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wife-of-all-dilfs · 8 months ago

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the five stages | f. odair

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summary: a journey back to a golden period of time of polaroid pictures, white knitted sweaters, and lively sea-green eyes. why? because in the present, those same pair of eyes are ruthlessly unrelenting and you have no other chance of their escape.

pairing: finnick odair x fem!reader

warnings: heavy angst, vomiting, implied smut, depression, maggots, hallucinations, relieving fluff, mild horror. I don’t want to spoil the story too much, so I won’t be adding any more warnings, sorry y’all. this could be very triggering so please read at your own discretion. some descriptions are quite graphic!

notes: I’m super proud of this one—it’s sorta based off “little talks” by of monsters and men and “on the nature of daylight” by max richer. this fic probably won’t get many views, so I’ll be incredibly grateful for any—if any at all—type of engagement! <33

word count: 8k

The bedroom was cold; dark; empty. Empty even though I still resided in it.

My alarm had gone off two hours ago, yet I hadn’t moved an inch. When I finally turned my head to the side, I found that the space beside me was vacant. Cold; dark; empty—I reached out my hand anyway.

Thirty minutes passed before I wrestled myself out of bed and started making breakfast downstairs. The otherwise warm and flavourful plate of fruit-filled yoghurt and scrambled eggs on toast left my mouth feeling dry and my throat lodged.

It used to be one of my favourite meals. At least, when he was around.

Dishes were piled in the sink, dirty and untouched. I sat on the couch, pondering whether today was the day I would finally get to cleaning them. It wasn’t. I couldn’t. We always did that together. I wondered—if I left them in the sink long enough, would he return? Even just for five minutes to help me put them away? One month and seventeen days had passed, and yet I still entertained this thought religiously.

I wasted an hour running circles round the same contemplations before deciding fresh air, as cliché as it was, might do me some good.

Grey clouds concealed the sun’s warm golden light when I stepped outside, but that was fine—I didn’t like anything golden anymore. But he would want me to leave the house at least once a day, so that’s what I would do. I would go down to the beach beside our—my house and feel the sand collect between my toes as I walked to the water’s edge.

But wasn’t that where he was when it happened? Wasn’t he in water? Didn’t those things pile on top of him? Didn’t they sink their fangs into his neck and tear at his flesh until he was blown to…

Bits of egg, yoghurt and stomach bile sat at my feet. My legs buckled, and I collapsed to the ground in a sandy, tear-stricken heap. Since my lower body had refused to cooperate any longer, it took me until midday to crawl back up the dune and to my front doorstep.

Fuck. I needed to rest.

“I need you to rest, sweetheart.”

“I told you, I’m fine,” I whined. “I’m not sick.”

Finnick placed a bucket on the ground beside the bed. The room smelled of lemon disinfectant—a joy I often found in being sick… That is, if I were sick, which I was not. I must have drunk spoiled milk or eaten something bad during breakfast. Nevertheless, Finnick was not having it.

“You’re throwing up everything you manage to get down, and you’re shivering like it’s the middle of winter,” he said adamantly, tucking the comforter up to my chest. “It’s summer, and you’re very much not fine.”

I sat up, ready to heatedly debate the subject, but the room began swirling, and my ears were hissing like a staticky television channel without a signal. A quiet whimper buzzed in my throat as I hunched forward. Damn him, I was sick.

The mattress dipped as Finnick sat beside me. His hand was on my back, rubbing it soothingly as he used his other hand to tuck away the curtain of hair concealing my face. I huffed, half in annoyance, half in an attempt to suppress the nausea rising in my throat, and then sunk back against the pillows.

“Not sick, she says,” he jested, smiling down at me. I rolled my eyes, though unable to hide the weak, betraying smile creeping across my lips. “Close your eyes, sweetheart,” he said, a gentle command. “I’ll see you when you fall asleep.”

The wooden flooring welcomed me with hard, cold arms as I hauled my sandy body through the front door. Images of fangs, bloody flesh, and panicked sea-green eyes flooded my mind.

More breakfast, more bile. No lemon disinfectant.

My knees were folded beneath my body; my body was hunched over my knees. I was sobbing now, so hard that I threw up again (was there even anything left in my stomach at this point?), creating a thick puddle of vomit and tears beneath me. Cries and gasps for air bounced around the house. To call me a mess would be an understatement. I was a disaster. A disaster wrapped up in an unmendable tragedy with a ragged, threadbare ribbon barely holding me together.

And in case I wasn’t aware of this fact, the floorboards were so shiny that they mirrored a reflection of myself. My hair was a being of its own, all wild and unkempt, and my face was another story entirely—a red, blotchy thing I wasn’t too interested in delving into.

But the most unsettling aspect had nothing to do with me, it was that there was someone else in the reflection. Two green balls of light were glowing above my head.

Dishevelled golden hair…

Dimpled cheeks…

My forehead was pressed to the floor as I screamed.

“I don’t want to make you sick as well,” I said, contrarily enjoying the feeling of Finnick’s skin warm against mine, hot blood flowing through his veins.

A day had passed since I first became unwell, and the sickness had continued to wreak havoc inside me.

We were both under the thick covers, our limbs tangled together as he held me atop his chest. (my body didn’t register the scorching summer temperatures. I actually felt as though my core temperature was a few degrees below freezing. Meanwhile, Finnick was characteristically toasty warm. It was perfect for me, but not so much for him, evident in the beads of sweat collecting on his forehead. Nevertheless, he made no complaints).

My body rose and fell with each breath he took. I was trying to inhale whenever he exhaled in a weak attempt to prevent the festering sickness in my body from entering his, and though it was a futile gesture, I did it anyway.

“In sickness and health, remember?” he said.

I smiled. “We’re not even married.”

“Yet, you mean,” he countered. “I plan on spending the rest of my life with you, sweetheart. You know that.”

My heart fluttered at the thought of spending an entire lifetime with him—waking up in each other’s embrace each morning, the warm sunlight peeking through the blinds of our bedroom; Finnick calling me “Mrs. Odair” or “My wife” at every opportunity because doing so made us both giggle like two moronic, love-struck teenagers; and being unable to prevent the deep smile lines on both our cheeks as we age, a constant display of our perpetual happiness.

“Sixty more years of having and holding you,” he continued with a gentle musing in his tone. “For better or for worse... For richer or for poorer.” He then stroked the side of my face and brushed away the sweaty strands of hair sticking to my forehead. “In sickness and in health…”

“…Until death do us part,” I finished, my voice slow with fatigue.

Two fingers sat beneath my chin and tilted my head upward. My eyes connected with Finnick’s. They were soft. Heartfelt.

“Not even then. I’ll love you beyond the grave,” he murmured. Then his lips were slowly curving into a pensive smile. “When we’re both ghosts and haunting the next owners of this house.”

I was now smiling, too. “I’d hoped you would say something like that.”

How could he lie like that? There was no we. There were no next owners. There was only me, alive and alone in a comatose house. And mind you, I was sane enough to know that it wasn’t actually his ghost haunting me, though I wish I weren’t because having that knowledge was even worse. It meant he was truly erased from existence.

“Go away,” I whispered to the reflection on the floor.

He didn’t. His vacant green eyes kept staring down at my crumpled figure.

I shot off the floor and spun around, hot tears streaming down my face. “Go away!” His face remained expressionless. He looked like himself, only colder. “You said sixty more years! You said we’d be together!” I mindlessly picked up and flung a small picture frame at him, only for it to pass through his body and shatter on the floor behind him. “Why did you lie to me?!” My voice was frayed with fury, though underlined with grief.

He said nothing, did nothing. All he did was watch.

My legs buckled, and I was on the floor again. I was whispering, half-sobbing, the same question over and over until the words slurred together. “Why’d you lie? Why’d y’lie?” The only time I stopped was when my tongue grew too heavy to move anymore.

To my surprise, he eventually came and sat beside me, remaining cold and silent—as I too had become.

Glass fragments from the picture frame were scattered across the floorboards. The photo within had fallen out and, ironically, drifted towards me. I didn’t bother acknowledging him as I moved onto my hands and knees and began crawling forward—my palms slicing open and blood seeping out—until the photo was in my hands. My shins had granules of glass pricking into them, but I couldn’t feel the pain; all I could do was stare at the memory in my hands.

The picture had been taken in District Thirteen, a day before he signed up for… the mission.

I was drifting in and out of sleep when a sudden bright flash lit up my eyelids.

“Oops.”

Heavy eyes fluttering open, I was met with a small camera pointing down at me, which was being held up by a lengthy muscular arm, which was connected to an even more muscular and broad shoulder, which was connected to—okay, sorry, I think you get it.

“Finnick!” I shrieked, pulling the covers over my naked figure.

He laughed, the vibrations rumbling deep within his chest, beneath my ear. A soft whirring sound accompanied the polaroid sliding out of the camera, its black film hiding the doubtless embarrassing picture beneath. He placed the film on the sheets beside him, letting the photo develop in darkness.

“I was supposed to cover the flash,” he said, still chuckling.

I rubbed my eyes, which were twinkling with little sparkles of light. “I think you blinded me.”

“Lucky you,” he jested. “You’re finally free from my repulsive exterior.”

I started to reach for the picture beside him—“You’re an idiot”—but then he was rolling us over until his arms were pillared on either side of my head and he was hovering above me.

His hair was a mess, a testament to the night before (and very early hours of the morning), and he was sporting a beautiful, lazy grin. “Yeah? Well, you’re engaged to an idiot,” he said, tilting his head in an arrogant manner. “So what does that make you?”

The sea-glass ring hugging my finger gleamed in the lamp’s dull light as I reached out to touch his face, my fingertips brushing along the edges of his pronounced jawline. Tangled strands of hair and a beaming smile were reflecting back at me in his eyes. No one had ever loved anyone as much as I loved Finnick—disregarding the one exception that was staring down at me.

“Blinded by love,” I whispered.

Brief yet poignant emotion trickled through his features, his eyes. Then, like a flick of a switch, he covered it up and lowered his face into my neck, groaning the words, “So corny.”

My fingers were tangled in his hair, holding him close to me. “Liar,” I laughed. “You loved it.”

“I love you, which is why I put up with your corniness,” he murmured into my skin.

Even after all this time, my heart still leapt whenever he said those three words, even when he was being a jerk about it. I kissed the top of his head. “I love you, too.”

We laid like this for a short while longer—Finnick keeping his face buried in the warmth of my neck, his arms curled beneath my body; me playing with the golden waves of his hair that were somehow softer than my own. He was so heavy on top of me that it was starting to become difficult to breathe, but in no universe would I ever tell him to get off. It was a blissful sort of suffocation.

A sort anyone would snap a picture of just to keep as a reminder of how beautiful it feels to be smothered with love. With that being said, the picture that lay awaiting beside me was brought back to mind.

“Oh no,” I moaned, picking it up and taking a short glance at the developed photo. I covered my face with my hands, repeating the words, “Oh no.”

The photo was plucked from my fingers, and Finnick began humming contentedly to himself.

In the photo, my face had been nuzzled into his bare, muscular chest, eyes closed in sleep-drunken serenity, hair thrown over my shoulder and spilling across the pillow. My hand rested on his contoured stomach with just enough of my upper arm and low light to conceal my breasts. Finnick had a delicate hand draped over my waist. He was gazing down at me with a smile that was just… full of pure love.

I had to admit—it was a beautiful picture. Despite my initial disapproval.

“Beautiful,” I heard him echo my thoughts, his eyes still scanning the photo. Then his brows furrowed, and his head slightly inched forward as though he had just noticed something peculiar in the picture. “Oh, and you are too, I guess.”

My head tilted back against the pillow with an abrupt laugh. I shook my head, looking back at him. “I hate you.”

“Liar,” he said, leaning in closer.

His lips were on mine for what must have been the millionth time in the past few hours. The bedside clock announced that breakfast was soon approaching, though it was clear neither of us would make an appearance within the next hour (or two).

“You love me,” he whispered as he slid inside me.

And I did.

I really did.

The muscles in my cheeks were straining due to how hard I was smiling.

It wasn’t my idea to keep a picture of us half-naked in the entryway of our home. He always was a bit unusual like that. Completely unashamed of who he was and how he acted. Sometimes a little too boisterously, but that’s what I loved so much about him—how confident he was in his love for me, so much so that nothing else mattered, no one else’s opinion.

God, I love him so much.

Love…?

Wait.

That’s not right.

Shouldn’t it be “loved”?

And why was I smiling? I didn’t have anything to smile about anymore. He was gone. Our wedding never occurred. Our faces never wrinkled with smile lines. Our clasped hands never weathered with age. He was gone.

The polaroid slipped from between my fingers. My hands were covered in glass and blood, blood that had painted a dark red splotch in the middle of the shiny film. Figures.

After a short while of staring blankly at the scattered debris decorating the floor, I finally found it in myself to start climbing back onto my feet. My straightened legs wobbled and ached beneath me with the little energy I had. That’s what happens when you can barely stomach food anymore: no energy, always sleeping, always swamped by nightmares or bittersweet memories—at this point, they were one and the same.

Not a strand of gold or a fleck of green was in sight when I glanced over my shoulder. For now, at least. He liked making an appearance once or twice a day.

Pieces of glass crunched beneath my bare, stinging feet as I made for the stairwell. A mess for another day, I reasoned. Just like the dishes. Sticky red footprints stamped each wooden step I ascended, growing less prominent as I reached the second floor.

After taking a right down a short hallway, the encompassing walls littered with magnificent seashells and dried ocean flora, I turned the knob to the furthest room and entered. The floor was landscaped with mountains of clothes which drenched the room in a familiar, all-consuming smell. The scent kind of reminded me of receiving a warm hug, albeit from someone you know you should let go of in more ways than one.

His hair, golden and tousled, caught my eye as I passed the wall of string-hung polaroids in our… sorry, my bedroom. His smile was all dimpled and brilliant, and he had his tanned arms wrapped around my middle. Just moments after the picture was taken, he had tackled me into the water and rightfully earned a smack on the back of the head. In turn, he did it again.

But before that, we were both looking into the camera with the most joyful expressions—huge grins, bright eyes. Frozen in time.

I never let myself look too long at that picture anymore. And I never, ever looked into his eyes. Green used to be my favourite colour. I didn’t have a favourite colour anymore. It was safe to say I didn’t have a favourite anything anymore; everything favourable was a reminder of him.

I picked up a white knitted sweater off the ground and tugged it over my head, staining it with splotches of dark red. Knowing him, he would wear it regardless—whatever was mine, was also his, and was equally the same in reverse, even things as grotesque as blood.

Well, he would have worn it, I should have said.

The sweater had been specifically tailored for him. I remembered how the soft sleeves hugged his arms so well that every fluid curve of his biceps was visible, similar to a building wave before it crested. On me, the sleeves swallowed my arms whole, which I liked to think in their own unique way had also been unintentionally tailored for me, like someone out there knew one day I would need some way to drown in him when he was gone.

Finnick’s fingers tugged at the silk ribbons, unwrapping the opulent gift box that sat on our dining table. Capitol devotees would send extravagant parcels weekly, turning up in abundance on our doorstep. Sometimes Finnick didn’t even bother opening them; sometimes we opened them together just to get a good laugh out of whatever ridiculous item was inside.

He never, though, opened the perfume-scented letters marked with lipstick stains.

“Oh,” I said in surprise as he lifted the lid. Inside was a folded piece of fabric, knitted and cream-white and intricate, though still simple. It was soft to the touch; thick enough to retain warmth. I held it up with two hands, admiring the hand-sewed threads of cotton. Whoever’s handiwork this was, it was nothing to laugh at.

Holding it up to Finnick’s torso, I smiled and said, “Try it on.”

“What?” He shook his head and smiled quizzically. “No.”

“Yes. I think it will look good on you.” I pressed it further against him with conviction. “Try it on.”

He tilted his head and exhaled deeply through his nose, giving me a begrudging, squinty-eyed look. From that, I already knew I had won him over, and watched as he snatched the sweater from my grasp and tugged his shirt off with one hand. I averted my eyes, feeling the tips of my ears flush with heat—we’d been together for over a year now; you would think I’d have grown accustomed to seeing him shirtless.

His head slipped through the neckline and he pulled the sweater down his body. I was right. It looked really good on him. Perfect, actually. The measurements were so precise that the fabric sloped off his shoulders like a compact mountain of snow. The thick-knitted collar dipped into a deep, uneven neckline that partly revealed his chest and made his neck look like a strong, contoured pillar. He looked at me expectantly, as though to ask, “Well?”

“It makes your neck and shoulders look really nice,” I blurted out, instantly cringing inside.

His expression contorted into something of amusement and surprise as he took a slow step towards me. “My neck and shoulders, huh?” he said, grinning devilishly. Oh, now I’d done it. Leave it to me to rocket Finnick Odair’s already atmospheric ego. “Anything else?”

I began backing away, but his prowling strides were so long that the space between us only shortened. When my backside hit the edge of the dining table, I knew I was done for.

“You know,” I began, avoiding his unrelenting stare. “I think it was just a momentary lapse of judgement.” He was closing in now, placing his hands on either side of my body to trap me in place. “It—It actually looks terrible on you,” I said, feigning sincerity and adding a little nod to help further my case.

His eyelids drooped as he gazed down at me, lips curving into that seductive smirk he had mastered long ago. “No takebacks,” he purred, voice low and gravelly. Dear God, I could only pray I wasn’t going to melt into a puddle on the floor. He always did this—took every opportunity to flirt and render me a stuttering, bashful mess. It was his favourite game to play. “This is now my new favourite shirt. All thanks to you, sweetheart.”

But, given the right timing and ever-wavering amount of confidence, I liked to play too.

I inhaled deeply, hoping my voice wouldn’t betray me. “Maybe you should take it off then,” I said, cocking my head to the side. “So you don’t ruin it.”

His mischievous expression revealed his next words before he even spoke them. “Maybe I will,” he said, and then he was tugging his sweater over his head, and I was tearing off my own. As his hands slipped beneath my thighs and lifted me onto our dining table, I prayed the wooden legs wouldn’t collapse under the weight of our next actions.

My fingertips ran over the soft, rippling patterns on the knitted sleeves, my arms crossed in a self-soothing manner. After that day, the sweater had become a sort of good luck charm—or so we agreed upon as we lay panting on the tabletop. He started wearing it to a multitude of events and parties in the Capitol (basically any place in which he needed a pick-me-up, a reminder of what he had to come home to, who he had to come home to).

He even wore it the day we got engaged.

So many happy memories were associated with this one white sweater. So many times, those cloud-soft sleeves were wrapped around my body, suffocating me in the scent of him—if nothing else, at least that remained.

The last time he had worn it was the day of the Reaping for the Quarter Quell; the last time our lives were ever semi-normal. I had fought tooth and nail to reach him before he was escorted onto the train, despite being ordered, “No goodbyes,” by one of the Peacekeepers. In modest terms, I had significantly decreased his chances of reproduction.

When I reached Finnick, he had brought me into a kiss so harsh and fervent that my lips were bruised the next day. He then yanked off his sweater, leaving his upper body completely exposed to everyone around us in complete disregard for his trauma-induced fear of doing so, and shoved it into my hands.

I had just stood there frozen in bewilderment, watching as he called out, “I love you, sweetheart!” Two Peacekeepers were forcing him onto the train, but he too fought for the last word. “Don’t forget—I’m always with you!”

That statement had never been truer than it was now. For better or for worse.

My vision unblurred as I returned to reality. Dismal, grey light was peeking through the shutters that formed the balcony doors, the daylight hours seeming to tick away at a snail’s pace. I used to wish for the days to be longer, for time to move slower, so I could savour the moments I had of happiness and sunlight which used to be plentiful.

Why do wishes only come true when you grow to desire nothing but the opposite?

Slothfully, I crawled onto the unmade king-size bed, my limbs crumpling and balling to my chest as the side of my head hit the pillow. The imprint on the mattress beneath my body didn’t match my own. It was much larger and broader. How long would it take for the springs to forget his body weight and recoil back into place as though he never existed at all?

I inhaled the sweater’s scent with every breath I took (and I tried not to wonder how long it would take for his scent to disappear as well) and hugged my arms around my waist. No pain was worse than the fleeting moments I forgot the embrace was my own and not his.

Hours passed, and so did the evening. A beautiful orange sunset hadn’t slipped through the shutter’s cracks because the clouds never dissipated. Night-time brought no consolation either. Not even the stars or moon made an appearance. Everything that once gave me a shred of optimism was hidden behind a veil of gloom.

I knew tomorrow wouldn’t be any different—the weather, my mood, his absence. Because the end of autumn was closing in, and the days were becoming bleaker. Trees would start shedding their leaves; the leaves would start to die.

I hoped I would too.

I was still curled up on my side, my body aching with stiffness, when my face began scrunching into this ugly, twisted mess of despair. My tears were slow yet heavy, synonymous with the day I had incurred.

But then something strange happened.

Someone called my name.

No. That couldn’t be right. I was the only one who occupied a house in the Victor’s Village; the others had either relocated after the war or were… dead.

But there it was again—my name, distant and eerie, yet spoken with a tone people often used to beckon over and aid a frightened, injured animal. My vision blurred, both from tears and concentration on the voice.

“Hey.”

I couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment my surroundings transformed into a kitchen, just that they had and that I was no longer in my bed but standing upright.

Ahead of me, in the distance, the sun was beating down on the crystalline water, and white frothy waves were cresting on the smooth, golden sand. It was a perfect day; not a cloud was in sight. The only blemish that smeared the blue sky was the reflection staring back at me from the window I gazed out of.

In my hands was a soup bowl and a damp dishrag.

“Sweetheart?” That once distant voice, concerned and beckoning, was standing right beside me.

Blinking, I snapped out of my daze and turned away from the window.

He stood tall beside me, despite being half hunched over the kitchen sink and scrubbing the last of the few dirty dishes stacked neatly on the bench top. His head was turned towards me, his enamoured sea-green eyes peering into my own as though he was searching behind them for what troubled me.

“Hey,” he spoke softly, standing up straight. His touch was warm and gentle as he reached for my hand, leaving soapy bubbles on my palm and fingers. “Where’d you go?”

Three odd things seemed to occur at once: first, I flinched away from his touch, overwhelmed by its paradoxical unfamiliar familiarity; second, I felt an inexpressible relief from seeing him standing before me, seeing his cheeks painted with a soft pink hue as though blood-red roses were hidden just beneath his skin.

The third was an onset of disorientation. I couldn’t tell you why I felt disorientated standing in my own kitchen with the love of my life, just, simply, that I did. There was an answer—it was close by, right under my nose, yet unreachable. We did this every day, didn’t we? We would eat meals together and then wash up together. So, why did I feel so unsettled?

I shook my head, dispelling the confusion that muddled my brain. “Sorry,” I whispered. “I don’t know what happened.” I laughed uneasily, without a hint of mirth.

He laughed too, not to poke fun or because he found my obvious turmoil amusing, but rather to comfort me, so I would feel less alone in my unease. “It’s alright,” he said gently.

Neither of us addressed what had happened; we simply resumed our routine of washing and drying in domestic silence. And as seconds turned to minutes, and as the sky remained sunny, I found myself smiling. All that mattered was that he was standing beside me and that the sun was beaming in the sky. So, I kept smiling.

After I finished drying the last dish, we began placing the plates, bowls, and an abundance of cutlery in their assigned drawers and cupboards, weaving past each other and giggling anytime we got in one another’s path. I was carrying a stack of white plates, eyeing the high cupboard they needed to go in, but before I could even attempt straining onto my toes, the plates were out of my hands and taken into another much larger pair.

The smell of sea salt and expensive cologne wafted from behind me as he towered over my shorter frame and placed the plates in the cupboard.

“I could have done that,” I said, smiling as I turned around to face him.

He had a playful glint in his eye. “Yeah, right. What are you, like, four feet tall?” he joked.

It was an extreme exaggeration since I was no way near that height, but I suppose everyone was miniature in comparison to him, being over six feet tall and all. I feigned open-mouthed offence, to which he gave the side of my head a quick, playful kiss of apology.

He then leaned against the counter with crossed arms. “Plus, when was the last time you actually put these dishes away? I’m surprised you even remember where they go.” He was grinning at me in a teasing manner, but every ounce of humour had drained from my body.

My eyes drifted to the floor.

Well, that was the question, wasn’t it—when was the last time I put the dishes away?

I couldn’t remember. In fact, I couldn’t remember what had happened this morning or the day before. Hell, I couldn’t even remember what we were doing before the dishes.

To be standing in a room, in a place you call home, and have a sense that nothing is in its right place, even though that is where everything has always been, is a disconcerting feeling beyond belief. To be perplexed by your own state of being—your existence—is even worse. I could almost describe it as a nauseating bout of vertigo.

My hands found the counter’s edge behind me, and I exhaled a shaky breath.

He stepped in front of me, one large and gentle hand reaching up to cup my jaw. “Are you okay?” he asked, his forehead wrinkling with shallow worry lines as he inspected my face. I hated that. I hated that I worried him so much. Sure, partners were supposed to lean on each other for support in a relationship (as he too did with me when needed), but I always felt so guilty doing so. Hadn’t he already suffered enough… pain in his lifetime? Who was I to cause him any more?

A sunbeam suffused the room, oozing across his face. The illumination lightened his eyes into a refreshing mint green, though, in contradiction, unearthed a pain that had been previously been concealed. Pain from what, I wasn’t sure. From concern regarding my unusual behaviour? Maybe a thought that was troubling him? Or perhaps he too was enduring a spell of confusion and had an inexplicable feeling that he was out of place.

Whatever his pain regarded, seeing it had rattled the deepest structures in which held my mind together.

It was then that I suddenly realised I hadn’t answered his question, so I gave him a wan “I’m-not-too-sure-myself” smile and then began slinking back to the sink window.

He followed behind me. I could feel him staring into the back of my head, could feel his brows draw together and his lips pull into a tight line, patiently waiting for a further explanation, though I wasn’t sure I could offer him one.

I hadn’t noticed before, but on the windowsill was a small picture frame containing a polaroid picture of us in bed—I was lying on his chest, half-naked and asleep, and he was looking down at me, smiling fondly yet with a sort of mischievous knowability. Running down the middle of the protective glass was a small, jagged crack.

I plucked the frame from the windowsill, inspecting the picture in my two hands. It seemed to uncover a place in my mind—once clouded by disorientation—I’d forgotten. Whether this place was real or imaginary was beyond me, but the fear I felt upon its recollection was incandescently genuine.

“Do you think,” I spoke tentatively, “people can have nightmares while they’re wide awake?” My thumb ran over the crack.

I might have heard him inhale a quiet, sharp breath, but it also could have just been the waves breaking on the distant shore. “Like a flashback?” he asked, an unidentifiable unease in his tone.

“No, not exactly.” I searched my brain for the right words, the right way to tell him how I was feeling, but it was difficult when I could only conjure vague fragments. And it was all I could do to tell it to him elliptically, as I knew saying the words in any other manner would shatter my heart.

“I had this vision,” I began, my words apprehensively staccato, “where I was somewhere else.” My eyes flickered over the picture. “Somewhere… bad. Everything was grey and heavy, and I was alone. Sometimes you were there, but you—you weren’t really you anymore.” I paused and looked up to find him staring at me in the reflection of the window. He looked pained; it was then suddenly hard to recollect a time when he didn’t. My throat started to constrict. “You were gone and…” my voice quietened to a broken wisp of wind, “you were haunting me.”

The room was silent.

He said nothing in response

The transparency of his reflection in the glass was so familiar—so haunting—and it was like another forgotten matter had been dredged from the depths of my mind. Stinging tears brimmed my waterline, and, due to my inability to bear the sight of his translucent appearance, I forced myself to turn around.

I glanced up at him, smiling weakly as I whispered, “I’m sorry.”

He shook his head as if my need to apologise was nonsensical (even I was unsure of what I was apologising for), and he then pulled me into a tight embrace. His chin rested atop my head; my face was buried in his chest, and his arms held me like I was some dilapidated structure that relied on his support to remain upright. Part of me knew this sentiment was correct.

I expected his next words to be ones of consolation or reassurance, maybe an “I’m right here, sweetheart” or an “I’ll never leave you”. Instead, I felt his head turn and heard him say, “Think it’s going to storm?”

With a sniffle, I turned my head towards the window. The arms wrapped around my body tightened as if he somehow knew I would need the extra support. Because when I saw the wall of dark, opaque clouds rolling through the sky towards us, an unshakeable dread zapped through my heart.

My hands clung to the fabric of his cream-white sweater, which then brought to my attention that an inexplicable tingling sensation was spreading down the fingers of my right hand, numbing them.

Lightning flashed on the horizon, and the once serene waves began cresting violently on the shoreline. The dread grew.

Before my attention could drift too far, my name was called again.

I looked up to find those green eyes gazing down at me, swelling with tears. He was crying. Why was he crying? And why was his hair wet? His usually golden strands had darkened to a deep brown and were drenched with cold water that dripped onto my cheeks, and his hair was swept haphazardly across his forehead, a reflection of someone who had just endured an intense storm or had just been fighting for his life against a swarm of—of—

No.

My own eyes began to burn.

“It’s killing me to see you this way,” he spoke, every second word breaking and wavering in volume.

The world seemed to tilt on an axis. Return did the disorientation, ravaging my mind more violently now. “What do you”—My chest was rising and falling with heavy breaths—“What? What do you mean?” My lower lip was quivering, and my eyebrows were scrunched together in confusion. His words replayed in my head: It’s killing me to see you this way.

It’s killing me.

His hair was dripping—no longer with water, but with a thick, red substance that both dripped down and clotted on his skin. He didn’t look pained anymore; he looked like he was in pain.

It’s killing me.

But that can’t be right, can it?

It’s killing me.

Why?

It’s killing me.

Becausemy Finnickwas already dead.

I staggered backwards and out of his, no, this imposter’s arms. He stared at me as blood streamed down his forehead, pouring over his eyelashes and down his cheeks. I was going to be sick. This had to be some sort of cruel joke, a newly invented punishment from Snow. But that wasn’t right either: Snow was dead too.

“F…Fi…” I tried saying his name, my top teeth prodding the inside of my bottom lip, but I couldn’t make a sound.

He took a step towards me, and I almost stumbled onto the floor. “Remember what I told you?” he asked, though it sounded more like an urge.

I frantically shook my head. No, I didn’t remember. I didn’t want to remember anything.

Something dark and mountainous appeared in my peripheral vision, and an odious smell singed my nostrils. My head snapped to the left. Stacks upon stacks of plates and bowls mounded the kitchen sink, each crawling with maggots that were falling to the floor in white, wriggling heaps.

Nausea boiled in my stomach; horror brimmed my eyes.

I quickly turned away, my eyes meeting green again. His face was no longer stained with blood, and his hair was dry, shiny, and golden with life. I was as speechless as my face was drained of blood.

He took one more step toward me, but this time I didn’t back away, either frozen with fear or desperation for one last experience of closeness with him. My heart thrummed as he reached out to cup my face. It isn’t him, it isn’t him, it isn’t him, I repeated madly in my head. Oh, but it felt so much like him when his warm hand met my skin.

“I told you I’m always with you, sweetheart,” he murmured. And I knew engaging with him, in whatever form he took, affirmed my mental unwellness, but I couldn’t stop from leaning into his touch anyway. “Remember that.”

My cheeks were wet with tears. “I love—”

A bolt of lightning flashed, and thunder boomed throughout the house.

I was back in my bed.

My eyelids were heavy with sleep as they fluttered open. I felt detached, destabilised, and unsure of my existence in the world for I wasn’t sure which of the twoI was currently in. Real or fake?

A few minutes went by before I managed to get a grip on reality, which, in fact, was the real one. The Somewhere Bad. I pinched the corners of my eyes, not only finding them damp with fresh tears but also realising that my right hand—previously tucked beneath my head—was numb.

None of it had been real…

The entire time, my body was trying to alert me, to save me from the inescapable heartache I would feel upon waking. He hadn’t held me in his arms. He hadn’t cupped my cheek nor helped me wash the dishes. He wasn’t here. He wasn’t anywhere (not even in his own marked grave because there was nothing left of him to be buried).

Even despite seeing the familiar tall outline standing in the doorway, his features illuminated with each flash of lightning, I knew it wasn’t really him.

Rain was pummelling the roof, almost loud enough to subdue the perpetual rumbling of thunder (apart from the one sky-splitting thunderclap that had woken me). In another time, I would’ve been scared—of the raging storm, of my phantom lover who was watching from the shadows of our bedroom. But not now.

In recent months, I had found that no emotion, not even fear, surpassed the soul-crushing realisation that you have irretrievably lost the one thing you lived for.

On a defeated whim, and for the first time since his death, I let the singular, weighted word breeze past my lips.

“Finnick.”

It was a trembling plea, a desperate beckon.

And he indulged.

His footsteps were silent as he walked towards the bed. I couldn’t see his legs from my position, prompting me to wonder if he even had legs at all. Or did he only have legs when I could see them? That would then insinuate that if I couldn’t see him at all, he didn’t exist.

If a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound? In my case, the answer was simple: no, it didn’t.

It wasn’t really Finnick. It wasn’t even his ghost. It was my mind.

He reached the bed’s edge, and I scooted over to my side of the mattress, allowing him enough space to lie down on his. His weight neither dipped nor shook the bed as he laid down and turned on his side to face me. His eyes were sad, and I’m sure mine were too. We stared at each other for a long, long time, long enough for my fatigued body to start playing tricks on me.

If I focused hard enough, I thought I could hear the sound of his breathing (the wind was picking up outside), feel the warmth of his skin spreading onto the sheets (the remnants of my own body heat were left behind each time I moved), and smell the musky scent of cologne and sea-salted hair (the sleeves of his sweater were tucked beneath my nose).

Maybe for a moment—just one sickly, self-indulgent moment—I could pretend it was really him.

I inhaled deeply through my nose. “You really weren’t kidding when you said you would haunt the next owner of this house,” I whispered as light-heartedly as I could, my voice obscured by the heavy rain pouring onto the roof.

He smiled, and it was one of the most heart-wrenchingly beautiful things I had ever seen. I think I might have given him one in return, though I couldn’t be too sure because the concept of smiling had become so foreign. The last time I was truly happy was… the last night we spent together. In each other’s arms, safe and warm and together.

And then he was gone. Just like that.

Cressida, whom I had only spoken to once in Thirteen when the war ended, was the one to tell me how it happened. Katniss was too personal, too close to him; Peeta’s instability rendered conversation futile. So, I had asked Cressida to tell me every detail—every expression on his face, every word he screamed. I don’t know why. Maybe it was so I could cling onto those last few minutes where he was still alive and breathing, despite dying and bleeding; or so I could replay the moment over and over in my head, as if somehow, someway, I could change his fate.

“He talked about you all the time,” she had told me. “Actually, I don’t think he ever spoke of anything but you. No one minded, though. While we were out there, no one ever really smiled, but every time your name was mentioned, Finnick would get this great big grin on his face, and it was impossible not to look at him and start smiling as well.

So, we all started asking questions about you: ‘What colour is her hair? Her eyes? Where did you meet? What are her hobbies?’—just to see him smile… A week passed, and it was like we all knew you inside out. It was all we could do to hang on to some shred of happiness, even if it meant talking about a girl who, to all of us, was a stranger.”

I was inconsolable after that.

She kept talking, but my sobs had drowned out most of her words, so much that I had asked her to retell me everything later in the day, despite inducing the same outcome. So, she told it to me again, just as she did the day after that and the day after that and so on until I returned home to District Four.

“He also spoke about how you never felt comfortable living in the Victors Village. He had this idea that the two of you would move somewhere far away, outside the borders of District Four, though he emphasised remaining by the sea was very important—something about how you looked while swimming during sunset and the water was all sparkly around you.”

At this point, she had been holding my hand, knowing full well how debilitating it was for me to hear. Then she had spoken with a quiet incredulity and a facial expression to match, as though she’d never encountered a love like ours before. “He wanted to build a house for you…”

He wanted to build a house for you.

And now he never would. Our love was too ephemeral for that to happen; destined to remain history; to be a memory.

Finnick's eyes stared into mine, the green hue now a dark grey from the overshadowing dimness of the room.

“I would’ve gone anywhere with you,” I whispered to him, placing my hand on the sheets between us. “I would’ve travelled thousands of miles away from this place. Would’ve lived in solitary, just the two of us, for the rest of our lives.” A warm tear tickled the bridge of my nose. His eyebrows scrunched together in shared anguish. “God, Finn, I miss you,” my voice broke. “I miss you so much.”

I contemplated crying, sobbing, screaming, or begging for him to come back, but I was just too tired. All my energy had been spent on grievance throughout the following day, and my eyes were growing heavier by the second as my body was sinking further into a state of relaxation.

Between slow blinks, I watched Finnick’s large hand move to rest atop my own, and at that point, I knew sleep would soon catch me because I swear I could feel his warm touch.

Images flashed through my mind—incomprehensible and melting together, yet somehow still graspable.

Sky blue water rippling with calm waves, the surface glittering in the setting sun. A white stonewall cottage fronted by soft, white sand and tall palm trees. Two plates of fruit-filled yoghurt and scrambled eggs on toast. Three pairs of footprints in the sand, one larger, one smaller, and another between them so delicately tiny I could fit them into the palm of my hand.

Sea-green eyes above me. Golden hair tangled between my fingers. Finnick standing in the wooden doorway of our white stonewall cottage wearing a cream-white sweater and rolled-up slacks. Finnick grinning deeply and then throwing his head back with laughter. Finnick standing in front of our bed, taking my hand in his and guiding me towards him. Finnick. Finnick. Finnick. Finnick. Finnick.

Finnick holding our child.

I was between worlds now, both indistinguishable from the other. My eyelids were drooping, and I was quickly growing insensate. Just before my eyes closed completely, I saw Finnick’s—he who wasn’t really my Finnick—lips move. It wasn’t in my bleak reality in which I heard him speak, but rather in my mind, and God, did his words offer the sweetest relief.

“I’ll see you when you fall asleep.”

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mbbmz · 1 month ago

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Can’t look away from you!

Shinichiro x reader

I swear I have so many drafts for y’all requests but I’m too lazy to finish them T-T (sorry if I made any spelling mistakes, English isn’t my first language!)

Warnings : semi public sex, oral sex (m receiving), porn without plot

He was trying, really, really hard to focus. But it seemed like he had been tightening the same damn bolt for the past ten minutes. Why, oh why did he think it would be a good idea to take his girlfriend to his shop? His girlfriend who has been so clingy and affectionate since early in the morning, so much he couldn’t help but ask her to keep him company.

Oh was he regretting this decision.

You were looking at him with those eyes. Those you had when you wanted something. And he knew exactly what.

But he couldn’t give in now. He was supposed to be working. Beside, anyone could come in at any moment! His friends, his brother, who all chose his shop as their hangout spot, or even any customer!

In the span of ten minutes, you went from leaning against a wall, to sitting next to him, to sitting on his lap. He was hard, and you knew it. You were just playing with him at this point, waiting for him to break, to lose the battle against his morals and his decency.

And there was a limit to what a man could take, and you made him reach that limit when you laid down, resting your cheek on his thigh.

His resolve crumbled, leaning back as he let out a loud sigh.

- "Fuck… come here, babe…"

You smiled in victory, watching him unbuckle his belt. He looked around one last time, pressing his lips in a thin line, before taking out his semi-hard cock.

You smiled, immediately wrapping your hand around him in a firm grip. As much as you wanted to savor it, even you knew that it had to be done quick.

You looked up at him, noticing he was still looking around nervously, as if someone might magically appear into the shop. Your free hand found its way to his chin, gripping it so he would look at you instead. He let out a silent gasp at the sight, that devious smile stretching your face as you started pumping his shaft in a tantalizingly slow movement.

- "Eyes on me, love."

You muttered sultrily, giving his blushing tip a slow, sensual lick. God, he was so weak for you. You swore you could feel him twitch from the sight.

His free hand rested on top of your head, fiddling with a strand as if he was fighting the urge to just shove you down his length, while the other was on the floor, trying to support his weight so he could lean back even more, leaving you space.

You wasted no time putting both of your hands to work, pumping him while your tongue was brushing against his tip hastily.

His grip on your hair tightened, his breath shaky and his messy black hair sticking to his forehead from the sweat. This was such a beautiful sight for you, which only encouraged you to pick up with the pace.

- "F-Fuck… just like that baby…"

He said, his voice stifled and shaky in reaction to your lips wrapping around his length. He wanted to keep looking around, looking for eventual unexpected guests, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away from you and your bobbing head.

Fuck, it had to be one of the most erotic sights ever. Your lips stretched around his dick, trying to adjust to his size while tears were starting to prickle at the corners of your eyes. Oh fuck, he might just nut right now-

He didn’t even have the time to give you a warning before he shot his load deep down your throat, making you cough, quickly pulling away as you made him ride his orgasm with your fist.

He stared at you, his gaze apologetic yet lustful as he looked at you, cheeks flushed probably from the performance you put up a few seconds ago.

You glared at him, pushing his shoulder lightly, a slight pout on your face. He chuckled, sheepishly scratching the back of his neck as he sat up straighter.

- "Sorry baby… sometimes you’re just too damn hot, I can’t hold back…"

He caressed the top of your head, his other hand putting his softening cock back in his pants. He helped you sit up, scooting you over him. He looked around one last time, before looking back at you.

- "Spread those pretty legs f’me, time to return the favor…"

#tokyo revengers x reader #tokyo revengers #tokyo revengers smut #tokyo revengers x reader smut #tr shinichiro #tokrev shinichiro #shinichiro smut #tokyo revengers shinichiro #shinichiro x reader #shinichiro sano #shinichiro x you #tkrev #tokrev smut #tr smut

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spaghettiposts · 11 months ago

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Video Games

Reader x Wednesday Addams

Summery: Video games are a waste of time in Wednesdays opinion, being with you however is not.

Warnings: First attempt at writing for Wednesday.

A/N: Lemme know if y’all would wanna see more of Wednesday from me I’m thinking about writing for Tara too!

“There are more fruitful things to do aside from staring at a screen all day.”

Lifting your head from your said screen, you raised a judgemental brow. Wednesday sat with her back turned from you, typing away, she had allowed you to sit lay on her bed in the meantime so long as you promised to stay silent. The noises your console gave off broke that promise, one quick narrowed look from the goth had you lowering the volume instantly.

“Like staring at a typewriter all day?” You retorted with amusement in your voice. She paused her typing for a minuscule moment before continuing her steady pace.

“I’ll have you know my writing sessions improve memorization, vocabulary, and keep me from strangling you.” You could see a cocky smirk form on her face. “Consider yourself lucky.”

Shrugging your shoulders you sucked your teeth, a reply fresh on your tongue. “I don’t know, dying in your hands sounds like the most lucky I’ll ever be.”

At that, Wednesday froze, looking down to her paper before ripping it off, a prominent scowl appearing. You grinned to yourself behind the device, knowing damn well you had made her slip up. The small tints of red on her cheeks almost missable, just confirmed that.

“Disturb my writing time again and I’ll throw that…thing off my balcony.” She huffed, folding whatever she did get done during the duration of your visit into a neat pile. It wasn’t much whatsoever, a pattern that only repeated every session you were around.

You simply laughed in response, causing her stomach to grow spiders. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to punch you or shut you up in another form.

In different circumstances she’d respond with haste, quickly dismissing you from her dormitories so she could focus. But for some reason, no matter how close she was to saying no, it never happened. Wednesday supposed that was fine, you weren’t completely irksome.

But if those little noises, coming from your Nintendo? Kept happening she might just come to say it.

“I thought I had warned you to turn off the noise.” She snapped, face scrunching at the weird noises of a man crying. The noise didn’t even resemble a realistic cry, what on earth. “What even is that?” She questioned.

You smiled at the clear curiosity she showed. Not that she’d ever admit. Scooting over on her bed—carefully not to ruin her perfectly folded sheets—patted the space next to you. “Come here and I’ll show you.” You offered, receiving a cold scoff in response. “What? Come on Wednesday. We both know you aren’t getting any more writing done, why not unwind?”

Unfortunately, seeing as she had neatly arranged everything back in its usual place. You were correct, obviously Wednesday refused to let you know that, reluctantly trudging along to her bed. Muttering small things about how “I’d get more writing done if you left.”

“Mhm sure Addams.” You snickered, lifting your arm up to put around her shoulder, bringing her into you. She said nothing, adjusting to the position until she found the perfect spot to rest. On your chest.

“Technology is a man-made brain rotting scam that only diminishes human intelligence.”

“So was romance? I guess you’re into rotting then.”

“Only because you could rot with someone.” She muttered, staring at the game in your hands. The corners of her lips rising when you died, cursing to yourself. “Rot with you.” She added lowly, you almost didn’t catch it but you’re glad you did. You just hope she wouldn’t hear how much you enjoyed it, be still heart.

Feeling bold you pressed a small kiss on her head, leaning your head against hers as you continued playing your game. Later when Wednesday got tired of you mashing those stupid buttons she’d toss the game aside, leaving your full attention on her. Maybe there were more fruitful things you could focus on.

#wednesday addams x reader #wednesday x reader #wednesday #wednesday addams #wednesday addams fanfic #jenna ortega x reader #jenna ortega #fluff #Wednesday Addams fluff

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the-iceni-bitch · 5 months ago

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Trust Me, I Can Handle Me a Dangerous Man…

Summary: Some things never change…

Relationship: Mr. Freezy (Bobby) x hitwoman!fem reader (kitten)

Words: ~2.7k

Warnings: explicit language, explicit sexual content (unprotected p in v, rough sex, edging, cock warming), murder, drug use, part of a dark-ish AU, NO MINORS 🔞

A/N: I FINALLY FUCKING FINISHED A FIC AFTER SEVEN GODDAMN MONTHS!!! Now that the screaming is out of the way, hi y’all! I cannot guarantee that I’m going to be posting fics on a regular basis but I will say that I have a couple in the works that I actually feel are close to being finished soooooo, fingers crossed!

I am no longer doing taglists so if you want to stay up to date on my writing, follow @the-iceni-library and turn on notifications!

You smiled to yourself as the light caught the ring on your finger, turning your hand back and forth and humming softly at the way it sparkled in the sunlight.

Then his hand tightened around your throat and he moved inside you and all you could do was whine.

“Jesus fucking Christ, kitten,” Bobby snarled in your ear when he felt you flutter around his cock as he cut off your air, slapping your tits and then your face a few times with his free hand until he was satisfied your were focused again. “Pay attention. Never would’ve put that fucking thing on your finger if I knew you were gonna get so damn distracted.”

“Shut the fuck up,” you purred when he pulled you even closer, grinding your ass in his lap while he fucked up into you. “‘Scuse me for enjoying being a newlywed.”

He just snorted before sinking his teeth into the side of your neck while his body kept rolling underneath yours. It’s not like he could deny there wasn’t something special about finally being able to call you his wife, to enjoy knowing that you belonged to him completely and there was nothing anyone could do about it. Not that anyone would ever try. He would fucking kill them if they did. Hell, he almost killed anyone who would even look at you, now. Nothing got him more worked up than growling at some idiot for looking at his wife and then fucking you like he owned you. God, he actually fucking loved you, in his fucked up, psychotic way.

You sighed when he licked the mark he had left on your neck, rocking your body against his and holding the rifle in your hands tightly as he kept his grip just firm enough for you to take shallow breaths. It was true, you were having a little trouble focusing, but you still got your fucking job done. You had to, since he had wanted to be inside you since pretty much right after you left City Hall two days go. Of course, you couldn’t really complain about that, not when his cock was throbbing inside you and his breath was hot against your neck. When he started sucking on your ear you grinned, turning your face so you could rub your cheek against his over your shoulder.

“Ah shit,” you saw movement through the scope out of the corner of your eye and huffed out a sharp breath, “That’s him. Keep your mouth to yourself for a damn minute.”

“Fine,” Bobby leaned back with a groan, watching you raise the gun to aim and fighting the urge to keep thrusting his hips, “Just hurry the fuck up.”

You ignored the brush of his fingers as he pushed up your skirt so he could grope your ass, taking deep breaths and doing your best to remain focused when he let out a grunt at the way your pussy looked when it was stretched wide around his dick. The idiot you had to kill was finally in your sights. He hadn’t stepped outside in two days and his blinds were always closed, paranoid bastard. But one call from his little girlfriend and he threw all that caution to the wind. What a fucking moron.

Two more breaths and you squeezed the trigger, the silenced gunshot swallowed by the noise of the city. The dumbass in your scope had barely hit the ground before Bobby grabbed the back of your neck and threw you to the floor. He didn’t waste any time before shoving his cock back inside you, grinning to himself when you moaned and spread your legs for him.

“That’s it, such a good fucking whore my wife is,” he grunted as he started to fuck you like an animal, his hips smacking against your ass lewdly, “Fuck, I’ll never get sick of this snatch of yours, so damn tight.”

“Such a sweet talker you are,” you arched your back so he could hit you even deeper, your eyes fluttering when he spread your cheeks and spat on your asshole, “Knew you just married me for my body.”

“Just keep talking, bitch,” Bobby started rubbing your rim with his thumb while he fucked you and almost lost it when it made you clench tighter around him, “Married you for that cunt mouth too.”

“Yes… oh fuck,” you dug your fingers into the carpet underneath you and bit your lip when he slid his thumb inside your ass, every muscle in your body starting to grow tight, “Fuck me harder, you stupid fucking bastard. Make me come.”

“Yeah, I’ll make you come, you dumb little slut,” he groaned and leaned over you so he could sink his teeth into your shoulder, growling against your skin when he felt both of your holes flutter around him, “Do it fast. I want to come inside your pretty little gash before the pigs show up.”

Even as you rolled your eyes you still whined when his balls rubbed against your clit, your legs trembling and your breath leaving you in sharp huffs as you came on his cock. As soon as he felt you squirt he drove into you to the hilt. His breath was hot against your skin while he grunted in his release, his dick pulsing inside you as he pumped you full of his thick cum. He kissed the mark he left on your neck and then he was gone, standing up and grinning at the sight of you sprawled out on the floor and leaking his seed.

You thought about sassing him for leaving you to clean yourself up, but then you heard sirens and you knew it was time to go. Bobby took care of disassembling the rifle once he got his jeans pulled back up. At least all you had to do was pull your dress back into place, admiring the bites and bruises he’d left all over your tits as you slid your arms back into your sleeves. Hopefully you looked appropriately love drunk and giddy, making sure the ring on your finger was prominent and beaming at him when he wound his arm around your waist and hefted the suitcase holding your rifle.

The lobby was full of cops, but you two looked like the happy newlyweds you were, so they had no reason to bother you. Or, you looked like a happy newlywed, Bobby looked like he was thinking about stabbing some of those cops until you stood on your tiptoes and kissed his cheek.

“Fucking pigs,” Bobby practically spat the words as he shoved the suitcase into the trunk before climbing into the driver’s seat, “Make my goddamn skin crawl.”

“Well if you hadn’t insisted on fucking me we could’ve been out of there before they showed up,” you caught his hand by the wrist after he slapped you and bit his knuckle with a playful growl, “Don’t be so cranky, Bobby. I’ll let you finger fuck me while we drive back to the club.”

By the time you had made it back to the club you were a mess and he looked annoyingly pleased with himself. All you could do when he gave your sloppy cunt a few final smacks was whine and feebly try to push his hand away while he just chuckled at you. The only thing that brought you back to yourself was when he backhanded you across the face. As much as it made you want to stab him, you needed to maintain some semblance of professionalism when you were about to meet with the bosses. That didn’t stop you from ramming your fist into his gut once you had finally pulled yourself out of the car, his low snarl when you just started walking away while he stood there doubled over making your pussy start to clench all over again.

The club was empty except for staff since the sun was still up, all of whom chuckled under their breath when they saw Bobby stalking after you with pure murder etched on his face. Curtis grinned when he saw you approaching, shaking his head when Bobby caught up to you and grabbed you by the throat so he could whisper threats in your ear. You just rolled your eyes at your husband and gave Curtis a wink when he held the door to the bosses’ office open for you. Bobby shook a few times for good measure before he finally let you go, shoving you into the office and just barely resisting the urge to fling one of your knees over his elbow and hold you wide open while he took his annoyance out on your pretty little cunt.

“Holy fucking shit, you weren’t lying when you said you got hitched?!” Lloyd looked positively giddy with amusement when you pranced up and held out your hand to show him the ring. “I don’t know if I should be insulted you didn’t invite me or not.”

“Please, you wanted to come to city hall?” You ignored Bobby’s grumbling while you conversed with Lloyd, watching your husband sink into one of the office chairs then turning your attention back to your favorite boss. “It’s not like Bobby was going to throw a party.”

“That’s true. You have married a stick in the mud, my dear. Nick, Auggie!” Lloyd grinned at the other bosses when they strode into the office. “Congratulate our favorite psychos, they tied the knot!”

“Did they finish the job?” August grunted while Nick actually congratulated the two of you, ignoring Lloyd’s melodramatic eye roll.

“Sure fucking did,” You gave August a wink when he just shrugged at you. “Dropped that fucker right in the middle of Manhattan.”

“That’s why you’re the best,” Lloyd bent under the desk to grab the hefty envelope of cash, taking a little longer then usual and beaming even more when he also came up with a kilo of coke. “And a nice little bonus as congratulations on your nuptials. You know my little lady is going to want to actually throw you a party though?”

“Wouldn’t expect anything less,” you thumbed through the cash and turned back to your husband, sighing when he gave you a sour look. “Don’t worry, grumpy, you can stay home.”

He just huffed before the two of you started to head back out to the car, ignoring the well wishes of your bosses and choosing to let his eyes rake over your body. You had gotten significantly more social ever since the two of you joined the new organization, and he wasn’t quite sure how he felt about it. Granted, the money was enough to make up for any chit chat he had to put up with, and he did get to fuck you in public a lot more. Plus, the drugs…

“Lemme taste that,” Bobby grabbed the brick and jabbed his knife into it, rubbing some of the powder onto his gums and sucking in a breath when he got a buzz right away. “Fuck, that’s good shit.”

“Gimme,” you giggled when he scooped some onto his pinky and offered it to you, humming after you took a bump and looking up at him with wide eyes. “Shit.”

“Yeah. Fuck it,” he shoved you into one of the VIP booths in the club and bent you over the table, flipping up your skirt and giving your ass a good smack before scooping more coke onto his blade. “We can have a quick party. Fucking hold still.”

You moaned when he started to tap out lines on the upper curve of your ass. It was so hard not to start trembling when he pulled shit like this, his warm breath on your skin and the fact that anyone could walk by and see you making your pussy start to get slick and hot right away. Bobby growled and dragged his stubborn cheek along the curve of your ass before giving you a firm bite, licking and kissing the mark he made on your skin before turning his focus to the lines of white powder and inhaling them greedily.

“Bobby…” you moaned and then froze when you felt him parting your cheeks with his calloused fingers. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?!”

“Calm down… hey!” Bobby rose to his feet and grabbed the back of your neck when you tried to turn around and scratch him, slamming your head against the table twice as he took off his belt with one hand. “You’re the little bitch who cries about being too sensitive when you’re high, kitten. Thought I would help you out.”

“You fucking bastard!” It’s not like you could do anything except hiss and spit at him, kicking your legs when he looped his belt around your wrists and somehow managed to bind you to the legs at the opposite side of the table. “Bull shit you wanna help me!”

“Yeah well,” he chuckled and slapped your ass as hard as he could when you almost kicked him in the knee. “Maybe I just wanna see how wet my little wife’s pussy can get if she can’t come.”

You snarled and tried uselessly to squirm away from him when he started rubbing the cocaine all over your pussy and asshole. Even as high as you were, you wanted to scratch one of his eyes out for this. It wasn’t even enough to make you completely numb, just enough that you were going to be frustrated and right on the edge for the next hour. You could still feel his warm breath and the heavy weight of his tongue when he dragged it over your sex, but the delicious throbbing you typically felt in your clit when he sucked on it was gone, replaced by an annoying little buzz that made you grind your teeth.

“Still so goddamn sweet, you’re dripping, sweetheart,” Bobby pinched your clit and grinned when you rewarded him with a petulant growl. He was probably going to have to tie you up when he needed to sleep for the next week, unless he wanted to wake up to a knife in his leg. But fuck, it was worth it.

“I’m gonna rip your fucking tongue out,” your threats didn’t stop you from grinding back against his face, every muscle in your body tensing as you held your breath and tried to will yourself to come. But it didn’t happen. You could feel it right there but then it was gone. “Fuck!”

Bobby just hushed you and then bent back to work, burying his face in your supple cheeks and grunting as he wrapped his lips around your pussy and sucked. Every time you made one of your little dissatisfied sounds he just pinched your clit again, reminding you that he could and that nothing he might do to you right now would be able to make you come. He swore your pussy tasted even sweeter when he pissed you off like this, that it got even more swollen and hot than it did during his normal games with you. He loved it, so much so that he was seriously considering rubbing more coke all over your cunt once your sensitivity was back just so he could make you even angrier.

Four more times he brought you right up to the edge then just kept you there, chuckling into the swollen folds of your cunt each time you screamed in impotent rage. After an hour you were a panting, sweat-soaked mess of a woman, your body quivering with frustration and exhaustion. Even when he undid his belt from around your wrists you couldn’t move, snarling at him uselessly when he just gave your temple a condescending kiss. As soon as you could move you were going to stab him.

“I know that look, kitten, and I wouldn’t recommend it.” He gave your ass a hard swat before pulling your skirt back down to cover you. “I know your a hissy kitty right now, but I might have a treat planned for my little wife.”

“Fuck you,” you hissed at him, grumbling under your breath when he helped you stand and left his arm around your waist. “What kind of treat?”

“Oh, I dunno…” Bobby pinched your ass as the two of you made your way towards the club exit. “How do you feel about picking up a toy for the night?”

#natalie writes #poison paradise #bobby and kitten #mr freezy #robert pronge #mr freezy x female reader #female reader #chris evans #chris evans character fanfiction #chris evans character x reader #eighteen plus only

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cosmicdahlias · 2 months ago

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A Tale of Two Outlaws

an arthur and john x reader fic

MINORS DNI

You’ve drunk yourself into a stupor, Arthur takes you back to camp and John preposes a devilish idea.

warnings: dubcon, mild age gap with arthur (reader is in their 20’s), drunk sex, threesome, scratching, impreg, baby trapping, hangover

it’s pretty obvious by the end who i favor more hshxbdhdjdhd

Arthur kept a hand around your shoulder as you stumbled out of the saloon. He struggled to keep you on your feet.

“Jesus girl, how many drinks did you have?” Arthur asked, catching you as you almost tumbled to the ground.

“Bleventeeeeeen.” You smiled.

Arthur took his face in his hands. “Good god almighty, I told you to take it easy. You know you’re a lightweight.”

“I jus’ wan’ed to have a little fun, Mr. Morgan.” You slurred, giving him your best doe eyes.

“Yeah, and you’re gonna be sick as a dog come mornin’.”

“How come you ain’t drunk?” You asked.

“Cause I’m bigger than you and I wasn’t drinkin’ like someone was comin’ to saw my leg off.”

Arthur hoisted you onto his horse’s saddle.

“Wha’ ‘bout my horse?” You asked, still slurring your words.

“You’re too damn drunk to ride, we’ll come back for her in the mornin’ after you’ve had a chance to sober up.”

Arthur made his way back to camp with you against his back, your arms wrapped around his waist. You may or may not have fallen off his horse a few times.

“You’re gonna be bruised and cut up to hell tomorrow, you know that?” He said as he helped you up.

“Heh heh, battle scars.”

When you finally arrived Arthur went to pull you off his horse and you slumped over, once again falling off, you had passed out. He held you and gently tapped your cheek, trying to revive you.

“Hey, hey, y/n, come on girl.”

You opened your eyes, struggling to keep them that way. “BUH! I’M AWAKE!”

John overheard the commotion and walked over.

“Jesus, they look like hell. What’d you do to them, Arthur?” John asked.

“Ask them.” Arthur retorted.

You lifted your head up. “Eheheheheh, I got WASTED, John!”

“Yeah, no shit. You really can’t handle your booze.” John responded.

Arthur shrugged. “They were really on a mission to be the dumbest they could be.”

“Don’ y’all go judgin’ me.” You said with a hiccup, flopping out of Arthur’s arms onto the ground.

Arthur sighed, pulling you to your feet. “Alright come on, you think you can stand?”

“I’m a standin’ professional.” You said, immediately falling on your face.

Arthur threw up his hands and shook his head. “What the hell am I gonna do with you?” He said, scooping you into his arms again.

“Funny you should mention Arthur, cause I’ve been thinkin’. Remember what we was talkin’ about the other day? I mean come on, look at them. They ain’t gonna be able to say no, bet they’d like it actually.” John said, stroking your cheek with his thumb.

“Shit, Marston, you got some good ideas every now and then.”

Arthur dipped his head down and kissed you roughly, you grabbed at his neckerchief, pulling him closer.

John scoffed. “I fuckin’ knew it, you want this so bad. Should’a known, seein’ the way you walk ‘round camp, findin’ any reason to bend over in front of us.”

Arthur smirked devilishly. “Yeah, you have any idea what you do to the men here? What we say about you? You don’t wanna know the kinda shit that comes out of Micah’s mouth. We all want you, girl, every single one of us.”

“Are we just gonna stand here talkin’ or are we gonna actually do this?” John asked.

“Damn, you can be so impatient.”

Arthur carried you to your tent, he closed the curtains and set you down on the cot. You drunkenly fumbled with your clothes, attempting to take them off.

“Poor thing, too drunk to even strip. Let me help you princess.” Arthur said, kissing your neck.

Arthur unbuttoned your blouse and took off your skirt, he unhooked your bra and slid your knickers down your legs. You laid back, completely exposed to the both of them. John was the first to speak.

“Jesus fuckin’ christ, so that’s what you’ve been hidin’ under them clothes.” He said, unbuttoning his trousers, pulling his cock out and moving to spread your legs.

Arthur put out a hand. “Easy there, John, don’t get ahead of yourself. They need to be taken care of first.”

“Suit yourself, Arthur, I’ll be puttin’ that mouth to good use.”

Arthur pulled you to the edge of the cot and sank to his knees, slowly inserting his fingers inside you. John turned your head to face him and wasted no time shoving his cock in your mouth, gripping your hair.

“Tastes good, don’t it?” John said as he bucked into your mouth.

“Mhmf.” You nodded, mouth full of cock.

Arthur put his mouth to your clit, sucking and licking furiously. You moaned and reached your hand down to grab a fistful of his locks.

”Atta girl.” Arthur purred.

He curled his fingers at your g-spot and you moaned around John’s cock.

“Fuck, Arthur, I don’t know what you just did, but keep doin’ it. When you make them moan like that it feels stupid good on my dick.”

John increased his speed, fucking your mouth relentlessly. Arthur sucked hard on your clit, you bucked your hips into his mouth.

You felt your orgasm build, arching your back off the cot. Arthur could sense it, picking up his pace with his tongue and fucking you harder with his fingers. You salivated on John’s cock as you came all over Arthur’s face.

“Good girl.” He said softly, kissing your clit.

Arthur got to his feet and picked you up, his hands holding the underside of your thighs and you wrapped your arms around his neck while John came up behind you. Arthur slipped himself in first, John attempted to follow, but struggled to get it in.

You shifted nervously. “I- I don’ know if both’a y’all’ll fit.”

“Shhh, you can do it girl, just relax.” Arthur cooed.

John grunted as he made a second attempt, successfully entering you. You whimpered from the arousing and painful sensation of being stretched out by both of them. They began to move in you, trying to fuck you at a synchronized rhythm.

“Good girl, I knew you had it in you.” Arthur praised.

You were moaning nonstop, they both felt so goddam good.

“You hear the noises they’re makin’?” John asked.

“God, those sounds are so fuckin’ adorable. You really enjoyin’ yourself, ain’t you, babygirl?” Arthur said.

“Fuck, I should get drunk more often.” You said, burying your face in Arthur’s neck.

“If you’re always gonna be this fun, I’m all for it, girl.” John chuckled.

“You know, we was startin’ to think you was just a tease and that you didn’t really want none, that maybe you was a virgin.” Arthur said, grunting.

You laughed. “Oh you should’a seen me when I was younger, passed around more than a bottle of liquor. Worked out nicely cause now I know what men like y’all want and I know my way around a cock. Hell you think Dutch just let me join on a whim? Nah, I had him barkin’ like a dog.”

“Goddam, you’re a freak.” John said.

Arthur kissed your neck. “You startin’ to make me jealous of Dutch.”

Both of them started thrusting into you faster, trying to match each other’s speed. Arthur dug his nails into your thighs as John reached around to feel up your breasts.

“Fuck, you’re gonna make me cum and I ain’t cummin’ in you, I already learned my lesson with that.” John panted.

He pumped faster, his breathing becoming strained, pulling out and cumming all over your back, biting into your neck. His cum dripped onto the floor.

John stretched, buttoning his pants. “Well thanks for all the fun, girl, but I don’t see any point in stayin’ after cummin’.” He said while making his way out.

“Good, I was kinda hopin’ he’d give us some time alone.”

Arthur carried you to the cot and set you down on your stomach. He took a rag and wiped John’s cum off of you.

“There, sorry about that, John doesn’t always think of the ladies first.”

He turned you over, kissed you passionately and entered you again. He resumed his pace, his hands pinning your wrists. He pumped his cock into you roughly. You kissed him and he moaned into your mouth.

He started pulling himself fully out and slamming back into you just to hear you squeal, you raked your nails down his back and he let out a loud groan.

“Good girl, mark me. Make me yours.”

You moved yourself against him.

“Nnngh, fuck. That’s it, work those hips back on me.”

His breathing hitched, hips stuttering.

“I’m so close, you gonna let me cum in you?”

“I need it, Arthur.”

“That’s right, tell me how much you need me to cum in you, get you pregnant even.”

You tightened around him at his words, something about him wanting to impregnate you up was incredibly hot.

“Y-you want to knock me up?”

”Shit, I’ve wanted you for so long, if I have to fuck a baby into you to make it happen, so be it. Now c’mon, say it, tell me you want me to put a baby in you.”

“Nnh, I want your baby. I need your baby, Arthur.”

That absolutely did him in. He fucked you at a breakneck pace, the cot squeaking underneath you.

“Fuckin’ GOD!” He growled through gritted teeth.

He panted, getting a last few thrusts in before cumming deep inside you. He collapsed on top of you and laid there, cock still inside you without speaking.

Arthur kissed you as he finally pulled out. “You done good, girl. You want me to get you dressed and I can take off?”

“Mmmn, can you stay?” You mumbled through your exhaustion.

“Good choice, I was hopin’ you’d- wait, hold on.”

Arthur rummaged around in his satchel and pulled out a pencil and his journal. He grabbed a chair and sat down in front of you.

“Lay on your side and pose for me.”

You blushed, you’d always hoped he would include you in his journal. You turned to face Arthur and tried to emulate the poses of the girls you saw in those erotic pictures that the men passed around camp. He started to sketch you.

“That’s it, good girl. Put a hand on your tit. Yeah, just like that. Now try not to move.”

“You gonna use this to cum to later?”

“When I’m gone for days and you’re not around? Yes. I got needs, girl, and I’m not about to fuck some whore. I like you too much to lose you over something like that.”

“So, what you’re sayin’ is…”

“Yes, I plan on courtin’ you. I caught feelings for you and if my cum is worth anything I’m stayin’ with you for good, I ain’t no deadbeat.”

He sketched you in silence, the only sound being of his pencil against the paper. You yawned.

“Aww, tired ain’t you? Don’t worry I’m almost done, then I’ll let you cuddle up with me.”

After roughly 30 minutes he finally finished. He turned the journal to you.

“What d’ya think? Not as good as the real thing, but I think I captured you pretty well.”

You blushed. You looked absolutely gorgeous. Was this how he saw you?

“It’s perfect, Arthur.”

“Good, I’m glad to hear that. Now scooch over so I can hold you.”

You made space for him on the cot. He laid down and took you in his arms, your head on his chest. He sighed deeply, stroking your hair.

He had figured for a while that you found him attractive, but he assumed it never went deeper than that. He always felt something for you ever since he met you. So for you to want him to stay, want his baby, was everything.

You nuzzled into his chest as sleep embraced you, he kissed your forehead. Arthur watched you for a while, listening to the soft sounds of your breathing. He thought you looked so cute and peaceful asleep.

He could almost forget that you were a dangerous outlaw, sometimes more dangerous than him. He liked that, your fiery spirit was what drew him to you.

He fought sleep as long as he could, not wanting this moment to end, but eventually his eyelids grew heavy and sleep overtook him.

You awoke in Arthur’s arms the next morning to a splitting headache and intense nausea. You bolted to a wastebasket and promptly vomited. Arthur held your hair away from your face, rubbing your back.

“Have we learned why we don’t drink half our weight in liquor?” He asked.

“Fuck you, Arthur.” You said between retches.

“Already did last night and I’ll do it again.”

“If I wasn’t so focused on keeping things down I’d strangle you right now.”

He smirked. “Is that a promise?”

Weeks later the nausea would return, this time ceaseless, on the daily. Arthur had lived up to his word about getting you pregnant. You were gonna be his forever.

#arthur morgan #john marston #arthur morgan x reader #john marston x reader #arthur morgan fanfic #john marston fanfic #arthur morgan smut #john marston smut #red dead redemption #red dead redemption 2 #my fics

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ishifttoplacesiprobablyshouldnt · 2 months ago

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being a shifter with a period is so wild like y’all are not ready for this story also a bit tmi but considering the shit I post on here I think it’s expected from me at this point

SO I personally get like really feral-horny on my period (I’m on bc so like I don’t ovulate but this feels like ovulation horny like I’m going to rip a man limb from limb kind of horny) and this time I developed a crush randomly out of no where on this character and my god I needed to fuck him but it was like whiplash cause I had NEVER thought about this man in this light ever and now my period’s done and I’m back to normal and also not attracted to this man at all

but like damn way to waste my time

all the scripting I did

for his ugly ass

#reality shifting #shifting community #shifting #shifting blog #shifting antis dni #shiftblr #desired reality #shifters #shifting realities #manifesting

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rosewaterandivy · 2 months ago

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iii. starlit night

summary: it's either fate or a cosmic joke.

pairing: s.h. x werewolf!reader

w.c.: 5.3K

warnings: blood, bloodlust, blood drinking, guts, gore, possessiveness, supernatural elements, quasi-mating rituals, exhausted best friend!eddie, no a/b/o, angst, mild dubious consent, amateur wound care, power dynamics

a/n: consider this my warm welcome to spooky season, happy autumnal equinox y’all! monsters need love too 🐺

m.list | playlist

prev | next

Eddie gave nothing away, and neither did you which was more than a little infuriating for Steve.

After the incident with the impromptu dog sitting and tire tracks on his lawn, he hadn’t seen hind nor hair of you. No daily runs in the woods, or in the crowd at Corroded’s Tuesday night shows, and certainly not frequenting Family Video.

The balm of summer has settled upon Hawkins, humidity sticking like dew to his skin no matter how long he lingers beneath the spray of the showerhead. He’s sweated through his shirt and vest by the time he clocks out to leave for the day, muttering his goodbyes to Robin as she reminds him to pick her up at closing tonight.

For as much as Steve loves the languid drip of summer days, he positively loathes the heat. Can’t stand feeling sticky and damp with no reprieve. So it’s really a no-brainer that he elects to waste the afternoon in the swimming pool, waiting for the a/c to cool the house to a respectable 68 degrees, utility bill be damned.

He’s driving back from Family Video, Robin in tow, as night falls. The streetlamps had a dull and ineffective glow which only partially illuminated the edges of the road. Steve took the back roads to Robin’s house, one of his many shortcuts through a town in which nothing ever happened.

“Steve!”

Robin’s gasp, and spastic pointing are enough to startle him from fiddling with the radio. Eyes slicing to the road, he sees an animal darting across the pavement, and swerves to miss them. The front corner of the car wings left as it grazes the animal with a loud thud, following by the shrill screech of wheels skidding to a stop.

His right hand splays against Robin’s collarbone and chest, pressing her back into the seat. He can feel her frantic breaths heaving from her lungs as she sucks in paltry breaths.

“Are you alright?”

She nods, fingers fumbling to release the seatbelt. She’s shaking a little from the shock of it all— Steve hitting an animal with his car on the edge of the greenbelt. Her mind is spinning and she can only imagine how he’s feeling, if the slight tremor in his hand still affixed to her chest is anything to go by.

“Is it—?”

He clears his throat and unbuckles his seat belt and opens his door quickly. “Just stay here, I’ll check it out.” The hazard lights click on as Steve steps out to approach the animal.

It’s lying at the center of the road, the poor thing’s chest rising and falling in slow succession. It’s still moving, hazily coming to in the still summer evening. Head turning toward him and eyes blinking away the fear in a flash of milk glass.

Oh fuck. Oh shit.

Suddenly spurned into action, Steve moves with a speed that even Robin finds shocking. It’s a moment she’ll never forget. In an instant he heaves the large dog into his arms, shouting at her to open the back door in a panicked voice.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so so sorry.”

She wonders why her best friend is profusely apologizing to an animal that seems, at first glance, none the worse for wear. Steve slides it into the back and jumps into the driver’s seat, peeling out so fast that she barely has time to get into the vehicle herself.

“Steve, what the ever loving fuck is going on?”

Turning to him for the first time since the slapdash animal rescue, Robin’s mouth falls open in thinly veiled terror. Steve is drenched in blood and debris, remnants of fur and skin stuck to his gray shirt, slowly staining itself maroon and perfuming the air with a metallic tang. It’s too much blood to be from the accident, right? The animal was already injured when they clipped it; it had to be.

He doesn’t reply, electing to simply speed back to his house and run a bloodied hand through his hair frantically.

Robin faces forward and blinks.

She catches a flicker of something in the rearview mirror.

Wrong noises are coming from the backseat, terrible growls and low whines. The sound of joints popping in and out of place, muscles shifting and pulling taut beneath skin. Teeth scraping and grinding against one another.

It’s the pain that brings you to consciousness— knifing through your skull and making you want to vomit. Swallowing back bile and blood in your mouth, you want to rip yourself apart and keep ripping until there’s nothing left. Your jaw is moving unnaturally so, everything is wrong and you want to scream. Piping hot and burning, you’re sure you’ll spontaneously combust any second now when a hysterical shriek rends the air.

But not from you.

Steve is wholly unequipped to deal with his best friend’s nervous breakdown and a very naked what he can only assume werewolf dipping in and out of consciousness and bleeding out on the tile of his bathroom.

Between Robin’s blubbering and your soft murmurs, he can really only think to do one thing:

Call Eddie.

And that seemed like a good plan half an hour ago when he laid you in the bathtub and swaddled Robin in a smattering of blankets on the sofa downstairs.

But now, he’s not so sure.

Because Eddie strides into his house like god sent him to settle a score, wearing fury on his face in a way that could be considered cuttingly alluring, if not for the broken glass bottle digging into the skin of Steve’s neck as his back hits the wall.

“Give me one reason not to spill you guts all over your Nikes, Harrington.”

It’s more of a snarl than a request.

And what is there to say, really?

Sorry, I hit your werewolf best friend with my car after snooping around because for some ungodly reason I’m drawn to her and unable to control myself.

His hands and temples are covered in dried blood, dark and foreboding, crusted on his skin and hair and nails. To say nothing of his shirt, plastered to his chest and emanating a startingly metallic odor.

As if suddenly realizing this, Eddie blinks and loosens his grip on Steve’s shirt, palm coming away tinged in blood.

“What did you do?”

And, to be frank, Steve preferred Eddie’s rage to whatever this was, dread, he supposed.

“It was an accident.”

They both turn to the pile of blankets on the couch that is Robin. Only her face is visible, pale and dazed.

Eddie turns back to Steve with a look that could turn most people to stone, and yanks him up the stairs to the bathroom.

Greeted by a warm wall of steam, Eddie shoves Steve toward the sink with gruff instructions to find a first-aid kit. He crouches in front of you and murmurs in a soft voice. Languorously, you turn your head toward him with an easy smile, lips bloody.

“Hiya pal.”

Your voice is a croak, rough and jagged as it edges up your throat.

Eddie says nothing, rolling his lips between his teeth as his hands close in around your face turning it this way and that as gently as he can. The spray of the hot water has matted your hair impossibly at the back of your skull, rivulets coming back a translucent red on his palm. A large bruise blooms burgundy against your hip, splotchy and livid.

He leans you forward to survey your back, brushing away the rocks and dirt embedded into your skin and mindful of the raised red road rash. But none of that goes to explain the blood swirling down the drain— where is it coming from?

Steve stands awkwardly behind, red and white box in hand.

Elbows resting on your knees as Eddie continues his perusal of wounds, you shoot him a sleepy smile before your head falls to your forearms. The mad fluttering of your eyelashes as you battle to stay awake.

“She can sleep damn near anywhere,” Eddie mutters as your body goes lax in his arms, “Long as she knows she’s the deadliest thing in the room.”

“Is that, uh, safe?” Steve asks, handing the kit over as Eddie extends his hand.

“Safe enough. Help me turn her on her side, will ya?”

Both men let out a jarring gasp at the sight of the bite to your side. A festering and weeping thing, blood almost black as it skitters down your stomach and back. Steve’s mouth fills with saliva as he steps back and vomits. Eddie’s nostrils flare as he breathes steadily in and out, trying to piece out who or what could’ve done such a thing to you.

Steve spits a few times for good measure before gargling some mouthwash.

“I told you not to go in the woods.”

It’s about as subtle as a grenade, Eddie’s pointed accusation.

But that doesn’t make it any less true. If Steve would have just minded his own business, heeded Munson’s warnings, you wouldn’t be bleeding out in his bathtub right now.

“I-I know. I’m sorry.”

He leans back on his heels, a ringed hand coming up to pinch the bridge of his nose as Eddie methodically begins setting out bandages, antiseptic, and gauze.

“Can you thread a needle?” He asks around a wisp of silver clenched between his teeth and hands the needle and spool of thread to Steve.

“Yeah, sure.”

“And find her some clothes.”

“Uh huh.”

He hands the threaded needle back to Eddie with trembling hands, absolutely terrified at the gray pallor of your skin. The surface wounds stitching themselves closed, as blood seeps from mangled flesh curving along your side.

Steve haphazardly grabs a shirt and shorts, tossing them to the side as he’s hauled back toward the bathtub. In the few minutes of his absence, Eddie has worked quickly. Your wounds are scrubbed clean and bandaged, and he’s angled the showerhead to hit just beneath your wound having cleaned it prior.

“Okay Harrington,” Eddie begins, grabbing a switchblade from his pocket and pouring the antiseptic over the blade as it flicks open. “Here’s how it’s gonna go: the wound is too severe for a simple bandage and she’d bleed through it anyway. The only shot in hell we have is you staying close and using your blood to jumpstart her system. We’ll have to be quick—”

“Wait, what?”

“Because I’ll have to disinfect the bite before her were instincts kick in and she starts healing on her own. S’like jumping a car, no big deal.”

Stupidly, Steve doesn’t pull back his palm from Eddie in time, as the wet slice of the blade pierces his skin. It burns as the blood wells up from the cut, bright red and cascading down his hand. Eddie yanks Steve’s hand toward your partially open mouth, eyelids fluttering in your uneasy sleep.

He presses the heel of Steve’s palm to your lips until you subconsciously latch, the tips of your fangs grazing his skin. It’s horrifying, Steve thinks, how easily your tongue laps at the ruby red rivulets weeping from his broken skin. You hum contentedly, swallowing over and over again until he realizes that he’s gone all slack and whimpering.

Well, now that is just embarrassing.

“All right, champ,” Eddie says, pulling you off of Steve and he mourns the loss of the warmth of your lips.

You tip back against the porcelain and howl as Eddie pours antiseptic onto the wound that is rapidly stitching itself together on your side.

Steve falls with a thud against the wall, cradling his cut palm to his chest as he watches in holy terror as you magically revive before his very eyes.

“Blood of your blood.”

Eddie says this as if it could possibly explain anything.

“What?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

Steve can see the blood— his blood— as it warms your cheeks and lips, pumps life back into your muscles and arteries. And you must be a living nightmare torn straight from the depths of his mind, more wild than the wilderness skirting the edges of town, a cursed thing surely there to kill them all.

“She’ll be weak for a few days,” Eddie says, leaning back against the wall after he cuts off the water. “We’ll just keep her hydrated and fed and she’ll be right as rain in no time.”

Delirium must be setting in, because Steve finds himself nodding along to Eddie’s instructions. Allows himself to be tugged forward by the lanky man as he slices a near-identical cut into your palm.

“Drink, it’ll close up soon and you need your strength.”

Steve doesn’t even think twice about it, sinking his teeth into the meat of your palm and sucking. Every time your body tried to stitch itself back together, he draws forth another pull of garnet blood, precious droplets cascading down his jaw and neck, failing to stifle the noise trying to break free from his throat.

The room doesn’t so much as spin as it shifts, blurring out in haze and lights bursting like stars behind his eyelids. He tongues at your lifeline, gasping, slurping, and moaning until—

“Okay Romeo, slow it down there.”

Eddie grips the scruff of his neck like he’s an overexcited puppy and jerks him backward onto the cold tile floor.

“‘Kay,” He blinks lazily, mouth slick and painted a violent shade of red as he slumps to the floor.

Eddie eyes him warily, “Ya with us, Harrington?”

“Feel high,” Steve replies, still woozy and buzzing.

Before he can reply, you shake yourself awake and shudder in the cool air. You look around, everything too bright and smelling like you’d huffed the entire contents of a janitor’s closet. Someone tosses a shirt and shorts your way, and you slowly worm your way into the clothes. Skin feeling too tight and something smarting at your hip.

“Fuck,” A dazed voice says, sending a shiver down your spine. A hand gently touching the side of your face, blood smearing against your cheekbone as he turns your head. “Goddamn, you’re beautiful.”

Eddie scoffs from somewhere near, as your lips kick up in a smile. His thumb grazes the full of your lips, skirting against the pearly white of your fangs. And it’s only when you take in a lungful of Harrington that it all falls together.

Tearing yourself from the surging desire to nuzzle into his open palm, you bare your teeth and train your eyes on Eddie. Snarling to say:

“The fuck did you do.”

Because there was absolutely no way this human was somehow halfway to being your mate.

Not when you’d told your Guardian, who was smirking down at you now, that under no circumstances would that be happening.

He barks a laugh and shrugs as if to say, you were dying, what could I do?

You shakily stand, ignoring the crestfallen expression on Steve’s face, and amble out of the bathroom.

Life must have been some cruel joke, only to serve Steve Harrington, of all people, up on a plate and wave him in your face as something you could ever afford to keep.

A cutting slice of tragedy to give him some kind of forever, when you couldn’t even take care of yourself, much less a pack.

The words of the only father figure you’d ever known pounded in your skull as you hurried down the stairs and out into the balmy night:

This is a gift, it comes with a price.

You’re gone for what feels like days.

A span of time that finds Steve shaky and pale, nearly biting off the heads of everyone currently invading his house instead of answering their inane questions, until a voice in his head warns, Easy now.

Robin’s somewhat functioning, though not entirely recovered from the shock of the century; the revelation that werewolves exist. And that her best friend is fated to be with one.

She just about lost her mind when Eddie sat the pair of them down to explain things.

“Mates. What does that mean?”

She’d done most of the talking, since Steve hadn’t said a word since you left.

Eddie sighs and his eyes dart back and forth, as if he’s second guessing himself in sharing this information outside the pack, as ramshackle as it was.

“It’s like, having partner, I guess. But it’s predetermined biologically? We don’t really know how or why it happens, and it’s rare when it does.”

“So… not every werewolf gets a mate.”

“Well, I mean they can date and be with whoever they want, just like us. But if there’s a mate and the circumstances align just so…” He trails off and glances at Steve, guilt etched on his face. “It makes being with anyone besides your mate difficult.”

“How so?”

“Kind of like a bad break-up, but you both want to be together? There’s no physical ailment, but you just feel—”

“Abandoned.”

Eddie swallows and nods.

“And she just—”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” He cautions Robin. “She could come back, we don’t know. But, to be fair, I did kind of fuck it up.”

“Wait, hold on.” Robin extricates an arm from her swaddle of blankets and grabs Steve’s hand, “So you’re saying that she didn’t reject this whole thing?! She just ran out of here like a bat outta hell! How is that not a rejection?”

“It’s more complicated than that.”

“Okay,” she drawls, “And?”

Eddie sharks his head, “I really can’t say more than I already have.”

She scoffs, “That’s a fuckin’ lie and you know it.”

Eddie’s eyes cut back to Steve as he lets Robin run his thumb across his bandaged hand. His eyes almost looking through Eddie, far off and distant. It’s spooky, how quickly the light left him as you slipped out of the front door that night. How Steve could tell the instant it happened, jerking upright on the tile floor and Eddie watched as his body tensed, muscles coiling with adrenaline and no way to rid himself of it.

He scrubs a hand down the tired plane of his face, letting loose a beleaguered sigh.

“Look, I’m a Guardian, not a Scrivener alright?”

“Like we’re supposed to know what that means!” Robin hisses in reply, thumb worrying across Steve’s lax palm.

“I just gotta make a call, okay?” He says, rising to stand and roll his neck. “Stay with him until I get back.”

“Yeah,” She calls as he walks to the phone in the kitchen, fingers punching in the familiar set of numbers. “No shit, Sherlock!”

Eddie drums his fingers against the wall and hopes to God she picks up, because if he has to talk to her mother one more time—

“Hello, Wheeler residence,” She chirps down the line.

Eddie lets out a sigh of relief, his forehead resting on the cool wood paneling as he says, “Hey Nance, we’ve got a bit of a situation. Can you make it to Harrington’s place?”

It takes all of ten minutes for Nancy Wheeler to come barrelling in, her arms laden with books and giving Eddie a look that would strike lesser men dead on the spot.

“I could kill you Munson.”

“Yeah, yeah,” He says with a lazy wave of his hand, “Join the club Wheels.”

“I get first dibs,” Robin pipes up with her first smile of the evening.

“Guess I’ll settle for sloppy seconds then,” Nancy huffs, dropping the books on an ottoman. “I can’t believe you did this, going against not only her express wishes but Steve’s as well? Bet you didn’t even tell him what all this entailed and now look at him!”

Steve, for all the talk about him, says nothing. His face radiating heat and steadily becoming a vibrant pink.

“Is he,” Eddie begins, stepping closer. “Blushing?”

“Nah,” Robin says knowing best and laying a cool palm to his forehead, “That’s no blush, that’s a fever.”

The thing about Steve is that he rarely, if ever, gets sick. Had perfect attendance all through school, until he got caught skipping, because he’d never gotten the crud. So when he emits a full body shiver, Robin has no choice but to act.

His teeth are still chattering even after being hauled upstairs and smothered beneath blankets. And saying that Steve feels ill, or under the weather or even is inching toward death is a massive understatement.

He grunts beneath the sheets and blankets, socked feet sliding against the rumpled fabric. He aches from the top of his head to the toes of his feet, somehow his fingernails hurt. What is up with that bullshit?

And yeah, he’s supposed to stay in bed, he knows that. But he can’t see the door from up here and what if you come back, what then? What if you and Eddie get into it again and you storm out?

He’s not warming up any more up here than he would down there. At least, that’s what he tells himself as he thrashes beneath the covers and hobbles down the hall.

What Steve is not anticipating however, is to find his living room filled with the likes of Chief Hopper and his daughter El, a lanky older man that he doesn’t recognize, the Byers family, Lucas, Dustin, Mike, Max, Billy fucking Hargrove, and finally, you.

So, it’s not all that surprising when he slumps to a heap on the landing of the stairs.

Alright, okay, he passed out a little bit. What gives?

Well, in your opinion (which really is the only one that matters at present), Steve fucked up is what.

Not only did he get out of bed and drop like a sack of potatoes at the sight of what can only be described as a pack of people? Werwolves, who knows—in his house, but on the way down, he managed to knock his head on the banister and come to with someone half-shouting at him and half-shouting at everyone else in the room.

“If anything, this is Munson’s fault.”

“Shut the fuck up Hargrove,” Eddie sulks, “No one asked for the opinion of a drop-out meat-head.”

“That’s rich coming from you, super senior.”

“I swear to god—”

“Boy, you better settle down!”

“C’mon Wayne, I’m just—”

A low, warning growl cuts through the room.

Everyone has the common sense to look abashed, tail between their legs, and even Hargrove stubs out his cigarette.

“Cut that shit out.”

Angry eyes greet Steve as he groggily comes to. Irises bleeding milky white as you struggle to contain your baser nature.

“Are you alright?”

Each word is bitten and harsh, your teeth set in a tidy row against your plump lips.

He nods, wincing at the pain blooming in his temple. You continue to glare as you sit him upright, “You.”

Steve flinches, pain thudding dully in his skull, all too aware that there will be an audience at his execution if your expression is anything to go by. He opens his mouth to apologize, the sibilant ‘s’ on the tip of his tongue, until your eyes slice to his and stun him into silence.

“Don’t you even start.” With a sigh, you join him leaning back against the railing, hand falling uselessly between you. “This is all my fault. You wouldn't be in this mess if I had any lick of sense.”

It startles a laugh from him, how quickly you rush to accept the blame.

“Well, I did hit you with my car.”

“Oh, right,” You snort, “That.”

“Can I um,” He says haltingly, “What happened?”

Your head knocks once against the wood banister, “You were supposed to stay in bed.” Pulling your bottom lip between your teeth, you shrug. “Best I can guess is you were worried and got up. Only to be greeted with the shock of a lifetime by having a buncha weres in your living room.”

His lips form a silent ‘oh.’

“We’re not a pack,” You’re quick to clarify, “At least, not officially. And they’re not all weres, just most of ‘em.”

A comfortable silence falls between you, and Steve is placated, for now.

“Hey, boss?”

Though, he still can’t get over that Billy motherfucking Hargrove is in his living room and deferring to you. You merely turn your head before he says something about some vital information being left out of the welcome packets for tonight, and you sigh with a roll of your eyes.

“Sure Hargrove, lemme get Steve settled and we’ll get into it.”

You stand up pulling Steve with you, and he sees Billy nod before lighting up another cigarette and turning toward the window.

He’s insistent that he doesn’t need a babysitter, but that does nothing to stop Dustin from inviting himself into Steve’s room when you go down to sort things out with the not-pack. He feels marginally better, and maybe Eddie was right when he said proximity helps. He doesn’t feel as wrecked as he was earlier, and if anything, it’s getting a bit hot underneath all the covers on his bed.

“Don’t smother him, Henderson,” You grunt, sticking out your chin as you lean on the doorjamb an hour or so later, while Dustin continues piling blankets on Steve. “This isn’t Mommy Dearest, kid.”

Steve thinks it’s cute, the slight drawl in your voice as you scold him. It’s probably your not-pack voice, the lower register, and gruffness of it. Packmaster-mode, Dustin had called it, even though the title is technically Alpha. But no one calls you that to your face, something about not liking the moniker or responsibility of it.

“Alright punk, scram.”

Dustin does as he’s told, begrudgingly so.

“Y’know,” He says, pausing at the door, “You’ve got to work on your people skills.”

Flicking the hat off of his head and shutting the door in response, you turn back to Steve looking ready to throttle the pipsqueak.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” You sigh, slumping down on the bed.

“It’s his ego, right?”

You blow a raspberry and let out a humorless laugh, “Eddie says it’s his tone.”

“Hmm, yeah. That too.”

Steve shuffled over to make room on the bed and peeled the covers back in a huff. You’d kicked off your sneakers and snuck one leg under the sheets next to his, the other propped with your foot resting on the mattress.

“Oh my god, you’re so warm.”

“Yeah, we run hot. It’s a were thing.”

Steve doesn’t sag against you exactly—it wouldn’t make any sort of physical sense—but he feels like he does it metaphorically.

“Ugh, that must be brutal in the summer.”

“You’re tellin’ me.” You give him a small smile and let your arm graze his thigh. “But it’s not all bad.”

Steve picks idly at the fraying hem of his shorts, fingers itching for something, anything to do. He’s not mad, well, not exactly, but he is kinda keyed up.

“Can hear you thinkin’ in there.”

You crack an eye open, and he turns back, a blush dusting his cheekbones.

“It’s just—” He starts to say, falling silent as you sit up beside him, the legs of your shorts, which are unfortunately boxers he grabbed without looking, rise up to reveal the soft skin of your thighs. And your skin is the only thing soft about you, from what Steve can tell.

“You didn’t even give me a choice.”

The light in your eyes snuffs itself out. Your face falls as you take in what he’s just said.

You clear your throat, “It’s not much of a choice,” Voice soft and small, “Not really.”

Steve nods, rolling his shoulder and chewing on his lip.

“Look, I’m really sorry Steve, truly. And if there was a way I could go back and undo all of this, I would.”

A momentarily panic flares up in his chest. No, that's not what he— he didn’t mean it in that way. He frustratedly runs a hand through his hair, recalling how Nancy pointed out that communication had never been his strong suit.

“No, hold on. I didn’t mean—”

“It’s all fucked up now,” You admit, “Eddie knew how I felt about it and he went and did it, anyway. He claims it was done in my best interest, but he’s a smarmy motherfucker when he wants to be.” It all rushes out of you in the span of a breath, but now you’re on a roll and can’t stop, no matter the defeated expression on Steve’s face.

“He just like, dove straight in and started the Blood Rite without either of our consent, and now we’re stuck in this labyrinthian limbo from hell because you’ve had my blood and I’ve had yours. So how are we ever gonna know if any of this,” You wave frantically between your bodies as if it’s somehow proof, “Is a legitimate and purposeful choice or the result of fucking werewolf nonsense?!”

Well, Steve certainly wasn’t expecting any of that.

He looks at you, so directly it’s almost a challenge, the muscle in his jaw working steadily and you have to will your need to dominate deep down like the slumbering beast it is. But he’d look so pretty laid out and begging underneath you.

Ahem, another time maybe.

“You don’t wanna do this.”

“That’s not what I said.”

“No, but it’s what you meant.”

“Steve, no—”

“Heavily implied.” He spits, turning toward you and shifting up on his knees. “I’m not stupid, y’know.” Steve says, and seeing you caught off-guard like this has set something into motion that he just can’t get the precise nature of yet.

You swallow and drag your hand down your face, letting it settle across your lips as you study him. Keen eyes, a predator’s eyes following every movement as he spreads his legs wide, nearly straddling you but not quite.

“A part of you wants me.”

You're staring at the ceiling fan now, but your face has gone tight with frustration and something else.

“More than you should.”

One hand distractedly pushes the hair from your face, your mouth falling open to argue.

“Well?”

You swallow, pushing yourself up straighter. “I should go,” You say carefully, eyes rapt on Steve’s face. Responding more to the tone in his voice than anything else, and you chafe under the ease with which he wields it.

He doesn’t back down, which only stokes your ire. Steve’s close enough to touch, but remaining just out of reach, taunting that part of you that howls for him.

Well, two can play at that game.

Desire uncoils in your gut at a lazy pace, taking its time to pool beneath your navel. It shakes you alive, prompting you to disentangle yourself from the sheets wrapped about your ankles. Rising to your haunches as if readying yourself for a chase, Steve feels himself prickle hot all over just at the sight of it.

He licks his lips, and he’s so close that you can feel rather than see the slight shudder of his body. If you pushed just a bit harder, took in a little more atmosphere he’d fall like a house of cards.

And then, to the victor go the spoils.

Steve shakes his head and sighs, it’s such an infuriatingly him gesture that you’re nearly taken aback. But his gaze remains steady, just as his hands and heart do, the comforting da-dum, da-dum, da-dum of it drawing you closer and closer.

Normally, you’d find it endearing. So familiar that you can paint it with your eyes shut, but not tonight, not when you have the moon and him singing in your veins, emotions a bit fraught and not entirely your own.

Walking on your knees across the bed as if it’s a desert, and you’d spent hundreds of miles repenting, Steve stills.

Baring your teeth to smile wide and wild, “C’mere honey,” You croon, saccharine sweet. “I’ll play nice.”

He breathes your name, there’s no other word in his head.

Some things are fated, destined, and mapped in the stars, but nowhere is it said that these things need to be kind.

#steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #steve harrington fanfiction #steve harrington fanfic #stranger things fanfic #werewolf!reader #fic: itws #Spotify

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kentocee · 7 months ago

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Warmth • Geto x Fem!reader • (18+)

CW: smut ( shower sex, oral, (male recieving), slight degradation (use of whore and slut), Dom!Geto(he a lil mean wit it 🫣), slight choking, rough sex, unprotected sex, craampie, just slutty sex)

Cee’s Note: This pic of Geto is what spawned this filthy smut. Hope y’all enjoy :)

Song Cred: Warmth by Janet Jackson (this song is literally bout sucking dick UGH she is MOTHER)

[Minors do NOT interact; explicit content ahead]

Geto couldn’t tell what was warmer…

The hot water hitting his back from the shower head or the warmth from your hot tongue and the roof of your mouth sucking him like a straw.

All he knew is that this was exactly what he needed after coming back from a stressful mission with Satoru. After a long day of swallowing multiple curses all he wanted to do was watch you swallow his load.

He groaned as you began bobbing your head a little more frantically, your hand massaging his balls as you took him in deeper.

“Yeah suck it just like that,” Geto moans, one hand gripping your hair, the other clutching the wall of the shower.

The sight before you was glorious seeing Geto’s muscles and abs glistening with water droplets and his wet locks dangling in his face.

He was so beautiful.

He was shining like a god and only you could see him like this.

“Oh I’m cumming”, he grunted as he painted the back of your throat with his cum.

You gag slightly, feeling the hot liquid shoot down your throat. Your hands continued pumping him from the base, draining him for all he’s got.

“Swallow it all baby” Geto bit his lip as he pushed the strands of your hair out of your face loving the mess of cum and saliva smeared down your chin.

You popped off his dick and licked your lips, savoring the taste of the dark haired sorcerer’s cum.

Geto hummed, the sight making him hard again.

He placed two fingers under your chin, lifting you off your knees and up to his lips. He could taste his essence on your tongue as your tongues molded together in unison.

His hand lightly cupped your throat while your make out session continued. The kiss was so damn slutty but you didn’t care. Steam filled the air from the hot water making the air thicker around you. You couldn’t tell if the cloudiness you felt was from the steam or your lover’s kiss leaving you breathless.

“Turn,” he commanded, breaking your kiss.

You did like you were told and turned away from him, your ass pressed against his fully hard dick. Your cunt ached with need as you pushed your ass further against him, grinding yourself against him.

“My little whore, so needy for my cock”, he smirked

“Yes, I love your cock please fuck me Guru,” you whined pathetically, pushing your hips further against him.

He let out a low groan, you were practically begging for it.

He lifted your leg with one hand and other stroking his tip against your slick cunt, causing you to whine more impatiently.

He chuckled before finally pushing through your folds. The water from the shower providing extra lubricant as he sank into your pussy so effortlessly

Your eyes fluttered back as his thick member stretched your pussy so well. He wasted no time pumping his cock in you, causing you to cry out at the rough pace.

His grip on your thigh and the other around your neck tightened as he pounded into you with all his might.

“Gonna fuck you like the slut you are and you’re gonna take it” he grunted, tilting your head slightly to be met with your fucked out face.

“Yes, uh, ahhh only a slut for you,” you managed to choke out through his tight grip around your neck. You didn’t care how dumb you sounded. Your head was empty of thoughts other than his dick abusing your cunt.

The squelching sounds of skin against skin became more heightened mixed with the sound of the roaring shower.

He shoved his tongue down your throat, silencing your high pitched moans. His thrusts never faltered, but quickened as his pace became more sporadic, signaling he was close.

He brought his hand off your neck to rub your clit. The jolting pleasure from your clit and hitting your cervix caused you to have the most intense orgasm.

“Oh fuck, I-I’m…I’m” you couldn’t even finish your sentence as you cried out, the pleasure consuming you.

Geto cooed and talked you through it in your ear with soft “there you go” and “good girl”.

He fucked you through your orgasm, chasing his own until he grunted loudly and spilled in your cunt, filling you up.

He slowly pulled out of you, admiring his cum trailing down your legs.

“Look at the mess we made,” Geto chuckles

“Good thing we’re already in the shower”

#jjk #jujutsu kaisen #jjk x reader #jujustsu kaisen x reader #jjk fanfic #jjk geto #jujustsu kaisen smut #jjk smut #geto x y/n #geto smut #geto x reader #geto x you #geto suguru #geto x female reader #jjk suguru #suguru geto smut

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raynehmms · 10 months ago

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𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟏

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

You wake up out of your sleep, just getting to bed after your long ass shift at Chili’s. “There’s no way” you roll your eyes as you answer your phone, your best friend’s name displaying. “I can tell you were rolling your eyes.” She squints her eyes at you, “Yeah cuz u were on a date what happened?” You laugh lightly your red silk bonnet eliminating in the light of your phone. She rolls her eyes at the question. “First of mind yours.” You laugh and sit up in your silk lined blanket falling off your body to your waist. “Ill mind mine when you actually get somewhere. How long have you been moping round bout a nigga that cheated on you?? I love you but this has to stop. Like immediately.” You stare into her eyes and watch as she looks down her eyebrows furrowed as tears threaten to prick her eyes. “And don’t you start crying again, go take a shower and go to bed I’ll call you tomorrow okay?” She sniffs a little “you right I’ll talk to you later byeee” you hang up the phone and put it on the charger falling back asleep. You wake up a little late, realizing that you rush to get up, having the opening shift after closing was hard as hell but you need the money so…who are you to complain? You take a quick shower and throw on a fresh uniform rushing out your house and damn near sprinting to your bus stop making sure not to miss the bus.

Couple hours later…

“Y’all niggas need to hurry up fo I leave y’all ass.” Ony says closing his car door. “You ain’t gon leave us.” Connie laughs. “Wanna bet?” Ony adjusts his hat and sunglasses as walks up to the Chilis , the rest of the group following behind. Adorning the same hat and glasses as he did. The bell jingles above the door as they walk in immediately getting bombarded with noise of families and waitresses rushing around the busy restaurant. “Hi how many people?” You say not looking up from the tablet In front of you already hearing the jingle. “Uhh 5 people, can we get a table away from people.” He lowers his head, his hat coving the view of his face. “”Weirdo”” you think, “well right now we are kind of busy so it’ll be hard for me to find a table away from people.” You look up at him and sigh, the tines from working to closing the previous night and opening this morning were hitting you like a truck. “We have a table it’s not clean right now but as soon as it is I’ll let you know. Can I get a name and number?” You look at him. “Uhhh well just go to table right now and you can clean it when we get over there.” You scoff, “that’s not my job sir, but whatever you like.” You shrug your shoulders and grab 5 menus and walk them to a dimly lit table in the corner of the restaurant. “I’ll be back give me a minute please.” You walk away as they sit down and ask the busser to clean the table and let the waiter know you sat a group in their section. You walk back up to the hostess booth, in the process walking past their table. “Aye can we get some water over here??” Connie yells a little. “Aye shit the fuck up, you the reason we got caught last time.” Jean rolls his eyes. You sigh and walk back over to them. “Sure by waiter will be with you shortly, anything else.” Annoyance lacing your tone. “Damn she fine asf.” Jean whispers just enough for you to hear making you roll your eyes. It also causes most of the group to look up at you. Ony’s eyes widened before settling back in the street outside. He speaks up. “Nah that's it, I wouldn't want to waste yo time.” You huff as you walk away walking to the waitress in that section, Aj. “Can you get table 14 some water so they can stop bothering me?” “You okay?” She asked, concerned. “Yea my head hurts a little, I’ll be ight almost time for me to go anyways.” You walk away and go back to the hostess area, sitting there doing nothing to your relief besides saying bye to the passing customers that are leaving the restaurant. After 2 hours or so you finally see the last group before you clock out and walk towards the hostess desk, Ony stopping before he walks out. “My bad for all the bs they be on. Can I get yo number? Maybe I can repay you or sum?” You laugh sarcastically. “Nah you good, have a nice night though.” You gesture towards the door not looking up, and clocking out via the tablet in front of you. And you walk away.

To clock out and grab your coat and bag from the locker, locking it after and walk out the staff entrance looking up at the bright sun as you slip your headphones into your ear and plug them into your phone playing the same playlist you’ve listened to since you were in middle school, and take out a pre roll you’ve had in your small ouch you keep in your bag for times of feeling down and drained like now. You walk to an abandoned park near your house and light your blunt while sitting on a bench away from the eye of people.

As you inhale you think of all the things that frustrated you that day, causing you to clench you unoccupied hand in anger, as you exhale you let it all go, realizing you have so much left of your day to be dwelling on stupid people with bland taste buds, you would know, you’ve tried the food at your job and to say there was no black people as cooks was obvious due to the unseasoned food they gave you. You put the blunt to your lips and continue smoking, not paying attention to the nature surrounding you, in your own world waiting for the bad memories to become numb to you, and the blissfulness to take over.

Word count: 1058

A/N- FIRST CHAPTER ngl I did take some inspiration from a Wattpad book I read a couple weeks ago cuz it was stuck in my head but nothing is completely direct (strike out by AMPj101 on wp)

#black reader #onyankopon x black reader #onyankopon x black y/n #onyankopon fluff #onyankopon x reader #aot onyankopon #black yn #fanfic #spotify #aot x black reader #aot x reader #aot x y/n #aot x female reader #aot x black y/n #aot x poc!reader

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the-californicationist · 11 months ago

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Guile & Guilt (Ch. 08)

Soap/Reader — MDNI 18+

Sorry for the wait as usual. Hope y’all can forgive me!

/:/:/:/:/:/:/

FEBRUARY — FRIDAY: 7 days until the wedding

In the month or so after Christmas, your relationship with Johnny had progressed considerably. He was on a particularly challenging tour, but you only heard about his work in sparse mentions. Most of his conversations were centered around your relationship “after we tell Pidge”.

It was all he wanted to talk about.

“After we tell Pidge, we can look for a place together in Glasgow. What do you say, lass?”

“After we tell Pidge, we can take trips with them. Always wanted to see Iceland.”

“After we tell Pidge…”

And on and on and on. It wasn’t that you weren’t excited to be with him. You adored him, and he seemed to feel the same way about you. But, telling Pidge was scaring you out of your damn mind. In the worst case scenario, you’d be losing your best friend and the man that you…

Careful, that dark voice was back in your head , don’t want to say the word, huh?

The man that you… liked a considerable amount. Not love. Love was a commitment. You were not in love.

The dark voice cackled. You ignored it.

You were going to see him this weekend for the combination stag and hen party, and you could think of little else. But, you had plenty to work on. As the maid of honor, this was your time to shine. You needed to prepare for more than just seeing Johnny. In fact, you were about to have six girls at your tiny apartment for a slumber party tomorrow night. The whole 600 square feet of your place was decorated in gold glitter and streamers. There were big B-R-I-D-E letters above your bed, and a giant inflatable diamond ring was propped up on your futon. You’d already sprayed Marlowe twice with the water bottle for threatening it with her claws.

Tonight, though, you were alone. You had asked Johnny if he would fly in early, but he hadn’t been able to confirm. So, you were sitting on your bed, staring at your phone, dressed only in his shirt, praying for some miracle.

You stayed up as late as you could, but still no call.

SATURDAY — Early morning: 6 days until the wedding

Your phone buzzed where it lay against your chest. You slowly awoke, and it was still dark outside. Bleary and only semi-conscious, you picked it up without looking at the screen,

“Hello?” You croaked.

“Mo mèirleach,” he whispered, “Open the door, hen. It’s fuckin’ frigid.”

“What?” You didn’t understand. Johnny was outside? You looked at the clock. It was 0311.

“I’m downstairs! Buzz me up.”

You did, and then you waited, waking up more and more as you stood in the kitchen, drinking some water to clear your dry throat.

He knocked softly, and you let him in. Immediately, and without so much as dropping his rucksack, he pulled you into his arms. You smelled his sweat, a strong hint of fire or smoke, and something you couldn’t quite place. It was almost like gasoline, but not quite. He’d come straight from the field.

“Hey,” he pressed his forehead to yours and kissed you gently, smelling your skin and nuzzling into your hair.

“Hey,” you smiled up at him, hugging him a little tighter.

Having him back was making you feel like no time had passed at all. He held you just as he did when he told you goodbye in December, and now, all of January felt like some wasted dream.

You looked behind him,

“Where are the others? I thought you said they’d be coming to the party this weekend.”

“Put them up at a wee hotel. The Indigo, just a few blocks away. But, I’ve been sleepin’ on the fuckin’ floor too many nights, now. And I wanna be in my woman’s arms instead.”

His woman. Your heart clenched in your chest. He noticed your emotional response to his words; always the observant one. His smile felt so good, even though he had caught you in his snare,

“Aye. You’re my woman, aren’t you?”

Huge, rough hands warmed your skin as they snaked underneath your shirt, reaching up across your belly, finding your hanging breasts and squeezing them ever so gently.

“Shower with me, lass. I’m right filthy.”

“Alright,” you nodded, and he pulled your shirt off the rest of the way, discovering the nothing you were wearing underneath.

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” Johnny lamented, holding you at arm’s length to study your skin and curves with a deep admiration, “Look at you, mèirleach. Sometimes, I wonder if I’m dreamin’.”

You led him to the bathroom, which you doubted was big enough for the both of you, and he stripped off all of his dirty clothes. You helped him, peeling him apart, layer by layer, discovering him in pieces.

His broad chest filled your vision in the tiny washroom, and you latched onto his nipple, tasting the salt from his sweat as you did and listening to him moan. He laughed from the sudden sensation of it,

“It’s sensitive, lass. Easy…”

Your eyes found his, showing him that you knew what it felt like, and you did not relent. You enjoyed watching him squirm beneath you, his hands resting on the side of your neck, threatening to pull you away when he became overwhelmed.

You gave him a break, kissing across his tattooed ribs and over his belly. He lifted your face up to his, pressing you against the bathroom counter, growling in whispers at you,

“Careful, thief. Don’t go givin’ me ideas.”

“What kind of ideas, Johnny?” You teased, dragging his boxers down over his plump ass to squeeze his cheeks in your hands.

“Ideas about what I’d like to put in that fuckin’ mouth of yours.”

He grabbed your hand and shoved it onto his hard cock, still covered by his boxer briefs, the fabric askew and taut, ready to come off.

“See what you fuckin’ do to me, thief?”

You smiled, staring down at the evidence of what you had done to him. You took his hand and slowly moved it between your legs, letting him curl and experimental finger up just far enough to dip into your wetness.

“See what you do to me?”

He shuddered, his body falling forward, and he caught himself with his free hand on the countertop, pinning you beneath him. He was playing inside of you with his fingertip, as achingly slowly and gently as could be, barely moving it, basking in your warmth. His face contorted into a twisted grimace, and he grunted,

“Fuckin’ hell, mèirleach. Get in the damn shower, or I’ll have you right here, lass.”

The shower curtain rings hissed across their metal rod as he followed you inside. You washed your hair, and you used your soapy hands to wash his. The soap turned brown with dirt and sand, and you made a face, laughing,

“Johnny! You are filthy.”

“Yeah, we ran into some trouble at the end of our mission. Lost contact with base. Had to camp in the wee mountains for a few nights, tryin’ not to freeze to death.”

“Holy shit…”

You pitied him, using your vanilla scented soap to scrub down his body for him, letting him be treated to your sudsy massage.

“Knowin’ I was comin’ back to you kept me goin’. I dreamt about this wee shower, hen. Even Ghost was surprised that I was able to keep my whingin’ to a minimum. But, I knew you were here and I wasnae gonna let anythin’ stop me from comin’ home to you.”

He bent to kiss you, and you kissed him back, letting the water wash over you both, bathing you in the heat of each other. He pulled away, grinning like he’d won something, and you felt the blush rise into your cheeks.

You made the hand signal for him to turn around and he spun, giving you his wide back, planting both of his hands on the wall like you were going to search him.

You started at his neck, washing away days of dirt and grime, feeling his swollen muscles pull and push against his bones. He had a new tattoo on his spine. It was a little Gaelic word that you couldn’t read.

With your fingertip, you traced over the black ink, softly rubbing over the raised skin, healed but fresh. He stilled, realizing you’d noticed it.

“Gealladh. It means ‘promise’.”

You wiped it clear of soap and lay your lips to it, kissing it softly, making him tremble beneath you. You tried to pronounce it, whispering it against his skin.

The rest of the shower went quickly, and by the time you were clean, he was ready to get dirty again, fondling you and rubbing across his curved length hungrily.

He wrapped you in your towel and watched you braid your hair, kissing your neck and sharing your toothbrush. You tried not to be grossed out by it, but you made a face and he rolled his eyes, spitting out the paste into your sink and trying to kiss you with his messy lips. You giggled, leaving him in the bathroom to finish up.

The cool air in your apartment made you clamber to get under the covers, eager to warm up and anxious for him to join you. He sauntered out of the bathroom looking like some Greek god, wet and tanned, tattooed and scarred, fresh from the bonds of war.

He threw his towel down with yours and climbed into bed next to you, curling you up in his arms, sighing with the most delighted contentment. His big jaw pressed into the side of your neck, looking for purchase, and he began to suck and lick at your skin, traveling down your shoulder to your nape, sending shivers down your arms.

“Did you miss me, mo mèirleach?” His voice was so quiet, you could barely hear him.

“I did, mo chridhe,” you whispered back, turning your body to face him.

He took both of your hands in both of his and kissed your forehead. All of his sexual overtones and lurid advances in the shower had somehow been washed away, and as the orange blush of dawn came through your window, he looked changed. His hair was soft, the mohawk all grown out and curling at the tips, his eyes glassy and full of something that looked suspiciously like hope.

“I know this has been hard on you, lass. I’ve been more than just a wee bit selfish, and I want you to know I’ll make it right. I promise you that. Do you hear me?”

You nodded, pressing your cheek to his chest, inching closer to him. He wrapped you in a tight hug, holding you too close.

Did you believe him? Would everything work out for the best? Or were you continuing down a path that would lead to ruin? How easy it was for him to convince you of the opposite. He could lead you like a lamb to the slaughter, and you’d go willingly, bleating up at him with all your love and affection as he pushed you into the chute.

His arm became heavy, and you heard his breaths lengthen in his chest, and you knew he was asleep. You had an alarm set, so you curled up in his warmth, letting him doze, allowing yourself to sink into the murky blackness of sleep along with him.

SATURDAY — Lunchtime: 6 days until the wedding

Johnny had changed into something clean and left you in bed, kissing your face and promising all sorts of filthy things to you after the bar crawl tonight. He begged you to dance with him when you wound up at the club, washing away your worries about Pidge, claiming she’d be too drunk to notice. You rushed him out, warning him she’d be here for lunch, and washed your sheets.

Sure enough, your phone rang and Pidge was outside your apartment, screaming with six other girls to be buzzed up not an hour after Johnny left, and you breathed a sigh of relief they’d missed each other coming and going.

You had the whole day planned out. Lunch was at a little cafe near the river, perfect for a photo op or two. Then, you’d booked a nail salon for mani-pedis for the whole squad. After that, it was back to the apartment to put on your faces before going “out-out”.

For the most part, the day had been a wild success. Pidge was already a little tipsy from the non-stop mimosas, and even though your bank account had seen better days, it wasn’t that bad. Now, you were in the middle of the evening ferality. Someone had ordered a pizza and there was hairspray in places you didn’t think hairspray could go. Marlowe was hiding in her cubby under your bed, and you were already done getting ready.

You’d told everyone it was black and white themed. Ham and Pidge would be in white, with all of you in black, and the goal at the end of the night was for them to find each other by hopping from bar to bar. The stag would chase the hen through downtown Glasgow, and you’d planned to have them all end up at The Berkeley Suite.

There were girls everywhere. It was like a bomb had gone off in your apartment, and there wasn’t really a space for privacy except for the bathroom (as long as you shooed everyone out of it first).

“I’ll just be a second!” You shouted over the thumping music, closing the door behind them.

You took care of business and spent a brief minute checking your phone. You had two texts from Johnny, and when you opened them, your breath caught in your throat.

Mo Chridhe: open this when youre alone thief

Mo Chridhe: blacksuit.jpg

Johnny had sent you a mirror selfie of his outfit, and he looked stunning. You couldn’t believe it was him. You’d never seen him so dressed up. His hair was shaven on the sides, the mohawk back to its full potential, and his suit was a gorgeous black with velvet lapels and a gold chain between the button holes. He wore no tie, instead letting the first two buttons hang open rakishly, showing off his tanned chest.

You texted him back:

You: you are still so damn hot lol

Mo Chridhe: show me you

You obeyed, taking a racy selfie in the bathroom mirror just like he had done. You showed off your cleavage , and the short, high cut of the dress as it hugged your ass. You tried your best to be pouty, just like all the Instagram models, but you weren’t sure if you succeeded.

Mo Chridhe: i might be the luckiest cunt alive or im dreamin

You: lol ;)

Mo Chridhe: ham might be chasin pidge all night but ill be chasin you

You smiled down at your phone before closing the app and returning to the fray.

Glittered, glammed, and ready for a night of debauchery, you took your phone off its charger and made your way out into the cold evening air. Pidge had brought a jacket, but Cherise had decided to go without, claiming that hot girls didn’t get cold. You were definitely cold, so you wondered what that implied.

The first stop was The Variety Bar. You had texted Johnny and told him to warn you before their first bar choice so that you could pay the tab and bolt before Hamish could put his hands on Pidge. But, it didn’t really work out like that. You had all ended up as one big group, and spent most of the time jokingly keeping them from kissing each other. Price held up a wet coaster between their mouths which sent Pidge coughing and spitting, causing enough of a ruckus that you decided to move to the next spot.

Johnny sat with you at the bar while you paid, trying his best to keep his hands off of you.

“Lookin’ like a right goddess tonight, you are.”

“Stop it,” you smiled, “No flirting allowed while your sister is literally right behind us.”

“Och,” he shook his head, “She’s in her own wee world. Where to next, lass?”

You slid the check back to the bartender and thanked him, turning to Johnny and smirking triumphantly, knowing he still needed to pay before he could follow you,

“Don’t you hunt people for a living? Come and get me.”

You left him at the bar, frozen with a delightful look of surprise on his face. You found Pidge and the other girls outside.

“Alright,” you smiled, “Onward. Let’s head over to Max’s.”

“Oh, God,” Anjali sighed, “You really want her to blackout, huh?”

“Fuck it! Max’s it is, ladies!” Pidge screamed.

Everyone cheered and marched on after her. She cuddled into your arm as you walked,

“Thank you so much for this, babes. You’re the best friend a girl could ask for, you know that?”

“You are, too,” you kissed her on her temple and squeezed her arm a bit tighter.

By the time you’d had two drinks at Max’s, Hamish’s clan found you again. Gaz was the one who spotted you through the window, holding his hands up to the glass and pointing you out.

“Uh oh,” you smiled, “Last call, girls.”

Cherise laughed,

“I don’t know why we’re running. Might as well just party with them.”

“It’s tradition, right?” Bekah rolled her eyes.

“Well,” Pidge shrugged, “You all can wait here then, if you prefer the boys to me.”

“No! Pidge, that’s not it, babe,” Cherise protested.

Pidge drunkenly waved her off,

“It’s fine, no worries. See you at Berkeley’s. How about that?”

Pidge stormed off out the door, and you followed behind trying to get her to calm down. She eventually did, drinking the water you had bought for her. But, that was how the group got split. Half the boys ended up with you and Pidge and Anjali, and the other half waited at Max’s until the happy hour rounds were over.

You’d gotten all settled in at Berkeley, listening to the loud club music, letting the high of your buzz wash over you, trying not to think about how nice it would be to have Johnny here, dancing with you like he promised.

Then, Pidge realized she forgot her jacket, so she sent you back to the other bar. You left her with Gaz and Ghost, and Price wandered out into the street with you.

“‘Bout time Hamish finally caught his hen anyway,” you speculated as you walked with him.

“Aye,” he agreed, “And maybe your stag as well.”

Your eyes darted up to him and then checked over your shoulder, just to make sure Pidge wasn’t behind you.

Price continued,

“Are you sure keepin’ him a secret is the right thing? He’s dyin’ to tell her. Fuck, he was tellin’ people he didn’t even know about you.”

You smiled,

“Yeah, I know. I just want the wedding to be about her. Nothing is ever about her, you know? She deserves to have a day where she doesn’t need to consider other people’s feelings for once.”

“What about your feelings?” Price asked.

You didn’t answer him. You just shrugged and kept walking. Suddenly, you heard screaming behind you,

“Wait! Wait up!”

Pidge and the rest of the crew rushed over to you and Price.

“What’s wrong?” You asked.

“We’re gonna surprise Hamish this time,” Pidge smiled, pulling out a big confetti popper from her purse.

“Oh, God,” you grinned, looping your arm through hers and dragging her along.

Nothing was going according to plan that night, but you were so tired that it was hard for you to care. You weren’t even sure if Hamish’s group was still at the other bar, and you hadn’t heard a thing from Bekah or Cherise.

Finally, you made it back to Max’s. Just as you were about to open the door, it burst open and out poured Johnny, tangled in Bekah’s arms. She was giggling and kissing his cheek, leaving streaks of purple lipstick all over his freshly shaven skin. He was holding her close to him, his fingers digging into her side so tightly.

You knew what that felt like.

You gasped, stepping back, stunned. He looked right into your eyes and stopped. The whole world came to a grinding halt. All of the time that you had spent together seemed to lay out in front of you, prostrating itself, and being found unworthy. You felt nothing. Just a creeping numbness that leaked into your core, a fire burning without kindling, unable to be extinguished.

“Och, Jesus and all the fuckin’ saints,” Pidge threw her hands up, “Couldnae even wait until after the party to get your hands into one of my mates, could you? Arsehole. Get outta the way.”

“No, tha’s not it, Pidge!” He frowned, “Bekah doesnae —”

“Bekah, what?” Pidge spat in his face, “Bekah doesnae care that you’ll turn up next month or next year or next week in a box with the wee Scottish flag draped over it? Okay. Now, move yourself from the door, Jonathan.”

Bekah was sort of octopusing herself around him, wrapping her arms around his neck and shoulders, sucking on his earlobe, caring very little about the Scottish flag no matter where it was draped.

Johnny was trying to fight her off now, suddenly angry at Pidge,

“What did you just say to me, Brigette?”

“Oh, shut up! You’re just like your da, and you’ll end up dead like him, too. See?” Pidge turned to you suddenly, eyes wild with fury, “This is why I warned you, Johnny MacTavish is a fuckin’ widowmaker. And that’s all he’ll ever be.”

She finally made it around her brother and wrenched the door open, disappearing into the club. Johnny still had Bekah in his arms, and you couldn’t be there anymore. You turned and walked in the direction of your apartment, miles away but hell-bent on getting back there.

“Hey! Wait! Thief, please. This isn’t what it looks like,” his voice was cold and distant. You didn’t turn around to listen. You weren’t sure what it looked like, but you didn’t need to see it to know how it felt.

Johnny could have Bekah. He was allowed to have her. He was not allowed to have you, and you couldn’t have him. That much was clear now. You should’ve listened to your friend. You’d known all along, hadn’t you?

“Wait, mèirleach!”

You spun on him like a snake, striking out sure and true,

“Don’t fucking call me that.”

He could see in your eyes that you were serious, venomous as you were in your delivery. His eyes looked desperate, like a kicked dog, but he didn’t let her go. She smiled and waved at you, looking drunker than you’d ever seen anyone look. You tasted the bile in your mouth from your disgust.

Price jogged to keep up with you, and he grabbed your arm,

“Wait, girl. Just wait a second.”

You jerked your hand away and hailed a cab that was pulled over on your side of the street. You climbed in and shut the door, begging the cabbie to drive quickly, and he did. You stared out the window, watching all of the lights blind you as they seared into your eyes, burning the images you’d seen that night brightly into your memory.

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Chapter 09

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