for any sign of the not-quite-a-stranger from last night. 

The sun has just set, and it’s a bit hard making out faces in the glow of the early evening. There are a lot more people here tonight, a new wave of tourists drowning out the familiar faces. Not that the locals shy away from the carnival--you spot your former best friend from high school, your old math teacher, one of the regulars at the diner… Jake Jensen isn’t in his usual spot at the games, but maybe he’s sleeping off a hangover. He never misses a summer carnival.

“Hello again.”

Oh--you choke on your current handful of popcorn just as Chrollo appears suddenly in your line of sight, hands in the pockets of his motorcycle jacket, a casual smile on his face.

“Hey,” you say, coolly, like you didn’t just nearly spit chewed popcorn kernels in his face when he approached. The silence between you doesn’t last long, but you fill it anyway. “You um, want some popcorn?”

But when you hold out the now half-filled container, Chrollo only looks at it curiously. Like he’s never seen popcorn before or something? But then he takes a small handful and pops it in his mouth. Chews--but he might as well be chewing broccoli, for all he seems to enjoy it. Oddly, he watches you while he chews, seemingly studying your face. Did you have popcorn in your teeth?

Better to fill the silence again.

“Well, what do you think?” You ask, grinning, popping another handful in your mouth. “It’s my favorite because it’s fresh, and that booth actually uses real butter. Not the fake oil stuff.”

Chrollo hums in agreement. “I see. I thought that tasted like real butter. Thank you for sharing.” 

You decide on the spot that you’re going to make the most of this evening, popcorn-in-teeth or no. So you shrug and give your best smile. “No biggie. Buuut… you will owe me.”

He raises his eyebrows. “Oh? And what will I owe you?”

It’s your turn to hum as you look out towards the carnival, scanning past the numerous faces, the booths, children running with balloons and sticks of cotton candy. “A ride on the Ferris wheel once it’s properly dark would be nice.”

A snort, though his nose. “I think I can manage that.”

He offers his arm again, and you take it, not minding how old fashioned it was. Somehow, despite his jacket, his sleek hair, the hint of motorcycle oil mixed with cologne, old-fashioned seemed to suit him.

Lots of things seemed to suit him, actually. You learn this as the evening wears on. He’s great at carnival games, choosing only a select few that he claims to be an expert in. He wins you a few stuffed animals that you pass on to little kids, save a smaller teddy bear that you can shoved inside your purse. 

You learn other things, too. Like, he’s a great listener. He lets you talk--about yourself, about the town--and doesn’t interrupt or tell you that you talk too much or make it clear he’s not listening to a thing you say. He even asks you questions, which shows he’s actually listening, and not just thinking about other things and waiting to ask you to go somewhere “private” like some other guys.

It’s nice, surprisingly nice, to find someone from out of town who’s so thoughtful.

The line for the Ferris wheel is always long once the sun goes down, and you’re one of the last rides of the night. 

When the carnival worker locks the bar down over your waists, you kick your legs and wait for the strange rush of adrenaline and pleasure that comes with the Ferris wheel. It’s a beautiful sight--all colored lights contrasted against the night sky, whisking you high into the air and giving you a view of the entire carnival and the ocean beyond.

But your body always reacts to the imagined danger of being carried so far away from the safety of the ground, and when the Ferris wheel reaches the top and begins to circle over for the first time, your stomach lurches and you gasp.

“Are you scared?” Chrollo’s voice is low--you could swear he’s teasing, but there’s something else in there, too. 

“Yeah,” you say, breath catching as you're brought back closer to the ground, only to be whisked away again. “Of course. What if something goes wrong, and I fall off and break my neck?”

Chrollo tilts his head. “You’d be dead.” 

You can’t help but grin. He’s so to-the-point sometimes. It’s charming in its own way, although you can’t exactly describe what “its own way” means with Chrollo. It’s like he stepped out of some old fashioned film but also came out of a cooler city. A biker who carries around an embroidered handkerchief, or something like that.

“And I don’t want to die, hence--the stomach flipping.” 

Chrollo looks ahead, then, taking in the view as the Ferris wheel carries you over again. “No? How long do you want to live, then?”

The snort is involuntary. A philosophical question on the Ferris wheel--not exactly what you expected from tonight. But maybe it’s not so bad. He’s good company. And Chrollo looks earnest in his question, too, which makes you feel guilty for snorting in the first place. 

Maybe it’s the lights of the Ferris wheel that dazzle you; maybe it’s the way being on the Ferris wheel at night makes you feel like you’re in some wonderful haze of a dream. 

Whatever it is, you fling your hand into the air, towards the carnival, towards the stars.

“Long enough to achieve my dreams,” you breathe out, earnest, almost sing-song. “Whatever they might be. I haven’t figured them out yet.”

Chrollo turns his head to look at you. His eyes almost seem magnetic against the night sky, with the lights of the carnival playing in them. 

Then, as the Ferris wheel brings the two of you down towards the ground, you see him. The man from yesterday, with the cowl over his face. He’s looking right at you, and it’s no mistake or figment of your imagination.

Your head swivels to the side and you grip the bar of the Ferris wheel until your knuckles hurt. You jerk one hand out and point to the stranger on the ground with a trembling finger. 

“There--look! Look!” 

Chrollo takes a moment to respond, and follows the sight line of your finger.

But now--there’s no one there.

“What do you see?” He asks, clearly unknowing that the object of your terror has vanished into thin air.

“The man… the man from yesterday. He was right there. I swear.” Your chest hurts; fear hurts. 

Unbidden, Chrollo pulls you close to him, and you let him hold you tight.

“You’re all right. I’m here.” 

He holds your chin in his fingers. “You’re safe, do you understand?”

The fear in your chest seems fuzzy now, like it had almost never been there in the first place. How silly of you to be scared, when Chrollo was right here. It doesn’t even seem strange that he’s touching you so intimately, does it? So you nod--yes, yes, you understand. 

Chrollo smiles. 

“Let me kiss you,” he says simply.

And you will. Of course you will. What else would you want to do? 

But as you lean forward, eyes already closing, he pulls himself away.

“Wait.” You blink, head clearing, and he continues, words slow, careful. “Would you like to kiss me?”

Now, you think about it. Maybe it was too hasty. But the lights of the carnival are beautiful and Chrollo is beautiful, and he’s been so thoughtful all day, and now he’s here, holding you, promising to keep you safe from carnival creeps.

A summer carnival is the time for a flirty romance, after all. 

“Yes,” you answer, simply. “I would.”

Chrollo’s finger strokes your chin as you lean in and share your first kiss on the Ferris wheel, glittering lights and carnival music dancing in your mind. 

--

The wife died first. Too quickly, but perhaps it was all the alcohol in her system; $1 margaritas at a local watering hole on a Friday night did nothing to make her more agile when being chased by predators while running in black city heels that had no place in a small town carnival.

Well, to the dying woman’s credit: it was the heels and alcohol and the sliced tendons in her ankle. Taut wires cut through her flesh like butter and she was down for the count, crawling, sobbing, begging for her husband, for God, for anyone to help her.

No one did.

Those pitiful cries, too, were cut down by a wire pressed into her throat; silencing her vocal chords, yes, but spilling blood over her neck that was as pretty as a sight as anything to those watching her choke and scrabble her hands against the ground, eyes wide, gaping, wondering--how is this happening to me? 

The margaritas may have hindered her before her unfortunate ankle accident. But they did make her blood taste sweet and tangy. Metallic, rich, with a twist of lime. All that was missing was a miniature umbrella.

This joke was said aloud, once everyone had a taste of her. A few laughed, blood on their teeth. 

Her husband didn’t seem to find it funny, but perhaps he was more preoccupied with his own current slow death. An arc of his blood spurted into the air--”Don’t fucking waste it, Uvo”--before a greedy mouth latched onto the wound, beginning to suck him dry.

The husband, like the wife, would be shared.

Soon, though, there would be no need for sharing.

There would be enough for everyone to have their fill--and beyond that.

There would be enough to gorge.

--

Saturday:

Three people are dead. 

You didn’t know them know them, but the shock is still there, making your hands tremble a little as you pour morning coffees and deliver plates of steaming eggs and overcooked bacon to tables of locals and tourists in almost equal measure.

Jake Jensen is one of those people. The identities of the other two are unknown--”Due to the state of the bodies, no identification could be provided at this time,” said the sheriff, above a rolling news ticker that had been on the diner’s singular TV all morning--but they might be a couple. A man and a woman.

People die all the time. Sure. But…  dead bodies are not often found in your small town, where gossip typically revolves around couples breaking up or a local store not putting up enough holiday decorations to appease the older crowd. 

Yet now, in one morning, there are three. 

Jake Jensen, who was found near the beach.

And an unknown man and woman (John and Jane Doe) who were found in a wooded area near the carnival.

“Mighta been a bear,” says one of your regulars, gnawing on a piece of his burnt bacon. He liked it that way.

“I heard they were drained of blood!” Your head--and others’ too, you suspect--turns to the voice. It’s not a local. Someone who’s far too dressy for the diner, sipping on a coffee they brought from home while they sample your diner’s less than stellar fruit salad option. He’s oblivious to the stares, to the eye rolls, to the immediate dismissal that his outsiderness earns him. “Two puncture wounds on the neck. Heard it from a cop while I was walking in this morning.”

Someone murmurs a joke about vampires and the locals chuckle, then go back to their coffee, their eggs, their eyes now and then glancing up at the old TV screen.

Your eyes roll, too, but then you wonder.

If they were murdered--and it’s an if, of course, because it could have been animals and Jake Jensen could have gotten so plastered that he fell off the dock or something, murders just don’t happen in your town--then… could it have been that creepy guy from before? The one who’s been following you around the carnival?

Shit, maybe he was waiting for the chance to get you alone, so he could drag you off to the dock or the woods and slit your throat. The thought gives you goosebumps, and acrid coffee tries to climb its way up your throat, before you swallow it down.

It was a good thing you had Chrollo around for the past two days.

And you’d be seeing him again tonight.

They weren’t canceling the carnival--it brings in too much money. And while a part of you is all sore and soft for poor Jake Jensen (who was never mean, just drunk) you try to brush it away. It’s sad. But life is sad. 

You don’t want to be sad tonight. You want to look nice--for Chrollo? He wasn’t the first out-of-towner that had flirted with you, that you’d flirted with back. He was the first one that you’d ever genuinely looked forward to seeing again, though.

So.

You want to be wearing your best smile when you meet Chrollo again tonight. 

And you can’t do that if you’re thinking about Jake Jensen’s body washing up on the beach or if there’s a small, tickling question dancing through your mind--

What sort of animal leaves two pretty little puncture wounds on the neck?

--

You sit on the same bench as before; the bench, in your mind, where you and Chrollo have taken to meeting up these past few days. 

There’s no room in your stomach for popcorn tonight, though. Or rather, there’s room--your stomach growls--but you can’t imagine chewing anything rich, hot and buttery right now. Your thoughts flit between horror (poor Jake Jensen, one time, when you were younger, he helped you fix a flat bike tire) and romance (Chrollo’s lips on yours, warm, the breeze tickling your neck, the lights of the Ferris wheel twinkling around you).

You feel bad for wanting to enjoy tonight. But that’s not fair, is it? Another small town tragedy: caring too much about someone you didn’t really know as anything more than a passing familiar face that you can’t even focus on a hot date. 

Fuck. 

“Daydreaming again?” 

The evening sky above you is a wash of deepening colors, devoid of actual sunlight but clinging to the last vestiges of it like a child refusing to let go of his mother’s hand on the first day of school. 

He’s holding up a stick of bright pink cotton candy in one hand, while the other arm is offered for you to take--the contrast between his leather jacket, the ball of fluffy sugar he’s holding, and the way he sometimes acts like an old timey gentleman out of the movies is enough to make you smile.

Perhaps there’s bitterness in it, because as soon as you’re standing, Chrollo regards you with a measured look.

“Are you all right?” 

Well. You don’t want to ruin your evening, but it would be stupid to pretend everything was all sweetness and sunshine, wouldn’t it? It’s better to get it out of the way. 

“Sorry, it’s… I don’t know if you saw the news?” He says nothing, and you continue. “Those people that they found dead this morning.” Your lips press together. “I mean, the guy--I knew him, sort of? Everyone did. He was drunk all the time, yeah, but he wasn’t a jerk about it.”

Chrollo hums.

“I can imagine that would be shocking for you to hear.” 

Your smile is shaky, and you nab a piece of cotton candy from the stick and shove it in your mouth. The sweetness contrasts awfully with the words that pass through your lips. “For you too though, right? I mean, it’s not every day three people turn up dead at some small town carnival.”

Chrollo raises an eyebrow in a way that seems to say that he is not particularly shocked by the news. 

“Shit, really? What are you in your non-touristy life, a mortician or something?” A sudden realization washes over you, that Chrollo has an entire life outside of you and these carnival evenings; he has a past, and family, and friends, and a job. Hopes, dreams, the whole nine yards.

“Something like that,” he says. When you move to apologize, he shakes his head. “It’s alright. I’m not terribly shocked by these things, I suppose, because of what I see in my day to day.” He looks at you a little curiously. “But I can see how it would rattle you.”

You open your mouth, but you don’t know what to say. Sugar sticks to your teeth.

“Come on.” Chrollo drops the cotton candy into a nearby trash can, and leads you towards a row of carnival games. “I know what might take your mind off things.”

For once, you’re glad to see the carnival games; the fast-paced spitting words of the barkers trying to hustle money from kids and couples, the sound of darts popping balloons, the triumphant music that plays before the obnoxiously difficult water shooting game. 

You’re even glad to see the tourists in all of their Saturday glory, which isn’t so much “glory” as it is a sort of restlessness. Saturdays were always a strange day at the carnival; the last middle day before the grand finale. An unusual mixture of sleepiness, anticipation, and a buzz that held everyone together until tomorrow.

Strange day, strange faces. Some stranger than others. Staring up at the bell at the top of the Test Your Strength game is an exceptionally tall man with wild dirty blonde hair. By the size of his muscles, he might just break the game, which hadn’t been replaced in the many years you’d been coming here in the summer.

You tug on Chrollo’s arm and point the man out. “What do you want to bet the carnie will try to get him not to play? He might just break the thing…”

“I don’t doubt it.” Beside you, Chrollo snorts, but doesn’t linger on the man as he leads you further into the carnival. 

The two of you walk, and talk. About nothing and everything. He asks you to come up with stories for a few tourists, and you do. Light ones. It really does take your mind off things. At some point, Chrollo buys you fries, which taste slightly sweet; probably cooked in the same oil as the funnel cakes. 

You dig in your heels in front of the fun house, but Chrollo shakes his head, and won’t go in.

“Are you scared?” You tease. At night, the fun house was all lit up, and the clowns painted on the front had a ridiculously sinister air to them.

But Chrollo doesn’t smile or laugh. “They make me dizzy,” he says, quietly. There’s something behind his words, but you don’t know what. A medical problem? A bad experience? You apologize and then he does smile, shaking his head, at himself, or you, you’re not sure. “Think nothing of it, dear.”

Dear.

You want to hold onto that bit of affection like the sky holds onto the sunset on summer evenings. At least as long as you can, which tonight, seems to be until Chrollo takes you on the Ferris wheel again. 

This time, he holds your hand as soon as the attendant locks the bar down. Your fingers interlock and squeeze and it sends butterflies rushing through your chest. What was there to worry about, to think about, when you were sitting next to him? 

It takes a few turns around the Ferris wheel to remember what you were supposed to worry about, because on the trip down, your stomach fluttering from romance and gravity alike, you see him: the strange man. The stalker. The maybe-serial-killer-on-the-loose. 

He’s standing still in the crowd walking here-and-there around the Ferris wheel, couples intent on getting in line, children running from tired parents as they beg for another carnival game.

And he’s staring straight up at you.

You don’t think this time. You grab Chrollo and point straight down and practically screech out the words: “There! He’s there! Look, look--look!” 

And the stars must be aligned, because Chrollo actually sees him. His grip on your other hand tightens and he pulls you closer to him as you make your way back around the Ferris wheel and the man goes out of sight. By the time the two of you are at the top again, the stranger is gone.

Your goosebumps remain.

“We should talk to the police,” you murmur, a quiet, scratchy whisper.

Chrollo turns towards you. You recognize the look. The “Do you really think the police will do anything about this?” sort of look. 

“I’ve been thinking…” You squeeze Chrollo’s hand and he squeezes back and that’s all you need to keep going. “That maybe he might have something to do with those people? The ones they found this morning?”

Chrollo’s eyes widen just a little. It’s both comforting and worrying to see him look taken aback, even if it’s only a bit. 

“I heard…” You feel stupid saying this. But you shouldn’t feel stupid, not with Chrollo. He hasn’t given you a reason to feel like you can’t tell him things. “Someone at the diner today said they were found with puncture wounds on them. I was thinking, maybe… like an ice pick? Or a screwdriver or--I don’t know. But maybe they were killed.”

“Perhaps he’s a vampire,” Chrollo offers, voice low, lips curled into a smile, and your face must reflect the flash of offended shame that rushes into your chest, because he immediately apologizes. His sigh flutters against your cheek. “Well. He wouldn’t be the first killer to prey on crowds or small towns, would he?”

At least he didn’t say you were crazy to connect the two things, vampire joke aside.

He keeps you close once the ride is over, and you wouldn’t have it any other way. 

“I’ll inform the police,” he insists, when the two of you finally stumble on a pair of deputies patrolling the carnival. He leaves you standing next to the Test Your Strength game, where the carnival barker has agreed to keep an eye on you. It made you feel like a child, but for once, maybe that wasn’t a bad thing--to be watched and protected.

You watch, biting your nails now and then, as Chrollo and the deputies talk. In the end, they shake his hand, and you feel cool relief in your stomach. The police will know what to do with the information. If this guy’s a killer, they’ll catch him. If he’s not, well. The carnival was almost over, and you wouldn’t have to worry about him much longer.

Things will be normal soon.

When Chrollo returns, you take his arm without hesitation, but this time he begins to lead you away from the carnival.

“I was thinking,” he says, “that we might go for a walk. Get away for a bit. If you don’t mind, that is.”

You don’t mind at all. 

“Do you like trails?” You ask, steering him towards a trail that leads from the beach to a popular hiking spot for locals. “It’d be a bit more private. As long as you’re not scared of the dark.”

Chrollo chuckles. It’s a warm, dark, rich sound, and it sends a delightful thrill right through you. 

“I’m not if you aren’t,” is all he says, and that’s enough for you to point out the way.

Thoughts of dead bodies and stalkers fade away with the carnival, whose sights and sounds fade bit by bit as you and Chrollo leave the beach and begin making your way into a wooded area with a paved hiking path lit on the other side by electric trail lights. 

“I’m surprised to see these,” Chrollo says, quietly. He pulled his phone out at the start of the trail to give the two of you more light, though the trail lights were decent enough, especially since you’d been up here more times than you could count.

“Mm,” you murmur. “Locals come up here all the time at night. Especially teens. Usually to make out and stuff.” Chrollo gives you a look and your cheeks hit up, but you don’t elaborate. He doesn’t need to know about your high school escapades. “They added them to avoid the inevitable lost-teen-in-the-woods-at-night rescue scenario, I think.”

“Clever,” he says. 

--

The waterfall is loud when you’re this close; so loud you can’t hear anything in the moment but your own thoughts, which have grown louder and louder somewhere between the hiking trail and this popular waterfall spot. So popular that it’s lit with a flood light near the top--supposedly a teenager slipped in one night and drowned in the shallow pool, though you’ve never been certain if it was a true story or not.

Regardless, you’re not sure you want to stay. No--you know you don’t want to stay. 

This is a bit much, is what your thoughts are starting to scream. Chrollo is nice, but you don’t really know him, do you? And you just walked somewhere alone with him in the dark after being surprised by a maybe-stalker, the day that three people were found dead around here.

Yeah. A bit much might be an understatement. You should really get back to where there’s more lights and people and civilization in general. If Chrollo is a nice person (and he is, you insist, you’re just being smart!) he won’t mind. 

“I think we should go back,” you say, but Chrollo can’t hear you. So you cup your hands around your mouth and lean closer to his ears. “I think we should go back!”

You expect him to nod and take your arm and lead you carefully down the lantern-lit trail, perhaps still using his phone to guide the way. Instead, he takes your chin in his hands--you move to jerk it out, you’d rather wait until you’re back at the carnival to kiss again--but his grip is impossibly strong.

“It’s all right,” he says, and it’s the strangest thing, you can hear him so clearly despite the roaring waterfall just a few feet in front of you. “You know that you’re safe with me. You don’t want to go back yet.”

How strange. How silly. Why did you want to leave, when you just got here? You didn’t even show him the best part yet.

“Come on!” It’s your turn to pull him along as you carefully walk the path leading to the front of the waterfall, which has already begun to soak water through your clothes. 

“Is there a cave?” Chrollo asks--and again, you’re struck by how easy it is to hear him, despite the water rushing down in front of you. 

“You sure know your way around local watering holes,” you jest. 

He merely smiles. “I travel a lot.”

With that, you grip his arm tighter and run through the waterfall, shrieking in delight. Both of you emerge on the other side soaked; you, grinning, and Chrollo, looking around with interest.

The inside of the cave was lined with endless rows of fairy lights, courtesy of a local high school group. They had also brought in the two couches--used leather, frayed and flecking, but good enough for a hang out. When you were younger, there were only folding chairs; which were great for sitting, not so much for much less. 

“Do you like it?” You ask, then feel stupid. Why do you care so much what he thinks of some local hang out spot, especially one you hadn’t been in for ages? The same reason why you’d spent all day telling him about your daydreams, about small town memories, bits and pieces of local lore that he didn’t brush aside but seemed to enjoy hearing.

Chrollo was so different from the others you’ve met at the summer carnival. 

Maybe that’s why your heart begins to beat fast the moment you catch his eye again. His skin looks almost dewy in the glow of the lights, thanks to the water; his eyes shine, reflecting a soft, warm twinkling glow.

It’s just the two of you. No tourists, no locals, no would-be stalkers. Even the carnival itself seems far away; the lights blocked from view by the rushing water and canopy of the forest, even the wafting smell of popcorn and stale beer was long gone out here.

It was just you and Chrollo in a cave at the end of the evening. 

But… it didn’t have to be the end of the evening, did it? 

You ask him, this time. 

“Do you want to kiss me?” 

“I do,” he says. “Very much so.”

This time, your kiss is tinged with the tang of river water.

--

Five bodies lay scattered in the grass. Young men, young women. Teens that had been giggling and stumbling through the forest, flasks of pilfered whiskey in their bags. 

Now some dead and going cold, their limbs twisted, their mouths open in silent screams.

Two were still alive, whimpering, weak hands beating against monsters’ chests as open mouths hungrily lapped up their life blood. They had screamed, all of them, but no one could hear them in the woods--over the water. 

“This is a lovely spot,” said a woman, brushing back her blonde hair. A bit of red gore had stuck to the strands and she tsked at the sight of it.  “The waterfall adds a nice touch.” 

The man hummed, and stuck his hands in his pockets. The slightest touch of red showed on his lips; like a woman pressing her lipstick-covered mouth onto a bit of tissue to get rid of the excess. 

The carnage made him indifferent; the whimpers of the dying, even more so. But as he looked around at the carefully placed lights on the trail, the way they flickered against the waterfall and its hidden cavern like delicate stars, he smiled. 

“It came highly recommended.” 

--

Sunday: The Final Day

Chrollo was in your bed last night, and you thought he’d be there in the morning. But when the sound of birds pulls you delightfully out of a restful sleep and you blink your eyes open to dappled sunlight through your blinds, you realize that the bed is half-empty.

Just you and the sheets and the leftover smell of Chrollo--cologne and, more faintly, sweat and sex. 

You freeze, listening for the sound of someone meandering about an unfamiliar kitchen. He could be up and about already--making coffee or breakfast. The image of him serving up a plate of bacon and eggs almost makes you laugh.

But the apartment is silent, save for your breathing, the sound of a clock ticking in the living room. 

Your heart lurches and shame pricks at the back of your eyelids. He fucked you and ran, didn’t he? Just like the others, just like--

But just when you’re about to give into the temptation to scrub yourself all over with hot water and erase every trace of Chrollo that ever existed in your presence, you see it: a piece of paper, torn from a notebook you keep on your dresser. Carefully folded over and placed on the side table next to the bed.

Your name is on it, written in a surprisingly beautiful, scrawling hand. 

Curiosity and leftover shame-tinged dread curl together in  your stomach as you sit up and slowly pick up the note. 

Dear--

Your heart lurches again, for a different reason this time.

I apologize that I did not give you a proper farewell. I had an urgent matter to attend to. Forgive me, won’t you? We will see each other tonight, I hope, for a memorable and unforgettable evening.

Of course he didn’t fuck and run. He wouldn’t do that. And tonight would be--well, memorable and unforgettable, just as he said.

The pitter-pattering inside your chest takes on a new delightful cadence as you get yourself ready for the day. No work--you had Sundays off, thank God, maybe literally, for that. It was a shame Chrollo didn’t tell you where he was staying; presumably, the only hotel in town. But maybe he was at one of the B&Bs or was shacking up at a room for rent.

It would be nice to see him in the daytime, too.

But he didn’t, so you’re left with nothing to do but flick on the TV and make yourself a cereal bowl. Well, that’s wrong.  That’s not the only thing you could do. You could go to your parent’s house and help out your mom; she could use a break with caring for your dad.

But… was it wrong to be selfish, just a little, for just one day? You didn’t want to see Chrollo tonight with something unpleasant sticking inside you, on the potential chance that your dad was having a not-so-great day.

It was better to approach your last evening together with a sunnier attitude.

Although you don’t really have a choice, because the first thing you see when the news returns from a commercial break is a giant banner scrolling across the screen: TWO MISSING TEENS FOUND DEAD AT LOCAL WATERFALL. POPULAR TRAIL CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE.

In the background, the sheriff recites familiar lines about respecting the privacy of the dead, about putting the full energy of the police force into finding the investigation, about how there is no need to panic. He says that it may not have even been foul play.

Somehow, you don’t believe that.  You just know. 

Sugary cereal seems to lodge itself inside your throat. You were just there. You were just there, kissing Chrollo, holding his hand, and now two teenagers are dead and lifeless and, and--

And if it was that same man… the one who was staring at you, stalking you… how close did you and Chrollo come to dying last night?

Tears prick at your eyes and you grab your purse. Maybe you would spend the day with your parents, after all. 

--

You should be more excited to see Chrollo. And you are, truly. But between the news this morning and the dull realization that this would be your last evening together ever, it’s hard to feel too enthused. 

Chrollo would be going home after tonight. Tourist trap over, no need to stick around. Something childish in you thinks: maybe I can convince him to stay a little longer. And if he stays a little longer, he’ll see how nice it is here (it’s not) and maybe he’ll want to settle down (he won’t). 

Oh, how stupid. It’s like when you’d meet the endless stream of New Best Friends every summer weekend as a kid, and you’d beg their parents together to extend their vacation.

It wasn’t going to happen. You’ll never see him again after tonight, and you’ll go your separate ways, and that’s that. 

Reality sucks sometimes.

You’re still stuck in the dreary shit cloud that is reality when Chrollo’s now somewhat familiar footsteps approach you on the bench. The bench, your spot--your spot? As if you and Chrollo had anything that could be called an actual relationship that warranted the use of “your” plural. 

You shake your head, hoping it shakes those silly childish delusions, and force yourself to smile.

Chrollo, to your surprise, doesn’t smile back.

Instead, he leans down, and takes your hand. His eyes roam over your fingers like they’re something special and it makes your stomach flutter stupidly.

“You seem a bit sad,” he says, bringing your knuckles to his lips for a kiss. The way that makes you feel is something you love and hate in almost equal measure. It’s not fair, is it, that he makes you feel this way--when he has to leave, and you’ll never see him again.

Perhaps it’s the knowledge that you will part ways after tonight that makes you speak freely.

“I’m just sad that you’ll be leaving.” He blinks at you, and turns his head a little. “That we won’t see each other after tonight,” you clarify. 

You expect him to nod and agree, and perhaps say something trite but comforting, like, “We’ll just make the most of it.” 

Instead, he gives your hand a squeeze.

“We don’t have to part, you know.”

It’s your turn to blink. A silly, little-kid-in-you hope does a twirl. He could stay--and this could maybe, possibly, in some far off millimeter of a chance, turn into something more serious than a summer fling. “You could extend your vacation? Your job would do that?”

Chrollo finally smiles at you. 

“My life is flexible. But,” and now he pulls you up so that you’re standing. It’s a fluid, easy gesture for him, almost too easy--he’s stronger than he looks. “I was thinking that instead of staying here, you would come with me.”

The world around you is not silent. The carnival is always producing an eternal cacophony of sounds--screaming patrons hung upside down on the more thrilling of rides, cheery carousel music, laughter, popcorn endlessly beating like a fast paced drum, everything and anything all mixed together into a swirl of sound.

But it might as well be silent, because you feel like all you can hear is your heartbeat in your eyes for a few stretched moments. 

“What? You’re not serious.” You smile, too, but it feels fake. Like it’s plastered on and cracking underneath. There’s a brief thought--maybe he means, like, for a weekend?--but you instantly know that’s not what he’s talking about.

This is too much, too fast. Too out of the blue. 

Chrollo looks at you in a way that almost makes you uncomfortable. Like he wants to see something inside you that you’re keeping for yourself. Then that gaze is gone and he’s smiling softly, charming, a little bittersweet.

Bittersweet is familiar territory, and the ringing in your ears fades in favor of a carnival barker offering 2-for-1 prizes on the Test-Your-Strength game. 

Chrollo’s voice cuts through it all, jovial, unassuming. 

“We can talk about it later, if you’d like. Let’s go enjoy the carnival a bit more before the concert.” 

That would be nice.

“I’d like that.” 

And you mean it--you do. You shake your head and let Chrollo intertwine his fingers in yours, and it doesn’t take long for his question to fade away from your mind as you weave in and out of the crowds.

If you weren’t so distracted, so disarmed, you might have noticed an uncomfortably familiar figure clad in black watching the pair of you intently.

--

The Ferris Wheel worker should have kicked you off several spins ago, but Chrollo had slipped him a twenty as he buckled the safety bar down. It’s nice, this extra time with him--it’ll be the last time you ride the Ferris wheel together, after all. 

What did it say about the state of your love life--or your life in general, actually--that slipping a carnie 20 bucks made your heart soar (and twist, and ache) even a little bit?

The night is prettier from the Ferris wheel. The world, too. Up here, you can’t see the grit and grime. The fermenting candy apples littering the ground, dropped two days ago by careless kids; the too-drunk couples arguing about whether they should stay for the concert or not; the exhausted carnival workers smiling hard no matter how much they get yelled at for their rigged games.

All you can take in from up here is the broad vantage point. Crowds and happy sounds--squeals and music interplaying above crowds of people, including a growing crowd on the beach in front of the black stage, waiting for the concert to start.

Chrollo’s grip on your hand tightens and draws your attention back to him. Even he looks more beautiful from up here, with the rainbow lights of the Ferris wheel playing on his face. 

“I’ve enjoyed our time together,” he says softly.

Ah, you realize. The extra spins were for the inevitable “we’ll never see each other again but it was a blast” speech. You knew it was coming. Doesn’t make it any less bitter in your mouth. But what good is holding bitterness against your tongue?

“Me too,” you say, and it’s not a lie, even if you hate the way the conversation must end. You try to focus less on the sourness and more on the sweet that came before. After all, Chrollo was… well. Handsome, yes, magnetic, yes. But more than that. He seemed thoughtful. He listened to you prattle on about yourself and your small town, and he didn’t even make fun of you for knowing so many local stories.

He was good in bed, too, wasn’t he? You blink and realize you don’t actually remember all that much about last night, except that he wasn’t there in the morning. Vague snatches rush through your memory. You remember his mouth on your lips, his hand trailing against your skin, removing your clothes. You remember his mouth against your neck, then this teeth, nipping, and--

It’s all fuzzy. But you weren’t drunk. So why--

“Have you thought about what I said?” He asks, and once again you’re pulled away from your thoughts, although this time you’d like to focus on them. Why couldn’t you fully remember last night?

When you don’t answer, he raises his eyebrows.

“About coming with me,” he says, a bit louder, as if you can’t hear him over the carnival din.

You let out a soft puff of a breath, then, and force yourself to focus on the current conversation. For now.

“You’re serious?” You don’t mean to sound so flippant, but you do. Chrollo frowns, just a little, and you feel like a bitch for it. “Sorry. I just--I didn’t know if you really meant it.”

“I am,” is all he says.

You didn’t like the idea of the conversation headed towards Chrollo leaving, but you like the idea of him genuinely asking you to come with him even less. Partly because you know you never could, and partly because there’s some small, stupid, fantasy-of-your-hair-blowing-in-the-wind-wearing-a-leather-jacket-on-a-motorcycle part of you that wants to say yes.

“Chrollo, I can’t do that. I have a job here. A life.”

Chrollo doesn’t let go of your hand, but you can sense the way his muscles tense. 

“A job at a local diner slinging hash browns,” he says, voice dry and almost hurtful. You must look offended--are you? You can’t tell--because he turns a little in the seat, trapping you with his gaze. His voice is earnest now, drawing you in.

“Don’t you want more out of life? The ability to pursue your dreams--to figure out your dreams?” One hand goes to your cheek, and his knuckle brushes against your skin. “You could travel. See so much more than your little town. Imagine it.” 

An image starts to build in your mind. Unbidden by you, but there, somehow, nonetheless. Of you riding behind him on a motorcycle, holding onto his waist as he takes you wherever you want to go--wherever he wants to go, together. Life would be wild and unpredictable, but easy and fun and--

“My family,” you murmur, and Chrollo seems surprised that you’ve spoken. 

His lips press thinner. “You could write to them, call them. No matter at all.”

Whatever fantasy has built in your head gets swept away and the Ferris wheel finally comes to a stop. The seat rocks back and forth and the bored (but $20 richer) carnie lets you off. Chrollo helps you as he’s done every time.

You wait until he’s escorted you away from the Ferris wheel to turn and address him. 

“Chrollo, I can’t--” You try to find the right words, but there are no right words. “I don’t know you. Not… really. Not enough to give up my life here.”

Chrollo is quiet. He considers you, turning his head a little. You feel awful--maybe you should just end the night here, on this shitty, sour note, because you’ve probably ruined the rest of the evening anyway.  You wish he hadn’t asked again before the night was over, but there’s no way to fix it now.

You’re ready to leave, to bite your cheek so tears don’t come. You’re prepared for Chrollo to say something low and insulting, to dismiss you, because why should he waste another minute on someone who would rather stay here in this shitpot of a town than--

“Come along,” is what he says, finally, holding out his hand--to your utter confusion. He still wants to go to the concert? With you? Now?

But you take his hand anyway. 

“It would be wasteful to end our evening early and miss the concert.” 

His grip is harder than it has been, but maybe you’re imagining it as he pulls you along, weaving in and out as the crowds grow larger and a little more drunk the closer the pair of you get to the beach.

This doesn’t feel right, suddenly. He’s upset, that’s why he’s holding you so tightly. Or maybe you’re upset and imagining it. Either way, it doesn’t feel good. Your primal gut instincts are telling you that it’s better to cut your losses and leave now, then to spend the night with a flipping stomach. 

“Maybe I should just go home,” you yell over the crowd. 

Chrollo stops, and you stumble forward a little, but he catches you in both arms before you make an ungraceful acquaintance with the ground. The hand not gripping your own gently grasps your chin and he leans in, not quite kissing you. His breath smells off, like rust. 

“And miss the grand finale?”

You should insist on going home. Everything’s gone shitty. It’s too crowded and the music will be too loud, and Chrollo is clearly irritated with you--

“Come to the concert,” he whispers, and none of that seems to matter anymore. Of course, you’ll go to the concert. What else would you do? 

He keeps his grip on your hand as you walk onto the warm, crowded sands of the beach, even though you have no intention of leaving. 

--

Booze, sweat, and popcorn. That’s all you can really smell now, surrounded as you are by crowds of people jumping and swaying to some rock band you’ve never heard of before; but no one really cares what the music sounds like on a night like this, when alcohol has been flowing and summer is at its peak.

Even Chrollo seems to be enjoying himself, although he’s not dancing. Just holding you, his arm around your waist, pressing his lips now and then to your forehead.

You feel bad. That must be why there’s a pit in your stomach. You were being rude to him. Of course he’d ask you to come with him--if he’s the type to live so freely, he wouldn’t think twice about making the offer. He just doesn’t understand what it means to be rooted down, willingly or not, the way you are.

You can’t hold something like that against him, so you don’t. 

Instead, you sway to the music, hips bumping against Chrollo now and then. Maybe after this, he could come back to your apartment again, for one last…

All thoughts in your head are stomped into the stand when you spot the strange man with the cowl in the crowd. He’s standing stock still while everyone around him jumps and dances and flaps their drunken arms. 

And he’s looking right at you.

“Chrollo--” There’s no time to waste, and you grab his arm and jerk him towards the direction of the stranger.

But he’s gone. He’s just fucking gone. Cold terror seizes your chest.

“What is it, love?” 

The nickname doesn’t even register.

“That--the man--the guy from before--he was there.” Your voice begins to tremble, frightened tears welling in your eyes. “Can we leave? Please?” 

Chrollo pulls you closer to him and you feel dim comfort as he wraps his arms around you and presses his lips against your head. But he doesn’t tell you that of course, we’ll leave, of course, I’ll get you somewhere safe, of course, let’s talk to the police. 

“Hush.” One hand begins to pet your hair. “Not much longer now. It’ll be over soon.” 

“What do you…”

Behind Chrollo, you see another familiar face. Vaguely familiar. The tall man with wild blonde hair, the one who looked like he could snap the Test Your Strength Game in half if he really wanted to--he’s standing still, like the man from before, while everyone jostles happily around him. He’s not looking at you, but that doesn’t make it any less unnerving. 

Your eyes dart over the crowd.

There are others, standing still. Others who seem out of place immediately, either because of their appearance or something awful you can’t describe. A woman with pink hair looking impassively as she scans the crowded beach, keeping her body perfectly still. A man with long black hair and something shiny and thin strapped to his shoulder. A woman with blonde hair in a smart black tailored suit that no one in their right mind would wear to a summer night carnival concert. Others, too, all out of place and making you want to be anywhere but here.

And then in a few blinks, they’re all gone. Like they were never there.

Dizziness overtakes you, along with a strange sort of fuzzy fear. Is this what a heart attack feels like, maybe? No, it’s just panic. Understandable but undeniably awful panic. 

“Chrollo,” you manage, voice shaky. “Something’s wrong. There’s people, they seem--it’s---I don’t know how to explain, we should--I think we ought to--”

Chrollo doesn’t say anything. Instead, he turns you around, keeping you in his arms as he makes you face the stage.

“You’ll miss the concert,” he whispers in your ear.

Helpless irritation courses through you. Who cares about the concert right now? You have half a mind to ask him why he’s not listening to you, but that impulse is gone the moment you see the tall man with blonde hair and impossibly large muscles leap onto the stage.

The guitars and drums come to a confusing, stuttered halt. The lead singer, clad in an oversized black t-shirt with a skull on it, looks like he wants to throw his guitar at the intruder.

“Dude, what the fuck, we’re playing up here, you can’t just--”

Even from your vantage point, you can see the large grin the blonde man sports on his face as he raises his fist and knocks the lead singer’s head off with a single punch. 

The body remains standing for a moment before collapsing without grace onto the stage. Blood spurts from the wound, spritzing high enough that it sprinkles the faces of those closest to the stage. 

There’s a noise from the crowd that almost, for a moment, sounds like a burst of startled laughter.

And then the blonde man leaps onto the corpse, opens his mouth until it’s gaping far too wide to be human, and begins to suck on the headless neck like a crawfish.

It’s that moment when people finally begin to scream.

Your head jerks towards one of the screams, and she’s there--the woman with the pink hair. Latched onto someone’s neck while blood dribbles from her mouth and the person, eyes bugged out, cries out in wordless pain. His body is cross-crossed with strange cuts, like someone pressed him through a sieve. 

You spin around, looking away from horror, only to see it again: the man with the long hair swings something out--a sword?--and strikes someone’s arm clean off his body, then pins that person down and begins to suck at the spurting blood. 

That’s not all he hit.  The person in front of them, a woman holding two drinks, staggers to the ground. Half her face slides off, revealing bone and brain. Lukewarm beer and gore meet the ground together.

You’re not entirely sure if you said Chrollo’s name, or when he let you go, or what you should do. All you know is that when you finally pull yourself together enough to look at him, he’s simply watching the events around you like a boring television show.

Like people aren’t screaming and running and bumping into you. Like blood isn’t flying. Like you aren’t seeing things that you’ve only seen in shitty horror movies. 

He’s in shock. Fuck. So are you, maybe? But it will be up to you to get the pair of you to safety, so you grab his arm and shake him hard.

“Chrollo! We have to go! Now!” 

He doesn’t move. You shake him again, and he finally looks at you. 

He smiles, and holds out his hand, ignoring your jostling.

“You’ve had time to think about it, haven’t you? Will you stay with me?” 

Oh, he’s definitely in shock. That doesn’t stop the impulsive words that flee your mouth as quickly as the people around you are trying--some not successfully--to flee the beach. 

“You’ve lost your fucking mind. Let’s go!” 

You don’t register what’s happened until you’ve hit the ground. Someone finally ran smack into you, and something--their elbow, maybe--strikes your head, hard. Pain blossoms in your knees and the side of your head when you hit the ground, then explodes when someone steps right on your hand.

There’s a feeling of lost gravity when someone yanks you up--Chrollo--but when you’re on your own two feet, he’s not there anymore.

You call his name. Once. Twice. Three times, four. He might not be able to even hear you over the din, if he’s nearby. Maybe he got swept away by the panicked people. Maybe his shock wore off and he ran to get help. Or ran--and left you.

There are a few moments where you almost run deeper into the crowd to look for him. A stupid thought. But then the wild, shock of fear inside you turns to complete ice and you’re not sure of anything in the world because he’s there. 

Standing in front of you.

Close enough to touch. 

Your stalker. The man with the cowl. Only the cowl is down, now, and his mouth is covered in a smear of blood. He smiles at you, and it’s not a nice smile at all. His smile grows wider, and you have to blink several times to realize what you’re seeing.

He’s got fangs.

Two of them, red tinged. Sharp enough to puncture your neck. 

They’re vampires. Actual vampires. Actual, damn bloodsucking vampires. 

There’s a brief, panicked thought--where’s Chrollo?--before your flight kicks in, and you��re scrambling through the crowd like everyone else. You stumble, of course you do. Over bodies, some dead, and you almost fall flat on your face when you make it off the beach and your ankle rolls on the uneven grass-covered ground.

If you were thinking logically, you might have run to the car park, and hopped into your car. You might have run in the direction of the crowds thinking the same, and gotten lost in them.

But there was no logic. Only pure primal panic, the realization that you people were being murdered all around you like animals, and you were one of those animals because one of the monsters was chasing you.

You didn’t dare to look back to see how far away he was; you just knew, deep down, that he was following you now. Running wouldn’t work: you couldn’t run forever, not with the pain in your ankle, and he’d catch up with you even if you weren’t panicked and in pain.

You had to hide.  But where? The carnival was all lit up at night, and the beautiful lights that had been fun to see just a day before now made you want to scream. He could see you, just about clear as day, no matter where you ran.

Unless you can find somewhere to hide inside.

It’s this thought that pushes you to dash inside the fun house, sneakers pounding on the silver ramp leading into the entrance painted over like a mouth devouring any children who enter.

The stillness inside startles you more than anything else. The lights are on. The music is playing, quiet, delightful. It’s hard to hear it over the dulled screams coming from outside, and from the awful, pounding rush inside your ears.

You follow the short hallway until it leads to something which you’d forgotten about; but it wasn’t your fault. Panic made you stupid, and you hadn’t actually been inside a fun house in years. 

The glass maze. All-see through panels that you’d smash into on an ordinary day, much less this one, where your mind is fried from panic and adrenaline keeps your body from coordinating properly. You smash against the panels a few times before you see it… something, behind you. 

No. Not something. Someone behind you. Or near you. Or far away. 

You can’t tell exactly where this person is, because of the fucking glass maze, but the fact remains:

He’s there--he’s here--he’s going to get you and kill you and it will hurt so bad.

You scream, at some point, and it’s dumb because the sound simply bounces off your current glass predicament and hurts your ears.

Maybe panic pushes you through, or maybe you’re just good at completing mazes when you’re in fear for your life; whatever the reason,  you make it out. You stumble through a hallway made of rollers that nearly send you sprawling, until you’re at the end of the hallway. 

A small red spiral staircase, barely usable for adults, is your only hope. 

You don’t try to be quiet now and the metal stairs clang under your feet as you run up them, feeling dizzy, feeling like this might be the last thing you ever do in your short, stupid life.

The second floor isn’t entirely enclosed. It opens out onto the carnival in the front, and there’s a slide to take you down near the end. The wall behind you is covered in a series of mirrors--the kind that make you tall or short or wide or impossibly thin.

It’s not the mirrors that catch your eye, though. It’s what’s down below. 

They’re all down there. The monsters from the beach. All covered in various amounts of blood and gore. Splatters. Smears. Like they’ve all gotten into different scrapes--killed people different ways. 

All of them have blood around their mouths. 

Fear rings in your ears. You want to wake up, more than anything. This is a nightmare and you want to wake up. 

You don’t wake up.

Instead, you hear a metal clang.

Then another.

And another.

Someone is coming up the stairs.

Thoughts dart here and there, but there’s nowhere for them to go. If you go down the slide, well. There’s a gang of monsters waiting to kill you down below. If you stay up here, well. There’s still a monster waiting to kill you.

The metal clangs again, and again, and again.

He’s coming up the stairs and he’s going to kill you. You’re going to die. Today. Now. 

Warm urine runs down your leg and thoughts come, too quick to really process: Mom-dad-school-work-never-did-anything-my-childhood-dog-that-one-time-we-went-to-Canada-to-visit-my-aunt-I-kissed-a-boy-under-the-bleachers-I-forgot-to-tell-dad-I-loved-him-yesterday-I-I-I--

It’s not the monster with the cowl who comes walking up the landing of the stairs. 

It’s Chrollo.

It’s like you blink and you’re in his arms, clinging to his shirt and sobbing like a child. He presses a kiss to your hair and you realize, gratefully, that he doesn’t look hurt. No blood on him, no scrapes, no bruises. 

“Thank God you’re here. Thank God you’re okay,” you say, reflexively. “Thank God, thank God, thank God.”

Chrollo pulls you tighter against his chest, and murmurs, “God? An interesting choice, my dear, considering…”

You aren’t even really listening. You’re just happy. Delirious, even. Chrollo’s here. He’ll help you. You can make it out together. Somehow. 

There’s an almost giddy sort of hope in your chest--until you hear the metal stairs clang again. And again. And again.

You whimper stupidly and pull on Chrollo’s arm. 

“We have to get out of here. Somehow. I don’t--maybe we can distract them?” Your eyes glance down at the monsters below you, who only seem to be watching more intently. The man with the blonde hair, which is now caked in blood, has an awful grin on his face. You imagine you can see his fangs, even if he’s too far away for you to properly make them out.

Chrollo doesn’t move. Shock again? Or he sees them, too, and knows the two of you won’t make it a step off the slide before being attacked.

The footsteps on the stairs stop. You look behind you, and your bowels clench at the sight of the monster with the cowl, pulled down, that same small, mean smile on his face.

Your hand tightens on Chrollo’s arm. A sentimental, if selfish, thought: At least I won’t die alone.

Chrollo turns, too, and looks at the man who’s been haunting you for days. Looks at the monster who has already killed people and feasted on their blood; at the creature who will now undoubtedly kill the both of you. Lovers for only a few days, but forever in death.

Chrollo sighs, and inclines his head towards the man. 

“Wait a moment, will you, Feitan?”

There were many things you might have said in this moment.  Eloquent things. Meaningful things. Things borne from inner betrayal and horror and anger. But all that comes out of your mouth, which gapes ridiculously, is: 

“Huh?”

And then something clicks, and realization dawns like a morning you don’t think you’ll live to see. The idea comes naturally, somehow. Borne of a childhood reading books and watching movies about vampires. Bloodsuckers. 

Your head turns, and you look over towards the wall of mirrors. You’re stretched thin like taffy about to break, your features a jumble in the dirty, cheap material. 

In the mirror in front of Chrollo, which should make him ridiculously short, there is nothing at all. 

When you look back at him, your eyes wide and pupils blown, he’s no longer the person you met a few days ago; the person you took to your bed, the person you were lamenting leaving. The person who kissed you and made you feel good, inside and out, if only for a while. 

He’s a vampire. 

“I advise you not to run,” he says quietly, if not, perhaps, a bit sympathetically. 

You do, because you aren’t a fucking moron. Though you don’t make it far, as it doesn’t do you any good to run towards the staircase. You run right towards the other monster--Feitan--who grabs you with ease.

He’s faster and stronger than he looks. Maybe they all are. Your body and brain don’t care about that, though, so you struggle with all of your might.

In response, your arm is deftly twisted behind your back and you expect this monster to stop, you expect your arm to meet its natural resistance while you struggle.

He doesn’t. It doesn’t. Your arm snaps and the pain is so sharp, so sudden, that your vision goes blind for a few seconds. In those few seconds, you scream.

When you’re aware of the world again, there’s still the pain. Sharp and awful and renewed every time you jostle your body in any direction.

Chrollo, walking up to you, hums in sympathy. 

“I know it hurts, dear. But this is what happens when you don’t listen to my orders. Do you understand?” 

The strangest thing (and in a world where the man you fucked last night is currently standing in front of you with fangs, that is saying something) is that Chrollo’s expression is not wild or monstrous at all. If you thought about it, and you’re having a hard time thinking with the pain of your arm and fear of impending death, you might say he looks hopeful. That you will understand. That you have learned something.

And you have. You’ve learned that he’s a liar, that everything he ever said and did was just to keep you around long enough to literally eat you, that he has no morals, no empathy, that he’s not even a person.

“I understand,” you manage, voice tinged and weak with pain, “that you’re a fucking monster.” You spit at him. Or try to. Your mouth is too dry to manage more than a stringy dribble that sticks to your chin. 

At this, Chrollo sighs. He shoves his hands in his pockets and frowns.

“You didn’t speak so crudely to me earlier this week.” A little smile. “Last night notwithstanding.” 

Bitter tears well up in your eyes. It was all just a game to him. Cat and mouse. Every smile, every thoughtful word. Every kiss. Your bodies pressed together, his mouth on yours--

“I didn’t know you were a… a… fucking vampire earlier this week.” 

Chuckles, from down below. Feitan, behind you, snorts. 

Chrollo doesn’t look angry, but you can feel a flash of it ripple through the air. It quiets the chuckles. Feitan tightens his grip on you, and the flash of pain makes you groan and slump forward.

“Regardless,” Chrollo says, “respect must be maintained. I expect you to refrain from these little outbursts. Do you understand?” There’s still a tinge of cooing sympathy in his voice--it makes anger bubble up in your chest. 

“Fuck you.” This time, the spit flies, and hits his cheek.

The gestures are slow. Unassuming. He wipes the spit off with the back of his hand. He wipes the back of his hand on his pants. And then he nods at Feitan.

Feitan’s hand reaches around your throat and when you glance down, you see that his nails grow. And sharpen. Sharp enough to cut, sharp enough to--

He drags his hand down your collarbone, and you feel the awful, deep sting of it before you see the blood spill out from your flesh. It coats the bare skin between your collar and the top of your shirt like some sort of morbid camisole. 

You cry out, you shriek, but he doesn’t let you go until Chrollo gives him another nod. You’re shoved towards Chrollo, who doesn’t grip you, but merely lets you stand, swaying, in front of you.

When you finally get the courage to look up at him, his pupils are blown up like a shark’s. 

“I’d like you to stay put this time,” he tells you, voice deeper, richer, at the sight of your blood. “And not run away from me. I’d like you to listen, and refrain from being… impulsive.” 

He leans in, and the scent of rust hits you, but this time you know what it means. “I could make you do it, you know. I don’t have to ask.”

Realization hits you again, and it hurts even more this time. That night, on the dock. And on the Ferris wheel. And how many other times he’d told you to do something, feel something. What was really you, and what was him? 

And now, despite all this, despite the scent of blood in the air and the wails of horror coming from the beach, he wanted you to listen to him? The audacity of vampires--it might have been funny, if you were in the mood to laugh.

“Like hell,” you mutter.

Chrollo breathes out through his nose. Impatient.

“I don’t believe I heard you, dear.”

You look up at him, gaze sharper. Heart sharper. 

“Like. Hell.” 

The slap you give him is weak. You’re surprised your good arm even managed it, all things considered. 

But the shock of the act that ripples from Chrollo to Feitan and even down below is what gives you a few microseconds to escape, to run, ears ringing from the pain of your jostled broken arm, and throw yourself down the slide.

You don’t have a plan. How could you? As soon as you get to the bottom, you’ll just run. Run and maybe die but maybe you’ll get away, someway, somehow.

You don’t get more than a few steps before you fall. Not fall, exactly. Trip. You trip over something that shouldn’t be there, something taught and thin. A wire? 

You see, from the corner of your vision, the woman with pink hair yank her hand backwards and the wire that shouldn’t be there slices deeply into both your ankles. Blood seeps through your socks before you even hit the ground. 

Your ankles burn and bleed, and new sparks explode behind your eyes when your broken arm smacks the ground at the worst possible ankle. You think you scream, but it’s hard to tell, over the pain.

Chrollo and Feitan jump down from the second story of the fun house. It should break their ankles--it does not. 

Someone turns you over on your back with their boot and you’re left staring up at the sky, ink black and throbbing with stars. It was such a pretty night, before all this. 

Above you, Chrollo and Feitan look down with decidedly different expressions. Chrollo regards you coolly, with no real expression on his face; it’s like a porcelain mask, indifferent, never-changing. Feitan, on the other hand, is smiling--he’s looking not at you, exactly, but at your blood.

It’s Chrollo who speaks.

“I would like an apology for your behavior.”

If your eyes were not safely attached to their retinas, they might bug out of your face entirely. You are laying on your back with bleeding, mangled ankles; your arm is broken, flopping, useless; a collar of blood adorns your neck. Vampires are standing above you, fangs at the ready, having already spread carnage through an entire beach of concert-goers.

And he wants an apology?

You want him to go away. To not be real.

You want your mom, and your dad, and your childhood bed with covers big enough to hide you.

So you shake your head, helpless, like an infant lying on their back.

Above you, Chrollo says your name. Sternly. Just once. 

When you muster up the words, you taste copper. You must have bitten your tongue after tripping. 

“F…fuck you.” 

Stupid words, you know. But you’d rather your last words be this than pointless begging. Now that would be stupid, begging for your life in front of grotesque creatures who want nothing more than to devour your blood. 

Somewhere above you, a gruff voice says, with a hint of glee in his voice:

“Want me to do it, boss?”

Your eyes dart around, but you can’t see anyone else. Even Feitan seems to have stepped back, leaving you with no one but Chrollo in your line of sight.

Chrollo tilts his head a little, considering.

“No,” he says, finally. “Feitan will handle it. I appreciate your methods, but you might break something a little beyond repair.”

Whoever spoke chuckles, but doesn’t disagree.

The words reach you, but you don’t take them in for a slow moment. 

Break… break… what else can they break, what else can they possibly do--

There’s a weight above you. A dark one that smells of blood and metal. It’s Feitan. He blocks out everything else, just for a moment, staring into your eyes with their big pupils and blurring tears.

When he pulls back, you see him move, but don’t know what it means until you feel an explosion of red hot pain in your hand--the hand you slapped Chrollo with. Your fingers crunch and break and you try to pull your hand away, but Feitan’s boot keeps it pinned down, grinding his heel until you shriek so loud that you think the inside of your throat will blister.

Time itself is hot and painful. You’re not sure how long it goes. You’re only sure that when you try to move your mangled fingers, they don’t move. Hot, thick pain shoots down them and it makes you stop trying to get up. 

It’s not like you could run, anyway.

At some point, you hear a new sound. Sirens in the distance. Police? Ambulances? There’s no hope in your chest, no thought that they’ll save you. Even if they got here in time, the monsters would kill them. 

Somewhere above you, Chrollo talks, though his words sound like they’re being spoken through water. 

“Take care of them, will you? We’ll meet up near the waterfall before we head out.” A question from someone. A pause. “Yes, I’ll handle her.” 

The voices fade away. Either because they’ve walked away, or you’re finally going to die from the shock. That might be a mercy compared to whatever grisly end Chrollo has in store for you. Is this how he planned for you to die, after all? Or was it meant to be swifter? You might have screwed it all up with your running and spitting.

Before Feitan broke your hand, you might have been proud of the spitting. Now you just wish you’d let them kill you quick. 

Finally, Chrollo returns to your line of vision. He’s a bit blurry from your tears, from your pain. Probably a bit from your blood loss, too.

He kneels down next to you, and you tense. Even tensing hurts, and you whimper. 

“Are you going to kill me now?”

Beside you, Chrollo coos. A soft, sticky sound. He takes your broken hand and your voice wants to shriek, but all you can manage is a strangled cry. He kisses your broken fingers like a gentleman.

“Kill you? Of course not.” He presses a last kiss to your mangled hand. “I do want to see that sweet girl from before.. the one who daydreams about strangers and holds onto my hand so tightly on the Ferris wheel.” An indulgent look crosses his face and he gives your broken fingers a painful squeeze that has you groaning.

“She’s still in there, no doubt.” His thumb brushes against your cheek, pushing away the dried salt of your tears. “Buried under fear and pain and newfound knowledge, no doubt.” He smiles nostalgically. “But those can be remedied with time.”

He’s crazy. I mean, you know he’s a vampire, sure. But he’s also fucking crazy.

“I want to go home,” you croak. Even though you can’t reason with crazy.  “Please. Please.”

His eyes blink down at you. How old is he, anyway? Centuries? Longer? To him, you must be nothing. Insignificant. Ridiculous. 

He doesn’t mock you, though. He only continues stroking your cheek with his thumb. “I’ll be your home now, wherever we go. And we will go so many places.” There’s some sort of dulled excitement in his expression that turns your stomach. “And from now on, you’ll do what I say, won’t you?”

Tears spill over your eyes, trickling down over his thumb. You don’t have the energy or the lack of survival instinct to say no. But you won’t say yes, either. You can’t. 

“Well. I can make you obedient, if you’d rather be stubborn.”

You’re about to ask--”What?”--when he kisses you, shutting you up entirely. 

You’re afraid to move. Your lips tremble against his, thinking only of death--of his fangs. His lips move and brush against your neck, and a mocking forgotten memory of last night flashes through you. He kissed your neck last night, too, a wet, sucking kiss that had your toes curling. Your toes curl now, too, out of fear. The blood from your ankle makes your toes slick inside your shoes. 

And then his fangs sink into your neck and hot, searing pain shoots through your entire body, masking everything else. Your ankles. Your broken hand.  Your brutalized arm. The cut on your collar. None of them matter compared to this pain, which is not localized at the sight of the bite but spreads throughout your bloodstream, making it impossible to think of anything but how much it hurts.

You’re dimly aware of your screaming. A helpless sound you heard from countless others tonight. Your legs kick, and you realize, vaguely, that you can’t really feel them anymore. They hurt, yes, but there’s a numbness behind it. Are you really moving them at all?

There are more screams now--from the beach. You don’t know how you know, but you do. It’s like you can see it in your mind although you’re flat on your back in front of the fun house with a monster draining you of blood. 

The world spins as you imagine how the first responders must be dying right now, while you’re dying. Are they wishing they never responded to the emergency calls? Are they thinking about their families, their friends, and their little dogs, too? 

Chrollo’s mouth is against yours again, and you taste yourself on him. Bitter metal, still warm. He’s blurry as he pulls back and bites against his wrist. What should be vivid red blood is dark and ugly--dead. He hovers his wrist above your mouth and the substance drips onto your lips. It’s cold, vile.

A final insult before you die, making you drink this nasty stuff. Vampires have a sick sense of humor.

But what did you know about vampires, anyway? 

You black out as Chrollo murmurs something above you.

At least, you think, this is finally over. 

--

You do not wake up in heaven or in darkness, either.

You wake up in a man made clearing, sitting against a tree, with a blanket draped over you. In front of you there is a fire, not roaring but alive enough in the night; a pot with spilled chili lay on the ground. Behind the fire is a camper van with its door wide open. 

The corpse of a man is propped against the door of the van, keeping it open. His mouth is slack and ah, he’s not dead yet, is he? There are two glaring puncture wounds on his neck, but he’s still around. His fingers twitch  and seem to register you with tired eyes, that drift from your face over to the far end of the camp.

You follow the look, and oh. There are two dead teens piled next to the fire. Already drained, already dead. His children, you think. 

The world seems to come into more focus then.

You are, as far as you can tell, alive. You’re propped up against a tree. It’s night time. The people--the monsters, the vampires--are here, in this campsite. Some of them glance at you once they realize you’re awake, but no one says anything.

Strangely enough, you’re not in much pain. Soreness, yes. But you should be in agony. Your hand feels okay--sore fingers, but no longer blinding pain, and you can bend them almost normally. Your arm, too, feels sore but mended. Your hands reach up to your collar, your neck, but there’s no trace of the wounds except a thin scar on your collar and two small bumps on your neck.

How did it heal so fast? Did they bring you here to hurt you again? Keep you like some sort of blood bag?

Your eyes travel down to the blanket draped around you. It’s heavy, comfortable, and stained with blood. 

You jerk like you’ve been electrocuted and throw the soiled blanket from your body.

Someone nearby laughs. “Picky princess, huh?” You vaguely recognize the voice--the tall man with wild hair. The one who knocked a man’s head off at the beach.

Just as renewed panic begins to awaken inside you, Chrollo appears from seemingly nowhere.

“You’re finally awake, I see.”

You shrink against the tree, and look around. Could you run into the woods? Were you still in the trail by the beach? How far could you run? 

Chrollo smiles, and sits down next to you like this isn’t horrifying or unusual at all. “Don’t be ridiculous, dear. There’s nowhere to go.”

Your throat is dry and your words stick to your mouth several times before you can speak.

“Where… are we?”

If you’re close enough to home, you might still get out of this. Somehow. Find a gas station or a rest stop and beg for help. 

“Far away from that little town, I assure you.” Chrollo jerks his head back and you finally see the row of motorcycles parked near the campsite. “We won’t stay here for long. We rarely do. Just long enough for you to get healed up, this time.”

Which means he plans to take you with him--with them. For how long? And where? And why? Why take you? Why not kill you, why not drain you dry in front of the fun house and leave your corpse for survivors to find? 

You could ask all of these things, but you’re not sure you want the answer. Instead, you give the only answer your mind can manage, which is to curl up against yourself and cry. 

“I want to go home.” You whisper, out of practicality more than anything. Your mouth is so damn dry. 

“None of that,” he says, a little sternly. His expression softens when you flinch, and he brushes the hair from your face. “Don’t waste your breath on such a silly sentiment. You’re not going anywhere I don’t want you to go.”

“You said you didn’t know me well enough to leave with me,” he continues, pressing a chaste kiss to your cheek, then a warmer one to your unwilling lips. “You said you hadn’t had time to figure out your dreams. Now, you can take all the time you need for both of those things. We’ll have eternity, after all.” 

Dull, cold horror pools in your gut.

Eternity.

“Did you… am I… did you make me--” 

Your hands shoot to your mouth, to your teeth, feeling for fangs. But there’s nothing new inside your mouth, unless you count the awful cotton dryness that blankets your tongue and teeth like film. 

He smiles indulgently, and you hear someone nearby snort. 

“No.” A pause. “Not yet, not quite.” He smiles at your ignorance and takes your hand away from your teeth, giving it a kiss that feels like mockery even if you get the sense that he isn’t trying to make fun. “That may come later, if you behave. For now, I’ve made you…” Another kiss, this time with a smile on his lips, as he seems to debate on what to say. “… let’s say, mine.”

You shiver. From fear, and from cold.

Chrollo presses another kiss to your lips, until he can shove his tongue in between your teeth and run it against your own. You taste yourself on him, still, that rusty taste. It makes you gag, and he pulls away.

“You must be cold. I don’t want you catching a chill so soon. Why don’t you go sit in front of the fire and warm up?” 

You shake your head, wanting to spit out the taste in your mouth, but not having the courage to do so.

He watches you for a moment. Calculating, cold. He makes you think of an animal, in this moment. An animal thinking on what to do when his prey does something odd in the wilderness. 

“Go sit in front of the fire,” he tells you. 

And without wanting to, without meaning to, you do. Your body jerks up and you walk over to the fire, with its spilled chili and corpses left in its wake, and sit down. 

It’s like before, at the carnival, but different now. There’s no warm suggestion, no soothing manipulation. Only an order that you obey, and that’s that. When you try to push yourself up,  you find that you simply can’t make your body do it.  You can flex your fingers, your toes. You can move your arms up and down. But you cannot, in any way, stop sitting in front of that fire.

“I’d prefer you to do things willingly,” Chrollo says from his spot near the tree. “But I don’t mind giving orders either, love.”

Love.

You’re not sure he knows the meaning of the word.

But neither do you.

Despite the fact that there are two dead kids and their dying father just feet away from you, you find the fire comforting. It’s warm. It’s bright. It’s everything that the monsters around you aren’t; and you aren’t one of them, not exactly (not yet, your brain screams, he said not yet) and maybe you can cling to that. Cling to your humanity, to get you through this. 

The fire crackles in front of you. At some point, Chrollo sits down, and offers you a bowl of chili that they must have set aside for you before knocking the pot down. 

It’s lukewarm, and a bit bland. The dying man wasn’t a great cook. But you eat it, slowly, carefully, while Chrollo watches with an almost serene expression on his face. Like watching you eat was the most endearing thing in the world. 

Above you, the night sky watches the scene with indifference. 

[ew-selfish-art]

Dp x Dc AU: Not exactly a meet cute between Jazz and Jason.

Jason's had a long night of beating the shit out of a gang that dared to sell in his territory, the last thing he needs is the Bats on his tail. He can always sense them when he leaves Crime Alley- they watch for him. Waiting for him to fail. It pisses him off.

So Jason shakes his tail, he's pretty sure it's the demon brat, parks his bike, removes his helm and heads into the loudest bar he can find, ditching his mask along the way. There are no camera's and there was no one watching, so Jason just looks like any other angry frat guy at the bar. Well, he supposes that the Leather jacket might be a stand out.

He grabs a drink, and looks at the time. Jason just needs to wait out the chance that a baby bird saw his bike and hope that curfew kicks in before this has to be a 'conversation'. Besides, the music is good and despite all the people, the crowd is pretty behaved.

"Hi! I'm so glad you're here!" A woman approaches, he can tell she's had a few drinks from her walk but her eyes scream sobriety and fear. She's tall in her flats, her hair looks disheveled (from dancing maybe) and her outfit screams 'this is the one fun black top I own'. She's beautiful and her approaching him might've been a wet teenage dream if his suspicions weren't immediately raised.

"I certainly am here." Jason replies, a smirk set into his features easily and as he straightens out his back he can see the three men watching the back of her head like predators. They're wearing super lame white hoodies and coats, like they're organized somehow.

"That's why you're my hero! Always ready to grab me at a moment's notice! Any chance you'll be good to leave after you finish that drink?" Her eyes are pleading but she keeps the same happy smile and joyful tone the whole time.

"Nah, no worries about the drink. It was cheap and I was just getting bored with it anyway. " Jason explains, setting his glass down on the counter. He's mentally photographed the three creeps, "Did any of your friends also need a ride home?"

"Nope! They all got in an uber... without me. So they'll be just fine!" She explains and there is an anger in her eyes that clearly meant she was telling the truth. Her hands are straightening out his jacket collar, making it look like they're more comfortable with each other than just strangers. She lays her hands flat on his chest once her task is completed and Jason feels his throat go dry.

"I'm always telling you to find better friends. Now c'mon, I parked out back." he wraps an arm around her waist, though its not tight, and peers over his shoulder. These guys weren't going to leave without a fight it seems, Dumb, Dumbie and Dumber are all watching her with evil in their eyes.

The two of them walk out and before she can even say thank you, the door swings back open and she's sucker punched one of the assholes and Jason's pulled his gun out for the other two.

"You gents are gunna go home, or you're gonna end up in the dirt. Pick." Jason growls. Not taking him seriously at first, he shoots one dudes foot and the last one standing looks like he might pass out. He picks up his fallen comrades and backs away into the bar.

"For ancients sake those dudes were trying to traffic the hell out of me." She sighs, and Jason holsters his gun.

"Yeah no shit. You okay?" Jason inquires.

"I will be. I'm Jazz, thanks for saving me Hood."

"I'm no-"

"You're literally leaning comfortably on Red Hoods motorcycle that still has his helmet perched on it. No one would do that unless they were suicidal or him." She challenges, but then a look changes in her eyes and she almost looks nervous "But still, do you uhm, wanna get out of here?"

He blinks. She was trying to pick him up? AFTER finding out he was a crime lord??

The answer is that yes, Hell Yes, Jason does want to get out of here. None of the Bats will bother him while he has a civilian, not at the diner he takes her too and certainly not while he's taking her back to one of his safe houses.

Jason had expected one of his siblings to show up in the morning and cause a ruckus. He hadn't planned for a dude to let himself into his kitchen screaming about government agencies tracking Jazz down that wasn't related. Turns out it's her brother and he's floating and no he's not going to explain why he's there or how he found them.

Jazz has a lot to explain to the both of them and it starts with "So I can admit that I have a thing for motorcycle guys-"

[dearanakin]

Biker Boy - !biker Eddie Munson

As requested by my girlie anonymous friend, who gave such a great idea, here it is!! I used the details as an excuse to make this short story spicy 🥹

Summary: You and Eddie are friends with benefits. Whenever he has the chance, he always gives you a ride and everytime you hear the engine and him revving, your body goes crazy. You have a kink he doesn't know, so maybe it's time to finally get the word out.

Warnings: oral sex, fingering, cursing, fluffiness. +18 DNI

Word count: 2k.

His engine was revving in the distance as you heard the roar of his motorcycle approaching your neighborhood. As you're just finishing getting ready, the sound of his vehicle makes your heart do a flip, it's always automatic. The anticipation of watching him riding his machine always made its way in. You run to the front door as soon as he pulls over on your sidewalk.

You watch as he leans his bike to one side and dismounts gracefully, your stomach sinking from the view. Clad in his black leather jacket, Eddie was wearing ripped jeans - as always -, white sneakers and leather gloves. Oh, the leather gloves. They certainly did things to you.

You and your friend became closer over the past months, then you had the greatest idea of becoming friends with benefits. Something your friends didn't quite understand because you both decided you'd be exclusive to each other. Robin would always say it kinda gives away the term, because you wouldn't date other people.

The metalhead had his face hidden under the helmet, only showing the end of his hair and his big brown chocolate eyes. Everything just sends shivers down your spine. As soon as he got rid of the helmet, his hair flung revealing a mop of tousled curls. His dark green motorcycle had fat tires, decorated with a silly amount of stickers of every kind; bands, movies, games. 

He had a gin, although he wasn't the biggest fan of a party. He promised he would only go because it was Steve's, and because his friend got into college. 

"Hey sweet thing," he greeted you with a small kiss on your forehead. You gave him some space to get inside your house, leaving the helmet on the coffee table and taking his jacket off.

"It'll be a couple of minutes, just finishing my makeup". He only then noticed how pretty you were looking. You were wearing a tight black dress, brown boots and your hair was perfectly sat on a ponytail.

"You look too stunning to wear makeup," Eddie responded and you chuckled.

"Always such a gentleman". You took that opportunity to finally give him a proper kiss as he sat on the armrest of your couch. But then your eyes caught a glimpse of his hands still wearing the gloves.

Approaching him, you wrap your arms around his neck as he uses his right hand to tug on your waist while the other one goes to your face. The way the fabric sticks to your skin makes you immediately stiff your entire body and you've barely reached his lips, leaving only a few inches close to them.

When Eddie hears your light but recognizable moan, he looks at you lifting his eyebrows. You're almost making a fool of yourself but fuck that, you liked his hands in gloves. He didn't know that, because you never actually bothered telling him you had an actual kink. It's not like he never asked, he was always pretty curious to know your deepest secrets about your sex life.

"That was quick," he joked and you tried not to laugh at his taunting.

"Shut the fuck up". As you retorted him, you gave him a wet but already forwarded kiss, sliding your tongue inside his mouth. He tasted like cherry from the candy ball he usually eats after smoking. The tobacco smoke was lingering on his entire body, as well as his cheap perfume you love.

Eddie slid his hand down your body and gripped your hips before loosening his touch, threatening to remove his gloves. You desperately held his hands and shook your head. He tried to comprehend just what the hell you wanted.

"Keep the gloves," you begged. The man was barely existing and yet you were feeling like you were turning into jelly just at the thought of the leather touching your skin.

He smirked and raised his eyebrows, teasing you. "These? Huh". The way he reacted to it gave him an idea you haven't thought of yet, and still he was already light-years ahead of you. Eddie firmly grasped your waist and swung you, making you sit at the exact spot he was sitting.

He assaulted you with his feral tongue, liking yours and pulling your lower lip between his teeth. Boy, did he become another man after that. Using his left hand, Eddie started sliding it down your body, making sure to hold the curve under your breast, pressing his fingertips on your waist, reaching the hem of your dress.

The kiss became sloppy as soon as he slowly lifted it to your hip. Thank God you always chose a good lingerie. This time it was a thin, soft, lace pantie he was about to pull to the side. Before he did his main show, the curly haired metalhead squeezed your thigh and ripped a small mewl from your mouth against his.

His tone became husky and his cherry breath hit against your skin. "It's a shame I can't feel how wet you are right now. But I'm guessing you're soaking already". You whined by the feeling of his middle finger opening your folds, rubbing your wet skin with tenderness first. Eddie was always gentle, sometimes he rushed things, but you were headed to a party, so this one had to be fast.

Without warning, he made his way with his middle finger into you and you tightened your walls against his gloved digit. "Oh, fuck, Eddie". You cried out, your lips were parted. You were too busy to actually kiss him, but he was also focused on something else as well.

"Jesus, baby. You're so dirty," he breathed out against your ear. Eddie stuck his index finger to your cunt, along with the other, and the leather surely made it feel different from anything else.

His pace was calm, but the minute he felt you were used to the dressed fingers, he started to speed up, curling both, so they would hit your perfect spot. You're having a hard time breathing in and out, his thumb was rubbing against your swollen clit with so much desire.

Quickly, you unbuckled his belt and unzipped his jeans, facing his fat cock throbbing against his boxer. From your position, you could choose between just jerking him off or eating him whole.

You decided you would suck the life out of him. You started giving him wet kisses around his arousal, his tip, and his balls. It made him hiss, throwing his head back.

"Fuck, sweetie," he pleaded, working his fingers in a sweet, but fast motion. Eddie felt the back of your throat hit the tip and he almost stuttered, it was always hard for him to hold back his moans. He never actually lasted more than five minutes because you had the most fuckable mouth.

Bobbing your head up and down, you could still whine with his cock in your mouth, giving him a full lick as well. Your living room was quiet and the only sounds that could be heard was from his finger pumping and your moaning, along with the sucking.

Eddie was focusing on rubbing your clit ever so slowly, while his fingers worked harder and faster inside you. He used his plump lips to keep them on the top of your head, while pulling a handful of your hair with his free hand.

You didn't have boundaries at this point. You were both so close and so intimate, you would even fuck on a balcony, if you had one. Alone in a room, you were free to use your hands and your mouth deliberately. Just like now.

Almost gagging on his length, you made sure to grip on his cock, hollowing your cheeks making enough pressure for him to gasp so loud, he almost fainted. "Oh God, I'm gonna cum," he cried.

You never left the smirk on your face because you knew how good you were with your mouth, and he was always reassuring you. Eddie, on the other hand, was trying to not break down from your blowjob, keeping his fingers curled hitting your spot. It didn't take longer for your walls to start clenching around him.

He gripped your clit with his thumb, rubbing it faster, sloppy movements as he started to feel his own pleasure hitting the roof. You felt his cock twitch inside your mouth and you kept your pace, bobbing your head, until he released his juices down your throat.

Eddie loved seeing how you always swallowed him until the very last drop of it. He squinted his eyes closed, relishing every ounce of your saliva on his throbbing skin. "Fuck, you're so good," the metalhead whispered.

Not so much behind, you felt him pinching your clit while using only his middle finger inside you, watching as you bucked your hips, rocking them against his digits. "Ah, Munson". Using his last name as a resource to help you reach your own climax always worked and he knew that, he never complained.

As you throw your head back against the back of the couch, Eddie assaults your neck, nibbling on the skin, feeling your walls throb and clench around his gloved finger. "Yeah, cum for me baby girl". He always alternates his pet names towards you, so you would never know what would come next.

Your entire body squirmed around his fingers, your clit became too sensitive to the touch and your cunt closed tightly on his finger. You felt too weak on your knees and you were thankful for sitting on the couch, even though Eddie was still holding your neck.

You felt empty as soon as he removed his fingers from you and your stomach flipped. God, you felt so needy sometimes.

He zipped his pants back and pulled the belt. "You made such a mess on my glove, sweet thing".

"Good thing you have another one for us to use at the party". You respond as you fix your dress and walk to your bedroom.

You missed his reaction to your statement and he put on his glove back. It had your taste and your smell, he might as well use it as his accessory.

Ready and outside your house after a quick pornography, you stood at the side of his sleek vehicle, ensuring your safety before hopping on his bike. Next to his machine, he handed you the helmet, reaching out gently guiding you through the process.

Eddie always made sure to strap on it, so it wouldn't fall off your head during the ride, not too tight and not too loose either. "Thank you, handsome".

You swung your leg, hopping on the back of his bike, watching as the sky was casting a lavender hue over the quiet street of your neighborhood. You heard his revving and your heart jumps in, you loved it when he did that.

Just when he screeched the tires on the floor, you held your arms around his waist, placing both hands on his stomach. He loved driving too fast and he knew you hated it. Most of the time he would just speed up just a little to taunt you.

Approaching a red traffic light, Eddie slowed his vehicle, smoothly stopping as he supported both of you with one foot on the ground. As always, he turned his head slightly, resting his hands on your thighs, rubbing your knees with his gloved fingers.

You're thinking he didn't even bother to not wear the glove he used to fuck you, and you didn't know if you were actually more turned on or just feeling really repulsiveness. Either way, his endearment towards you always caught you off guard, he's too used to resting his hands on you at every fucking red light.

You smiled in return and just enjoyed his warm and steady touch, while you leaned your head against his back. As the light became green, he left his grip to hold the handlebars, speeding up the engine.

Eddie pulled up at Steve's house, the loud music was banging from a boombox inside his backyard. Before you both got inside, you reached for his wrist, gently squeezing his arm. He stopped by your side, brows furrowed.

"I'm not kidding about the glove, you better keep it clean", you pecked his lips quickly, before ringing the bell. You didn't expect him to be so close to you before responding.

"This time I'll use a special guest". You turned your head slightly, only to watch him licking his lips, teasing you. Eddie as a biker had you at his mercy, on your knees. 

[notjustjavierpena]

The Making of Ellie - Part I: Baby-Making

Series Masterpost | Main Masterpost | Support a disabled creator

A/N: This DILF!Joel piece has rotted my brain for 24 hours straight. I have had absolutely no break from thinking about this, and it’s never been easier to write something.

Summary: A look into how you and Joel’s relationship is going two years in. Joel’s POV on his never-ending love for you and his extreme baby fever.

Pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader/you (no y/n)

Tags: +18 Smut (MDNI!), Joel’s POV, domesticated Joel Miller, Sarah makes an appearance!!!, tooth-rotting love and fluff, they’re crazy about each other, talk about birth control and ovulation, pussy eating (joel is a cunning linguist), fingering, bit of praise kink, dirty talk, bit of body worship, breeding kink, daddy kink (if you squint real hard), slow and sensual piv sex, intense orgasms, creampie, God they are in love

Word count: 4k

Link to this work on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/49183051

Song inspiration(!!!): Too Lost In You by Sugababes

Baby-Making

Joel comes home from work around the same time each day now — and it’s never after dinner time. He has made it his mission to make time for Sarah and you, cut down work since you moved in, because two working adults living in the house means that he can slow things down. 

His health has improved, his mood too, his fatigue has practically gone and Sarah has had more time to just be a kid, started playing soccer again, and has even taken up coaching the little league team now that she’s 16. It’s good for him. You are good for him. For both of them. 

He loves it. He takes the afternoon post-work ritual very seriously. Always texts if he should pick something up from the grocery store. Sometimes brings you flowers too, remembering that one time you’d said that you didn’t actually mind the cheap cellophane-wrapped bouquets. 

It’s interesting to him how natural it feels for him to slip right into domestic bliss with you because he never thought that he would get there again after Sarah’s mother. On top of it, he never considered himself a gentle thing, but after you, it’s like you kiss the calluses of him away. He is nothing but gentle now, even in his roughness. 

He throws the keys onto the side table by the front door after arriving home, shrugs off his jacket, and bends down to take off his boots. The sound makes you appear in the doorway. Joel notices that you’ve changed into gray sweatpants and a tank top with a strawberry on it since arriving home, basically removed anything from you that is professional and uncomfortable. Joel loves you like this because he is the only one who gets to enjoy you like this; relaxed and beautiful, hair in a messy bun on top of your head and fuzzy socks on your always-cold feet. He smiles at your radiance, then pads across the floor to kiss you hello. 

There’s something in your eyes; a flicker of mischief as you grab his wrist to look at his watch. With a grin that nearly sets his heart into overdrive, you hold his hand up so he can look at the time too. 

“It’s five minutes past,” you tut.

“Right, but I got ya something,” he says, reluctantly turning away from you to rummage through his jacket pocket. He fishes out a Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup and you immediately snatch it from his hands, holding it close to your chest.

“Gremlin,” he teases and you stick out your tongue at him, “No needa hide it. ‘S too sweet for me anyway.” 

“I shall save it for later then,” you walk to the kitchen and open the top cabinet that holds the mugs. You stand on your toes to reach into the very back, shirt riding up just a little, and stash the chocolate cup for later consumption.  

“Hidden from Sa-rah, the candy thief,” you purposely pronounce her name wrong for dramatic purposes. Then you lower yourself onto the soles of your feet again, not bothering to pull your top down again. Joel watches the slight reveal of the dimples on your back.

“Right,” he chuckles. 

Dear Lord, he loves you so much that it is ridiculous. In a way that makes the future look better than it ever has because it’s no longer filled with uncertainty. He knows what’s going to happen; he’ll build a house for the three of you, he’ll marry you in the Texan spring and he’ll give you as many babies as you want. He’d do it all today if he could. 

“How was work?” You interrupt his thoughts by wrapping your soft hands around the nape of his neck, resting them there. You have rosy cheeks, feel warm against his skin, with love radiating from your fingertips. 

“Good, told Tommy to handle the next few clients. Some hotshot guy comin’ into the office tomorrow,” Joel tells you, wrapping his arms around your waist and tugging you closer. He thinks that you don’t actually care about any of this, but there’s no indication of boredom on your face.

“He building a castle or something?” You ask. 

“Somethin’ like that. Guy’s filthy rich but not from his own doin’, looking at blueprints at the end of the week. Should be interesting,” he continues, “Not that you care about that.”

“I do actually like hearing about your job,” you kiss him on the lips, peck them repeatedly until he cannot help himself and lifts you up to hug you tight. His arms rest along your back and his hands on your sides, fingers sprawled out underneath where your bra had been in the morning. You must’ve taken it off too. He loves you comfortable. 

“You just love my hands,” he retorts, nose against your cheek, “Don’t deny it. I see right through ya.”

“It’s definitely not completely wrong,” you admit when he sets you down again.

You walk back to the kitchen, too tempted by the knowledge of what is in your kitchen cabinet. You only take half, proclaiming some bullshit that you have to watch out for your blood sugar since one can never know when it’s going to get you.

Joel rolls his eyes, following you, “I can give ya some sugar.”

“Joel Miller!” You pretend to look shocked. He tastes the peanut butter in your mouth, pushes you against the counter. 

“Gross,” a teenage girl’s voice says.

“Oh right, Sarah’s home,” you announce sheepishly.

Joel pulls away to look at his daughter, “Hey kiddo. How was school?”

“You don’t care about that,” she smirks, “But if you must know, it was fine. No homework.” 

“That don’t sound like Mrs. uhhh…”

“Green, it’s Ms. Green, Dad,” Sarah says dramatically as she moves across the floor to put on shoes. Her tone turns taunting, “Go ahead and make out with your girlfriend. I’m going to soccer practice.”

“Have fun, Sarah! We’ll have dinner ready,” you chime in. 

“See ya, honey.”

The door closes behind her. The house grows quiet for a moment, but then the mischief is back in your eyes, “She’s seeing a boy.”

Joel nearly gets whiplash, not sure why his pulse spikes. He trusts his daughter to make good decisions and has taught her how since she was just a baby, “Nah, she ain’t. Just said she’s going to soccer practice.”

“Joel,” you sigh loudly, “It’s Tuesday.”

“So?”

“She has practice on Thursdays.” 

“Christ,” he runs a hand over his stubble, tries to keep his composure, and ignores the urge to send her a text. 

“But you know what?” You’re back in his personal space, tugging at his arms to make him hold you close again, “Such a fun coincidence. I’m also seeing a boy.”

Joel can feel the tension seeping out of him in an instant.

“Really? ‘Cause I’m seein’ a girl. She’s real pretty,” he wishes that he could show his past self how tooth-rottingly sweet he is being with you because he’d hate it. Though if past-Joel found out who he was treating like this, he’d instantly become a goner just like present-Joel is now. 

“‘S her sweet tooth, unhinged behavior that I love the most though,” he continues. 

You whine in his arms, lean your head back and it earns you a kiss on your neck, “Don’t be like that. Not when I’m ovulating. I’ll climb you like a tree.”

Oh.

Oh.

It may seem innocent but Joel knows this is how you play dirty. It suddenly explains a lot. The sweatpants, the rosy cheeks, the way you glow, no bra, the cravings, why Joel wants you so bad.

Joel wouldn’t say that he is controlled by biology, and he hates the men trying to argue their way out of acting like cavemen. But looking at you right now in your stupid strawberry tank top, knowing that you’re horny and ready because your body wants to make him a daddy... Joel’s head swims. 

Something shifts in the air. You can see it on him, but Joel assumes that you wait for him to act on whatever is bubbling up in his chest and below his belt.

And act, he does. He distracts you with deep, long kisses until he can snatch you up from the ground and carry you upstairs. You squeak out a giggle but don’t fight back, enjoying the freedom of being alone with him.

“That’s why you’re so fucking sexy,” Joel says after placing you on your shared bed. He is already shedding himself of his shirt, undressing hurriedly to get close to your skin with his own as quickly as possible.

You crawl back on the bed, untying the strings of your sweatpants and yanking them down your legs. You match his urgency, but still decide to tease him, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Shut your mouth,” he yanks the rest of your pants off as soon as he is naked in front of you. He throws them in the pile of his own clothes, “You know exactly what I’m talking about, dirty girl.”

You’re just about to take your top off before Joel stops you with a hand curled around the hem. He knows you’re sensitive at this point in your cycle, but it’s not why he wants to keep it on, “I love how cute you are in this shirt. Keep it on like this.” 

He crawls properly onto the bed to demonstrate and tugs the shirt up over your tits so he can still see the stupid animated fruit on the front. Afterward, he tugs your panties down your legs and off your feet. He will swear to a higher power that he can even smell it on you, sweet like strawberries and honey between your legs and it makes him feel like an animal. 

He has had baby fever for a while now, even told you his plans on giving you a whole bunch of babies and you’ve merely giggled at him, especially when he told you that twins don’t run in his family, but he is sure that nature will give him a whole litter with you. 

“Want me to eat you out?” He asks to which you whimper and nod. He doesn’t give you what you want right then and there, instead climbs up to cradle your head in his hands and gives you a long, slow kiss. He sucks on your tongue, hums into your mouth, and gets you worked up and wet before he’ll treat you right. 

“Tell me,” he says when he breaks the kiss, nosing along the bunched-up fabric of his new favorite top of yours. He sucks at the skin between your breasts, places open-mouthed kisses along the swell of the left whilst cupping the right. 

“I want you to eat my pussy,” you moan softly, running a hand over his hair as he licks a nipple. You slide your fingers into it, but you don’t tug at it unless you feel like you need to hold onto it for dear life. 

“God, you’re the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen,” he growls before going further down your body, his spit leaving a shine where his mouth has been, “Can’t believe I own these tits.”

He goes further down, lets out a satisfied noise when he can see between your legs, “—and this pussy.” 

“Yes, it’s yours, fuck, baby,” you sound delirious already, happy and eager to be touched, on the verge of a giggle even, “Joel, need your mou—“

You gasp loudly into the quiet bedroom. Joel has covered you with his mouth, eyes almost rolling back into his skull at the taste of your ripe cunt. He is too lost in you, a complete idiot with how head over heels he is for you, and he shows it by devouring you like he is starved. 

“Baby!” You cry out, sensitive, “Fuuuck— just like that!”

He watches your thighs twitch in his peripheral, holds you down by placing a strong hand just below your belly button, and uses his thumb on said hand to pull the hood of your clit back. He sucks the little now-hard nub into his mouth, sending you into a state where he is unsure if you can even sense the sheets underneath you. If you had superpowers, he surely would’ve made you lift off the bed as if you were possessed. 

He bobs his head a little, probably looking obscene as he hums against your clit and wiggles his head too. He looks up at you through his lashes, sees the red flush on your chest, and knows that you are close. Christ, he hasn’t been this into someone before. 

“I’m gonna— you’re gonna make me—“ you say like always, announcing your departure from reality. He keeps going, feeling your stomach jump in a stuttering manner underneath his palm with how uneven your breathing has become. 

“Fuck, I’m coming!” You sob with a yank of Joel’s hair and suddenly your thighs are shaking violently without your control. Joel can feel you coming before you announce it, your cunt clenching rapidly against his lips and your clit pulsing in his mouth as he sucks your folds into his mouth. You taste so good as a gush on slick smears his lips and chin even more. He laps it up.

You push him away when he gets too much, and he turns his head to kiss your inner thigh. You finally release the giggle that you’ve been suppressing, drunk on dopamine and Joel falls in love with you a bit more. 

“You’re fucking incredible,” you say. The hand in his hair slides down so you can affectionately run your knuckles over his cheek. He responds by gently rubbing your thighs, soothing you on top of putting such strain on your heart and your breath. You hum, “I love you so much.”

Without warning, he smacks your thigh and you sit up straight. He grins, “Love ya too, sweetheart. Think you can give me one more before I fuck ya?”

“Jesus, what’s gotten into you?” You ask genuinely as you lower onto your back again. 

“Wanna fuck a baby into you,” he replies, voice an octave lower than normal. He senses your shiver without having to look at your face, “Please. Wanna get her red and puffy so it fucking sticks.” 

You let out an involuntary moan at the idea. You want this as much as him, he hopes, and he slides two fingers into your neglected pussy whilst he waits for the green light to fill you up. He crooks them upwards, fingers the spongy spot that only seems to have been discovered by him, “Lemme in. Lemme come in you.”

You’ve been off the pill for a while with the reasoning that it wasn’t doing any good for your body. Joel had stocked up on condoms since then, actually filled the top drawer of his nightstand to the brim because honey, we’re young and healthy, red-blooded Americans. But it had planted the idea in his mind that he could potentially knock you up, and suddenly the stash of condoms was being used rapidly. 

“Okay,” you say with a half-moan, “Fuck, okay.”

Joel immediately sits up on his knees, still fucking you open on his hand. You squirm underneath his touch, trying to get a hold of your breathing this time, holding eye contact with him as he drags another orgasm from you. 

It is much less hurried and a lot more intense, muscles clamping down on his digits rhythmically as you bite your lip and close your eyes with a soft gasp. He can’t decide if he finds this more sexy. 

“Did you mean it?” He asks as he trails kisses up your belly. He kneels between your legs and places an elbow on either side of your chest so he can hold both your breasts in his hands. He squeezes them together, sucks on a nipple until you sigh deeply, and then watches them bounce back into place. 

“Yes,” you say and your voice doesn’t sound unsure at all, “Fuck yes, I want your babies. Wanted them since I saw you. Want you to make me a mommy.”

“The prettiest momma out there,” he says, euphoria evident on his face. He slides his arms underneath you, rests his head on your breasts, and hugs you close to his chest, “Wanna fuck ya.”

“Please,” you say softly, spreading your legs open for him but he has other plans. He releases you from his arms to sit up again, spreading his knees a little. His hands wrap around your ankles to lift your legs up onto his shoulders, your feet behind his ears. He leans over you afterward and bends your flexible legs backward until the front of his thighs are against the back of yours. He can go deep like this, fill you up with his come how he has wanted to for months.

He takes hold of his cock, eases it inside of your spent and warm cunt inch by inch. You feel incredible around his dick without a piece of rubber separating the two of you. He can feel the head of his dick nudge at your cervix, moaning quietly as he is engulfed by your wet, pulsating heat. 

“How are you still so fucking tight?” He groans, resting his forehead against your calf as he gives you a moment to adjust to the stretch. He knows he is big, gets a thrill out of how well you take him each time as if you were made specifically for him. There had been one time where he’d called you a trooper, and you had laughed so hard with his dick inside you that it had made him come. 

“You feel so big like this,” you say as you look down between the two of you, already sounding out of breath. Joel kisses your calf repeatedly and softly, trying to soothe your overwhelmed body. 

“Goddamn. You’re so sexy,” he praises, placing both hands on the sides of your head so he is hovering above you. He finds your hazy eyes, “Look at you.” 

He gives an experimental roll of his hips that makes you whimper, both hands reaching for the backs of his knees. You hold onto him, staring up into his eyes with that siren-like look in them, and then you moan softly.

Joel starts fucking you desperately at that. He doesn’t hurry though, keeps his hips’ movements slow and sensual to have you moaning and gasping ever so slightly at the intensity. He knows he could just give in and fuck you rough and fast, but the heavy-lidded gaze that you are giving him with your mouth hanging open is too good to spoil. 

“Joel,” you cry but it’s barely audible compared to what he sometimes drags from you. He can feel your nails dig into the flexing muscles of his thighs, creating half-moon shapes in the flesh. He switches to a rocking motion, and it sends your eyes rolling into the back of your head. You moan with your bottom lip between your teeth, “Mhm—“

“I know, baby, let it out,” he can see your pulse jumping wildly underneath the sensitive skin of your neck, feeling the heat of his orgasm pool at the base of his spine. He needs to be closer to you. 

“Lift your legs down to the sides,” he tells you gently, thrusts coming to a halt and him realizing that you’ve heard absolutely nothing. He repeats himself, waits for you to follow his instructions, and then hooks his arms underneath your knees. 

Joel gets closer to you by resting his weight on his elbows, his own body on top of your slightly contorted one. You reach for him, grabby hands in the air until he allows himself to be pulled in for a kiss. You cradle his face, make him feel safe in your arms. 

“I love you, baby,” he breathes deeply. The new position gives him an opportunity to reach deeper inside of you, and it’s accompanied by each upward snap of his pelvis causing his cockhead to push into your g-spot. It makes it difficult for you to continue kissing him, eventually simply breathing into his mouth as he has you speared on his dick. Never once do you let go of his face, thumbs on his cheekbones, and tip of your nose against his. 

“I love you,” you whisper, unable to catch your breath. Joel can feel your walls flutter around his dick, threatening to pull his own climax from him too soon. You pant, eyes burning, “You— baby, shit… you’re gonna make me come.”

“Yeah?” He speeds up a little, carding a hand through your hair and gently tugging on the bun. He coaxes you, “Gonna milk my cock into you? Make me a daddy?”

“Yeah,” you whimper wantonly, tightening your legs into his sides as you try moving with him, “Yeah, baby. Gonna make you a daddy! Fuckfuckfuck. Ah— I’m, I—“

Joel doesn’t know if he’s ever made you come like this; without all the muscle and rough touches, without the fast-paced snaps of his hips and the foul taunting from his mouth of how dirty you are. But come you do, with your brows furrowed, gaze on his and a controlled breathing that suddenly becomes erratic and uneven after you let out a high-pitched cry. 

“That’s it,” he admires you, “So good f’me.”

You clamp down on his cock so hard that he sees stars, fucks you through each convulsion of your cunt. His mouth drips with filth as he works himself toward his own pleasure, “You make me so fucking horny, baby. Wanna knock— ngh, wanna knock this pretty pussy up all the time. Give ya a whole fuckin’ litter.”

He tips over the edge not long after, heart pounding in his chest and the sensation in his balls tightening. He releases with a groan, settles deep inside of you to make sure he doesn’t waste a single drop. His orgasm pulses through his cock, swirls in his belly, and warms the small of his back. 

“Fuuuck,” he pants. He carefully removes his arms from underneath your legs before he collapses, allowing you to stretch out underneath him. You look completely fucked out, gasping feebly as he teasingly gives you another thrust before pulling out. 

You wrap your arms around him as he falls onto you, nose against the shell of his ear. He can barely lift his head when you speak, humming into your neck that vibrates as you talk, “You think other people have sex this good?”

“Nah, ‘s why everyone is so fuckin’ miserable, why they gotta build mansions with their parents’ money,” he murmurs. 

“Stop thinking about the hotshot client in bed,” you tease as you cradle his head in your arms, lifting your legs to wrap them around his waist. It seems you cannot get close enough, “You should only think about sticky, sweaty me.”

Joel finds that he doesn’t care about sticky, sweaty skin and you feeling like a furnace after three orgasms. He lays with you like this for a while, sure that you’ve drifted off to sleep at one point, until you push at his shoulder, voice back to your normal pitch as the post-orgasmic bliss has faded slowly, “Gotta pee.” 

“Sure,” he rolls off of you. The sight of your waddle to the bathroom makes him smile, eyes following the way the fleshiest part of your ass and thighs jiggle with each step. 

When you’ve closed the door behind you, Joel finds the strength to rid the bed of the dirty sheets and start dressing again. He’ll have a shower before bed, he decides, ignoring the sensitivity of sliding on boxers and jeans again. 

Hurriedly, he bounces down the stairs to the kitchen. He gets the rest of your peanut butter cup, places it on the nightstand with your clothes right beside it. 

He checks the time. There’s no point in trying to cook something up for dinner if Sarah is home from ‘practice’ soon, so he goes down into the kitchen to order pizza, heart thrumming in his chest as he hears you shout a thank you from upstairs at the discovery of the other half of your favorite snack. He is happy. So so happy.

Especially as he writes ‘pregnancy test’ into his Notes app shopping list.

.

.

If you would like to follow my writing then go follow @notjustjavierpena-fics and turn on notifications 💖❤️

[red-riding-wood]

I Want You to Want Me

Pairing: Neil Lewis x F!Reader

Fandom: Watching the Detectives

Summary: Neil receives a frantic call and finds you outside of Gumshoe after a date night gone wrong. Secretly habouring feelings for you ever since the two of you met, he finds you oddly irresistable in your tears and torn fishnets.

Warnings: SMUT, mutual pining, dub-con touching, dryhumping, riding, foreplay, teasing, begging (m), masturbation (m), clothed sex (semi), Neil being a wet paper towel, so just Neil being Neil, pervy Neil, switch!Neil, slight dom but mostly sub!Neil because c'mon guys it's NEIL, slight dom!reader, body worship, public sex (technically?), premature ejaculation (sort of?), angst, some fluff? by my standards anyway lol so take that with a grain of salt -- this ended up being more wholesome than I thought it would be

Inspired by this cover of I Want You To Want Me (the reader's song) and Creep (Neil's song) by Radiohead.

Huge thanks to @your-nanas-house for getting me started with a prompt for this and cheering me on!

Totally nicked the "jock boyfriend" inspo from @cillianmesoftlyyy's fic here; go check that out if you want more spicy Neil content, because it was fantastic!

And thank you and also fuck you to @rysko for dramatically beta reading this in my ear WHILE I WAS TRYING TO MAKE THE HEADER

And now that I'm done thanking every fic writer on tumblr, my parents, the Royal Society for the Prevention of Birds, and Saturn and all of its rings, enjoy your filth!

WC: 4239

He found you outside the back door of Gumshoe, huddled against the concrete step, the cool air of the spring night nipping at the wet tears that streaked your cheeks, the slight breeze stirring a shiver from one fretful limb to the next. The whites of your eyes burned red beneath the faint glow of the lanterns atop the neighbour’s picket fence. It wasn’t exactly the most incognito place to cry your eyes out, but you didn’t have a key to Neil’s store, and it was nearly three in the morning. 

“Hey, I got your call. What’s going on?” A familiar voice broke the pitiful sounds of your sobbing, and the tension of your shoulders eased if only slightly at the mere sound. 

You tried to answer past your sobs, but found that your words came only in hiccups, in broken fragments of your splintered heart, and it didn’t take long for him to sweep an arm around your shoulders, lowering himself to sit beside you on the cold step. Instinctively, you found yourself leaning into his touch, trembling against the warmth of his body. 

Neil was never really great at these sorts of things to begin with, but it certainly didn’t help that his attention was drawn to the low-cut top where a tear streaked down the groove of your breasts, to the fishnets that you’d torn on your way out the door of your boyfriend’s, to the short skirt that rode up just enough for him to catch a glimpse of the lace hem of your panties. 

He swallowed, his throat suddenly dry, and he tried to keep his eyes on the face you so desperately tried to hide with your trembling fingers, for you were ashamed of your unkempt appearance. You must’ve looked like a cheap whore – a mess of one, no less. You couldn’t tell what was more embarrassing: the way you were dressed, like you were begging for attention, or the way your emotions seized you so cruelly that you could scarcely breathe. 

“Hey.” His warm, careful touch landed on your wrist, and as you pulled your fingers from your lashes, they came away black with smudged mascara. “I’m here,” your friend said. “Tell me what happened.”

You could still only speak in hiccups and broken vowels.

“Shhh,” Neil soothed you, fingers running up and down your spine, sending tiny shivers through each nerve as the fabric of your shirt bunched and his skin brushed yours. “Shhh. I’m here.”

Resting your head on his shoulder, your hair spilled in sticky threads over the jacket that, judging by the slight musty scent that lingered in the weave of the corduroy, had probably missed one too many washes. But you didn’t care. You’d come to appreciate the little imperfections about him, the details of his scent that made Neil Neil. Like the waxy tinge that seemed to always cling to his fingers after a long shift of rolling back tapes. Like the silk cream and smoke of the vanilla candle you’d gifted him last week. Like the artificial scent of cheap shaving cream and the slightest hint of blood where he’d nicked himself with the razor. The musk of his sweat and skin, buried beneath all these little things that you’d come to know almost as intimately as your own.

But there was something else, something you couldn’t quite pinpoint. And its unfamiliarity unnerved you.

His other hand came to rest on your knee, hot as fire in the cold of night. He thumbed at the tear in your fishnets and looked at you with bright, concerned eyes, but he used this as an excuse to touch you.

“Did he hurt you?” Neil asked. His hand stayed on your knee. In a way, it felt comforting; it grounded you enough so that, finally, after lulled by the rise and fall of his shoulder and the unique blend of his scent, you could speak.

“Is that cologne?” You wrinkled your nose and drew back to look him in the eye, your tangled hair peeling reluctantly from his corduroy jacket.

A rose blush came upon Neil’s cheeks, and he smiled nervously. He’d been sure to spritz himself with a good helping of it before he left, despite his hurried state. He needed to impress you; ever since you’d started dating that jock from across the street, he’d been trying to find more ways to steal your attention back.

“Yeah, it’s new,” he said, a little flustered, in a way that made your stomach flutter. “I wanted to ask for your opinion on what I should get, but you – well…” His voice cracked a bit as a hint of sadness crept into his tone. “… you’ve been pretty busy lately.”

“It’s awful,” you told him, laughing slightly, and your words seemed to cheer him up; his lips tugged into that playful grin of his again, and a deep chuckle rumbled from his throat.

And then you both fell into silence, and he looked back to your knee, still thumbing the skin where the fabric had torn.

“You didn’t answer my question,” Neil said.

You swallowed, another lump forming in your throat, and when you looked at him, bottom lip in your teeth, reddened eyes pouting, rimmed by your messed mascara, his heart sped in his chest in both fear and arousal. The thought of James even touching you boiled his blood, made his skin crawl and tightened a noose round his neck, but seeing you like this, baring your soul to him with those tear-brimmed eyes and mournfully upturned brows, it made him want you even more.

If he’d been the one to take you out tonight, he would’ve brought you home to his bed, worshipped each inch of your hallowed skin and made love to you like you were the only woman in the world, splayed his fingers across your thighs and parted them like a sea, dropped to his knees and prayed with the hungered strokes of his tongue and lapped at your holy waters.

He’d started reading poetry lately. It had felt right; it was the only thing that seemed to express just how he felt about you. Echoed the words in private like they were gospel; chanted your name from desperate lips as he palmed himself each night – and morning – to your photographs, to the vanilla of the candle that reminded him so much of you, to the fantasy of your sweat-slicked thighs wrapped around his waist, your walls clenched around him as he bucked his hips against your weight and finally let himself go, spilling himself inside you and hearing you moan so sweetly for him from those heavenly lips, feeling his own cum dampen his stomach as you collapsed over him. He always knew you’d be so tight, that you’d fit so perfect around him.

But sitting here, staring at your shivering, impotent form in your torn fishnets and your skimpy attire, he could barely contain the urge to tear open your knees and fuck you against the concrete. It had been so long since he’d even been this close to you; James took up all of your time nowadays, and gone were the late movie nights and stolen games of basketball on the breaks he took so liberally.

He missed you. So much.

And you knew it. You knew it, deep in your chest where the remnants of your heart twisted, still hearing the words, “You’ve been pretty busy lately.”

You shook your head, choking out another sob as shame crept along your skin, and you shivered at its grotesque touch. “No, he didn’t hurt me… not – not in that way.”

You couldn’t look at him; his pearlescent blue eyes and his sun-kissed freckles and his boyish brown locks all fading into memory as you buried your face in his chest, inhaling once more the faint scent of his laundry detergent and the musk of him beneath the shirt that was flipped inside-out but still outlined the blatant logo of Back to the Future. Whether he hadn’t realised he’d put it on backwards or he’d been shy about it, you couldn’t be sure, but it lightened your heart all the same, your sobs turning to giggles.

Neil pulled you closer, his chin resting along the nape of your neck and his hand running up your thigh; you barely noticed how near his hand was to your panties as you tugged at his shirt, nails sinking past the fabric as if to keep him and never let him go.

You regretted all that time you’d spent with James, when you should have been spending it with him instead. Everything felt so much easier with him; your smiles were broader, your laughter more carefree.

But you wanted more – selfish and lovesick, you wanted more than what he already gave you. You needed more than his attention and his friendship.

You needed him to want you.

“I thought that…” You sniffled. “… I thought that James wanted me. I dressed up all… nice… fucking whorish… and I thought tonight was finally the night and that he would’ve… that he would’ve…”

The words twisted in your throat, and you squeezed your eyes shut. Two hours ago, when you did up your makeup and clothes for your date with James, you’d felt sexy. Powerful, even.

Now, you just felt worthless.

Neil nestled his nose in the crook of your neck, brushed the silk strands of your hair aside, breathed your scent in so deeply that for a moment, the butterflies came back to the pit of your stomach.

“I just want to be wanted,” you admitted, losing it, sobbing uncontrollably into the now-damp shirt that clung to his thin frame. “I just want to be desired. That was the only reason I was with him, Neil. The way he looked at me that day when he came into the store, I…”

With a bitter pang in his chest, Neil remembered that day. The way James had looked at you like you were a piece of meat. The way he’d asked you if had any recommendations on which sports film he should rent and Neil had practically wedged himself between the two of you and started chattering to James about every little piece of trivia he knew about Chariots of Fire and Rocky. How, despite his efforts, James had still gone home with your number as well as the tapes. How you’d come in the next morning with a hickey on your neck and Neil had just known that where James had paused one of the tapes was when your movie night was likely cut short by… things he’d rather not think about ever again.

It should’ve been his couch you’d been curled up on, should’ve been him watching the movie with you. His mark on your neck.

And he would’ve picked something a little more fitting for the mood, too. Something more like Casablanca or Sin City. It was as if James didn’t even have to try to get you drooling over him. What was so special about him, anyway?

I wish I was special, Neil thought.

Neil’s grip on you tightened at the memory, nails digging in to the flesh of your thigh in a way that stirred a little gasp from your lungs, huffing against his collarbone as you tilted your head up to look at him.

“Y/N.”  His breath caught in his throat, and he reluctantly pulled from your neck to look you in the eye, locks of messy hair falling across his forehead and his eyes half-lidded. His fingers ghosted up your thigh, and you blinked past the sharp mint of his mouthwash – it burned your eyes slightly, but you didn’t care. You were so close to him, your breaths became one, a few threads of his hair tickling your cheeks and his nose brushing yours.

“Neil,” you breathed, the slightest of smiles tugging at your lip as your heart thudded between your legs, dangerously close to his fingers. Warmth spread across each fevered limb, taking you somewhere past the cold concrete and bitter chill of the wind, somewhere away from the graffiti-painted alley and the reek of broken booze bottles. Somewhere safe, and warm, and thrilling all at once.

“You’re so fucking beautiful.” Neil’s voice cracked around the words, a nervous laugh huffing against your fluttering lashes as his freckled cheeks darkened another shade of red. The hand that wasn’t between your legs played with a lock of your hair, twirling it in his finger but still supporting you beneath a quivering arm.

You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t believe this was real.

He had to have been playing some sick joke, right?

But the whimper that fell from his lips was very real, as his nails dug into your flesh again and he tugged you closer, his hips arching upward against your outer thigh.

“You look more than nice. You’re so fucking hot in this skirt, in anything you wear. That asshole is fucking blind,” he breathed, fingers grazing your panties and landing over your hipbone, testing the waters more and more as he tried not to rock his growing arousal too obviously against you.

But you noticed. You noticed the way his cock hardened and twitched beneath your weight; you noticed how even despite his body trembling from his attempts to resist his primal urges, his hips still gave little bucks upward, seeking friction. Seeking the heat that flared between your thighs, that ached for him so desperately that it was all you could do not to return the favour.

He couldn’t take it anymore. Staring into those gorgeous, bright eyes. Looking up at him with anything but innocence. So he scooped both hands around your ass, squeezing the flesh and lace and tugging you properly onto his lap with an alluring squeal tearing from your full lips.

“I want you, Y/N.” His hot breath pooled at your collarbone as he trailed wet, sloppy kisses along your jaw, your neck, and your lips parted in another gasp, back arching and thighs clenching around his waist as you ground wet panties against the bulge in his trousers.

“I fucking need you,” he whined, nipping like a needy puppy at the delicate skin of your neck. “Always have.” Another kiss. “Ever since I first saw you. Long before James.” A possessive growl stirred from his throat at that, the flare of dominance sending a jolt through your core.

“Neil, I – oh my God.” A moan broke your words as his fingers moved up your spine and his teeth grazed your collarbone, hovering over your pulse point.

“Fuck, baby. Say that again. Just like that.” His fingers began rolling your shirt up over the lip of your breasts, the sight enough to make him whine again in need. He couldn’t help himself from groping you, squeezing your breasts and rolling one nipple between his thumb and forefinger. Bending his neck to trail more sloppy kisses down your torso, they were his next destination.

“Oh my – Neil. Neil, I – “ You had so much to tell him, so much you needed off your chest, but his hips bucked sharply against you at the sound of his name moaned so beautifully, a low groan in his throat and his cock digging slightly inside your heat, the fabric of your panties scraping almost painfully against your walls.

“Please, Y/N, please don’t make me stop. Please let me keep touching you like this. I wanna worship you.” His hot breath shattered against a pert nipple. “Wanna fucking prove to you how much I want you.”

For a few moments, you were rendered speechless, mind whirring like the wheels on a VHS. Everything was happening so fast, and the warmth of his touch was seeping into you like honey, inundating you in a sort of comforting flame.

He could almost smell the vanilla of the candle wick burning.

You left nail marks down his chest where you clawed at the collar of his shirt, but he didn’t care. He sucked a nipple past his teeth and moaned around the taste of you, the sound so filthy that your eyes nearly rolled back in your skull as your parted lips tipped to the heavens. His name outlined by their perfect shape.

Reality came crashing down around you as you jumped, another squeal leaving your tongue as his teeth bit at your nipple and pain shot along your nerve endings.

“I’m sorry,” he breathed, chest heaving, looking up at you with reverent eyes. “I didn’t mean to, I – “

You cupped his chin in your palm and shook your head. “No, Neil. I’m sorry.” A tear streaked down your cheek, beaded on your jawline. “I’m so, so sorry.” You were beginning to sob again, and his brow furrowed in concern, thumb beginning to trace small circles along your spine. “I’m sorry I abandoned you for James, I didn’t… I shouldn’t have. I didn’t know you felt this way, I – I’m so sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry for,” he told you, his words sinking into your skin like a warm tide. With one hand, he brushed the tear from your jaw and wove his fingers into your hair, pulling you closer. “Just let me keep touching you. Please.”

When you didn’t respond for a moment, caught up in the way his blue eyes seemed to hollow with a certain hunger, the way his chest rose and fell beneath the bare flesh of your stomach, he uttered that word again:

“Please.”

You smiled, elated and giddy with joy, blood pounding with arousal, and kissed him, threading your own fingers into the fluffy locks of his hair.

Another tear streaked across your lips as they met his, and you tasted like salt and vanilla, slightly waxy from your chap-stick but the sweetest thing he’d tasted nonetheless. At first, he was embarrassed by the noises he made, the way he’d accidentally called you “baby” because he’d always wanted to do so, but he melted beneath you like butter. Nothing mattered anymore except the fact that you were finally his, that you were in his arms and grinding against his cock.

Neil broke the kiss to pull your shirt over your head, tossing it aside somewhere on the concrete – he would buy you a new one. His hands flattened against your back and pulled you flush to his chest, taking any excuse he could to hear that little squeal you made each time.

“Please, baby, please let me be inside you,” he whined, biting his lip as he stared up at you with those powder-blue eyes. Nails dug into your skin. Hips bucked against yours.

Your heart soared with his words, his worship, his want; you’d never been this ecstatic in your whole life. Part of you wanted to keep teasing him, make him beg, while another part of you ached to feel him buried to the hilt inside you.

“Patience, Neil,” you giggled, as you undid his trousers. You worked them down to his knees and your eyes widened as your hand brushed his cock, bare and springing flush against his stomach. You hadn’t expected him to not wear boxers.

Neil smiled sheepishly up at you, eyes still lidded, mouth still panting out a fevered breath. “I was in a rush getting dressed. I…” His cheeks reddened, and there was something so cute about how pathetic he looked in that moment. “You wanna know how much I want you, Y/N? I was touching myself thinking of you when you called.”

Creep, some voice in the back of his head hissed.

You bit your lip to suppress a moan, trying to ward off thoughts of Neil stroking himself to you, finishing to the thought of you. Oh, how you wished you could have witnessed the sight.

“Did you come?” you asked, a devious grin pulling at your lips as you took him in your hand, massaging a bead of pre-cum into his sensitive flesh.

His eyes fluttered, and he shook his head, his words coming out as a breathy whine,

“No, I promise. I didn’t come. Not yet.”

“Will you?” You dipped your head to let your words tickle his neck, your grip on him tightening.

“Yes,” he moaned. “Yes, yes, oh God, I will. Fuck, baby. Fuck, gonna come if you don’t stop that, need to come inside you, please, please…”

His mutterings trailed off into a low hiss of a whine, and your movements stilled, dragging him to his peak and letting him teeter at the edge as you both caught your breaths, chest heaving and a cold chill racing down your sweat-slicked back, thighs trembling around him.

“You sure you can handle this?” you purred against his ear before pulling back once more to witness the shivering mess you’d made him, priding yourself in your accomplishment. Lining his cock up with your entrance, the fabric of your panties scraped his tip teasingly as you slotted them to the side.

Neil looked up at you like you were some kind of goddess, his breathing coming laboured, his throat stripped of words. The dazed, blissful look he gave you was all the answer you needed. But you wanted to reap him of every last praise he had.

“Use your words, Neil,” you giggled, smirking.

“Ah…” His lips parted, near soundless. You watched intently as they formed the word “Please”.

You almost felt bad for him.

But it wasn’t pity that brought your hips down around him, slowly, teasingly, savouring the stretch of him against your walls and the fullness in your belly, but rather, your own need.

Neil’s head rolled back against the brick wall, blood welling at his lip where he bit it to keep himself from toppling over his peak; he nearly did it to himself when he bucked his hips upward, burying himself inside you, making you whimper at the pain that blended so sordidly with the pleasure. Your fingers tugged at his hair, and your nails grazed his scalp, and every little sensation sent him into overdrive. He used these little things to ground himself, as you had his tangled scents; he focused on how smooth your stomach felt against his own, his shirt hiking up so that you were skin to skin; he focused on the noises you made, huffing and whimpering, as you began to ride him; he focused on the softness of the breast that he cupped in his hand. Tried not to think about how you felt better than he’d imagined, how you clenched so tightly around his cock that he was almost pushed out each time you elevated your hips, but were so wet for him that he slid back inside so seamlessly each time.

“Neil,” you moaned as you fucked yourself on his cock, breast bouncing beneath his thumb, skirt fluttering around the bareness of his thighs. “Neil, fuck. Fuck.”

“Baby, I’m s—sorry. I’m gonna…”

You yelped again as pain shot deep inside your core, his hips bucking against yours with a violence you hadn’t known sweet Neil from the VHS store to possess, bottoming out inside you as his nails dug into the now-abused skin of your back and pulling you close, so close you were panting over his shoulder and his breath shattered against your ear. The hand that had been cupping your breast shot up to cradle your head, petting your hair.

He held you to him so tight, you didn’t think he’d ever let go. And you couldn’t have been happier.

Warmth spilled around his cock, sticky against your thighs, painting your insides white. You shuddered around him, balling his hair into a fist and digging your own, sharper nails, against his back.

“I didn’t mean it to be over so fast,” he mumbled into your neck. “I just… you’re so… fuck, I’ve been waiting for this for so long.”

“So have I,” you breathed. You practically hugged each other, shivering in the night air but content in each other’s warmth. “Don’t worry.” Pulling away slightly, you smiled down at him, cheeks flushing bright red. “If anything, it… it’s endearing.”

“Really?” he chuffed out a laugh.

“It…” you looked down, unable to meet that crystalline gaze. “It makes me feel wanted.” You pecked a quick kiss to his jaw, and could’ve sworn you saw love in his eyes when you pulled away.

“God, you’re perfect.” His voice broke again as his lips sought yours, and his breath hitched in his chest when the action caused you to rock your hips forward, a new sensation he’d never felt before buzzing along his skin. His mouth hung open and you laid kisses to his lips, his jaw, the Adam’s apple that bobbed along his throat. He felt his cock stiffen again inside you, already eager for Round Two.

“I should take you home,” he murmured, hands running up and down your sides. “You must be so cold.” As if just realising that he still had his jacket on, Neil shrugged it off in haste and wrapped the heavy material around your shoulders. A chill ran down your spine, as the material was damp with sweat – you smiled at how predictably forgettable he was when he had a woman on his lap, just as you’d imagined –, but his scent soothed you.

Though you were cold, it was a small sacrifice to make to stay here, with him buried so deep inside you that you felt dizzy in the head. Depleted of your energy and sinking into his warmth, you smirked, and rested your chin on his shoulder.

“I was thinking of just staying like this a while,” you admitted.

“Whatever makes you happy,” he breathed, hugging you even tighter. “Whatever you want.”

A.N. Sorry if this was a bit rough, guys. I smashed this one out the other day because I was tired of my writer's block.

I actually laid into some themes that I was planning on using for a Dark!Neil fic based on the song "Creep" which I don't know when I'll get around to writing, but let me know if you guys would like to hear more about the idea for the series or are interested.

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[cherryredlove]

☆ pluck my strings ☆

Modern!au Goth! Aemond Targaryen x reader SMUT

• • • • • • • • • • • • ✦ • • • • • • • • • • • •

• • • • • • • • • • • • ✦ • • • • • • • • • • • •

Recently you've decided to pick up a new hobby, and you've always fancied learning the bass guitar. After picking up the basics on a shitty one you find in a charity shop, you bite the bullet and buy a gorgeous sleek black bass from facebook market. Hopefully the guy you buy from isn't a creep.

Word Count: 2.2k

Themes: smuuut, 18+, rough p in v, dacryphilia, creampie, alcohol consumption, lots of fluff tho!

Reader is implied to be vaguely (the extent is up to u ofc) punk with nipple piercings - drawn from personal experience ;)

• • • • • • • • • • • • ✦ • • • • • • • • • • • •

The stale coffee aroma clung to the corners of your favourite neighbourhood café as you scrolled through FB Marketplace, halfheartedly browsing for a bass guitar that wouldn’t cost you an arm and a leg. After learning the basics on the cheap, battered bass you found at a charity shop last month, you finally decided it was time for an upgrade. FB was usually full of shit you lamented internally, sipping a hot mocha in Celtigar Coffee.

Amid the endless sea of overpriced instruments, you stumbled upon a sleek black bass with a gloss finish that caught your eye immediately. You smiled, smitten, at the sight of a black cat next to the bass. The listing promised it had “good vibes and great sound,” and judging by the photos, it looked like it had been well cared for. Alas, the cat wasn't for sale. You clicked on the seller’s profile, and your interest piqued even more.

Aemond Targaryen was his name. His profile picture revealed a strikingly handsome young man, heavily tattooed, with one icy-blue eye that seemed to stare right through the screen and a black leather eyepatch covering the other eye. He was effortlessly cool and goth: black leather jacket, piercings, and a smirk that screamed confidence. Against your better judgment (curse your friend Dyana for scaring you with stranger danger), you shot him a message expressing interest in the bass. Within minutes, he replied.

• • • • • • • • • • • • ✦ • • • • • • • • • • • •

You took a deep breath as you stood outside Aemond’s apartment complex, the cash for the bass tucked safely in your wallet. The building was impressive: old brick, with ivy climbing up its sides, slightly crumbly but in a chic antique way. Your heart thrummed with a mix of anticipation and anxiety. You’d always heard horror stories about buying things off the internet, but you needed a sick bass, and Aemond seemed cool enough. You tried to dissuade the lick of warmth you felt inside when you glanced at his picture again.

After a short elevator ride and a quick knock, the door swung open, revealing Aemond in the flesh. He was even more striking in person, his silver hair contrasting sharply against his black jeans and t-shirt. Traditional style tattoos snaked down his arms, disappearing beneath the sleeves of his shirt. You swallowed thickly at his heavily muscled arms that flexed as he held the door.

“You must be (Y/N),” he said, his voice smooth and inviting. “Come on in.”

The apartment was exactly what you’d expect from someone like Aemond. Dark and moody, with walls adorned in gothic artwork and grungy band posters. A state-of-the-art sound system took up one corner, and an impressive collection of vinyl records lined a bookshelf.

“Wow, this place is... awesome,” you said, trying to play it cool as you looked around.

“Thanks. I like to keep things interesting,” Aemond replied with a small grin. “The bass is over here.”

He led you to a stand where the sleek black bass rested next to three more basses and guitars. Up close, it was even more beautiful than in the pictures. You ran your fingers along its neck, feeling the smoothness of the wood. The craftsmanship was exquisite, and you could already imagine the kind of sound it would produce.

“Go ahead, give it a try,” Aemond encouraged, handing you a cable to plug into the amp nearby.

You slung the strap over your shoulder, letting the bass rest against your body. As you played a few notes, the room filled with a deep, rich sound that resonated perfectly. It felt right—like this bass was meant for you. You grinned at Aemond who clapped lightly.

“You’ve got a good ear,” Aemond said, watching you play. “Most people can’t appreciate quality like this.”

“Thanks,” you replied, feeling a rush of satisfaction at his compliment. “I’ll take it.”

You were interrupted by a loud meow. Looking down, a black cat with big moon-like eyes was staring up at you, nose twitching.

"This is Vhagar," Aemond scooped up the kitty and gave her a head kiss. Vhagar meowed approvingly. You reached out to give her a pet and she purred. Aemond seemed extremely pleased at Vhagar's apparent approval of you.

Distracted by the fluffy cutie, you handed over the cash once Aemond had put Vhagar down, and Aemond carefully counted it before nodding. As you packed the bass into its case, he surprised you with a question.

“So, what are your plans for tonight?” he asked, casually leaning against the wall, his gaze fixed on you. You noticed he swallowed hard after he asked.

You blinked, caught off guard. “Uh, not much. Why?”

“There’s this club, The Dragon Pit. It’s got a decent alternative scene. Thought you might want to check it out.” You flushed at the surprise. You'd heard of The Dragon Pit. It was pretty legendary in King's Landing.

The offer was unexpected, but there was something undeniably intriguing about him. You’d come here for a bass and found yourself tempted by the idea of a night out with a stranger who seemed anything but ordinary.

“Alright, sure,” you agreed, trying to hide your excitement. “I could use a good night out.”

• • • • • • • • • • • • ✦ • • • • • • • • • • • •

The Dragon Pit was everything Aemond had promised and more. A former warehouse turned music venue, it thrummed with energy as local bands played their hearts out on stage. The crowd was a mix of goths, punks, and metalheads, each in their element, dancing and drinking heavily.

Aemond had secured a prime spot near the stage, and you found yourself getting lost in the music with him. The bassline pulsed through the air, vibrating deep in your chest. It was easy to lose yourself in the rhythm, the heavy riffs drowning out any lingering doubts you’d had earlier. You both sang along and danced together, grasping each others hands and laughing breathlessly, buzzed from several bottles of Asshai beer.

“I didn’t peg you for a punk, thought you'd be a pure goth,” you said, leaning closer to Aemond so he could hear you over the music.

He shrugged, his eyes glinting mischievously. “I’m full of surprises.”

As the night wore on, drinks flowed freely, and the initial awkwardness from his flat between you dissolved into easy conversation and laughter. Aemond’s charm was magnetic, his wit sharp and engaging. You learned that he was a musician himself, dabbling in various instruments and playing in a band called Valyrian Steel with his brothers, sister and their friend that occasionally headlined at the club.

As the band played its final song, the adrenaline of the night combined with the alcohol in your system left you feeling bold. You caught Aemond’s gaze, the charged atmosphere between you undeniable. He leaned in, brushing a strand of hair away from your face, his touch sending shivers down your spine. You melted into his manly hands that held your cheeks.

“Do you want to get out of here?” he asked, his voice low and inviting.

Your heart raced at the implication, but you didn’t hesitate. “Yeah, let’s go.

• • • • • • • • • • • • ✦ • • • • • • • • • • • •

Back at Aemond’s apartment, the air was thick and heavy. Your heart thrummed harder than the music you'd been listening to. The door barely closed behind you before you found yourself against it, Aemond’s lips crashing onto yours. His kiss was electric, filled with urgency and passion, as if he’d been waiting all night to do this.

You melted into him, your hands finding their way to his hair as he deepened the kiss. His hands roamed over your back, pulling you closer, leaving no space between you.

Your pussy ignited at his deepened kiss, feeling his hands massage your ass and pull you closer to him. You gasped as he cocked his muscled thigh between your legs, pressing against your tender pussy. You rocked yourself onto him, sparks electrifying your sex.

“Bedroom?” you whispered between kisses, your voice barely more than a breathless plea.

He pulled back slightly, his eyes dark with want. “This way.”

He led you down a dimly lit hallway to his bedroom, where candles flickered, casting soft shadows across the walls. The bed was invitingly unmade, the sheets black, of course, as if it had been waiting for this moment.

Aemond’s touch was gentle yet insistent as he guided you to the bed, his fingers deftly removing your shirt and jeans before he captured your lips again. You reciprocated, helping him out of his jacket and shirt, revealing more of the intricate tattoos that covered his body. He'd kicked off his boots long ago, and stood naked before you, appreciating your nearly nude form with eager hands.

You traced your fingers over the ink. He shivered under your touch, a soft groan escaping him as he pressed against you, guiding you back onto the bed.

He snapped your lacy red bra off at the back. You thanked the Gods you'd worn nice underwear today. His eyebrows raised high at the sight of your pierced nipples, cute little silver bars through them.

"Aren't you full of surprises, little slut," his voice was dark and warm. You gasped at the name, flushing, pussy slick. He flicked his tongue over your perked tits, grinding his hardened cock against your thigh.

You reached down to grasp him, earning a strangled type of whimper from Aemond. He bit down hard on your neck as you tugged him, using his precum to lube up your hand.

"Gods, Aemond, touch me, please!" You begged breathlessly. He laughed richly, pulling down your panties, and lowered his head to your delicious heat.

Your eyes rolled back to your head as his firm and pointed tongue lapped up your juices, sucking insistently on your needy clit. He rutted his hips against the bed, neck flushing as his arousal became uncontrollable. You were lost in the pleasure, wound up from hours of dancing and eye-fucking Aemond. Tears welled up in your eyes as how brutally good it felt to have Aemond between your legs, eating your pussy like it was his last meal. He moaned darkly at the sight of your wet eyes, newfound vigour making you lurch up into sitting and clench your thighs around his skull.

"Aemond! Oh!" You cried out, feeling a hot orgasm blossom inside. The warm fire licked your pussy, legs shaking and Aemond gently supped your cream as you came down from the high.

The orgasm did nothing to abate your lust for him. Your pussy felt painfully empty, and you stared at his long, thick cock as he nudged your pussy lips open.

"Ready, my girl?" He asked, breathless. You nodded, eyes wide, throwing your head back as he thrusted in, stretching you as your mouth fell open in a soundless moan.

Aemond was relentless, pounding you hard and fast, deeply reaching the sweetest spot inside your pussy. He swiped your tears of pleasure away, grinning through pants, and hoisted your legs up over his shoulders.

You drooled over his toned abs and pecs, scratching your nails into his muscles as he kneaded your tits leisurely. His hips snapped up in the most perfect way. Leaning a hand down, he rubbed your clit urgently.

"I'm on birth control!" You gasped out, suddenly remembering. Aemond's eye was fired up, throwing his head back and grinning down at you.

"Oh, my girl, I'm going to fill you up, make you feel so good. No other cock can make this little tight pussy feel so good." He rasped. You nodded, whimpering, feeling that unstoppable heat crawl up in your pussy again.

Mewling desperately and digging your nails into his arms, you orgasmed hard on his cock, squirting over his balls and feeling weightless as the pleasure took over your body. Aemond moaned at how you squeezed him, cumming hard and filling your pussy up with ropes of hot, thick cum. Your pussy felt thoroughly fucked and stuffed full of cream. He collapsed on top of you.

You both lay panting for what felt like forever.

Aemond gingerly got up to clean the pair of you, then nestled back under the cover, clutching you tightly in his thick arms.

• • • • • • • • • • • • ✦ • • • • • • • • • • • •

As dawn crept through the windows, you found yourself rested against him, your head lying on his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. The realization that you’d spent the night with a pretty much stranger didn’t feel as daunting as you’d expected. Instead, it felt oddly comforting.

“You know,” Aemond murmured, breaking the comfortable silence, “I had a really good time last night.”

You smiled against his skin, feeling a sense of contentment you hadn’t anticipated. “Guess we’re a good match then.”

He chuckled softly, his fingers trailing lazily along your arm. “I’d say so," he looked into your eyes. "Want to grab breakfast with me?

• • • • • • • • • • • • ✦ • • • • • • • • • • • •

AN: if you've read my other hotd modern aus, can u see the world building I'm doing? lol if u like the sound of valyrian steel, then i might have a treat for you soon 🍒 ofc send any feedback and requests and check my masterlist for more xx

[lotsoflola]

all is fair in love and war [1] - s. johnny

summary: you hate johnny suh, you absolutely hate him, but when you're forced to spend time with him on a mission, your passionate hate becomes a different sort of passion genre: gang au, enemies to enemies with benefits to lovers warnings: mature themes, smut, angst, reader is a smoker (projection), TENSION!!!, hate fucking, heavy heavy heavy degradation, johnny's not very nice, the dirtiest fucking talk, dom!johnny, brat!reader, thigh riding, johnny gets head, johnny keeps fucking her despite threat of death, choking, wrote this at 2am lets be nice with my grammar word count: 6.6k author's note: welcome to part one of my baby!! this is the first chapter of all is fair in love and war and trust me, it just gets better...

series masterlist

neo city was a complete and utter shithole.

it had always been like that, at least as far as you were aware. you had lived here for the past five years, getting yourself a cheap starter apartment for half the price of anywhere else. it was a culture shock at first, being scared just to walk through the streets to your job, but you assimilated quickly, finding a job as a bartender in the inner city, in a cosy bar called the 'urban oasis'.

it was there you first had an interaction with gang life. it was a quiet night at the bar. you were practically dosing off, only a few regulars in the far corner playing darts, and everyone else had been sent home, leaving you to close alone.

a man walked into the building, and as he did so, the other men seemed to quieten down, stiffen slightly, stop playing their game. you were confused, but truly didn't care enough to question anything. instead, you turned to the man, and prepared to take his order.

he looked like neo city, if that was even possible. green neon hair, matching the fluorescent lights that covered the city, with tattoos up his neck and arms and a leather jacket to complete the look.

"whiskey on the rocks," he stated, voice harsh.

you rolled your eyes, hating rude customers like him. "what type of whiskey? we've got jack daniels, jamesons-"

"just give me your top shelf," he snapped again, and you gave him a pointed look before going to fulfil his request.

it didn't take you long, and when you passed him the chilled glass, you also handed him a receipt.

"that will be $45, would you like to pay cash or card?" you asked, watching as his face grew clouded.

"i'm sorry," his tone was almost testing, as if he was giving you a chance to take back your statement.

"i said it will be $45, you got our top shelf of whiskey," you repeated, going to wipe some glassware, but were met with a firm grip on your wrist. "what the fu-"

"leave it, honey," one of your regulars, a man called sooman, shouted across to you, fear lacing his voice.

"no, he got a whiskey, he'll pay for his fucking whiskey- let go of me," you tried to squirm, but his grip was harsh, and you truly couldn't escape.

"do you not know who i am?" he sneered, face dangerously close to yours.

you sighed. "i don't care who you are, i'm not getting fired because some dickhead wants to get away without paying."

and with that, you swang at him, your fist colliding with his head as he let go from the impact, giving you a chance to swing at him again. he jumped over the bar, and grabbing your arms, pinning them against your side before pushing you up against a wall, leaving you completely unable to move. it was only then you noticed the gun in his belt, and the tattoo at the base of his neck, one that had three letters.

n. c. t. the name of the most dangerous gang in neo city.

"fuck," you whispered to yourself, practically convincing yourself that you were about to die.

"recognise me now?" he almost joked, and you gave him a look. a look that said if you're going to kill me, might as well kill me now. "i'm not going to kill you."

that took you by surprise, and he must have been able to tell, as he carefully let go of your hands. "scram."

the rest of the customers ran out of the bar, leaving just you and the man alone, and he gestured for you to sit. you refused however, instead grabbing a bottle of tequila and pouring it into your own glass, waiting for him to make the first move.

"my name is taeyong, i'm the leader of nct," he spoke calmly, and you tried to not show your immense anxiety pumping through your veins. "and judging by what i've just seen, i think you would make a good addition."

you could have laughed, instead taking a swig of your drink, the bruning sensation grounding you to this unbelievable reality. "me? in a gang?"

"it's not all killing, and drug dealing, and all the other things everyone thinks it is. you've got bite, got drive, and we need someone like you," he took a sip of his drink, leaning closer towards you, "and you'll make more in your first week than you would in a month here."

and hearing his words, though you wanted to deny, you found yourself accepting his offer.

~~~

four years later, here you were, high in the ranks of the most feared gang in neo city, a force to be reckoned with. the bar you once worked for minimum wage at you now owned, and nct used it for meetings and to unwind.

no one could touch you know, instead of fearing the streets people now crossed the road for you, and you felt untouchable. you had honed your craft, mainly in charge of wooing policemen and being eye candy during meetings. you didn't care, you didn't want to be making all the decisions, it was the sense of community you cared about more.

so here you were, ten pm on a monday night, a group of you playing snooker in the bar. a cigarette held loose in your fingertips, with a fellow member jaemin lying with his head in your lap, playing with his hair with your other hand.

"do you ever think that this is all a simulation and we're all actually fruit in a fruit bowl?" the boy in your lap mumbled, the alcohol obvioudly affecting his thoughts.

jeno, another boy with you, chuckled slightly, finishing putting a pool ball. "shut up, jaemin. i always forget you're such a lightweight."

"now, now, he's not that bad," you hummed, taking a drag from your cigarette.

"stop playing nice, cherry. he's had about three shots and is contemplating life on this earth," haechan sneered, and you stuck your tongue out at him.

cherry was the nickname you had earned yourself, due to the amount you ate the fruit around the members. you preferred it to your own name at this point, making it easier to seperate your personal life and, well whatever this life was, life.

"he's not as bad as jisung though, remember that night after the bank heist," chenle joked, earning a slap from the youngest member.

"it was a celebration, god, leave me alone," jisung mumbled, as the older members ruffled his hair.

it was at this point haechan fell over attempting to put the ball, collapsing into renjun as they both fell on top of each other, roughly slapping each other as they rolled on the floor. the group erupted into laughter, only stopped as a knock was heard on the bar door.

"who's that?" jeno asked, and you shrugged, taking another hit.

"bar's always closed on a monday."

"well, go check it out."

"why don't you check it out, haechan?"

"it's your bar."

"nct owns it. that means we all own it."

"you chose to buy it."

"suck my dick."

"oh my god, you have a penis?"

mark, the oldest of all the members, cleared his throat. "jesus christ, stop bickering, cherry, go get the door."

you flipped haechan off, but stood up nonetheless, causing jaemin to pout against your thigh.

"i'm just going to the door, jaem, don't you worry?" you patted his cheek, before wandering over to the door, and opening the peep hole.

"bar's closed," you sung, "get fucked."

the man sighed. "it's me, open the fuck up."

you recognised that voice. of course you fucking recognised that voice. the one member of nct who you loathed, who for some reason you couldn't stand.

"gonna need the password, i'm afraid," you teased, mouthing to a confused mark who was at the door.

"let me in or i will blow this bar to the fucking ground," he spat, and you oblidged, however much you didn't want to.

johnny suh was a tall man, towering over you as you opened the door, with washed out jeans and an oversized hoodie, with a beanie on his head do deal with the cold winter weather. he was handsome, but you would never admit that to him, because his personality made him completely insufferable.

"hi cherry." god, you hated the way he said your nickname, almost with a twinge of disgust behind it.

"what do you want?" you asked, hand still firmly on the door, not letting him enter just yet.

he smirked. "play nice, need to talk to jaemin about something. and a drink wouldn't hurt, go get us a jack and coke, huh?"

he was insufferable, the way he spoke as if you were nothing, just a pretty thing to run and make drinks and flirt. even the non-affiliates got treated better than you, and you had been here for four years now.

"go fuck yourself, john," you spat, wandering back over to the boys and shaking jaemin awake. "someone's here to speak to you."

"is it the fruitbowl?" he asked, and you sighed, placing his head back down in your lap.

johnny wandered over, and you watched his face drop as he noticed jaemin's state. "why would you let him drink?"

the question was targeted at you, for whatever reason, and you fought back. "i'm not his mother, john. what did you want anyway?"

"don't be snappy, cherry," his voice was laced with venom, a patronising tone irritating you entire being, "it concerns you as well. it was meant to be you and jaemin, but someone's going to have to step in."

you hummed as you realised what he meant. a group of four of you had been working on stealing money from a large formal dinner happening at the mayor's house tomorrow night. that was partly why you and jaemin were drinking, courage needed for tomorrow. it was the two of you, johnny, and another member jungwoo, but the entire thing was already planned out. it was weeks in the making, so you didn't know what johnny was talking about.

"what do you mean?" mark spoke your mind, being somewhat in the know about the situation. he was selected before you were, when they decided they needed a girl to step in.

johnny sighed, palm stroking down his jaw. "you know how we were going to use that catering company, sneak in as waiters for the evening."'

you nodded, resisting the urge to role your eyes at him. you obviously knew this, you had gone over it again and again and again until you could recite the entire thing like the back of your hand.

"well, the numbers have dropped, and therefore we've been dropped from the waiting staff."

you tilted your head. "can't we demand they let us in?"

"they don't know we're nct, that was the only way we could get in," johnny groaned, once again looking at jaemin's drunk state, as if affirming that he was knocked out cold. "cherry, i need you not to freak out."

this startled you; sentences that start like that don't normally end well, especially when someone like johnny suh was saying them.

"there is another way we can get in though, through the hwangs."

haechan wandered over, perching behind you on the armrest of the sofa, grabbing the cigarette from your hand and taking a hit. "they're the businessmen, right?"

"yeah, very quiet, keep to themselves a lot of the time," johnny stated, copying haechan's actions as he settled behind jaemin's feet, "they're also with us, we do a lot of their dirty work."

"but how does that help us?" you jutted in, grabbing the cigarette back from haechan, almost burnt to the filter.

johnny tuts. "i was getting to that, sweetheart."

sweeheart was arguably worse than cherry.

"the hwangs have two children, hyunjin and yeji. but they've never been seen, both of them are off at school in a different part of the country. the plan was that jaemin would go in as their son, and infiltrate that way, but obviously he's not prepared to be briefed tonight."

your hand found it's way to jaemin's hair, your acrylic nails gently massaging his scalp. "so what else can we do?"

"well, there's another option. you," he gestured loosely, and you flipped him off before taking your final hit of the cigarette, putting it out in the ashtray as smoke filled the room. "you're going to go to the event as hwang yeji and represent your parents."

it wasn't that absurd of an idea. you could spend tonight learning some family history and dropping the rough slang you had learnt.

"that doesn't seem that bad," you hummed, grabbing your bag and pulling another cigarette out. "hyuck, have you got a lighter?"

he passed it to you, and you ignored johnny's judgemental stare of your brought the stick to your mouth, the low light of a flame illuminating your face. you took a long drag, head leaning back against haechan's thigh as you exhaled.

"well, i'm not sure whether you know, but for formal events like these, girls cannot attend without a male escort," johnny informed you, and you stopped in your tracks, understanding the implication. "no, no, johnny no."

"there's no other option, cherry," he groaned, and you took another hit.

haechan started laughing behind you, the vibrations travelling through his legs to your head. "you've got to go with johnny, cherry that's absolutely brilliant."

"fuck you, haechan," you spat, eyes locked onto johnny's. "why can't i do it with jungwoo?"

"he's a kim, he can't get away with that."

it was true. the kim's, despite many of them now turning to the crime world of neo city, used to be a very influential family. there was no way jungwoo could walk into the ball pretending to be someone else."

"and there's really no other way," you asked, desperation in your tone, taking another hit before haechan took it from your hands.

jisung wandered over to you. "come on, it's not that bad. johnny's supposedly a gentleman."

"ji, i love you, but there is no way johnny fucking suh is anything resembling a gentleman," you spat, making grabby hands towards haechan, wanting your cigarette back. "come on, hyuck, give."

"smoking's a vice, cherry."

"so's being a dick, give it back."

you could hear johnny tut, but chose to ignore it, instead trying to comprehend the situation. "can i get a makeover?"

haechan scoffed. "really? that's what you're after?"

"i'm just a girl, hyuck."

"yeah, she's just a girl," jaemin stirred, and you gave him a loving pat on the head.

johnny quickly checked his watch. "come on, we've got a fuck ton of backstory to get through."

"is there really no other option?"

"trust me, sweeheart. if there was, i would have found it."

and with that, you gently slid jaemin off your lap, placing a kiss on his forehead, before standing next to the tall man.

"come on then john. i need to get my nails done."

~~~

soft rnb music filled your apartment as the sun set over the skyscrapers, perched in front of your mirror as you carefully applied your eyeliner, ensuring they were equal either side. you had barely slept, spending the entire night with johnny and jungwoo, learning everything you would possibly have to know about the hwangs, and for a rich family in neo city, there was a fucking lot.

you had managed to convince taeyong to get allowance for your makeover, heading to the salon today to get a new set of nails, long and red to match your dress. your hair was in loose ringlets, fingers dripped in expensive rings, wrists the same with bracelets. a diamond hung around your neck, sitting way above your low cut dress. the hwangs were known for being scandalous, despite their quiet nature, so to fit the part, your dress was a low cut v, the back hollow crosses of loose satin, sitting halfway down your thigh.

with a swipe of lipgloss you were finished, packing a small clutch with perfume, lipbalm, and your gun. maybe the gun wasn't necessary, but it wouldn't blow your cover, so you though it better to be safe than sorry. half the people in neo city carried guns, and the other half walked with people who carried them/

you checked the time quickly. 5:57. johnny said he would be at your flat at 6, so you quickly checked through your phone. you had a few texts from mark, asking about the new show you guys had been watching, and a few from jungwoo, wishing you luck for tonight. it wasn't a scary thing anymore, you had done so many of these tasks that they felt like second nature. you were one of the few girls in nct that didn't mind going out, which made you incredibly useful for situations like this.

the doorbell rang just as you finished texting jungwoo, and you groaned, wandering through your kitchen before opening the door, seeing the man himself on the other side.

fuck. he actually looked good.

he was in a black tuxedo, bowtie tight around his neck. he was a tall man, that much was obvious, but with dress trousers he somehow look taller. his hair was in curtains, a deep brunette that hung just slightly over his eyes. not that you would ever say it out loud to him, but jesus fucking christ.

"you ready to go?" he asked, not even acknowledging your outfit.

you rolled your eyes. you knew you looked good, there was no way that he didn't realise how fucking good you looked. "nice to see you to. i just need to put my shoes on, calm down."

the set of red louboutin heels fit you perfectly, sliding into them with ease. you stumbled just after putting them on, but quickly grabbed your bag, a packet of cigarettes and a lighter off the table, before meeting him at the door.

"ready," you hummed, placing your key in the lock and shutting it behind you, before placing them in your bag.

he scoffed. "you really need the cigarettes?"

"you really need that terrible attitude?" you shot back, following him into the lift and pressing the ground floor button. you checked yourself out in the mirror, cleaning up the lipstick that had somehow escaped your lips.

"terrible habit," was his only reply, one that you didn't think needed a response, though you did notice the slight flick of his eyes to your boobs as you leant forwards slightly, an action that led to a smirk on your lips.

you quickly noticed that johnny's car outside, not a limo like you presumed. he seemed to notice your confusion as he deliberately didn't open the door for you, waiting for you to climb in yourself.

"ever the gentleman," you teased, watching as he started the engine, pulling away gently.

"we're driving to the oasis, that's where the limo is," he explained, not even given you a glance.

"why didn't you just ask me to walk to the oasis then?"

johnny scoffed. "like you would have walked through neo city in a slutty dress and high heels."

you flipped him off, but he did have a point. you would never do that anyway, least of all neo city. instead, you pulled out a cigarette, rolling down the window and lighting it, the bitter taste a comfort on your tongue.

"i'm serious when i say you shouldn't smoke."

"i'm serious when i say you have an attitude problem."

he rolled his eyes, eyes darting towards you as you tapped the ash onto the road. you could see the oasis in the distance, the familiar comfort of the bar calming you slightly. all you wanted right now was a drink, just a little bit to calm your nerves.

"fancy a shot?" johnny seemed to read your mind, pulling into the carpark quickly.

you both made your way into the building, the bustle quieting down as they noticed you and johnny walk in. you smiled as you saw jaemin behind the bar, the hangover evident in his eyes. his arms enveloping you in a tight hug.

jaemin was like a brother to you. he had taken you under his wing very quickly when you joined nct, but unlike a few of the other guys, he genuinely had no ulterior motives. he saw your beauty, understood why guys like haechan and jeno were so into you, but that just wasn't him. he was one of the few people you knew would always be there for you.

"fuck, cherry, you look gorgeous," he breathed out, and you planted a soft kiss against his cheek.

"thanks, jae. how's the hangover?" you chuckled, grabbing a bottle of tequila and two glasses, pouring two glasses for you and johnny.

he groaned. "how do you think? i am so sorry though, it should be me there right now."

jaemin had spent half the morning apologising over the phone, saying how you've taken his place and if only he hadn't drank so much. you appreciated his efforts, but you both knew you were more than able to do what needed to be done. despite all this, he paid for your lunch today, and that was a win.

"don't be stupid, besides now there's two of us going. even if one is practically incompetent."

johnny didn't like that, finishing the shot before turning to you. "watch yourself, sweetheart."

"bite me, john."

jaemin seemed to sense the tension, pouring you guys one more shot before leaving you to it. your rivalry was well known throughout nct, even some of the runners knew how much you loathed each other, and most people understood it was better to leave you guys to it, let you fight it out, and hope neither of you killed each other. or that whoever was your favourite made it out alive.

"you're insufferable, you know that," you spat, downing the second shot in quick succession, needing the alcohol to settle the violence in your gut.

"rich coming from you, can't even stand being in your presence."

"you're lying to yourself, suh. saw you checking me out in the mirror," you teased, leaning in closer to him.

he matched your energy, face bending down slightly saw your eyes were almost even. "i was not checking you out, i can assure you of that."

"tell yourself whatever you want, if it helps you sleep at night, but your eyes don't lie."

"half the guys in nct want you," johnny's voice was a low growl at this point, face so close to yours basically all you could see was him. "and do you know what? i don't fucking get it. you're a bitch-"

"lovely choice of words-"

"you think you rule the world, you think you're better than fucking everyone, but you're not. there is nothing special about you, and the sooner you realise that, the better."

"do you know what, suh?" you could feel the anger running through your veins, nails digging into your palms to stop yourself planting your fist into his face, leaving shallow crescents in your skin. "you think you're so smart, so precious. oh, johnny suh, johnny of nct, the johnny- no one can fucking stand you. god knows why taeyong keeps you around, half the young guys don't even want to know you- ever wonder why it's the same two guys who volunteer to be with you? because no one else even wants to be near you."

johnny opened his mouth, probably to insult you even further, smirk creeping onto his lips, but a notification on his phone went off, and he pulled away from you quickly.

"limo's here," was all he could say, and you pushed your anger back down inside you.

you were hwang yeji. be hwang yeji.

and ignore the weird feelings going on in your chest right now.

~~~

"hey, cherry, how's it going?" jungwoo asked, robotic voice over the phone as you pulled out a cigarette, locked in the guest bathroom at the mayor's house.

you sighed, taking a deep hit to calm your nerves. "all good so far, no one suspects anything. you and jae should be all good to hack the system come 12."

all jungwoo did was hum in response, and you hung up accordingly. you couldn't do anything suspicious at all, there was too much on the line. you took another hit, the smoke fogging the room as you took a moment.

you had spoken to about half the city elite, acting like the prestine proper girl you were supposed to be, but it was taking it's toll. you and johnny had been here for about four hours, and that was four hours too long of pretending to be enamoured by johnny suh. he was disgusting, hand settled in the small of your waist as he laughed at your occasional jokes, planting soft kisses into your hair.

it made you feel sick, sick to your core, sick enough that not even the cigarette was calming you down. johnny suh was an unbelievably irratating individual, one who made you genuinely revolted as his eyes locked on yours, and it took every morsel of self control not to announce to the whole room that you were hating every second of it, that you hated him.

you finished the cigarette, spraying some perfume in the bathroom before leaving the room, walking back over to your 'boyfriend'. he was with another two couples, not sure who, but he quickly introduced you as you slid under his arm, his hand resting against your side, thumb rubbing against your ribcage.

"this is hwang yeji, my girlfriend," god, how his voice made you feel ill. he sounded so in love, and the way his thumb felt against your body just added to it. some part of you felt confused, he definitely did not need to be doing so much, and yet he still was.

stop thinking about that. focus on what you need to be doing.

"yeji, my darling, gosh how you've grown," the woman, moon bora, planted a cheek on either cheek, hand cupping your jaw. "i bet you don't remember me, i haven't seen you since you went to boarding school."

"i know, it's been so long since i've been back here," you hummed, body tensing as johnny gently guided you over to a small table, where bora and her husband jinhyung followed you. he sat next to you, arm over the back of the chair, as you continued on the conversation. "i do miss it, yeah, though there are definetly benefits to living by the coast."

"oh, i can only imagine. do you get to go to the beach regularly, i know college can be quite intense," jinhyung asked, voice full of curiousity.

you went to respond, but your voice was a sharp choke as you felt johnny's hand on your thigh. "sorry, but no we do make time to go. it's beautiful in the morning, watching the sunrise over the ocean, it's really something."

bora and jinhyung kept their questions coming, and you could barely focus and johnny's fingers travelled higher and higher up your thigh, crawling underneath the silk of your dress, gently massaging the soft skin of your inner thigh. you squeezed his hand, a warning, a 'stop this', a 'what the fuck are you doing?'.

his hand got dangerously high, to the point where you could feel him just against the lace of your panties, before you heard an alarm on johnny's phone. 11:45. you needed to get a move on.

"god, i'm sorry," johnny broke the conversation, hand finally leaving your thigh to turn of the ringtone, "that's my medicine alarm. sweetheart, will you come with me to the bathroom to take it."

johnny excused himself, but you were convinced if you went with him now you would genuinely kill him. "let me just say my goodbyes, i'll meet you in a moment."

he shot you a look, but you gave him one back, and he dropped it. you turned back to the couple, with bora giving you a knowing look.

"gosh, you guys are so in love," she sung, and you resisted the urge to spit out your drink. "it reminds me of us when we were younger."

you smiled at her, lying through clenched teeth. "i'm glad you can tell, he's honestly incredible."

"don't think i didn't notice the way you were flirting under the table," she gave you a suggestive wink, and you swore then and there you were going to kill johnny. "young love, how much i miss it?"

you couldn't wait any longer to kill him, so you quickly excused yourself, and travelled through the mansion, past the toilet to the computer room, in charge of the entire house's security, one you had previously mapped out in the planning stages.

"what the fuck?!" you exclaimed, entering the room where johnny was sat on a desk, laptop open with a download completing sign on the front. you locked the door behind you, securing it with a desk you pulled across the front. "what the actual fuck?!"

johnny payed no attention to you, keeping his eyes on the laptop as the percentage went up and up.

"fucking answer me you dick, what's your game?" rage coated your voice, your hands gripping his dress shirt and pulling him out of the chair, forcing him up looking at you.

"whatever do you mean, sweetheart?" he cooed, and the fake loving tone drove you crazy, crazy enough that you brought your hand up to slap him across the cheek.

the action through him back, surprise across his face quickly turning to anger. "you have issues, fuck."

"i have issues?!" you were seething, anger clouding your vision and your hand gripped his shirt tighter, pulling his head down so you were opposite him again. "you've been touching me all night, fucking groping my thigh, grazing my waist, are you mental?"

"do you not understand the concept of fake dating, sweetheart?" his voice was low and dangerous and, however much you wouldn't admit it to yourself, sexy as fuck. "we have to pretend to date-"

"dating does not include groping me."

"i didn't fucking grope you, calm down cherry," johnny sighed, and you pushed him away ever so slightly.

your hand ran down his body, tracing a line down the centre of his abs, watching his muscles contract as they tensed under your touch. "so this doesn't bother you?"

"not in the slightest," he tried to keep it calm, but the way his breathing shortened told you the opposite.

but you kept going, you were fucking fuming. "so if i touch you here," you hand trailed further down, running over the waistband of his trousers, your long nail circling around the hem, "that doesn't bother you."

"fucking stop," he ordered through gritted teeth, but of course you didn't instead keeping your descent until you were over were he did not want you to be, pushing just enough to push johnny over the edge.

and he snapped.

his hands came to grab your wrists, his physical strength easily overpowering yours as he pushed you up against the wall behind you, vaging you against the wall, the paint cold against your open backed dress. your hands were pinned above your head, and legs forced still by johnny's thigh in between your own, body pressed up against yours.

"i thought i told you," he spat, mouth so close he genuinely filled all your senses, "to fucking stop."

you hadn't lost your fight yet, though. "i thought you knew, that what you say means nothing to me."

"do you know what you are?"

"please, do enlighten me," you fought against his grip, but you couldn't escape. johnny was told and strong, and however much fight you had, you could not beat that.

"you're a slut."

those words were unexpected, causing you to gasp as they went straight to your gut, weird butterflies emerging in your chest.

"you're such a fucking slut. act all you want but i saw how your body acted when my hands were on you, when i looked at you like that. like a bitch in fucking heat."

you were genuinely gobsmacked. no words could come out of your mouth to defend yourself.

"but do you know what, sweetheart?" his teasing was endless, however, not letting up despite your lack of retaliation. "i think you like this, i think you like me calling you what you are. a desperate little whore-"

"i don't," you're voice was nowhere near as strong as you wished it would be, because deep down you knew he was right. the butterflies in your stomach were definetly telling you that you were enjoying this, and the way your core was aching.

"tell that to your thighs squeezing around mine," his lips were centimetres away, "because i've realised what you need. you need someone to put you in your place, to remind you of what you are. a needy, desperate, slutty little bitch, don't you sweetheart?"

all you could do was whine at his words, your hips rutting against his knee without even thinking. his words were doing wonders, you could feel how soaked you were without him even really touching you.

"grinding against my fucking thigh, you really are a bitch in heat," he practically scoffed, a hand travelled down from your wrists to wrap around your neck, squeezing enough to cut off your airflow slightly, the feeling making your head spin and vision dizzy.

"i know you've fucked hyuck," he stated the words so nonchalantly, like they weren't personal details you had never told him, "and i know you've fucked jeno. i'm pretty sure you've fucked jaemin as well, but they obviously didn't fuck you good enough for you to still have this attitude, huh, sweetheart?"

you couldn't fathom the words to respond, overwhelmed by the pleasure between your legs. your breathing got shallower and shallower and your air was cut more and more, rings indefinetly causing dents against your soft skin. johnny tensed his thigh, and you couldn't hold back the whine that escaped your mouth, the feeling just too good as your clit rubbed against the fabric of his trousers.

he could only scoff, his hand dropping your wrists and instead sliding down to your hip, kneading the skin as he manouvered your body, sitting down and pulling you down onto his lap, or more specifically his thigh. he finally let go of your throat, grabbing the other side of your hip, and you let out deep breaths, trying to gain back some sense of clarity.

"if you want to be a pathetic little thing," his tone was almost teasing, his large hands beginning to rock you back and forth, "then go ahead. get yourself off on my thigh."

and you followed his instructions, swinging your hips and getting into a steady rhythm. johnny's eyes dropped to where your body met his own, one hand sliding under the soft satin of your dress and feeling the lace panties you had on underneath.

"god, you're dripping, you're actually dripping against your thigh," he practically laughed, your wetness sticky on his fingers as he pushed the lace to the side, and the pleasure was just too much to contain, a moan leaving your lips. "shut the fuck up, cherry. don't want anyone to see how much of a whore for my thigh you're being right now."

you dived into his shoulder, biting down on his jacket to stop the sounds he was practically forcing from your throat. his hands sped up your pace, forced you to keep going as you felt the knot tighten in your gut.

you panted out, the sound of your wetness filling the room as he leant up, looking into his eyes with a sense of desperation. "gonna cum, john, need to cum."

"oh, you need to cum, do you?" he sneered, leaning back against the desk chair, feeling a sense of gravity as he watched the girl he hates fall apart on his thigh. "you need to cum."

"need it- need it so bad," you whined, biting down on your lip hard enough to draw blood.

johnny tilted his head, a mischevious glint in his eye. "stop moving."

"what?" you panted, confused by his words but not stopping your movements. "no, no, i'm so close."

"i don't care, stop fucking moving," he spat through gritted teeth and his lifted you off his thigh, your hips moving in mid-air as you groaned, feeling the pleasure leave your body as your high left your body.

your eyes locked onto his, tongue poking your cheek. "what the fuck!"

"needy sluts like you don't get to cum," he said as if it was the most obvious thing ever, sliding back from the chair and spreading his legs, placing you down on the floor. you didn't even have the strength to hold yourself up anymore, collapsing against his leg, the cold concrete floor a shock to the system.

however much you hated to admit it, johnny looked majestic. with his legs spread, eyes glaring down at you, hair messy as his tongue ran over his bottom lip. you couldn't tell what he was thinking, and that worried you. you were on your knees in front of the man you hated, and for whatever reason you were actually excited about what was going to happen next.

johnny didn't say anything, but his actions spoke a thousand words, his hands going to his belt and undoing it with ease. you felt your mouth water as he slid his trousers down, revealing his hardening cock from his underwear. you leant forward, hands ready to grab it, but one of his own hands nestled itself in your hair, pulling it into a makeshift ponytail as he pulled you back.

"here's what's going to happen, sweetheart," he shuffled forward on the seat, tempting you to just have a look. you could tell from the bulge that he was big, and all you wanted at this point was your mouth around him.

god, how were you having these feelings about johnny suh.

"you're gonna let me fuck your face like the slut that you are," your thighs rubbed together as he returned to the degrading words, "and then i'll decide whether you deserve to cum."

his other hand pulled his now hard cock out of his pants, and your eyes widened at the sight. he was big, he was so fucking big, and there was no way that he could fuck your throat without cutting off your air supply.

"john, i can't-"

"you can, just open that slutty little mouth for me," his tip poked against your lips, and you complied, hesistantly parting your lips as he slid between them, the stretch agony at first. "there you go, relax your throat. don't want to hurt you that much, cherry."

those words were different, they were softer in a way. they were johnny being sincere, not 'putting you in your place' or 'teaching you a lesson'. and they relaxed you, enough that he slid even more into your mouth, tears building in your eyes, threatening to spill over.

"god, you have no idea how good that feels," he groaned, seemingly not to you, but just to the world. "tap my thigh if i'm good to move."

you followed his order, typing his thigh twice before he started to move back and forth. you tried your absolute hardest not to gag around him but it was so hard when he was practically stopping you from breathing, hitting the back of your throat over and over again until you physically had to gag around him.

johnny hummed, a pity hum, seemingly back to his old self. "what's wrong? thought you would be used to dick in your throat."

you took a deep breath as he pulled out, gasping for air as drool dripped down your chin, his dick hanging in front of you.

"don't tell me hyuck never fucked that pretty little face of yours?" he voice was playful, hand sliding from your throat to cup your jaw, thumb roughly dragging over your bottom lip. "look at how messy you are, sloppy little slut."

you took a deep breath, looking up at the tall man towering over you. "they weren't as big as you."

"aww," his tone was so patronising that if you weren't so dick whipped you would have slapped that expression off his face, "am i too big for you?"

you didn't resond, feeling like you were stuck in a trap, but that wasn't good enough for johnny. "i said, am i too big for you? because if you can't suck me off, you haven't done enough to cum tonight."

those words went straight to your desperate core, and you leant straight back to his dick, letting him back in as he pounded even harder and faster than before. you braced it, trying your hardest not to gag around him again. johnny's groans filled the room, and you just prayed you were doing well enough to get to cum later.

sa johnny's thrusts began to get more sporadic, he pulled out, hand leaving your head to jerk himself off. "open your mouth, tongue out."

you did as he said, sticking your tongue as you patiently awaited his cum, eyes glaring up at him as he kept his wrist moving at a quick speed.

"god, you're such a fucking slut, aren't you?" his words were said between low grunts and groans, obviously needed to get him over the edge. "tongue stuck out, drooling over my cock, thighs squeezing together at the idea of getting my cum in your mouth. fuck- cherry- fuck-"

and with that he came, most of it landing straight on your tongue, the salty taste filling your mouth. a small bit coated your lips instead, but johnny was quick to scrape that onto your tongue as well, before leaning down and spitting in your mouth. his saliva mixed with his cum as he barked out a 'swallow', and you did as he said. the action was so dirty, so vulgar, he was treating you like a messy, slutty object, and for whatever reason you were loving it.

"you did good, sweetheart," he cooed, thumb rubbing over your cheekbone, "i guess now it's your turn."

his hands settled under your shoulders, pulling you up from the group and back onto his lap, this time legs over his hips as you collapsed against his chest. you were fucking exhausted, head pounding from the pleasure coarsing through your veins. you could only imagine how you looked right now - mascara undoubtably smudged from the tears dropping from your eyes, lipstick removed from your lips and displaced onto your cheeks and chin, hair no longer its perfect ringlets and instead messy curls.

"god, you're still so fucking wet," he almost gasped, pad of his middle finger drawing a line through your folds. you could almost hear his actions, the squelching of your wetness deafening as your cheeks reddened with embarassment, your face hiding in his shoulder. "i bet you're so fucking sensitive- ah, yes you are."

your hips bucked as his finger pushed against your clit, so worked up from the lack of your last orgasm that you barely needed anything to become putty in his hands. he chuckled as he kept up his pace, other hand settled on your hip, rubbing up and down as you whined into his shoulder.

"still so needy, i wonder what would happen if i just...?" and with those words, a finger entered your pussy, curling up against that spot inside of you that caused your entire body to tense. "god, you're so fucking tight, would have thought this slutty cunt would be more used to cock than this, don't know how i'm ever going to fit."

you couldn't even understand the words coming out of his mouth. your orgasm was approaching so much faster due to how sensitive you were. and when he added another finger, the stretch just adding to the euphoria you were feeling, he could tell you were close. you just begged he would actually let you come this time.

but of course, he didn't. pulling them both out of you when you started to clench around him, and the denying pleasure for the second time made you absolutely crazy. your body was drained, completely drained of energy, and you didn't know how much more you could take.

"please," you sounded pathetic, most likely looked pathetic, and all you wanted was to cum. you sounded like the desperate whore he made you out to be, but at this point you couldn't even dispute it. "i can't take it, please."

johnny hums, as if considering your proposition, but really he knew your time was up. "need me to fuck you, sweetheat?"

"need you, john," you panted, using the last of your strength to push yourself up off his chest, to finally look him in the eyes, "please, wanna feel you in me."

that was all he needed, grabbing your hips and aligning you with his cock, and you were suddenly very aware of the position you were both in. there was absolutely no way you could ride him, you were far too out of it for that, but the way you were sat on top of him meant you couldn't think of another option.

but of course johnny was prepared, grabbing onto your hips and completely controlling your movements, sinking you down onto his cock for him and oh my god was he big. your mouth unknowingly feel into an 'o' shape with the stretch, feeling so so good as he bottomed out completely.

"pussy feels so good wrapped around me," johnny groaned, moving your hips up and down for you, so you were riding him without having to do any work. "dripping all over my cock, aren't you, my pretty little whore."

you couldn't even process the fact that he had called you both 'his' and 'pretty', instead trying not to scream and alert the entire house of the fact that you were locked in a room that you were definetly not meant to be in. your orgasm was incredibly fast approaching, the knot getting so unbelievably tight as you clenched around johnny.

"gonna cum, gonna cum," you repeated it like a mantra, until you heard a voice just outside the room. your hand flung to your mouth instantly, biting down on the flesh to stop any sound you were making.

johnny kept going though, despite the glares you were shooting him, to the point where you had to slap his chest in an attempt to stop him.

"fucking stop," your voice was a whisper, as quiet as you could muster while you could still hear voices outside. "i'm serious."

"you want to cum, don't you?" he said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, and there weren't people outside who would definitely kill you if they found anything out. "so just keep quiet, and then you'll get what you want."

so you tried your hardest not to make a single sound, but johnny's pace was relentless, pounding into you at an angle that hit such a good spot inside of you, and you had to bite down into your hand to stop yourself moaning as you released all over his dick, the feeling so much better after your denied orgasms earlier.

but johnny kept going, still chasing his second orgasm, and you just let him use you as he thrusted up, soft grunts after every buck. "gonna let me cum inside of you, like the whore you are?"

"yes, please," you didn't even know what you were saying anymore, now chasing your own second orgasm while the voices outside grew louder and louder. "want your cum, johnny."

"of course you do, fucking slut," he spat, through gritted teeth, "i can feel you clenching around me, you close again? am i fucking this messy pussy so good that you're gonna cum again?"

you nodded against his skin, and you both came at the same time, and the feeling of him filling you up was the cherry on top of this entire experience. you couldn't move, you felt numb with pleasure as johnny lifted you off his softened dick, placing you on the chair as he ran over to the laptop, and a smile creeped onto his face.

"download complete," he smiled, voice low as possible, "let's get out of here, cherry."

you span around in the chair, looking at him like he was stupid, becuase that's how he was acting. "there's people outside, dumbass."

"then we'll have to climb out the window," he spoke in the same stupidly obvious tone, and you actually accepted his suggestion. you could see jungwoo's car from here, and a quick dash would mean no one would see your escape. "come on, let's go."

you tried to stand up, but your legs gave up straight away, causing you to collapse straight back into the chair. johnny chuckled slightly. "i fuck you that good, huh?"

"you mention anything that happened tonight ever again i will kill you, i promise you," you swore, voice low and serious.

johnny tilted his head. "so you didn't just beg for me to come inside of-"

"just carry me out of here," you snapped, and he oblidged, arms behind your shoulders and knees and he walked through the floor to ceiling windows, and wandered through to where jungwoo was parked.

"never mention it again," you repeated, "tonight never happened."

"tonight never happened," he agreed, but turned to look at you again, "but you better drop that attitude, cherry."

"or what?"

"or i'll have to fuck it out of you again."

[strawberryspence]

Steve is 19 when Eddie first says it. It's the night Eddie comes home from the hospital, body all bandaged up to help him heal. Steve picks him up, drops him off the brand new trailer and has to say his goodbyes. He's the one who's been staying with Max at the hospital since Lucas started going to school again. Eddie watches, seated on the door, shoulders leaning against the frame.

Eddie waves at him, hand still wrapped protectively on his middle. There's a tired smile on his face, "See you tomorrow, Steve." It's the first time Eddie ever calls him by his first name.

Steve is 20 and Eddie Munson has been saying, "See you tomorrow!" as his goodbye to him since that night. Robin thinks it's for him and for him only. Steve watches Eddie, something he does a lot these days. He watches as he says his goodbye to the kids, says goodbye to Nancy, Robin, Jonathan, Argyle. Eddie never once says the words, "See you tomorrow!"

Steve waits for everyone to be gone, hitching rides from the other older kids. Eddie turns to him when everyone has finally left, "Are you staying, Stevie?"

"No. I am leaving too."

Eddie smiles at him, cheeky and dimpled, brown eyes shimmering like a fucking gem against the cheap yellow fluorescent light, "Well then, see you tomorrow, sweetheart."

It clicks. It's not a goodbye, It's a promise. Eddie will see Steve tomorrow, come hell or high water. A promise made for him, and him only.

Steve pulls Eddie by the lapels of his ridiculously shiny jacket and kisses him straight in the mouth.

Steve is 23 when Eddie and him move in to their first apartment together. It's dingy, kind of old, but hey, it's freaking cheap. They unpack boxes of things that was given by Joyce, Karen, Hop, Mrs. Henderson and Mrs. Sinclair. It's not much but it makes their bare home more livable.

They sleep on the floor with Steve's old mattress laid in the middle of the room, unopened boxes and furniture scattered surrounding them.

It's the first night they sleep together in their first home.

"See you tomorrow, sunshine." Eddie kisses his forehead, his nose and then his lips.

Eddie never says goodnight, just see you tomorrow.

Steve is 25 and it's the first time Eddie won't see him tomorrow. Eddie has to go to New York because Corroded Coffin just got discovered by an agent who wants to sign them.

It's okay. Eddie still calls every night, thank God the time differences of Chicago and New York isn't that big. Steve makes sure Robin isn't using the phone, so Eddie could call and tell him about his day with producers and songwriters and music and Steve can tell him about school essays and presentations for his Education class.

And always, always, just like every night since he was 19, Eddie ends the call with, "See you tomorrow." With whatever name he feels like that day. Sometimes it's sunshine, sometimes it's Stevie, sometimes it's love or baby or sweetheart. It doesn't really matter because it's all Steve.

Sometimes it's not true. Steve doesn't see Eddie the next day. Sometimes it goes on weeks and months on ends before the greeting finally means they get to see each other again.

That's okay. Steve's okay with it because if not tomorrow, he knows he'll still see Eddie again.

Steve is 34 when he hears Eddie say the greeting to someone else for the first time. Adoption is exhausting and repetitive and long and grueling but in the end— with a tiny little baby, cradled right against your arm— it's perfect.

Kids are always a mess. Steve knows because he has seven of them already, all grown up, all spread out in the country, all doing things on their own. And it's exhausting and takes out so much energy from you and your partner.

But with Eddie, all the weariness in his bones dissipate at the image of him, rocking their child on a rocking chair, humming a soft song as he finally tells them, "See you tomorrow, peanut."

Steve is 47 when Eddie and him finally get married. Joyce and Robin plan the wedding and as ridiculous as it sounds, they separate the two of them the night before. Steve rolls his eyes, kisses his groom on the cheek and waits for Eddie to say the four magic words.

"See you tomorrow, fiancé." Eddie whispers against his lips.

They get married the next day, under the bright beaming sun, spring flowers surrounding them as their daughter reluctantly spreads flowers for them.

Steve thinks he's heard so many variations of the greeting, but, "See you tomorrow, husband." might be his favorite from all of them.

Steve is 54 and it's the first time Eddie doesn't say it to him before going to bed. They both silently slip into the bed together, hands intertwined together like the other will float away if they let go.

Apparently being tortured and experimented with half of your childhood has some bad outcomes. It's the day they find out that El has a brain tumor.

Steve is 56 and the Party sleeps beside him and Eddie, tucked into each other like they're 15 again. The last time the Party had a sleepover was in 2000. They still all have sleepovers, don't get him wrong. What Steve means is the sleepover where they're all squished together on the floor, clinging onto each other as they sleep soundly, knowing they're safe and sound with their friends.

They have a sleep over just like that one last time.

"See you tomorrow. I love you." Eddie whispers, just as he falls asleep.

The expired eggos in their fridge gets thrown out six months later.

Steve is 65 when he gets to meet their first grandchild. Eddie is adamant that he is not crying, but his glasses make his tears more visible, making them look like actual diamonds coming out of his eyes.

Their daughter laughs, and lets them hold him for the first time. Steve is a blabbering mess of tears, holding the baby close to his chest. They stay the whole night, to help take care of the baby and their daughter.

And there's nothing more beautiful than the moment the nurse has to take their grandchild away from their daughter and she whispers, as gentle as a feather, "See you tomorrow, Ellie."

Steve is 73 when Eddie first forgets to say goodnight. It's Alzheimer's, it's—

It's not okay. It's never going to be okay. But Steve has to be okay, has to carry on for the love of his life. He takes care of Eddie, because he vowed to do so the day they got married, because he loves this man and he will do anything for him.

Steve tucks Eddie at night, after fits of confusion as to where he is, as to who he is, and kisses his forehead, soft and gentle, and says, "See you tomorrow, Eds."

Steve is 82 when he hears it for the last time.

Eddie's health has been declining. Nine years after his first prognosis, Steve takes it as a win, nine years and his love still battles it everyday.

They've been living in a nursing home, Steve is also getting too old to take care of Eddie. His bones are weary in ways that never goes away, his sight and hearing has always been bad but time has made it worst.

There's something called terminal lucidity. The doctors explain to Steve, in the most gentle way he's ever heard, "You're husband will probably, theoretically, have a moment of clarity where he remembers everything and it will seem like you have him back, but for us it is the sign of his health declining further. I am sorry, Mr. Munson."

Eddie gets it a few days later, and they talk nonstop. They talk about the kids, their grandchildren, about their friends, about how they've lived their lives. They open up photo albums, and point and laugh and smile and cry. Steve excuses himself to go to the bathroom, but only so he can call the others, so they could say their goodbyes. The kids fly in, from all around the country, to say goodbye.

Eddie goes a few hours later, warm and comfortable in his bed, cuddled next to Steve with a big dopey smile on his face, "See you tomorrow, Steve."

Steve smiles back, as Eddie closes his eyes. He stops fighting the ache in his bones, the never-ending beat in his scars.

"See you tomorrow, Eddie."

Steve doesn't see Eddie the next day, not the next, not the next, not the nex—

Until, he finally sees Eddie again.

[octuscle]

New Job

It had been a long day. It was already almost dark when Markus made his way from the insurance company he served as a management consultant to the hotel on this warm July evening. The Frankfurt train station district, which he had to cross to get there, began to glow in predominantly red neon light. Drug addicts, prostitutes, night owls and pimps mingled in the streets. At the corner in front of the entrance to a brothel, the doorman approached Markus. "Hello stud, you look like you could use a distraction. We have the wettest and horniest pussies in town!" Markus declined with a smile. Not at all, because it was a hard day and he just wanted to go to bed. He had the best argument of all to be left alone here. With that, he could keep pimps and hookers alike off his back. "Sorry, not interested. I'm gay." The bouncer looked Markus deep in the eyes and grabbed his crotch. "That's even better. I'm about to have a break. Feel like some sex with a real man, tie boy?" Markus looked at the fellow. Damn, this guy was sexy as hell. Short-shaven hair, the tight-fitting undershirt accentuated his well-toned figure and showed off the tattoos excellently. And grabbing the crotch of the perfectly fitting 501 made the bulge even bigger. The same thing happened with the bulge in Mark's navy blue virgin wool suit. "How much is this going to cost me?" he asked. The bouncer shook Markus' hand. "Ivan, pleasantly. Now you are my friend. I don't take money from friends." At that moment a guy who could be Ivan's brother came out the door, gave Ivan a fistbump and lit a cigarette. He eyed Markus and said if the stud would like to ride some of the horniest mares in town. Ivan laughed and said that the tie boy was his friend. He grabbed Markus by the tie and pulled him into the entrance of the brothel.

The way past the hookers, who showed breasts and pussies in the aisles, was the purest gauntlet for Markus. Ivan pulled him behind him up a narrow stairwell and then into a small room on the second floor. Two beds, a clothes rail, a TV on the wall. Nothing more. But Markus had no eyes for that anymore. The idea that he, as an excellently educated, highly paid management consultant, would have sex with a chav in this shabby brothel made him infinitely horny. And Ivan didn't seem to need to get going either. The two of them tore off their clothes, their tongues deep in the other man's throat. With Ivan this was easier than with Markus, but Ivan was strong and so jacket, shirt and undershirt soon lay in shreds on the floor. Ivan drove his tongue down Markus' neck, sucked Markus' nipples while he loosened the belt and opened the suit pants, freed Markus' boner from his boxer briefs and sucked greedily on the boner. Markus began to moan in ecstasy and thrust his cock into Ivan's face again and again. And Ivan was a professional. When Markus already thought he was going to cum at any moment, Ivan pulled his head back (not without running the tip of his tongue down the entire length of Markus' cock), turned Markus' body, threw him on the bed and fucked him as hard as Markus had never been fucked before. Damn, who was he kidding. Markus was fucked so hard every day. Unless he was fucking other fellows. His 120 euro haircut became a cheap buzz cut. His body became slimmer, wirier and more muscular. Tattoos adorned his chest, arms and six-pack. And with every thrust of Ivan's cock into his ass, he forgot more about his white-collar life. And more memories of a life in the red light district formed in his mind.

Fuuuuuuuck! Ivan shot his load in Markus' ass. Markus didn't need much more to cum himself. Ivan pulled his cock out of Markus' ass, turned Markus on his back and at that moment Markus shot his load into his own face and on his own chest. Ivan fell exhausted onto the bed and the two sweaty and cum-smeared bodies lay tightly entwined on the crusty sheets.

It was a warm summer night and the streets of Frankfurt's red light district were crowded. Full of sensationalist tourists, but also full of johns. Ivan and Marek were standing in front of the brothel smoking a cigarette. Ivan was addressing potential customers for the hookers. Marek had a different strategy. He made eye contact with other men. When they held eye contact, Marek wordlessly grabbed his crotch. Big words were not his thing. But his language was clear. If the man followed his example and also grabbed his crotch, Marek would just say "I'll fuck you for 100." He did not negotiate on the street. When his victim nodded, Marek just turned around and walked past his colleagues into Ivan's and his room. The rest usually followed on its own.

Pic of the recruitement found @platon65