#did you know sticky part of pad goes on bottom

[thesevro]

So I read desert rose and loved it. It gave me an idea for an imagine where Sukuna and the reader kinda have a relationship like Hades and Persephone. They meet at first, not fond of each other, but they start to understand each other and slowly they fall in love. Not just any love but one that's so deep that it envelops them, a love so deep its embedded into their soul. You can add smut if you want, I don't mind. I just thought that this would be amazing!

thank you for the first request i’ve received here on tumblr!! 

this shit actually turned out longer than i thought it would. i got a little carried away. ahuhuhu~~ hope you enjoy this anon bby!! 

WARNINGS: mentions of rape, sukuna calls you a whore and a slut AWOOGA, explicit smut

---

“No man has ever survived that curse.”

Her laugh cuts the air. It is dangerous. Snorting and derisive. The absolute opposite of the slack-jawed shock on his tattooed countenance.

“Well, then it’s a good thing I’m not a man.”

Her hands spin in a small, tight circle, focusing the cursed energy in the tiny space of power she traces with her hands. She stares at the man with unblinking eyes. Bears insults down on him with the laughter in her eyes.

“You fucking bitch,” he seethes, hissing at the scorn curling her mouth. He does not need his hands to form his own curse. It only takes another vilifying look at her for one more curse to fly in her direction. He breathes an aggravated breath through his nose as one of her servants takes the shot instead, performing the same technique with their own hands.

“Ooh, that one was a little weaker, don’t you think?” she mocks, then turns to her servant with a pleased smile on her lips. “Good boy.”

The boy simpers at the praise, leaning into the touch the woman pets onto his head. Sukuna loses control at the casualness, the apathy. To have such inferior, lowly beings smile in his presence…  for them to have the fucking nerve to even meet his eyes…

He is the King of Curses. Whoever the fuck it is this woman may be, he knows he has to put her and her proletarian flunkeys in their damn places.

His four hands tremble as a wild rush of cursed energy pulses through his veins. A manic grin cuts his frown into a smile.

I’m going to fucking kill you.

But in the next moment, his hands begin to tremble for a wholly different reason. His blood goes cold.

“You know, you aren’t that bad-looking for someone with two faces and a mouth on their stomach.” The woman traces the frowning tincture of a smile on his stomach, arm raised into the air in order to reach it. She almost stands on her tip-toes. Even with her diminutive stature she seems to be the most powerful in the obliterated room. 

When did she—?

“If you accept defeat, your highness…” A sharp, sardonic quip comes to make him fraught with wrath, “Then I might just let you live and have you become one of my menials instead. You could do plenty with those four arms of yours.”

Her fingers have opened the mouth on his stomach. Now she only tries to prick the pads of her strong fingers on the razor-edged ridges of teeth there, awaiting his answer with easy patience. Her hand grows sticky with his slobber.

“She could kill you in seconds, King,” the boy from earlier speaks up. “Could just grab that tongue in your stomach and wrench it upward ‘till the tip of it comes out one o’ your eye sockets.”

“Oh, don’t spoil my fun Jackie,” she says, still playing with the mouth on his abdomen. “I was planning to keep it a surprise for our man here.”

“I’ll be part of your fucking band of delinquents,” he interrupts, locking eyes with the woman, head lowered. “But you will make me the superior of the rest of your blue-collared pack of idiots.”

“You’re going to have to work for that, Ryomen-chan.” She flashes a smile at him. Her hand slips further into the mouth on his abdomen. He knows what she’s doing. Tempting him into trying to bite her hand off, if only so she could acquire an excuse to kill him.

And no one. No one fucking gave her the authority to call him Ryomen-chan.

“I don’t fucking care,” he snaps back at her, grabbing her hand before quickly relaxing his grip. He falters ever so slightly as something in her eyes goes dark, then with a begrudging gentleness slips her hand out of the mouth. “I’m already part of your ragged band of lackeys, bitch. So fucking tell me what it is you me to do.”

---

He hates her with his entire being. With each day that passes he thinks of slitting her throat open and raping her as she dies. It is a train of thought that has been of much prominence since he was forced to join her group of brainless monkeys.

And he hates this, too, but he can’t say it’s all that bad. It’s much better than letting the bitch climb onto his shoulders and stand on his head to gain the elevated vantage she constantly insists is necessary to scout the area. When she has the ability to fucking fly. Fucking dumbass. 

So, yes. This isn’t… as demeaning as the rest of the orders she gives him.

“No, Ryomen-chan, you’re supposed to twist that strand over the middle one—oh, you’re hopeless.” 

Scratch that.

“That is the middle strand, bi—Ms. (Y/N),” he disguises the anger shaking in his voice with a call of her title, then shoves the strands of hair between his fingers to the front of her face. “Are you fucking blind?”

“As opposed to your deluded delusion, Ryomen-chan, this is the middle strand.” She holds a lock of her hair, plucking it from between his fingers. Something thumps in his chest as her fingers brush his palm. “Are you blind? Now that would be a horrible addition to your already damaged brain.”

“Let me fucking try again then. Give it here.”

Jeez. No one said styling a woman’s hair would be this… toilsome. 

“No, let me show you how to do it, Ryomen-chan. Sit down.” 

His knees bend as she shoves him down onto the plush pillow she uses when presenting herself as the Queen of Curses (a title he finds himself unable to contradict, fuck). His brows furrow and he turns back to protest but she only grips his chin in her fingers, her eyes meeting his, and snaps his head forward. 

“I said let me show you.” 

Something thuds in his chest again. He wills for it to shut the fuck up.

Her hand falls from his face, though her fingers stroke the bottom of his chin with the fleeting touch of danger before her hand moves to twine into his hair. He sits still, the breathless tightness in his chest soon giving way to ennui as he watches her braid his hair from the mirror. He finds himself observing the way her eyes glaze over with focus as she styles his hair. For the quickest second he wonders how hazy her eyes would go with him inside her.

“Alright, done. Did you take notes, Ryomen-chan? That was an important… lesson…” 

Her voice falters. He looks back at her and finds her eyes on his legs. Particularly on something protruding from between his thighs.

“Sukuna... I just braided your hair—”

“Not. Another. Word.” 

---

The first time he slides inside her, it’s like fucking himself into heaven.

He makes no sound as he fucks her, as she lets him fuck her, but everything in his head has blurred together to narrow his vision to only the sight of her beneath him.

He’s missed fucking women. Missed being inside them. He hates the fact that she is better than any bitch he has ever shoved his cock into.

He tries to keep his head in the crook of her neck. But then her legs hook together from around his waist, fingers curling into the hands he’s pinned to her wrists, and she’s moaning like the bitch in heat she really is. The curiosity to watch her face as he fucks her overwhelms him completely.

The touch she shares with his hands is more intimate than it should be. It’s as if his hands keep her grounded, keep her here with him as he makes her cum. 

Her back arches, and a third hand of his grips the small of her back to keep it arched, so that her stomach touches the mouth on his own abdomen.

For some fucking reason he wants to give her all the pleasure he can. Make her go cross-eyed. Fuck her 'till she goes stupid with sex.

He lets the mouth on his stomach fall open. The tongue there is long enough to slide between their bodies, wet enough to slither between them with ease. He smirks with the smile of a devil as the Queen of Curses, his only superior, cries out in pleasure as the tip of his tongue curls around the free space between their joined bodies. His tongue flicks her clit. Dips inside her to join the fullness of his cock. His eyes shut in lazy pleasure as she squeezes him tighter.

She has the body of a virgin. He can tell she’s only been touched once or twice in the past, judging from the way her dominance had fluctuated the moment she finished undressing him. Her touches were hesitant. Apprehensive. But for some reason she had also sought his pleasure, had taken his cock in her mouth and sucked not like an inexperienced little village girl but a masterful whore. 

He says it now, “The Queen of Curses, Ms. (Y/N), now the desperate bitch of her King.” A chuckle rumbles in his chest as she trembles in the wash of her fourth orgasm. He knows how many she’s had. He’s been counting; plans to give her ten. “A slut in the sheets, a queen in the streets. How delightful.”

And this, this makes the slut cum. 

And when she does, her authority returns. With a look of glaze-eyed intoxication in her eyes, she pushes his behemothic body off her, and rides him until he finally says her name. 

And at that point, he knows not whether he is her whore, or she is his. All he knows is that it’s fucking good to be inside her, and that she sounds and feels better than any other hole he's fucked.

The next time he fucks her, there are braids in her hair. 

[retrievablememories]

too good to you | ten (m)

title: too good to you pairing: ten x black reader, slight xiaojun x reader genre: smut, angst, fwb-2-lovers summary: being friends with benefits is fun until it’s not. because you’ve always loved him, and you can’t pretend anymore. word count: 5.4k warnings: ten and reader being messy bitches who live for drama, conflict/arguing, cursing, oral sex, face sitting, fingering, protected sex a/n: the sequel to just as friends. i have absolutely not felt like writing fic the last few weeks, but i figure i should post something soon so...why not this fic since y’all will not let me live about it lmao

the whole first part of this fic was inspired by That One Ten Fancam because i saw some stans saying he looked mad during it. yep. that’s literally it. also, that scene with xiaojun is pretty self-indulgent but you ain’t hear it here

song recs: bussit - ari lennox | too good - drake & rihanna | hit different - sza & ty dolla sign

➤ tennie🐱: can i come over ? ➤ tennie🐱: actually i’m already on the way so

➤ y/n: thanks for the advance notice 🙄🤕

The sudden message doesn’t give you much time to get ready, but you do what you can before he gets to your place. When he messages you like this, you know he’s upset and is looking for your special type of comfort.

When Ten shows up on your doorstep, he’s still wearing his makeup and hairstyling from earlier that day; you know they’d had a stage performing Kick Back. The only indicators of his restless mood are the slight twitch of his lips and the weary expression in his eyes, which you don’t even get a good look at before he has his mouth on yours and is backing you into your house.

You kiss him back for several moments until you have to separate yourself from him so you can actually close the front door, because his hand is already ascending up your shirt and you don’t need to give the neighbors an eyeful. “I don’t know why you didn’t take the makeup off, it’ll just get fucked up anyway.”

“Because it looks good on me,” Ten responds, like it’s too obvious for words.

You roll your eyes and giggle. “Hmm...well, you’re not wrong.”

The corner of his mouth lifts as he steps close to you again. “And look, you’ve even got my favorite shorts on...” His hands are firm on you as he gropes your ass, pulling your body towards his. “You wanted to be a good little baby for me, didn’t you?” Those words make your stomach pitch, and you think of how ridiculously easy it is for him to get you just as pliable as he wants.

“M-maybe.” Ten presses his lips to yours again and cups his hands under your thighs so he can carry you over to the kitchen counter. You protest lightly when he sets you down on it, though it’s difficult to form a full sentence when he’s got his tongue in your mouth. “Here? I make food here.”

“We’ve already fucked here, Y/N, don’t act so fussy about it.” There is truth to it; he’s bent you over this counter more than a couple times before.

“But that’s different,” you sigh, listening to the smacking of his lips as he kisses along your jaw and down your neck.

“I don’t feel like walking all the way to your bedroom.” He’s pushed your shirt up above your chest now, his mouth trailing up your sternum and between your breasts.

“You’re so lazy, it’s only a few feet away.” It gets a bit harder to focus on your words when he latches his mouth to one of your dusky nipples, suckling it and teasing it gently with his teeth.

“Lazy?” One of his hands dips past your shorts and underwear, his fingers nudging between your lower lips. The soft touch over your clit makes you shudder, and he keeps his fingers there, rubbing it in a maddening circle. “All I do to make you feel good, and you call me lazy…”

Ten’s fingers dive lower still, pressing against your entrance and gliding through all the slick that’s already gathered there, then pushing in deep. You grasp the back of his neck, your hand sliding into his gelled hair as he simultaneously focuses his attention on your breasts and your pussy.

The pads of his fingers rub that honeyed, pleasurable spot inside of you as soon as he finds it, making your legs weaken, and you’re glad you’re already sitting down. He makes sure the knuckles of his other fingers slip across your clit as he fingers you, heightening the stimulation, and this motion drives you a little further up the wall.

“Ten,” you sigh, leaning back slightly as he scissors his fingers inside you and sucks on your breasts. His tongue rolls around your nipple, sending heated tingles through your body and down your spine. His fingers keep hooking into that sweet spot, and it makes your stomach get warm and your walls grow wetter until you are dripping around him and onto the counter below you. You have a vague thought about how you’ll have to clean this up later, but you know he gets his thrills from getting you this wet, and you can tell by the stiff outline of his dick pressing against his sweatpants.

And just when you are inching closer to feeling that rope of tension snap within your body, your chest heaving against his eager mouth, his fingers slide entirely out and leave you feeling empty.

“Wait, don’t stop,” you cry out, reaching for him as he steps back from you. Your complaint goes unheeded as he reaches for your waistband and strips your shorts off, but not your underwear. He slips a thumb over the black fabric of your panties, dragging it momentarily over your clit before pulling away; he smirks at the stickiness covering the pad of his thumb even through that layer of clothing.

Then he shoves his sweatpants further down over his hips, freeing his reddened cock from his confines. You didn’t see him pull the condom out but it’s there now, and he rolls it hurriedly over his shaft.

“Not even gonna take your clothes off? Ah...you must be really upset today,” you remark absently. An abrupt moan punctuates the end of your sentence when Ten pulls your panties to the side and pushes into you, his other hand gripping your thigh.

“Mm, don’t wanna talk about it,” he replies, but it’s mostly spoken into the side of your neck as he buries his face there and leaves over a dozen open-mouthed kisses. His grip on your thigh tightens fractionally as he begins thrusting into you, dragging his hips away until his tip is just kissing your entrance, and then shoving back in like he’s trying to bury himself wholly within you. “Just wanna forget...god, you’re so tight…”

He ends up laying you across the counter, one hand supporting you by the back of the neck for leverage as he thrusts into you hard enough to make your body shift up the counter slightly. His thighs smack against your own as he fucks you, and it is all you can do to let him pull one of your legs over his shoulder and continue pushing into you like a man starved. Your mouth parts in a silent, overwhelmed moan, and you let him push his thumb past your lips, sucking around the tip of his digit like you often do to his dick.

“Y/N, Y/N—Fuck.” Ten’s voice is a lot less steady than you expected it to be, especially with how nonchalantly he was talking earlier, and you get the inkling that he is already close to cumming. His hold on your leg tightens and his head tilts back as he mindlessly thrusts into you, using your body to get himself off; his thumb stays hooked into your cheek, keeping your mouth parted so you end up drooling on yourself and his hand. The furrow between his brows, the wild strands of his hair in his face, and the way he sucks his bottom lip between his teeth is sexy, but not quite sexy enough to get you off, which you want him to do, with his fingers or dick or anything else.

His tip hits your spot every few thrusts, and this alone could be enough to get you off, just a little more—you focus your attention on that single delirious point of pleasure and the way his hips crash against yours—

The palpable tension that was coming off him earlier unspools itself quickly as Ten spills into the condom, his pace stopping as he holds himself deep in you but flexes his hips for that barest hint of friction. You still haven’t come yet, though, and you’re irritated about it, especially with how he barged into your place fiending for sex. But then he pulls out and disposes of the condom in one deft movement, then strips you out of your underwear before picking you up off the counter again. His hands never leave your ass as he carries you to the couch. 

“Don’t worry, kitten. You know I always take good care of you. Don’t I?”

If you had it in you, you’d want to hate him for calling you by that pet name. It makes you delusional enough to think there could maybe be something more between you.

Ten had even taken to calling you kitten outside of the bedroom. It first happened in front of the WayV members, and you’d wanted to die of embarrassment from how everyone else gave either surprised or knowing looks. Despite the momentary panic of the situation, Ten found that his precious little name for you came way too easily off his tongue and kept on calling you that. And despite yourself, you did not tell him to stop—couldn’t even if you wanted to. It gave you something to cling to, no matter how slight.

“Don’t I?” he repeats, pushing his face into your neck to kiss your throat and feeling your pulse thump wildly against his mouth like a butterfly’s wings.

“You do, Ten,” you sigh. Then he plants a satisfied kiss on your lips in response, nipping at your bottom lip and sucking it between his own. His lip stain is almost completely rubbed off now, giving way to the natural pink of his mouth.

Ten pulls your body on top of his, tugging at your hips and coaxing you to move up more until your pussy is over his mouth. He looks up at you with eyes dark like charcoal, and just as hot.

He parts your lower lips with his fingers and dips his middle finger into you, creating a soft squelching sound from how wet you are. With his other hand kneading your hip, he pushes a couple digits into you to get them wet and pulls them out again to drag the wetness over your clit; he circles it lightly with only the very tips of his fingers, giving enough friction to keep you on edge but not enough to satisfy you. You take a deep breath, your hands moving restlessly against the couch arm, trying to be patient—and not just knock him on the head and tell him to eat you already.

Ten leans up and brings your pelvis down so he can lay wet kisses over your clit; he reintroduces his fingers and immediately goes looking for that bunch of nerves again, the button that will have you dripping down his chin. Then he shifts his hand from your hip to pull the hood of your clit back, exposing more of that sensitive nub, and he mouths at your clit so intensely that you have to focus on not clamping your legs around his head.

You’re already wound up from him fucking you earlier, and it does not take much longer to finally come, your inner muscles squeezing around his fingers as they stroke in and out of you. Your hands slip to his hair as he parts his mouth a little wider, like he’s trying to suck your entire pussy. You are not even embarrassed by the messy slurping sounds he’s creating—it feels good enough to push you over into another orgasm right on the heels of the first one.

“Woo, oh fuck, okay,” you choke out once he releases your swollen clit from the tight grip of his mouth. He takes his fingers out of you too and licks them clean of your cum.

Ten looks up from between your legs with his mouth messy with cum and his hair ruffled out of place, still looking very much insatiable even though he’s already fucked you once and eaten you out. You’re still holding onto his dark strands, and you slide one of your hands down further to thumb at the corner of his eye.

“Just like I said,” you murmur breathlessly, smudging some of the eyeliner that’s already running outside its lines. “You’re two seconds away from looking like a raccoon...go take a shower.”

He drops one last little kiss on your clit, and your legs tremble on either side of him. “Come with me.”

You go with him all while knowing that little actual washing will happen. And as you predicted, Ten pushes you against the shower wall as soon as you’re both naked and fingers you again until you have to slump against him to be able to stand. When he is done, smirking and dick hard against your stomach, you suck him off until he’s cumming down your throat and calling out some semblance of your name in a long, shivering moan. By the time you both get around to cleaning up, the water has turned cool.

Neither of you bother to put on any clothes once you get into bed.

“You better feel better after all that,” you say, blinking your eyes at him within the dimness of the room, trying to make your pupils adjust to the dark faster. Ten’s hair is damp against the pillow, and a distant memory sparks in your mind of that dream that became the catalyst for all this. Feeling suddenly disarrayed, you turn on your back and look at a spot on the ceiling, wondering what the fuck your friendship has transformed into.

“I do,” he hums, grinning. “You’re too good to me.” He draws his fingers up the length of your arm as he tells you this. His eyelids are already closing halfway, weighed down with sleepiness. Though he is beautiful with his stage styling, he is also painfully attractive scrubbed down to his bare face, and it makes your heart throb to look at him.

“Maybe I am,” you whisper back, closing your eyes.

--

When you wake up next to Ten the next morning, it once again feels like waking up to a boyfriend. You try to move out of his embrace, but he complains, half-asleep, and pulls you closer. You are too defenseless to reject the promise of his arms around you and allow yourself to mold your body against his once more. Somewhere between his arms gripping you more tightly and his hair fanning across your neck like down feathers, you fall asleep again.

Waking up the second time comes by way of him kissing your neck and shoulder—you with one of his arms around your back and your breasts pushed against his chest. When he notices you’ve woken up, he moves back to look at you and brings his hand to the side of your face. His own face is half-illuminated by the sun spilling through the crack in the curtains, some silly little smile on his lips and his eyes crinkled like he’s just seen the happiest, cutest thing in the world, and you decide then and there that you can’t do this anymore.

His nose nudges yours, like he’s about to kiss you. “Kitten…”

“Stop,” you say.

Ten’s face drops, and he pauses. “Stop what?”

“Stop this. I don’t want this anymore.” You successfully shimmy away from him this time. He lets you do it, but stares at you with a troubled expression.

“What...do you mean?”

“We can’t keep doing this.” You get off the bed to pick your robe off the hanger it’s on, and you wrap yourself up in it as if it will protect you from your own emotions.

Ten scrambles up from the bed, the sheets gathering at his waist. “Y/N, tell me why. I thought we...”

“I love you. I am in love with you. That’s why.” You cross your arms and look at him angrily. You want to cry, and you don’t know if you’ll be able to stop yourself if you do. You feel very small in this moment.

“...What?” He looks at you as if he’s been slapped, his eyes widening.

“I hate this, Ten. I hate it when we go somewhere and you call me kitten and everyone thinks we’re together. I hate how you always want to touch me, even when it’s not sexual—especially when it’s not sexual. I don’t want to know how it feels to have your hand in mine or your fingers on my cheek. I hate it how you wake me up in the morning like this, when you look at me like…” Your voice catches, and you belatedly realize that you are almost shouting. “...like this is more than what it really is.”

Ten’s face is a storm of emotions, and if you didn’t know any better, you might even say he looks frightened or panicked. What could he be afraid of? If anything, you should be terrified that everything is now ruined between you. “But...Y/N, we agreed to—not take things further.”

“Ten, you are the one always taking things further than they need to be. Stop treating me like I’m your girlfriend when all you want is sex! I don’t want to do this with you anymore.”

You expected him to be more upset about this, maybe even angry, but he seems untethered. It’s as if you’ve just left him out at sea with no knowledge of how to swim. Your words seem to spark some kind of realization in him, though you don’t know what that is.

“I’m...sorry if you misunderstood me, but it wasn’t my intention to make you think we were going to be together.” He speaks weakly, like he feels bad about what he’s saying. Maybe he thinks you’re pitiful and is trying to handle you with kid gloves to avoid hurting your feelings, and that thought makes you even more upset. Maybe you would’ve preferred it if he’d just gotten angry.

“Misunderstood…” You don’t know whether to yell or cry. “But what am I supposed to think when you…” You try to search for the words, but it feels useless and ridiculous. How can his actions not be obvious to him? “Just leave, please.”

So you watch him gather his clothes, redress, and leave your place. There’s a hesitation before he passes through your bedroom door, but in the end he just says I’m sorry again. It is still not enough and not the answer you want to hear, so you let him go for the sake of your own sanity.

You let the tears drip only after he’s gone, feeling like you’ve just experienced a breakup. The thought of the relationship-that-never-was makes you sniff angrily again. When you sink into your bed, the sheets pulled over your head, you try to convince yourself that you do it because you’re tired and not because the linens still smell like him.

The next two months after that day are the most awkward and annoying ones of your life.

Much to your own surprise—because you were sure everything would end in flames and rubble after that rejected confession—you and Ten try to go back to some semblance of your previous friendship. However, every interaction is strained and weird; he never acknowledged your confession again after it happened, and you refused to do so to avoid being rejected for a second time. You can’t shake the feeling that every one of his glances is filled with some odd sympathy, as if he just can’t believe you’ve gotten yourself into this unrequited love nonsense. There’s an even stranger anxiety in his demeanor, too. A nervousness you are unable to assign a meaning to.

You try to distract yourself from it all with hobbies; you even adopt new ones. You’ve never cared much about knitting or collecting postcards or scrapbooking, but you do those things now just to fill in the empty spaces and quiet the mess of your mind. You don’t have to wonder about what Ten is doing, because you already know; Kun keeps dry begging for your help, as if you want to hear about any of Ten’s business in the first place.

“To put it lightly, we’re dying in here. Maybe if you could talk—”

“Oh please. Sounds like he’s having fun with his new buddies, and who am I to stop him. Like he’ll listen to shit I have to say,” you say dryly.

“Having fun, sure, but I’m not. There was the guy he brought home last week—and the girl I caught him in the living room with even before that. And the others,” Kun sighs wearily.

Jealousy curls like a snake in the pit of your stomach, but you dig your heels in and try to throw it to the side. “Tch. Tragic, and also not my problem. If you’re that worried about noise complaints, talk to him yourself. Would hate to hear about y’all getting kicked out.”

“I’m not necessarily concerned about that, I’m talking about him sleeping with all these people because you two—”

“Oh, damn. I can’t hear shit. Looks like you’re breaking up. Talk to you later!” You feel a little bad about hanging up on Kun, but the last thing you want to do is talk to him as if he’s your therapist and discuss the mess between you and Ten that was never truly resolved. And as far as you can discern, Ten is not thinking about you in that way anymore.

Rolling your eyes, you toss your phone away and roll over in your bed with your face in the sheets, trying for the hundredth time to not think about what Ten is doing with people who are not you.

One night when you’re hanging out at WayV’s dorm and attempting to pretend there isn’t some weird tension between you and your (former?) best friend, Yangyang and Xiaojun talk you into going to the club. Ten tells you all he will meet you there later, and it makes you roll your eyes—because you know he has plans to pick someone else up, but also because everything he does lately makes you roll your eyes—but you’re also glad you won’t have to sit awkwardly next to him in the car on the way over.

The club is dark and hot and pungent with the smell of alcohol. Once you are inside, you suddenly feel a little lost within all the chaos. You also realize you don’t want to let Xiaojun out of your sight—Yangyang has already bounced off somewhere with someone he knows, otherwise you might’ve clung to him similarly—because you don’t want to be left alone, so you grip his hand and he squeezes back, pulling you onto the dance floor amongst the crowd of bodies. 

You aren’t sure when Ten shows up. One moment he’s nowhere to be found, and the next moment he is right there, attracting your eyes like a magnet out of all the other people in the club. While you’re in the mass of people with Xiaojun, dancing and trying to empty your mind of anything important, you spot something you would rather not see, and it makes your body come to a standstill.

Some girl is talking to Ten at the bar—maybe the same one Kun says he’s been seeing lately, you aren’t completely positive about it—and pressing her body against his. He’s likewise leaning into her, giving her that same look he’d lavished on you months ago. The one only reserved for lovers. It was never exclusively for you, you know that, but seeing it directed to someone else again after everything that’s happened only incenses you.

She whispers something into his ear and kisses the corner of his mouth, and he pinches her chin to kiss her back, full on the lips this time.

You turn your head away from them with your mouth screwed up. Xiaojun stops dancing when he sees what you’ve seen, and he looks at you with a frown. “I think I should leave.” Your voice sounds watery, and you hate reacting like this. Life would be a lot easier if you could just Bad Bitch your way out of this and forget about him on the other side of the room with some girl you don’t know from Adam, but you can’t.

“Wait.” Xiaojun grips your shoulders with a pleading expression. He acts like he’ll say something more but then abandons whatever that thought is and says instead, “I’m sorry, Y/N. Please don’t kick my ass for this.”

“Huh?” 

Xiaojun kisses you. 

You stand there unmoving and bewildered for a few long seconds, and it’s awkward. You think you know what he’s trying to do though, and it’s fucking nonsensical because Ten has clearly moved on from you so why bother, but you shut the rational part of your brain off and respond to the kiss anyway. It is surprisingly easy to reciprocate; Xiaojun is attractive, and he kisses you intimately, like you’re both true lovers instead of two people attempting a cliché scheme. His hands are on you, one on your nape and the other on the small of your back, though maybe slightly lower than it needs to be for this little act. When his tongue parts your lips, slick and hot and faintly mint-flavored, you begin to wonder if this is all just acting.

Then it all abruptly ends when a sharp voice cuts through the air.

“So you two are hooking up and didn’t think to tell me?” Ten stands in front of you both looking unimpressed, and you are genuinely surprised by this.

Xiaojun’s mouth moves aimlessly—his lips are noticeably shinier from your lip gloss—and you can guess he didn’t think far enough ahead to consider what he’d say if Ten really did respond to his impulsive trick.

“Fuck you!” you blurt out, and they both look at you. “I don’t need to tell you a damn thing.”

“Y/N, for fuck’s sake—he’s my groupmate! You don’t think that’s important to mention?”

“What do I owe you? You’re not my man, and we barely even act like friends anymore.” His face falters when you say this; a nerve has been struck.

“If you fucking hate me, just say so Y/N; I didn’t think you’d go this far.”

Xiaojun gives a feeble attempt to jump in. “Now wait, this wasn’t her—”

You laugh, though your expression is marred with anger. “Hate you? That’s the last thing I ever did, but you didn’t want what I offered.”

Ten looks pained at that. “You don’t understand, I…”

The rest of his words are lost to you as the song changes and the music’s volume rockets up further, and you have no choice but to shuffle closer to Ten to narrowly avoid being bowled over by a couple who dances too near to you, oblivious to their surroundings. This puts you close enough to him to feel the heat radiating off his body, to smell the hint of sweat mingling with his cologne, and you think it might’ve been better to just get knocked over.

Unbeknownst to you, Ten’s hand had instinctively reached for your back to steady you, though he stopped himself from touching you just before his fingertips made contact. Suddenly, it dawns in his mind that neither of you have touched each other in quite some time, hardly even in a platonic way, and this knowledge disappoints him.

“I think we should go outside,” Ten says, staring at you intently. It’s a look that’s far too serious for the context of standing in a hot and sweaty club, and it makes you feel peeled apart, much like that first time you both had sex. Xiaojun has turned his eyes elsewhere in a laughable attempt to look like he’s searching for Yangyang; he’s caught between your tension and feeling much like he’s witnessing something he’s not quite supposed to be seeing.

And even though you are angry with Ten and want him to shut the fuck up and explain himself all at the same time, you still find yourself staring back, your gaze catching on the way the lights glint on the smooth skin of his exposed chest. “Fine.”

--

A few minutes later, you’re sitting in the passenger seat of Ten’s car. His phone buzzes with an incoming call, and then a text message. And then another. You both watch the phone vibrate on the console until it falls into one of the cupholders.

Because it doesn’t seem like he’ll speak first, you say, “I think she must be calling for you. Go tend to your little girlfriend.”

“She’s not my girlfriend.”

You shrug. “I don’t know. Go see what she wants.”

“I don’t care.”

You shift your head a little to glance at him, but you won’t yet give him the satisfaction of your full attention. “Now you don’t care? Didn’t look that way earlier...”

“None of that meant anything.”

“Oh…the same way with us, then. I get it.”

Ten grips the steering wheel and leans his head on it like he’s tired. “No. It’s not the same as us.”

“What’s different?”

“I can’t fucking forget about you,” he scowls. “I can’t forget how you taste, or how you look when you wake up in the morning, how you say my name when you’re happy or sad, how pretty you smell right out of the shower, how your mouth falls open in that cute way when you’re asleep and dreaming about something, or how you ask me to tie your scarf at night because you don’t feel like doing it.”

You sit back against the seat, unsure what to think of that revelation. “So what does all that mean. You miss the fucking and pretending? Because you experienced all those things and still only ever wanted to be friends.”

He sits up again to look at you. “No, it means I miss you and I love you and I’m a dumbass.” The way his voice softens reminds you of one of those chocolate candies with caramel in the middle, and you sigh shakily. Some unconscious part of you has already made up its mind about how this will turn out.

“Yes you are,” you agree instantly, although your heart pounds. You stare at the blackened tail-lights of the car in front of you and don’t know how to feel or what to say. Everything feels like a live wire right now, like the situation might explode no matter what move you make. Not the kind of explosion that destroys, though—the kind that clears the way for something reborn. “...I had to kiss Xiaojun for you to realize you felt that way? That was never even my plan.”

“Maybe I can be a little oblivious sometimes. And...I tried very hard to distract myself from...thinking about us.” 

“You could’ve just told me.”

“I thought you might’ve moved on or wouldn’t want anything to do with me anymore.” Ten slides his hand over top of yours where it rests in your lap, though it is a tentative move. “When was the last time we shared our dreams with each other?”

“You’re getting all sentimental now.” You look down at his hand on yours, and for the first time in months, it is the one thing that makes sense to you. “I don’t know. Definitely before any of this mess happened.”

“I miss you.” He squeezes your fingers tightly where they’re entwined with his. “Do you still love me?”

“Ten, please. As if I could stop,” you respond softly.

A quiet moment passes between the two of you. Finally, you turn your head to look at him, his silhouette illuminated by streetlights and the club’s neon signs, and he chooses that moment to lean towards you.

You hold your free hand up to his face. “Huh...no. You kissed that girl.”

He gives you an incredulous look. “And you kissed Xiaojun, but do you see me complaining?”

“Then we’re both even. But I ain’t kissing you tonight.”

Ten sits back in his seat and sighs, although there is a tiny smile on his lips. “Ugh. You kill me.”

You snort and tighten your grip on his hand, feeling the imprint of his rings against your skin. “But, you can still come home with me. I’ve missed just having you around...or whatever.”

He smirks. “Tell me how much you missed me on the ride over.”

“Don’t push your luck.”

[blahkugo]

𝟏 ༒ 𝔱𝔥𝔬𝔲 𝔰𝔥𝔞𝔩𝔱 𝔥𝔞𝔳𝔢 𝔫𝔬 𝔬𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔯 𝔤𝔬𝔡𝔰 𝔟𝔢𝔣𝔬𝔯𝔢 𝔪𝔢

⤷ dirty valentine m.list

⤷ complete bnha m.list

katsuki bakugo — worship kink

wc: 1.9k

cw: oral (cunni), seems like dubcon at first but it’s not at all, this is pretty tame for me tbh ( ˘ ³˘)♥︎

“Try me.”

They had been fighting words, spoken to provoke a reaction and nothing else. Katsuki was so sure of his strength, so utterly convinced that your quirk would have no effect on him. It didn’t matter that he’d seen it in action, watched as mountainous men and women were reduced to rubbles of their former selves. The Number Two Hero was tougher than a rookie’s feminine wiles, had to be.

And he was—at first.

The practice match had gone on like countless others, Katsuki deflecting every kick or stab thrown his way, shooting off small explosions that only roughly missed their mark. He’d been taking it easy on you, dragging on the fight until your inevitable forfeit. He’s unsure why he even bothers asking you to partake in these private spars when you never bother with your quirk; Katsuki always wins.

It wasn’t until that first rush of blood, the unmistakable tightness of his uniform, that he realized his mistake.

“Seems you’ve got a,” your brow quirks as you glance downwards, “small problem.” The taunt is thrown his way with a cackle—high-pitched and nasty—sending a cold sweat down Katsuki’s back. The mere sound of your voice spurs him to anger, clouds his vision and urges him to prove you dreadfully wrong. The dig at his size doesn’t go by unnoticed either.

Heat blooms and crests within his chest, tides rising and falling. One moment he’s ablaze, unable to breathe, much less think, as he struggles to fight through it. Seconds later, the fire is quelled, replaced by a rose-colored twinge that fogs the corners of his vision and renders him helpless against his rising concern for your safety.

With every one of your throwing knives flung his way, a rude laugh or jeer is quick to follow, and yet, your voice is soft around the edges, sinfully sweet notes prickling at Katsuki’s ears and settling deep in his gut.

Try as he might to focus on the battle at hand, Katsuki realizes he’s unable to suppress the ever-growing bulge in his pants. The nagging feeling isn’t one of the superiority complex Katsu’s grown accustomed to, isn’t the need to put someone in their place purely to assert his dominance. There’s an enticement to it, a longing to prove himself to you, to show you he’s worthy of your gaze. His punches and kicks lose their gall and– fuck, did he just take a hit on purpose?

Of course he did; he doesn’t want to hurt you, wouldn’t risk harming such a precious, ethereal being.

He goes on like this for a while, in waves of disoriented, amateur mistakes and reprieves of chastisements. He knows better than this—is better than this. But it seems the harder he struggles, the tighter your grip on him becomes.

And it isn’t just his mind. Katsuki can’t slow his heart when he glances at your pillowy thighs, bare and dripping with beads of hard-earned sweat. He can’t stop his cock from twitching when he notices the quick rise and fall of your chest, scantily-clad and practically begging to be touched.

From the edges of your fingers to the steel-tipped toes of your boots, everything about you drips seduction, compelling Katsuki to drink from the poisoned glass. Desire grips him by the throat, parches him, and burns harder and brighter than any explosion he could ever attempt to spark.

“Lust,” he finally finds the strength to choke out, calling out to you as he drops to his knees, “enough.”

The use of your hero name—as opposed to the colorful assortment of insults he usually calls you—must be enough to spark concern, because you immediately discard your throwing knives and crouch at his side. He doesn’t immediately notice you, his gut still heavy and pulsing with need.

Despite the pain, he isn’t quite sure whether he wants you to turn off the damn quirk or keep it on long enough to fix the mess you’ve gotten him into.

“Bakugo?” There’s no hint of triumph in your tone, no gloating or celebration of your ambitious victory. It’s sympathy, braided through your scrunched brows and stamped into your tooth-torn bottom lip.

It makes him furious.

In seconds, he flips you beneath him, back hitting the mat with a soft thud. “Bakugo?” You repeat, seemingly stunned by his sudden change, mouth agape as he removes his gloves. “What are you—”

And then, his lips are on you, slick with sweat and spit, the kiss all tongue and teeth as he attempts to quench the insatiable thirst you caused. He doesn’t know what to expect, but when your hands wrap through his matted locks to pull him closer, he’s satisfied; he’s worthy. If the drink is poisoned, so be it.

Katsuki allows his hands to roam as they yearned to earlier, running rough fingertips down the sticky skin of your neck. They travel further to trace circles against your heart and further still, until he grazes at pebbled nipples.

“Mmph.” Your mewl is muffled against him as you tap at his shoulder, most likely asking for a second to breathe. How long has it been since he came up for air? Katsuki’s unable to shake the fuzz clouding his brain, hand-spun sugar on your tongue keeping him placid.

When he finally lifts his head from yours, he’s unable to tear his gaze from the string of spit connecting you, even going as far as running a digit across your swollen lips. Your chest still shakes, your eyes glazed over. Bliss. Does your power affect you as well, or is he not giving himself as much credit as he should?

He’ll be damned if he allows you to upstage him yet again.

“Turn it off,” he grunts, surprised at the hoarseness of his own voice. You don’t quite answer, just offer a tilt your head and a sickly sweet, ‘hm?’ that has the blonde itching to leave you breathless again. “Shut off your damned quirk.”

At that, you let out a soft chuckle, wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling his face towards you once more. Your lips ghost the shell of his ear, sucking at it until he lets out a weary breath. Chills travel Katsuki’s body when your sultry voice whispers,

“Baby,” another twitch of his cock, another chill at the pet name, “I stopped using it ages ago.”

It’s all he needs to hear to pounce.

In seconds, his lips are all over you again—drinking that sweet, sweet nectar as his tongue slides against yours. It’s dizzying, mind-numbing, far more intoxicating than the charm of any quirk; even more so when he peppers kisses down your jaw and neck, the sweat-soaked skin offering the perfect balance.

The rough blonde sucks lower, and lower still, peeling off your bodysuit as he travels your hills and valleys. When you’re finally bare, he pauses to stare, a poor sinner basking in the divine for the very first time. And you? You simply relish in his attention, don’t rush him along or cover yourself from his prying eyes.

“Fuck,” he sighs, brushing a digit lazily across your waist. Your body pebbles at the contact, shivering lightly beneath him. “All for me.” He nudges your legs apart, crouching low so he’s eye to eye with your pretty cunt. “And this,” he runs a finger against your slit, watches as it glistens over with your slick, “this is all because of me.”

“Ah– Katsuki.” He smirks when your hips jerk, silently searching for more. “Please.”

Who’d allow a deity to ask twice?

He tongues you with fervor, taking his sweet time to savor every part of you. It begins with your thighs, bruised a pretty purple in the shape of Katsuki’s mouth, closer and closer to where you need him most. No matter how much you gripe and whine, threading your fingers through his wiry hair to nudge him towards your cunt, he doesn’t let up. You’re not getting off that easily—and besides, a proper oblation requires precious time and patience.

A long stripe up your slit, slow and steady, his tongue flattened against you to sop up every bit of you. He wants to be soaked, wants you to see him covered and gleaming in your essence, to know how long he’s longed for this moment. When he suckles at your clit, sparks prickle his own body, reveling in the low mewls of his name—the littles ‘ah’s and ‘oh god’s that spill from your mouth like a mantra.

Of course, Katsuki can’t quell the throbbing of his cockhead beneath his pants. He’s always been a taker, and the desire is relentless, every slight shift of his body causing him to groan, every lap at your slit making him scrunch his brows together and sigh against your bundle of nerves. But he simply settles for rutting against the mat, unable to sacrifice your pleasure—the obscene parting of your lips, the glazed over look in your eyes as you stare down at him—for his own.

“M’so—,” you whimper, panting, “so close.” Your legs tremble, thighs pressed tight against either side of his face, smothering him so that everything sounds a bit muffled. “Keep, ah- fuck, keep fucking going.”

Something about the vulgarities slipping from your lips only makes Katsuki hungrier, urging him to lap harder at you—and hump faster against the mat. At this point, the two of you are a true mess, drenched in slick and sweat and too much heat, but the sloppiness leaves him light-headed, aching for more.

“Wanna see you,” his voice is gruff and sharp as he rubs circles into your clit with the pad of his thumb, “cum all over me, princess.”

Maybe it’s the pet name, or perhaps the pressure in your gut has finally come to a head, but his wish is your command. Within seconds, you’re gushing on his tongue, crying out a long, repeated string of ‘fuck,’ and ‘oh god, yes.’

Katsuki fucks you through it, feeling the coil in his own gut pulled taut and ready to snap. The entire time, he doesn’t stop rutting against the mat, disregarding how needy he must look to you. When he cums, he does so with a loud groan, lips pressed around your clit even as you tug him away with shaky hands. The taste of you, the flash of white that sears through him, could keep him going forever.

“I can’t.” Your heels dig into his back, pushing him closer even as you surrender, “N-need a second.”

The plea seems to snap him out of his haze, glancing up at you to see tears streaking your cheeks and a soft, fucked out smile plastered across your face. “Oh God,” you mumble, hands moving to cover your eyes, “your face.”

Katsuki only raises a brow and grins wolfishly, swiping the back of his hand at his chin and his tongue across his lips to lap up what you left behind. “My face is fine. Prefer it this way, actually.”

Then he’s moving again, rising to pick you up into his arms even as you slap at his shoulder and squeal,

“Where the hell are we going?”

“The showers,” he responds cooly, smirk still glued to his face, “Need to test the limits of your quirk.”

Maybe he’ll power through it, maybe you’ll overpower him once again; he wins either way.

[gaiuswrites]

Ashore

Part one | Open Waters

Pairing: Frankie Morales x fem!Reader

Summary: You and Frankie leave the beach with only one thing on your minds.

Rating: Explicit

Word count: 3.6k~

Warnings/tags: smut, ✨butt stuff✨, oral (f receiving), some lovey-dovey shit

Notes: Here we are friends. You don’t necessarily have to read Open Waters to understand the contents of this chapter (considering it’s mostly just booty bumpin’). You can thank heathens @javierpcna and @whataperfectwasteoftime for the debauchery to follow. It’s been a while since I’ve written and I’m genuinely nervous to post this lol but alas. We have arrived. Is it shit? Is it pure filth? Who’s to say hehehe. Cheers bebes x

Masterlist | read it on ao3!

The worst part was, you had to get gas.

Frankie drives. You sit beside him.

The return trip is hushed with anticipation—with sullied stain-glass imagery occupying the void. You've said next to nothing since you packed into the car; the only noise comes from the radio—the preset station phasing in and out as you wind along the backroads leading away from the shore—Journey, Jimi, Led Zep and the like all crackling dry through the speakers.

Everything, each micro-movement, feels stifling— like burning ants under a magnifying glass— each gesture riddled with intention, Frankie’s words echoing clear in the caverns of your mind.

He glances left right at an intersection.

‘Anything?’

He flips on the turn signal, blinking one two one two one two.

‘You gonna let me have your tight little ass?’

He steers the wheel with the heel of his palm.

‘When I cum, it’s gonna be here—filling you up.’

The engine rumbles as you idle at a red light—stalling. Dawdling. The sun spills lazily from the horizon, draining the last of the afternoon’s light with it, bleeding the sky scarlet—emboldening the horizon— and you watch as the setting glow catches the hair on his arm—there, resting on the console between you. His hand fists over the gear, knuckles creasing as they tense around the worn, leathered head. You’re playing a game—a silent, ruleless game. You know he can sense you observing him, can feel the heat of your gaze weigh on the flex of his fingers—the same fingers that had ripped an orgasm out of you not two hours before.

You almost unbuckle your damn seatbelt and fly out of your chair. You nearly break with it, with the unspoken tension filling the car like gas and fuck, how you crave him; how you yearn to put those fingers in your mouth and suck—lave the summer clean off his digits and bob around the long width and—

The light turns green.

Frankie resumes his hand to the wheel, your lewd fantasy dissipating along with it.

It’s minuscule. You would have missed it save the fact that you’re so acutely aware of every fucking breath you two share in the aluminum confines of your old Jeep. It’s a subtle thing: Frankie adjusts his hips— innocent enough— but your eyes flicker over to find the groin of his drying swim trunks tented.

You’re not ashamed to say it— your mouth fucking waters, you salivate— and as if on cue, he squirms again, seeking relief from both the blood rushing south and the blister of your stare. His lips part— the rasp of an inhale as he prepares to speak—before his focus is torn down to the dashboard, an orange symbol popping up in the gauge stealing his attention.

“Shit,” Frankie mumbles under his breath. Looking around, he scans for a nearby station and groans at the realization that he’s just passed one, spotting it in the rearview mirror. “Shit.”

You swivel towards the passenger side window, attempting to hide the I told you so expression pulling wry at your mouth. Not that you’ll hang it over him, but you did inform Frankie that the tank was empty on the way to the beach. You hear another muffled curse come from the man beside you, and the world goes topsy-turvy and reverses itself— the act of Frankie making a grumbled U-turn.

He puts the gear into park with a huff, Van Halen’s solo abruptly cut short mid chord.

The car door opens with a rusty squeal and Frankie clambers out, fishing his wallet from his back pocket and swiping his card through the reader at the pump—but not before he squeezes a palm into the plush of your thigh, thumb searing like a brand into your skin. I’ll be quick.

Fuck, you could have cum right then.

Your gaze follows his movements, dogging after him as he waits on the gas to fill— arms folded across his chest, strong build leaning on the frame of your car.

It’s not a novel concept to you, but God is that man broad. The ratty t-shirt he wears clings to him, pulled taut between the plane of his shoulders, the cut of his tricep apparent even from your vantage point; the corded muscle running up his neck flashing as he watches the digital numbers on the screen tick higher.

Shit, you’re aching for him— you can feel yourself throb into the crotch of your swimsuit. You’d have him right here—in the backseat, steaming up the glass— if it weren’t for the overencumbered bags and rickety beach chairs crowding the space.

With herculean effort, you wrench your eyes off him in search of a distraction, letting them drift to the dark flooring of the car. It’s been dirtied—white flecks speckling the interior—and you won’t be able to get the sand out of the matted carpets for weeks. It’s a nuisance, to be sure, but you have to admit that you’re sort of fond of it; little memories, vestiges in the grains, lingering long after the season ends.

Hello, remember me? each granule chirped, remember when we laughed giddy for hours, maddened by the grace of the sun? Remember when we burned red that time we forgot sunscreen? Remember when we bought soft serve from the surf shack and it globbed sticky down our wrists? Remember when we when we when when when…

Frankie, ever practical, hates it. It’s a pain in the ass, he’s told you, regaling you with the woes only a mechanic would care to know. It ruins the upholstery.

You’ve had your exchanges about the topic—your faux-squabbled back and forths—and yet despite himself, he can’t help but like that you like it. Conceptually, he gets it—it annoys him to kingdom fucking come and he’ll almost certainly take the vacuum to the mats first thing tomorrow, but he understands. He understands it.

He understands you.

You’re like that, you and him. You’re different. You are made of different things, a compository of fractures and fragments. Mosaic tiles. You don’t quite fit—not all of you—but you never force the pieces into any sort of place. You admire each other’s mismatched bits, those sweetly quilted jigsaws, and you hold each one up to the light and point at the unique curves, the notches and swoops there, and say I love you, I love this, I love this too.

When Frankie keys up the ignition and puts the car in drive, he keeps his hand on your lap. Arm resting over the median dividing you, calloused palm sealing over your quad, his fingertips knead a pulse into the meat of your leg with each bump in the poorly paved road— a reminder. A vow. Almost home.

You think he does it just to torture you.

It fucking works.

/

The sound of laughter parts the front door as you enter— Frankie had made some colorful comment about your absolute favorite neighbors, the ones who always leave their damn garbage bins in front of your driveway— and your key ring clatters as it hits the bowl on the side table.

You discard the bags, plopping the sandy things down in the entryway, and kick off your sandals— bare soles padding along lacquered wood paneling as you head to the kitchen for some much needed water.

The sound of the tap running camouflages Frankie’s movement, you don’t hear him behind you. He’s got stealth in him, harbored there from before. He’s light on his feet when he chooses to be—nimble-like, bordering on feline—and you startle with a bubbly chuckle when you spin around to discover him far closer than you anticipated.

“What are you doing?”

“Keeping us hydrated,” you grin, as if it were obvious. You’re welcome.

He hums, the note rumbling against the cage of his ribs, and lessens the distance between you with a single stride. “That can wait.”

He rids you of the glasses, hurriedly placing them on the counter, and meets you in a kiss—and fuck can that man kiss. Frankie, like with all things, is responsive—attentive. His lips are fever-laced and wanton, and he roves against yours like they’re designed to— fated for no one else’s but your own— nipping and tonguing at your honeyed whines, orphaned there in the well of your mouth.

His hands vine up your body, so deprived of the luxury of your form - of touch - and he grabs at anything he can— your hips, your waist, your breasts through the cotton of your shirt— their half moon curves sitting ripe in his palms.

After ushering you up to the countertop, he strips you of your jean shorts, your bikini bottom sloughing down your calves along with them, and hoists your feet onto the fake granite, prying your legs wide for him.

When he gets an eyeful of your gleaming pussy, pearled with arousal, the wind gets punched straight out of him.

“Jesus honey,” he groans, “you been like this the whole ride home?”

Your brain is numb, lagging with lust. You don’t trust your voice to speak—all you can do is nod.

“Poor thing,” he simpers. “Poor pretty thing, all wound up for me—all wet.”

You whimper at his tone—graveled, just shy of condescending—and your knees weaken shut before he snatches them apart.

“Sit still.”

It’s a command, there’s no room for disobedience; he orders it with a soldier's voice—that dead thing he wears like dog tags around his neck. Vice grip widening your legs, Frankie sinks down onto his shins, head leveled with your core, engrossed with the sight of your damp sex quivering.

Blotchy warmth creeps up your neck, like ivy crawling over brick.

He’s staring at you— hungry and possessed and simply staring at your open cunt and you begin to fidget once more—riling under his umbered appraisal.

“Sit still baby girl,” he murmurs, softer now and desperate too—intoxicated with the heady perfume of your heat. “Lemme just— fuck, I gotta taste you…”

When he swipes the deft muscle of his tongue through your slit, your head careens back onto the cabinets, plates and bowls rattling behind the wood.

Oh god, Frankie.

He’s got a talent for this— an excruciating, body wracking talent. He thirsts for you something dangerous, something unquenchable; he tugs at your labia, forming his lips around your clit, lapping at your essence— the ocean musk, that sea foam wet.

You fumble through his hair, mussing the saline woven strands with urgent fingers as you grind grind grind, rolling your hips to meet him in a covetous show of want and he purrs into your pussy as you fuck his face, the scratch of his stubble chafing at your legs.

It doesn’t take long, not with the fervor of how he’s claiming your cunt with his mouth. You soak Frankie’s chin— you nearly fucking drown him with it—and he’s glistening with you when he finally emerges for air, pulling you to him to slant his lips against yours, letting you savor your own taste on his hot tongue.

“Bedroom. Now,” he husks, breath hitching as his nose grazes along your ear, and with two hands under your armpits, he gathers you off the countertop. Frankie lands a swat at the plump of your backside, sending you scurrying through the living room with a shriek—completely bypassing the abandoned pile of laundry left lying on the couch.

He smirks—delirious and ramrod stiff—sauntering behind you, enamored with the pendulum sway of your hips as you lead him to the bed.

/

You’ve never been here. You’ve never gone this far. You both have tiptoed this narrow line for months; he’s fingered your ass plenty—you have even gone so far as to don a butt plug. You’ve discussed anal—toyed with the idea, flirted in circles around it like tittering birds.

But you’ve never taken Frankie’s cock. Not yet.

He’s been working you loose and limber for the better part of fifteen minutes, delving himself knuckle deep into your slicked hole until you’re sputtering for more— until you’re downright sopping and fucking shaking— and not with trepidation but with desire. Frankie’s made you gluttonous. Frankie’s made you voracious.

You’re starving for him.

“You gonna let me have this now?” He presses a digit over your ass, kissing his thumb into the knot there.

You tremble, nodding frantic.

“Think this pretty little ass can take me, baby?”

He serves you a slap, plush skin jiggling and pricking pink under his palm. You keen into him, in search of the promise he’s been baiting you with and you arch your hips, gyrating back onto fucking nothing.

“Yes. Yes—” You twist, chin corkscrewed around to see him. You want to watch. You want to watch as he disappears inside you— as you swallow him.

“A-Are you sure?” he asks, suddenly gone gentle around the lines fraying from his eyes—those wrinkles he’s hard-earned and won, like badges, like medals—from all his years spent under an unforgiving sun, all of that which he has seen and endured. Survived. Your Frankie, always thoughtful, always checking. A goddamn gentleman, even now—even as his dick brays hard and angry against the soft of his tawny stomach. “Because really, we don’t have to—”

You cut him off with a whimper, splaying your pelvis up to him—spreading yourself, letting him see the filth dripping from your seam, dappling your inner thighs. “Fuck me,” you whine, both holes puckering for him. “Fill me up, like you said you would— please.”

Something shifts across his features like a shadow and his expression morphs until it steels— his pupils dilating to a predatorial onyx— and he spits into his palm, coating his shaft, jerking himself with it.

He hisses as he guides himself into you, as you accommodate around him, as you envelop him entirely— inch by veritable inch. He has to station a hand to the base of your lumbar, struggling to maintain his composure—air rattling in and out his lungs as he attempts to breathe.

“Shit,” he gasps, “t-this okay?”

You fist the comforter, coiling the fabric into a ball. It’s a stretch— it’s a real goddamn stretch— and briefly you consider that he might, in fact, snap you in two...

Francisco Morales is going to split you clean in half—and God, if you don’t you love it.

“Yes - yes baby - keep going. D-Don’t stop.”

He pitches into you, setting a legato tempo— transfixed by the lurid juncture where you converge into one. “You- you’re so tight. Shit, you’re—”

He silences himself with a delicious moan, biting at his lower lip until the vessels there burst and it purples, and deals a particularly aggressive thrust— one you respond to with an ugly wail of your own, eyes somersaulting in their sockets.

You’re both impatient, verging on rabid, and it doesn’t take long for him to set a rougher pace and fuck you faster - harder - hammering into your ass until you see stars, popping and fizzing in front of your retinas, a symphony of guttural grunts and carnal praise fogging up the bedroom.

Your pussy feels so empty you could cry—weeping and gaping and fluttering for him as he takes your tight ring of muscle, fucking himself to the hilt. It’s like he’s behind your brain—like he’s carved his way up your spine and nudging at the nape of your neck with how deep he’s driving into you—restless. Ceaseless. His balls slap slap slap against your puffy cunt and you pant— girlish and buoyant with the dulled smacks to your sore clit.

“Please,” you sob, “Please, I need—”

You can barely push the words out—your mind is of no help and your tongue lolls useless, languid in your mouth. Your motor functions have all but puttered to a halt, every scrap of you fighting to stay above the sensation that’s threatening to drag you under its current. The rip tide of it all, of Frankie’s cock, coursing through your ass, tempting to hurdle you out into the dark, wet blue.

“Tell me,” Frankie rasps, scraping through his throat. “Tell me, pretty baby.”

Your response is pathetic—you can hardly dignify it as a response at all. Your temple is pressed into the mattress, hair knotted with brine and sand, and all you can do is coo.

Frankie folds over you, angling himself to graze his teeth over your shoulder—savoring the salt and sex tang bathing your skin, all those pheromones and velveteen chemicals anointing you—baptizing you anew for him. He’s gruff when he murmurs, his beard grating your freshly tanned skin.

“C’mon sweetheart - hng, fuck - what do you need?”

“My clit,” you rush out, needy. “My clit. Please, oh my god Frankie I-I need you to, I need – oh fuck—” And your pleas are mummed by a rapturous moan as he trails his hand from the hollow of your hip to the apex of your cleft and flicks.

Fuck. Fuck, oh Christ—

There’s a ringing in your ears, buzzing you deaf, making you dumb—or maybe it’s just your heart, beating loud and errant against your skull—you can’t say. You don’t feel human. Frankie’s pounding into that cinched channel and playing with your clit—swiveling eddies into your swollen nub—and you feel like an animal. You feel debased. You feel disgusting and perfect and you’re fucking drooling; cheek squished and mouth agape, saliva pools from your wagging maw, darkening the white linen you’re being driven into.

“You need me in your pussy, too?”

He doesn’t wait for you to answer him— he already knows what you need, how you need to have every part of you gorged on him— and Frankie dips his fingertips into your entrance, hooking them up and up and in, fucking in time to the cant of his hips.

He’s in you. Everywhere, everywhere—every possible neuron and synapse consumed with him.

“You need me like this—fucking you this deep? Fucking both your pretty holes?” he growls, weaving his hand lower to grab a fistful of your hair, rucking your head up. Throat stretched bare for him, your mewls muddle to cock-drunk cries as he spears you on himself again and again and again.

Yes yes yes fuck harder please please Frankie

You're pleading with him—you’ve been reduced to meager begging— and a chorus of slurs sings your release as you contract around him and cum, the cradle of your hips bucking reflexively.

“Fuck, that’s it,” he seethes, “you’re so good for me baby, Jesus fuck—”

He’s close now—his blissed finish drawing nearer and nearer with each sharp snap of his hips. Frankly, he’s shocked he’s managed to last as long as he has; it’s a small miracle he hadn’t cum the instant he slotted himself inside you with that very first stroke.

“Baby,” he warns, losing his rhythm. You saddle your spine, hollowing out the valley of your back and arch pretty and supple for him— preening under his weight. He moans at that, and through your fucked out haze you have the wherewithal to smirk at him, devious and prideful, a wild look owning your eye.

Frankie has to brace himself on your hips, untangling from your locks to bruise into the pillow of your skin— gripping on for dear fucking life as he plows you. You’re strangling him. You’re strangling the thick of his cock until he’s dizzy with it—until he’s feral and blind and he can’t hold on, can’t keep fighting this fucking monsoon that’s raging in his core.

“Baby, I’m gonna cum. I’m gonna—fuck me, oh shit—” He shouts, spurting inside you thrust for thrust, painting your virgin walls with his seed. It’s too much— after all that, and you’re still too tight— and he’s overstimulated to the point of delirium. Frankie roots himself still, cum dribbling out your stuffed hole while he rides out the high of his orgasm—his vision, his senses, his goddamn soul, slowly oozing back into him. When he slides free from you, he does so with a pained heave, leaving you yawning with his absence.

You feel shredded. Vacant. You’ve been sent to another fucking dimension all together.

Without wasting another second, Frankie claws you up. You’re easy and malleable, bones and muscles too strung out to protest, and he whirls you around to bar you to his chest—crushing your sweaty body to his with bullet marred arms— the same arms that have taken lives, that have spared them, too. The same arms that link around you, delicate and daisy-chained, like you’re the most precious thing he has.

And you are.

You are.

Frankie kisses you breathless, drinking rich from your cup— tongue greedy and reverent as he kneels there at your altar, praying his sins into your mouth.

So gorgeous, he croons, peppering your face—your flushed cheeks, your perspired brow—with his lips as he tells you over and over and over again.

So good for me, pretty baby

Was that okay?

Fuck, you’re a dream

You’re my best girl—you’re my only girl

Was that okay?

God, you’re my whole fucking world

Was that okay? Was I okay?

Are you okay?

You swoon, helpless to the contented sigh that seeps out from you like mist. You’ve gone limp against the breadth of him. He has reduced you to rubber, left wobbling in his grasp, and you’re so damn full—your heart and your body—all of it. You feel unequivocally complete. You feel safe, you feel home.

You are home. Francisco is home.

He’s flattening out the nest of your hair, taming the damage he previously delivered to it, earning from you a sleepy grin into the muggy crook of his neck. And with the last of your waning strength you hold his pieces up to the light—the light you left on in the hall as the night grew dark around you, the one who’s yellow glow your naked bodies bask in now, and you say

I love you

I love this

I love this too

tags:

@krissology @heartsofbeskar @madhattervanessa @andiesturgss @sharkbait77 @tenderwhat @javier-pena @pedros-mustache @frannyzooey @chasingdreamer @djarinsbeskar @thosewickedlovelies @juletheghoul @not-the-droids @filthybookworm @pilothusband @letterfromvienna @keeper0fthestars @greatcircle79 @day-off-inkyoto @mermaidxatxheart @lawfulgranola @heatherbel @quica-quica-quica @stuckonthefiction @janesbrontes

[sirthisisa-wendys]

The General (part 5.5): Geto Suguru x Fem!Reader

synopsis: a negotiation goes bad, you learn a lesson from a rake, and you receive a long awaited reward. 

wc: 1.8k

tw: nsfw because nudity, adult thoughts, and maybe a little touchy-feely? 

masterlist

“Moving the camp works like this,” Kaori begins, lacing her fingers through your hair as you sit on the floor after dinner. “Master Geto will send Gojo and Haibara ahead with a modest squad. When they arrive upon a town, they negotiate with the elders. Should they agree to let us set up camp among them, Master Geto will scout out fields and open land to reside in. Usually, the village will send a peace offering and they will accept it, then Master Geto will send for the rest of the camp to join him. However, as we inch closer to the Imperial Palace… the more willing villages are to put up a fight to wait for Imperial forces.”

“And if they fight?” Kaori shudders, closing her eyes.

“Master Geto will wipe the entire village out in one night. It hasn’t happened in many months, but the last one…” Kaori drifts off, but you know what the implications were. “Anyways, you should put these on. Master Geto is waiting for you outside.” She motions toward a small pair of umanori and a hakamashita, and you cautiously pick up the white and black fabric.

“What is this for?”

“Just meet him outside when you’re done.”

_______________________________________________________________________

You find Geto sitting in the field where you previously watched him spar with Gojo, and as you approach, he tosses blades of grass aside and stands to greet you.

“Why are we out here?” you ask, and Geto crosses his arms over his broad chest.

“I told you I would teach you how to fight,” he laughs. “Now I’m making good on that promise. Stand tall, warrior.”

“Wait, is this really necessary?” you retort as he knocks your chin high with a finger.

“I’m going to be away for a time, and I need to know you’ll be well prepared should something happen.”

“You mean you’re not taking me with you when you go off to the next village to scout?”

“I…” he pauses, frowning. “Hold your hands out.” You do so, and he presses your palms together between his massive hands. “Feel that warmth?” You nod, feeling the spike in temperature on the backs of your hands, and he lets go. “That’s pure energy. You need to know how to harness it properly to fight well.”

“Energy?” you question, but he proceeds with his speech.

“First things first, do you know how to fight with a rake?” He hefts a rake off of the ground and tosses it at you, and you barely catch the instrument, fumbling around with the wooden handle clumsily.

“No,” you moan, and he claps his hands together, smiling in the dimming light of the sun.

“Try to swing at me with the prongs.” You swing away, trying to catch the General with the sharp end, but failing miserably as he dodges your attacks easily, sidestepping and weaving around your failing efforts.

“It’s too heavy,” you pant, feeling a dull ache in your arms.

“We won’t move on until you get me with the prongs or the sun goes down. Either way is fine with me,” he announces, and you groan, hefting the rake again.

Once the sun goes down, you find yourself on the dirt ground, face sticky with sweat and grime. Geto stood above you without so much as a scratch, hands on his hips. You look up at him in disdain, hoping that he would drop dead right where he stands, but not anticipating his next move. He hoists you over his shoulder, draping your torso across his back and your legs across his chest.

“We’ll work on this again tomorrow, little one. You gave a great effort today.”

“What does swinging a rake have to do with pure energy?” you pant, and he chuckles.

“The rake is just a tool. When you can swing it with precision, you’ll have enough strength and dexterity to handle the energy within.”

“Seriously? You had me doing arm exercises this whole time?”

“Yes and no,” Geto answers, pushing the flap of the tent open and walking inside. “But let's take a bath and go to bed. I know you’re feeling tired.” You grumble when he sits you on the bed, your entire body screaming in pain as you try to lay back comfortably.

“I suspect Kaori is asleep, so I’ll go fetch the hot water.” With that, Geto leaves, and you lay in the bed, eyes glued to the ceiling of the tent. Fighting, negotiations, emissaries… How much could you fit into a day? You long for the lazy days and nights spent reading by the window, the long afternoons that would stretch on forever while you and your mother cooked, the sound of the brushstrokes as your father worked on a painting. You long for home, and for a whole month, you’ve stuffed it down to avoid the misery. But now, there’s nothing left but the memories of how things used to be.

You don’t realize you’re crying until something wet runs down your cheek and to your earlobe, finally dropping onto the sheets beneath your head. When the first tear comes, it’s quickly followed by the second tear, and the third, fourth, fifth, until you can’t keep track of them anymore. And you’re sobbing - but it hurts to cry since you were already in pain, which causes you even more grief. You’re crying so hard that you don’t hear the soft footfalls reenter the tent, nor the sound of a water bucket being placed on the ground. It isn’t until you’re pulled up into strong arms that you realize Geto has returned, and you’re being held by him.

“Did I push you too hard?” he asks, lips next to your ear.

“N-no, no…” you choke out, trying to catch your breath. “I j-just miss... h-home.”

“Mmmm…” he hums, reaching up to stroke your hair. “You will see your home as soon as I can manage safe traveling conditions for you, little one.” You nod into his chest, the fabric rubbing against your forehead and nose. “Come on; can’t let the water get cold.”

You immerse yourself in the hot water slowly, the steam and heat rolling up your body and relaxing your frayed muscles. As you bathe behind the curtain, you hear Geto shifting about and wonder if he’s going to join yo--

“I’ll be right there to help,” he calls out, and you sink lower in the soapy water to preserve your modesty. When he appears, your eyes follow him cautiously as he sits beside the tub and gathers the soap in his hands. When he sees your submerged figure in the tub, he laughs, running his free hand through loose black locks.

“You remember, I’ve seen you completely naked before.” The mention of this reminds your ass of the punishment it received - on your first day in the camp, no less - and you grunt once, squinting your eyes at him. He dips his hands into the water, and he plucks out your right leg, smoothing soap all over it before beginning a slow massage down your calf and up to your thigh. You jolt at the contact when he reaches the midpoint between your thigh and your core, and Geto instantly lets your leg go, the water splashing on his hakamashita.

“Sorry,” he whispers, and moves to the other side, taking your left leg out of the water. When he reaches the same spot on your other leg, you don’t jolt, but you do curl your toes, your leg muscles sighing in relief as he places your left leg back in the water. Geto does the same movements with both arms, then turns his attention to your back, where you feel the most pain. You moan as he kneads into your shoulder blades, releasing tension you didn’t even know you had.

“Your hands are huge; I didn’t think you would be able to do this with precision,” you mumble and he huffs a soft laugh.

“You’d be surprised at what these hands can do.” When the double meaning hits you both, you stiffen and Geto clears his throat. “Anyways, all I have left to do is your neck, if you’ll let me.” You shake your head yes, and he runs his fingers up the sides, pressing around your trachea and spine with care. You moan again when you feel fingers dance along the tops of your ears and down your chin.

“Geto…” you breathe, and upon realising you just said his name out loud, you inhale sharply.

“I’m here,” he replies huskily, lips to your ear again. You shakily exhale, closing your eyes as your pulse quickens. “Tell me what you need.”

“I need…” I need your hands all over me. “... to get out.” You get up immediately and step out of the tub, dripping water on the rugs as you grab a towel and pad to the other side of the curtain.

What are you doing?

You firmly shake your head, knocking the images of Geto splaying you out spread eagle on the bed from your mind. You towel off quickly, dress in your night clothes, and climb into bed, pulling the sheets over your head as Geto comes around the curtain. This wasn’t the plan. Falling for your captor wasn’t in the plan.

When you peek over the sheets, you see Geto working on his maps and plans at his desk, hunched over the parchment. Whether it’s your poor judgement or impulsivity, you don’t know. But the fire inside of you quickens your exit from the bed and moves you to where he’s sitting with his back to you, the dragon on his shoulder twisting about in circles. When you stand beside the General, he looks up in surprise, his black eyes catching yours immediately.

“Y/n, wha--”

You plant your lips firmly on his, and at the contact, the pen drops from his hand and he moves to cup your face, tongue probing at your bottom lip. You open your mouth for him and feel his tongue slide inside, seeking… searching, and he brings you close enough to straddle him in his chair. When he pulls away you’re both breathless, panting softly. The evidence of his arousal is pressed against your thigh, but you can’t focus on anything else except how the kiss felt and the fact that you want to do it again.

“Y/n,” Geto whispers, touching his forehead against yours and closing his eyes. “Please, have mercy on me.”

“What do you mean?” Your fingers touch his swollen lips and he presses a tender kiss to them.

“You’re about to make me into a beggar of a man, and right now, I can’t… I can’t have you like I want to.”

“What?” Your confusion is evident, and he opens his eyes and presses a hand to your cheek.

“I should explain when you’re less tired.” He stands, still holding you against him and carries you back to the bed, laying you there with a tenderness you had never really appreciated before. When he tucks the covers around you and presses a kiss to your forehead, you realize everything will be as it should be. “Sleep now. I’ll explain everything in the morning.”

You drift off to sleep on the heels of his words.

_______________________________________________________________________

TAGLIST: @jotazinha @just4readingfics @mxhi @sammytamaki​ @brownskinnedgirll​ @keelyshayee​ @leanne-tamashi​ @vabybizzle​ @amaris9

[jingabitch]

Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell ch.3

Summary: When you were ten, Taehyung adopted you and gave you a home. Now that you’re eighteen, the sudden change in your scent perplexes and confounds him.

Pairing: wolf hybrid!tae x human!reader (all bts members are hybrids)

Warnings: smut | talk of ownership (reader is tae’s pet human) | (eventual) daddy long legs syndrome | angst | ANGST SO FUCKING MUCH ANGST | shit goes down in this chapter | tae bloWS UP at mc | mentions of prostitution (but not explicitly described) | reader is in a real bad situation | maybe don’t read if you’re sensitive

Word count: 10.4k

Rating: Explicit

A/N: I know I said ch3 was going to be the last one, but it got too long and there’s still a whole section left of the story so I thought it was best to post this and then write Chapter 4 as a separate part. Enjoy!

Series index

Whatever you want, it’s okay.

Both you and Taehyung thought extensively about that statement over the next few days as things started to go back to normal. You tried to tiptoe around the obvious elephant in the room, relishing the relative normalcy and freedom of the atmosphere in the apartment, now that Taehyung’s shameful secret was out, and it worked, for the most part. Nothing changed outwardly in the way you interacted with each other – you were still physically affectionate, cuddly with each other especially during bedtime – but the thought of what was to come weighed heavily on your mind, and you knew it was the same for him.

Still, you were committed to this, to him. You tried to show, without words, how seriously you were taking your promise. When he hugged you or scented you, you pressed as close as you possibly could. And, even though your human senses were dull and useless compared to his, you thought you could feel him start to relax as you demonstrated your commitment towards this. Towards him.

The talk came around, of course. Sooner than you would have liked, but probably later than it should have. In the early morning one weekend, you’d woken up to find Taehyung wrapped around you. He’d gone out the night before, but ever since his heat, you’d taken to sleeping in his bed even when he wasn’t there, knowing that he would appreciate your presence when he did come back. This in itself wasn’t unusual, since he’d always been a cuddly sleeper. He usually woke up before you and would be in the middle of his extensive morning routine by the time you got up and went to get breakfast started.

This morning, though, he was still asleep when you woke up, courtesy of his late night. You knew they’d been working really hard on their comeback, and your heart filled with tenderness at the thought of Taehyung staying late in the studio again. His front was pressed against your back, but you tried your best to reach behind you to ruffle his hair affectionately anyway.

You miscalculated, however, and your jostling caused him to stir. You froze in a panic, hoping that he would go back to sleep since he desperately needed the rest after the long week he’d had. But, instead of doing as you were silently willing him to in your head, he let out a low groan and cuddled closer to you, pressing himself to you so hard he was basically crushing you into the mattress. Feeling his morning wood pressing against your ass, you bit your lip, closing your eyes at the now-familiar combination of arousal and reluctance that threatened to overwhelm you.

“Y/n, baby…” he groans in that sleep-raspy voice, and the balance tipped towards mindless arousal. You buried your face in the pillow and tried to stifle a whimper, unsure of what you were allowed to feel or say in this situation. Would he be disgusted if you reciprocated? After all, he wasn’t in heat right now, and may not actually want you in that way, regardless of what his body said.

You, of all people, were more than familiar with the mindless nature of physiological arousal and how it could occur even if your mind was unwilling, especially after his previous heat.

The way he suddenly stiffened against you clued you into the fact that he’d noticed that you were turned on. Not for the first time you cursed his superior senses.

“Y’ smell sogood -” he slurred against your neck and you shivered. His hand gripped your hip almost too hard for a second, then snatched it back as if he was surprised that the appendage had betrayed him like that. “Shit, sorry, I didn’t mean -”

You could hear him panicking, and it was too early in the morning for any of that shit, so instead of saying anything you just took his hand and put it back where it was.

“Y/n… I don’t know what you want – we’ve never talked about it and…”

You turned over and pressed your face into his chest. “Whatever you want, Tae-oppa.”

You could practically hear the cogs turning in his head as he considered the implications of what you’d told him. Pushing away any negative feelings you may have secretly harboured, you tilted your face upwards to look at him, hoping that he would see the sincerity in your eyes.

“Y/n…” he said again, staring down at you before his lips crashed into yours in a heated kiss. This was the first time you’d kissed since you had come back from Yoongi’s after  his heat ended.  Despite the morning breath, heat flooded you as he pulled you closer to him. With a moan, you wrapped your arms around his neck and used the leverage to move yourself up on the mattress, deepening the kiss.

When Taehyung broke away to rest his forehead on yours, he was panting, his mouth shiny and slightly swollen. “Wait, wait,” he protested, although its effect was muted by the way he ran his hands over your body like he couldn’t get enough of you.

“What is it?” you almost whispered, afraid that speaking too loudly would break the spell that had been woven around you. Everything seemed to move more slowly, feeling as though your senses had been heightened, you were so in tune with  his every movement.

“Baby, I don’t know… what you want -” he started to explain in a halting voice. You were tired of explaining to him that you were giving him carte blanche, so you decided to show him.

Going for broke, you slid one hand down his bare chest, hooking your fingers in his sweats. You paused, waiting for his response, wondering if this was too much and if it was actually what he wanted. Maybe his protests about not knowing what you wanted and holding back for you were really just excuses. Maybe  he didn’t actually want this?

Taehyung froze, looking down at you with wide eyes, in interminable silence. Just as you were about to pull your hand away with an awkward apology and run away forever in embarrassment, he groaned and crashed his lips back onto yours. The urgency that had been so apparent during his heat was back abruptly. A dark, shameful pride swelled in you for garnering this reaction from anyone, much less your super-hot celebrity owner.

His enthusiastic reaction gave you the confidence you needed to continue, so you snuck your hand into his sweatpants slowly, giving him plenty of time to change his mind and tell you to stop if he wanted to. You noticed he wasn’t wearing underwear as your hand met the warm, soft skin of his hipbone.

The sharp inhalation you heard in response had your eyes darting back up to his face, examining his expression for any indication that he wasn’t comfortable with this. Your hand paused, thumb pressing into the crease between his leg and his pelvis. He groaned, a sound of such heartfelt suffering that you began to remove your hand, intending to comfort him if he wasn’t feeling good about it anymore.

Taehyung snarled in response,  grabbing your wrist and preventing you from moving. The way he kneaded the fine bones in his grasp spoke of his strength and restraint – you knew he could break you if he wanted to. Instead of forcing you to do anything, though, he gritted out, “I need to know, love, what you want me to do to you.”

Your heart swelled with adoration for him. Even in the face of  clear need, he was so kind, so considerate, so good. It made your decision easy, pressing yourself closer to him to whisper, “Anything you’d like.”

That seemed to seal the deal for Taehyung. He released your wrist in favour of groping you, sliding one hand up your shirt. His big hand splayed across your belly made you shiver, a reaction that only spurred him on as he inched  further up. With a breathy moan that he caught between  his lips, you slid your hand in his pants and finally grasped him.

Your hand ghosted past him before wrapping around his dick firmly. Taehyung shuddered, his teeth sinking into your bottom lip. Being wrapped up with him like this made it all too easy to forget that he was a hybrid. Maybe you could do this, after all, you thought optimistically. Hybrids were mostly human too, right?

You started with a slow, steady pace, gliding your hand up and down his erection as he whined and panted. He tried to continue kissing you but got distracted, eventually just hiding his face in your neck as he held on to you, palming your breast under your camisole. The way his palm rasped against your nipple sent a bolt of heat rushing through you to pool in your core.

“Shit,” he huffed, a sentiment you wholeheartedly agreed with, as his fingers stole into your panties. You were almost embarrassed about the sticky mess you’d made of yourself, but when he found your clit  you couldn’t bring yourself to care. “Fuck, Y/n.” The syllables of your name sounded so filthy when he moaned them like a prayer or a curse – it didn’t matter which. “You’re so wet.” You squirmed as he said it, desperate for more friction.

As his thumb circled your clit, the pad of his finger eliciting delicious sensations from you, his fingers slipped down, pushing into your pussy, which was so wet that he slid right in. The slight stretch was so amazing that you immediately clenched down on him. You were so distracted that you almost forgot what you were doing, your grip loosening on his erection as your motions slowed down, becoming almost mechanical. His whine of protest against your lips snapped you back to reality, though, and you started jerking him off with renewed vigor. You shouldn’t have forgotten what this was all for, you chastised yourself.

Taehyung’s reactions told you that he was close enough as it was, but you wanted to be good for him, to make him happy. You wanted to go the extra mile, so you employed a little trick that you’d figured out towards the end of your previous relationship. On the upstroke, you twisted your hand slightly and then ran your thumb across the head of his cock, smirking as you felt his breath wash over your face in a shaky exhale. When you noticed him trying to subtly thrust up into your hand, you took it as a good sign.

Just to really seal the deal, you reached down with your other hand to cup his balls. You were pretty hesitant with this because you knew not everyone liked it, but you figured it was a risk worth taking. Just having your hand there seemed to send him stratospheric, though. You tried not to show your triumph on your face as he groaned, coming  all over your hand. His own ministrations on you ceased as he came, and you pushed away the disappointment, continuing  to milk him through his orgasm.

When he was done, he slumped against you, pressing open-mouthed kisses to your shoulder as you gingerly removed your soiled hand from his pants. Scent was a big thing for him, and he could smell his cum on you, something that made his spent cock twitch again. Humming, you brought your hand to your face, deliberately licking it clean in front of his transfixed gaze. This was something your ex-boyfriend had liked, and you were sure that Taehyung would enjoy it even more.

You knew you were right when you heard his shaky whimper. He drove his fingers into you with renewed determination, as if intending to reward you for being so good. “Fuck, you’re so hot, so good for me…” He kept up the stream of filth as he continued working you over, refusing to let up even as you came on his hand, clenching down on his fingers as your cream dripped out of you. It wasn’t until your cries of ecstasy  faded into little moans of pain when overstimulation began to set in that he removed his hand.

He brought the soaked fingers to his face in a reversal of what had just transpired as he looked at them, sighed, then sucked them clean. “You taste so fucking good, Y/n,” he moaned around his fingers. “I can’t wait to taste it straight from the source.”

Coming from anyone else, the line might have been cringey, but the way Taehyung said it so matter-of-factly as he stared you down caused a little shiver to run down your spine. You knew that you should clean up, but just in case he hadn’t gotten the message, you squirmed ever closer to him. “You only need to ask,” you promised.From the way his gaze darkened again, you knew he’d finally gotten the message.

After that, things seemed to ease up around the apartment. Taehyung no longer held himself stiffly around you as if he was holding himself back. He now allowed himself to scent you or demand physical affection when he needed it. Though you hadn’t slept together yet, he was pretty much content with the way things were now since you never denied him anything he needed. There had been a whole lot of handjobs and blowjobs. He never pushed, and you never asked, secretly grateful that he seemed satisfied with what you were currently doing - you didn’t think you were ready for sex either. Not that you would deny him anything if he wanted it.

Taehyung, as you were beginning to find out, was a bit of a monster between the sheets. It wasn’t just his high sex drive, which you supposed must be normal for hybrids, but his penchant for domination that was something you had to adjust to. If you were sucking him off, he would more often than not take control and fuck your face, holding your hair looped around his fist tightly, the pressure on your scalp just the wrong side of painful. He enjoyed edging you till you cried, something which you were far less enthused about than he was.And his hands found themselves wrapped around your neck more often than not,.

It was all so uncharacteristic of the normally gentle and kind man you’d always known, but you were, quite frankly, living for it, pleased that he was comfortable enough with you to show that side of him.

Other than that, though, he walked with an ease that hadn’t been there for months now, smiled more, and generally seemed looser and more relaxed.

You weren’t the only one who noticed, either. All the other boys did too, and it was Namjoon who finally cornered Taehyung one morning when they were alone together in the studio to ask about it.

“You sorted things out with Y/n-ie then?” he asked while they were sitting together in front of the control panel, playing back Taehyung’s vocals and fiddling with how it would sound on the track.

Taehyung tried (and mostly failed) to subdue his grin. You’d woken him up with a blowjob that sucked his soul right out of him this morning, and he still couldn’t feel his toes. So yeah, he’d say things were pretty damn good with you at home. “I did, yes,” he said, feigning nonchalance.

Namjoon looked at him suspiciously. He’d kept his discovery to himself, hoping that he wouldn’t have to say anything, but now it looked like he might have no choice. He couldn’t bear the thought of his brother walking into a sexual relationship with a human without having all the necessary information. After all the humans had done to their kind…

“Yeah? What did she say?” he probed further, hoping against hope that all you’d done was talk about it and then returned to the parameters of your previous relationship. The way colour bloomed across Taehyung’s cheeks dashed his fruitless hopes.

“She, uh, said…” he floundered for an instant. He’d never been secretive about his sex life, especially not with his brothers, but this time was different. He was still worried about any judgment he could receive even though Namjoon had been so understanding and kind when he’d had his heat. Still, wanting to be in a sexual relationship with his pet human was different from actually embarking on one, he knew that.

The way Namjoon raised his brow at him let him know that he’d basically figured it out already, and reluctantly, Taehyung mumbled, “She let me do whatever I wanted.”

That, more than anything, had Namjoon seeing red. His brother, ultimately innocent in all of this, saying that you, a human, was letting him do what he wanted. He knew logically that none of this was your fault, and you were trying to cope with a situation that was highly irregular, to say the least. Yet you were still a human. You still descended from the race that had made Taehyung the way he was, and the fact that Taehyung didn’t even know how fucked up the whole situation was made him burn up inside.

“Taehyung, before you get further into this… thing… with Y/n,” Namjoon said in a low voice, “I need to tell you something.”

Taehyung’s brow crinkled when he heard Namjoon’s tone, the way he’d described his budding relationship with you so disdainfully, but he nodded and leaned in to listen to Namjoon rather than yelling at him about it. It was, after all, highly inappropriate to pick a fight with your elders, a lesson that he’d learned well.

Namjoon sighed. He really didn’t want to tell Taehyung, knowing that it likely wouldn’t benefit anyone. Taehyung would be shocked and furious over something he couldn’t help or change, and who knew the damage that it could have on his relationship with you. Now, though, knowing that you’d gotten involved with each other, he couldn’t help but wish he’d said something earlier.

“Do you remember when I said I would do a bit of digging about your whole… situation?” Namjoon tried to put it as delicately as possible.

Taehyung nodded slightly hesitantly. Truth be told, he’d pretty much forgotten all about that, so warmly ensconced in the bubble that the two of you had built together in the apartment. He supposed that whatever Namjoon had to say, it wouldn’t really matter, he thought, since the problem had already been resolved, and quite favourably, at that.

“So, uh…” Namjoon fumbled awkwardly, not sure how to begin. Despite his determination to tell Taehyung the truth, he found himself almost unable to speak the words. Seeing Taehyung’s wide-eyed, trusting gaze, however, gave him the strength he needed to push through, to tell his brother what he needed to know.

He told him everything he’d found out, starting from the beginning, leaving no uncomfortable, disturbing detail out.

“You know when hybrids were still being manufactured…?” he started. Taehyung nodded, and Namjoon swallowed before continuing. “You know many hybrids were created to be companions for humans, right?”

Another nod.

“Well, when they started creating wild animal hybrids, there was, um… a problem.”

Taehyung raised a brow inquiringly but didn’t interrupt.

“Wild animals aren’t naturally docile or friendly towards humans, you know? They don’t bond with humans in the same way, are less loyal, and so on. And with so many humans buying hybrids to be companions for their children, there was a real demand for hybrids that fulfilled the desire for ‘exotic’ pets. But they had to still be safe to have around kids, and would still create the lifelong bond hybrid breeders advertised.”

Namjoon looked massively uncomfortable talking about this and Taehyung understood. His lips thinned in displeasure hearing about all of this secondhand, especially at the dehumanizing terms used to describe the hybrid industry of the past. None of this was public knowledge though. No one wanted to teach their children about all of the messed up things that humans had done to hybrids in such excruciating, graphic detail. Now that things were better, there was no point in having them rehashed. He opened his mouth to tell his brother that, but Namjoon, pre-empting Taehyung’s interruption, held his hand up to indicate that Taehyung should continue listening.

“It turns out that… hybrid breeders tried to force that bond between humans and their hybrid pets.” Namjoon paused, assessing Taehyung’s reaction. The younger man’s jaw worked, but he nodded, indicating for him to continue.

“Some genetic scientists managed to isolate the genome sequence in certain animals that mate for life, like penguins, seahorses… wolves…” He gestured at the wolf hybrid, and Taehyung nodded again, more grimly this time.

“Through breeding, genetic splicing, and manipulation, they were able to engineer a process in select hybrids causing hybrids to form a very… intimate and secure bond with their owners.” Namjoon cringed as he said it, hoping that Taehyung would understand without him having to spell it out. The confused look on the younger man’s face dashed those hopes quickly.

“Uh… what does that mean?” Taehyung asked.

“Damn it, Tae, they made it so that hybrids would mate with their humans.” Namjoon cringed as soon as the words left his mouth, not having wanted to explain it in such blunt terms. Taehyung looked stricken, his mouth gaping open slightly as his brow furrowed.

“I – what – how?”

Namjoon sighed and patted the couch next to him, letting Taehyung snuggle close in the hopes that his physical proximity would provide some comfort. As soon as Taehyung scooched closer, he wrapped his arm around his shoulders, trying to convey without words that they would get through this together.

“They somehow managed to manipulate the gene sequence so that hybrids would latch on to a human, forming a mate bond with them, so they could ensure hybrids would stay loyal to their owners. This way hybrids wouldn’t pose a threat to their human companions. From what I understood, the imprinting process is triggered when a human and hybrid are in close proximity with each other throughout their adolescences – so hybrids would only form the bond with their companion, and not any other humans in the household.”

“But – I don’t understand. When I bought Y/n, I was already in my twenties… I was an adult. Even if what you’re saying is true, the imprinting process shouldn’t have been triggered between Y/n and I.” Taehyung’s voice was becoming faint as he tried to process the magnitude of what Namjoon was telling him. Did that mean everything that he was feeling for you… was a lie?

“Biologically, hybrids’ adolescence lasts a lot longer than humans’ because of the way we were engineered – apparently, human owners liked for their hybrids to remain playful and curious for as long as possible. When you adopted Y/n you were nearing the end of your adolescence and she was just starting, so the timing just matched up.”

“I – why didn’t I know about this, then? I should have been told, before…” He couldn’t finish his sentence. Tears were pricking at his eyes as  he choked back a horrified sob. Violated didn’t even begin to describe how he felt right now. His own body had betrayed him, fulfilling a purpose he hadn’t even known about or agreed to. It felt  like he was a prisoner in his own body, deprived of basic autonomy, so completely helpless against the meddling of human scientists in centuries past that had created him to fulfill someone else’s agenda. All this talk of profit and the wants and needs of human owners who hadn’t even viewed hybrids as people made him sick.

Namjoon hugged him close. He could understand the inner turmoil that his brother was facing – he’d been horrified and sickened to find out all of this, and all of this was secondhand to him. To find out that you weren’t the master of your own body… it was chilling. “Hybrids who could form such bonds were very rare, because the technology was so expensive,” he answered Taehyung’s question. “And because hybrids who formed such bonds with their humans rarely procreated, the government thought it was safe to assume that this gene had died out.”

Taehyung could barely form words, he was so worked up, and he was trembling in Namjoon’s arms. “I can’t – I can’t be here,” he muttered, shoving his brother away as he tried to make a break for the door. He wanted to claw his skin off, escape his body, the body that had been created to bond him to another without his consent.

Worried, Namjoon got up to follow him. “Tae, where are you going?” he asked in concern.

Taehyung grabbed his keys from the table next to the door and exited the room. “I need to be alone right now, hyung,” he called over his shoulder, stalking down the hall to the elevators.

“Tae, come on, you shouldn’t be driving right now,” Namjoon ran after him, trying to make him see reason.

Abruptly, Taehyung stopped and rounded on him. “Let me make my own fucking decisions just once, hyung,” he snapped.

Namjoon stopped in his tracks. He was right, he knew that. It might be dangerous for him to be alone right now, but at least it was a decision that he could make for himself. In Taehyung’s current state of mind, safety was secondary to feeling like he was actually in control of his own body and emotions after having everything he’d ever known be disrupted so cruelly.

“All right, just… be careful, okay?”

Taehyung nodded as he continued walking and Namjoon sighed. He didn’t know if he’d handled that well, but to be fair, there really was no good way to handle a situation like this. How do you tell your brother something so disgusting?

When he got into the car, Taehyung didn’t really know where he was going. He just knew he had to get away from the studio, to process what he’d been told properly. He wished he could get away from the body he was an unwilling prisoner in, but that wasn’t possible for him. Out of habit, he drove back to his own apartment, barely realizing where he was going until he was sitting in the parking garage, still panting, gripping his steering wheel like a lifeline. His knuckles had turned white, and it felt like the steering wheel was going to crumble in his hands.

It wouldn’t be the only thing that had, he thought sardonically.

Every time his mind flickered back to the bombshell that Namjoon had dropped on him, he got pissed all over again. That sense of revulsion, of hating your body, permeated every inch of his soul. He wanted to scream, to cry and throw things, but none of that would help. There wasn’t anything that could free him from his prison.

Almost woodenly, he got out of his car and made his way back to the apartment. When he opened the front door and stepped inside he was immediately assailed with the scent of food. He rounded the corner and saw you standing in front of the stove, stir-frying some pork with onions in spicy sauce. Next to that, a pot of stew was coming to boil. It was all so domestic and he hated it. He despised how his body relaxed against his will at your presence, he knew now that it was only a product of manipulation, so he would remain docile around you. A built-in muzzle. The thought made his fists clench.

Of course, you didn’t know anything about all of that, so when he came to a halt behind you, you just turned your head to greet him, still stirring the meat in the pan. “Tae-oppa, you’re home early,” you chirped, a sound that just this morning would have made him melt. You’d turned back to the stove after a cursory glance at him, so you hadn’t noticed his expression.

He was scowling at you, his eyes spitting fire. How could you be so blasé about everything, when he was so tormented by his imprint? You’d even fooled him into believing that this sick desire he had for you was something acceptable, that you were the one doing him a favour. How dare you, after your people had messed with his entire genetic makeup, made him into a freak, greet him so casually like nothing was wrong. The resentment and rage filled him as he stood there staring at you.

This was your fault, after all. If he hadn’t adopted you that day none of this would have happened. He would still be normal, maybe able to have a normal relationship with a hybrid woman. You were the one who’d triggered this latent timebomb inside him, the reason why his body wouldn’t listen to his mind. Even now, when all he wanted was to yell, to throw things and be angry, it felt like he was chained, unable to do anything that might distress you.

This was unacceptable. How dare you stand there cooking dinner, so completely unaffected. You tasted the meat, made a satisfied noise, then turned off the burner, picking up the pan and turning to the island to plate it. “You should go get changed, oppa. Dinner should be ready soon,” you said, shaking the food onto the plate you’d set out beforehand.

When he didn’t respond to you, you looked up curiously. The sheer vitriol and hatred in his gaze made you pause. “Oppa, you okay?” you queried hesitantly. “Did you have a bad day or something?” Putting the pan down, you started making your way around the island to go to him.

“Stay away from me.” The words were snarled with more venom than you’d ever heard in your usually affable owner’s voice. Unease started to trickle down your spine. You couldn’t figure out why he was so angry at you, when everything had been fine just this morning before he’d left for work.

Standing awkwardly in the middle of the kitchen, you nevertheless tried to defuse the situation, your instincts screaming at you to de-escalate before something bad happened. “Hey, whatever happened, it’s all right, we can talk about it, right?” You raised your hands up in his direction placatingly.

He growled at you. “Talking is what got me into this mess!” he yelled, making you flinch back in fear. He’d never raised his voice with you before, and you didn’t know how to react.

“T-Tae-oppa…” you whimpered, shrinking in on yourself.

Taehyung welcomed the twinge in his heart and the discomfort he felt, his body pumping out hormones and chemicals in a bid to control his mind and take over his decisions. Defying the instincts of the body that had betrayed him, even if it hurt physically, especially because it hurt, gave him a twisted sense of satisfaction. That he was taking his freedom and autonomy back from the nameless, faceless human scientists who’d intentionally taken it away from him. Even the pain felt good, like he was punishing his body for betraying him.

The scent of your tears starting to leak from your eyes as you sniffled made him feel guilty for a second, before the rage came roaring back, more potent than ever. How dare you make him feel like the asshole when everything that was happening now was a result of you and your fellow humans? Hadn’t he suffered enough after being forced into a sexual relationship with a human and made to struggle with what he’d thought were unnatural desires?

“Get out.” He surprised you both with the demand. As your eyes flew back to his face, widening in shock and horror, you could see his mouth drop open slightly, like he couldn’t believe he’d said it. Your vision quickly became blurry from the tears filling your eyes and you wiped them away with the sleeve of your cardigan.

“Tae-oppa, please,” you pleaded, dread filling you at the prospect of being cast out on the streets. It felt like your ribcage was closing in on your lungs and you couldn’t breathe. The worst part was that you didn’t even know why this was happening all of a sudden. You had no idea why everything had gone so wrong so abruptly or what mistake you could have possibly made that warranted this.

Overwhelmed with panic, you stumbled towards him, your hands outstretched, begging him to reconsider. “Tae-oppa, please, just tell me what I did wrong; I promise I’ll change, give me another chance, please!” It looked like he was starting to soften, but then you reached him and grabbed his hand, holding his much larger one between both of yours, and his expression closed off again.

“Don’t fucking touch me,” he said in a calmer voice that was nonetheless brimming with anger. When you were slow to react, your mind unable to process the 180-degree change in his entire attitude from this morning, he continued. “Get your filthy fucking hands off me, you disgusting human,” he spat, pulling his hand away from yours.

Stunned and horrified by his words, you let your hands drop uselessly to your sides. Your eyes filled again with tears and this time you didn’t bother wiping them away. This was your worst nightmare. You didn’t know what had happened today to cause it, but somehow he’d come to his senses and realized that this relationship the two of you had was sick, disgusting, wrong, and he rightfully blamed you. After all, you were the one who’d initiated, who’d chosen to give in to his instincts when you should have known better.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, your voice broken.

“Sorry? What fucking good does sorry do now?!” Furiously, Taehyung swept all the dishes off the island, and you leapt in fright as it all crashed onto the floor. The plate shattered and the pork was flung all over, making a mess. You stared in shock at the shards of porcelain and the meat strewn across the floor, then back to Taehyung.

“Tae-oppa, please, I’m sorry, I won’t do it again-” Reduced to begging, that was all you could say as panic began filling your lungs and weakening your muscles. When he didn’t react, you sank onto your knees, not sure whether it was by choice or whether your legs had just given out on you. Tears ran down your face freely now as you looked up at him, searching his face for any sign of the kindness and love that you usually saw in his expression.

His stony countenance revealed none of it. “I don’t want to look at you anymore,” he responded coldly.

“No, Tae, please, please-” He couldn’t be serious, you thought wildly. You had nowhere to go; your whole life revolved around him…

When you were slow to respond physically, he grabbed your wrist. It was an action he’d done many times before, but never like this. Never with this dispassionate look in his eyes, like he was taking out the trash. You sobbed helplessly as he dragged you to the front door, casting you out and slamming it in your face.

And then you were alone.

The silence that followed the door slam was deafening. Taehyung looked around the apartment, feeling like a red fog had been lifted from his eyes. Now that you were gone, it was almost as if whatever hold you’d had on him had broken. He was still angry, panting slightly from his physical and emotional exertion, but it seemed that reason had returned to him.

It was almost eerily calm in the apartment now that he was alone, after everything that had transpired in the same space just minutes ago. He turned away from the door and walked back through the apartment again to the kitchen, his mouth twisting into a frown as he looked at the mess he’d made. As he bent to clear up the mess, the rhythmic motions of the mindless, banal task was somewhat soothing to him, slowly numbing the anger he’d felt.

He still didn’t want to think too closely about the whole situation or you, because he wasn’t ready to unpack all of it yet. While he figured it out, he figured you’d be safe enough, probably already on the way to Yoongi’s place, or one of the other members’. It was probably for the best that you spent some time apart anyway, regardless of how harshly it had been initiated. God knows he wouldn’t have been able to spend time just hanging around you like everything was all right, now that he knew what he did. Even though rationally he knew that you had nothing to do with the whole imprinting thing, and it wasn’t your fault, he couldn’t look at you anymore without remembering the way his free will had been stolen away from him, so neatly and wholly that he hadn’t even realized it was happening.

The thought was horrifying to him, sending a shiver snaking down his spine. No, it was better that you stayed away for the time being, he thought, throwing everything in the trash and exiting the kitchen.

After all, as much as your presence had manipulated him, he knew he was a danger to you as well.

You were cold. It was mid-March, and while it wasn’t as miserable now than it had been in February, the weather was still too harsh to be wandering around the streets at night, especially in the clothes you were wearing. You looked down at your feet, clad in the fluffy house slippers you’d been wearing in the apartment when Taehyung – when he –

No. You shook your head and wrapped your hoodie more tightly around your body, refusing to think about it. Even now, tears were starting to prick at your eyes as you sniffled, and you knew that if you let yourself replay the events of the evening in your head, you’d start bawling. It was bad enough being a lone human in pajamas wandering around the streets of Seoul; if you started crying, you’d attract even more attention.

You’d wandered around the expensive neighbourhood for a while, unsure where to go. You didn’t have your phone or anything else, since Taehyung had kicked you out with no warning, so you couldn’t call anyone for help. Not that you’d know who to go to. Your whole life in Seoul revolved around Taehyung, and you didn’t know anyone outside of that. If he was so mad at you, you were sure his members would be too, so as much as you wanted to just hide out in Yoongi’s apartment, you couldn’t bring yourself to go there. You didn’t think you could take it if he started yelling at you too.

Eventually you started walking to the only place you could think of – the shelter you’d been adopted from. You didn’t know if they would even take you in, but the lady in charge back then had been kind and warm, and you didn’t know where else to go. It was a long walk to the shelter, and it wasn’t the safest place to be alone at night, but it wasn’t like you had anywhere else to be, you thought slightly bitterly. You couldn’t say you blamed Taehyung for doing what he’d done, but obviously being homeless in Seoul in early spring wasn’t ideal.

It was late by the time you reached the neighbourhood where the shelter was, and even colder. Your nose was dripping, and you dragged your sleeve against it impatiently as you walked down the street. Here, the buildings weren’t as sleek and pretty as they were in Taehyung’s fancy neighbourhood, and the grey concrete and dirty walls were far less inviting. There was more than one abandoned lot, which would probably have been overgrown with weeds in the summer but were now just barren dirt.

You hadn’t been back here in almost ten years, and hadn’t missed it, either. Honestly, you wouldn’t have been upset never having come back here in your life, but sadly that just wasn’t how things had worked out. Your hands were shoved in your pockets as your shoulders hunched over, trying to make yourself seem as small and unnoticeable as possible. It really wasn’t the best neighbourhood, and you didn’t think you knew how to defend yourself if someone tried to start something with you.

Finally turning onto the street where you knew the shelter was, you breathed a sigh – you didn’t think you’d ever seen any adult humans there, but maybe the lady who’d taken care of you back then would let you stay a night, give you a hot meal…

The shelter was gone.

You stared up at the now-decrepit building with teary eyes, despair building in you. It had never been the best-looking building, since the shelter was permanently underfunded, but now it just looked sad. Some of the windows were boarded up, and bits of plaster had fallen off. It was abandoned now, dark and cold inside.

Just like you. You sniffled, trying to hold back the sobs and quell the panic rising in you. This had been your last idea, and now it was gone and you had literally nowhere else to go.

With one last look, you walked away. It was late now, past midnight, and you had to find somewhere to spend the night. It was too cold to just be on the streets, and you were sure you’d catch your death sooner rather than later in this weather. You sniffled again, wiping your eyes and nose on the now sodden sleeve of your hoodie, and shivered.

You ended up where it seemed lots of homeless people did, at an underground sheltered walkway leading to a subway station. You definitely weren’t the first one there, and you grimaced at the sight of hybrids and humans alike lying on the floor along the sides of the walkway. Sitting down gingerly in an empty spot and leaning against the wall, you sighed and closed your eyes. The walkway was warmer than it was outside, but it wasn’t comfortable, definitely nowhere near as nice as where you’d been sleeping just last night.

It was only now that you realized how fortunate you’d been all these years, living the pampered life of a pet. Going from your first owner to the shelter had been an adjustment, but now you craved the sense of security of having a roof over your head, even one that hadn’t been ideal, which the shelter definitely hadn’t been. In fact, until tonight you’d thought living in the shelter was the lowest point of your existence. Now you’d do anything to be back there.

You wanted to scream, cry and throw a tantrum, but you bit the inside of your cheek to hold your tears back. There was no point, and you’d just be disturbing the other people who were already asleep. Now that you were sitting down, somewhere warm(ish) and safe(ish), all the despair over your situation that had been held at bay by the need to find a place to spend the night was flooding in. Without anyone to contact and no other recourse that you knew of, you found yourself in a hopeless and terrifying situation. How could you go from the pampered existence you’d led all your life to this? You didn’t know how to take care of yourself, how to get food or find shelter. The thought that you’d be an easy target on the streets chilled you to the bone, and you almost didn’t want to sleep so you would remain aware of your surroundings.

Still, the physical exhaustion from walking all over Seoul proved too much for you, and before you knew it, you’d succumbed to a fitful, restless sleep, slumped against the wall with your head resting on your bent knees.

Any hope you might have harboured that all of this was just a bad dream vanished the moment you became aware of the uncomfortable position you were in, before you even opened your eyes. You kept them stubbornly shut for as long as you could, not wanting to acknowledge the situation you were in, but eventually you had no choice. The sounds of your fellow homeless brethren getting up and picking their cardboard mattresses off the ground (and wasn’t that a depressing thought) filtered through your senses, and finally you got up.

Your back and neck were killing you after spending the whole night slumped in that uncomfortable crouched position, and you grimaced as you stretched yourself out. Nature called, and you found a subway restroom to use, then tried to clean up the best you could in the sink, using toilet paper as a towel. Needless to say, you still felt gross but it was the best you could do at such short notice.

Looking at your reflection in the mirror, you sighed at the sight that greeted you. You were still in your pajamas, only they were dirty and slightly smelly from your adventures last night. As if on cue, your stomach growled to add to your misery, and you frowned. You had no idea where to get food, and now you really looked and smelled like you were homeless. Thankfully, you still had the hair tie that was always around your wrist, and you used it to tie your hair in a bun so at least it wouldn’t look that greasy and disgusting.

Walking out of the restroom, you aimlessly followed the crowd as you thought about your next move. Life as Taehyung’s pet had been easy and fun, never having to worry about where your next meal would come from, or about anything in life, really. He’d always spoiled you so much, but now that you were on your own, you were quickly realizing how woefully unprepared you were.

The hunger was a constant gnawing ache at your insides, distracting you. Now that people were on their way to work, you could see them holding all sorts of delicious treats in their hands. Hotteok, sandwiches… it all made your stomach growl. You were standing pitifully next to an office building, watching the nearby cart vendor frying up some delicious hotteok, when a hybrid wearing a suit approached you.

“Excuse me…” he said, and you just about leapt out of your skin in surprise, before turning to stare at him with wide eyes. He looked like a common dog hybrid, and you relaxed a little. It wasn’t that he wasn’t a threat, since all hybrids were stronger and faster than humans, but going by the ears perched on his head, he was a Samoyed breed, and they were always super friendly.

“Hello…” you said hesitantly, still unsure of what he wanted.

“I saw you looking at the hotteok, do you want one?” he asked.

“Oh…” You looked at the hotteok stand again before turning your gaze back to the Samoyed hybrid and nodding eagerly. “Yes, please!” you chirped, and he smiled as he went to the vendor, fishing his wallet out of his pocket.

Later, as you munched on the sweet, warm treat, you thought that maybe being homeless wouldn’t be that bad after all.

It turns out, of course, that you were a fucking idiot to have believed that for a moment. Towards the end of your first full day on the streets, having eaten nothing but the hotteok all day, you finally had an epiphany moment.

Hangang Park.

It was perfect. It was full of picnicking families with children who were all too keen to give tidbits to humans, plus there were always leftovers. You remembered happier times in your life, when you’d gone to have picnics at Hangang Park with the boys. They’d always over-ordered from delivery joints, wanting enormous varieties of food, and you’d ended up with way too much food for even seven hybrid men and one human to finish.

It took you another day on foot to get to Hangang Park, and you’d been ecstatic when you arrived. Finally, you thought, things should get easier. Food, public toilets that you could use, and maybe even some shelter if you could commandeer a tent.

When you finally arrived, it was getting dark and you sighed. Most people would have left by now; hopefully there were still a few stragglers who were looking to get rid of leftover food. As you walked through the entrance of the park, weaving around the barricades meant to get people to dismount from their bikes, you shoved your hands in the pockets of your hoodie uncertainly. You’d never had to do anything like this before, and it was scary and nerve-wracking.

As you selected a bench near a group still picnicking, you could hear your heartbeat thundering in your ears. Somehow your adrenaline was rushing, even though all you really had to do was look sad and hungry when they were packing up, and hopefully they would decide to give you their leftover food rather than tossing it in the bin. Still, now that you hadn’t eaten in over a day, and had only tap water from public restrooms to drink, the stakes almost felt higher than anything you’d ever done in your life. Which was true, you supposed, since you’d led such a mundane and blessed life. Everything had always been provided for you.

Thankfully, you looked sufficiently pitiful for the group of friends to spot you when they were starting to pack up, and one of them beckoned you over with a hand. You happily got up and rushed over, making sure to put that extra bounce in your step to look even cuter than usual.

“Do you want some food?” the girl asked, pitching her voice a little higher than usual. You nodded eagerly, playing up the doe-eyed effect that usually had hybrids melting. She smiled at you in response, and her friend handed you a container with some fried chicken, and another with a few pieces of tteokbokki floating around in a bright red sauce.

“Thank you,” you chirped, holding the food in your hands, and they chuckled as they took turns petting you. You didn’t love it when strangers touched you, since you’d spent most of your life around familiar people, but you let them do it nonetheless and saw them off with a cutesy “bye-bye!” before going back to the bench to eat your spoils.

Before you could put the first rice cake in your mouth, though, you were surrounded by four people, all glaring down at you.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing, you fucking bitch?” the one standing right in front of you said. Not loudly, but with so much anger and venom in his tone that you dropped the rice cake back into the sauce in surprise.

“Huh?” was all you could manage.

He snatched the container you were holding from you. “This is ours,” he snapped.

You frowned up at him, rising to your feet. He was big, though, and as you tilted your head up to look at him properly, you felt a frisson of fear run down your spine. The hunger gnawing a hole in your insides made you braver than you normally were, though, and you snatched the tteokbokki back. “No, it’s not; the hybrids gave it to me.”

“They were on our turf,” the guy standing to your right snapped. He wasn’t as tall as the first one, but still taller than you, and broad and muscular enough that you shrank away.

“I just wanted some food,” you protested, casting your gaze downwards. “I haven’t had anything to eat in almost two days.”

“That’s not our fucking problem,” a third one snapped. He was the smallest of the four of them, almost petite in frame, but that didn’t make him any less intimidating. In fact, he radiated a menacing aura, glaring at you so fiercely with his fists clenched at his sides that you fought the urge to whimper in fright.

At this point, you knew that it was hopeless to try and intimidate them into giving you your food back, not least because you had no idea how to actually defend yourself on the streets. The despair and hopelessness caught up with you, and you sagged back onto the bench. Now that it became clear that they would actually take your first meal in almost two days from you, you didn’t have enough energy to stand or hold back the tears that had been pricking at your eyes since you were first cast onto the streets.

You sobbed helplessly into your hands, which were pressed against your hot cheeks. “Please, just let me have some food,” you begged, forcing the words out between sobs and gasps for air. “I didn’t know this was your turf, I’ll leave after this, I swear.”

With your head in your hands, you didn’t notice the four of them sharing glances over your head. “Hey,” the last one knelt on the ground to try and look at you, although you stubbornly kept your face hidden, not wanting them to see you like this. It was shameful enough that you were reduced to this, begging for scraps of leftovers. He was persistent, though, and you finally removed your hands from your face, swiping across it aggressively with the sleeve of your hoodie.

“You’re new here, right? The whole park is divided into territories by different groups of humans; you’ll have to leave unless you can join a gang.”

“Oh…” That was all you could say in the moment. Leave? This was the only place you’d thought of after days on the streets where you could have a reliable supply of food. If you had to leave the park, you were convinced that you’d starve. Tears threatened to spill out of your eyes again.

“Hey, don’t cry…” The large one started shifting uncomfortably, and made to put his hand on your shoulder, but then pulled it back right before it actually made contact.

“I don’t know what to do; I’m so hungry…” you whimpered, all the frustration and despair from the last few days spilling out of you.

“We can take you in, but you have to contribute something; we can’t just adopt dead weight,” the smallest man informed you, his arms crossed over his chest. You looked up hopefully, wiping your face and sniffling.

“R-really?” you said in a small, hopeful voice. “I can contribute, I promise I’ll do anything! I think hybrids like me; I could get more food, I’m sure…” you offered, your voice trailing off uncertainly as you took in their unimpressed expressions.

“All of us can do that,” the big one explained with a shrug. “It doesn’t look like you can fight, either…” He eyed you up and down as he said it, and you fought the urge to hunch in on yourself, his blatant scrutiny making you slightly uncomfortable.

You bit your lip hesitantly, and when all of them focused on your mouth, you understood what it was they wanted.

“Okay,” you acquiesced, resigned. The tall one held his hand out, and you put yours in it, forcing yourself to smile up at him as he tugged on you to pull you closer to him. His other arm wrapped around your waist, and you feigned happiness as you found your cheek pressed against his chest.

Over the next two weeks, you began to settle into your new life. Thankfully, now that you’d been taken in by the group (which called themselves, strangely enough, Big Bang) things got a little better survival-wise. There was enough food that you didn’t starve, even if you were never full and satiated. They let you sleep in the giant tent they had, and once, when they’d collected enough spare change you’d all gone to a laundromat and washed your clothes.

If only the price to pay wasn’t so high.

In all honesty, all of them were insanely good looking, and in a different life you probably would have been more than happy to hook up with any or all of them over and over again. But this situation… it was, in a word, horrifying. Knowing that ‘no’ wasn’t an option because they could kick you out at any moment and leave you alone again tainted every interaction you had with them, even non-sexual ones. You couldn’t even blame them, because you knew that in order to feed you all of them were eating less, and in this short amount of time on the streets you knew that if you were in their position, you wouldn’t be rushing to adopt another stray either, especially one that didn’t contribute much. It was just unfortunate that this was basically the only way you could earn your keep in the group.

Waking up to a boner shoved rudely against your ass or hands up your shirt wasn’t something that was new in itself either; that had happened to you many times while you were living with Taehyung, particularly in the last month or so. Thinking about that made you kind of depressed, though, so you tried not to, although you wondered if this was karma for that. It probably was.

It wasn't that any of them were particularly nasty, so you didn't have the comfort of hating them. In fact, sometimes they could be downright sweet to you, saving you an extra bite of a sweet treat or something. In fact, the small one, whose name you found out was Jiyong, even saved you half a chocopie once that some kid hadn't been able to finish.

Maybe the arrangement you had wasn't such a bad thing, after all? You figured, as pessimistic as it was, that this was probably a permanent arrangement for you, and it didn't make sense to spend so much time and energy thinking about how much you hated your life. If you can't change something, change the way you think about it, and all that - although you had your doubts about whether it was really intended to help people come to terms with being forced into what essentially amounted to prostitution.

Really, though, it wasn't like there were any reasons for you to safeguard your chastity or whatever. Archaic ideas of morality had become obsolete long ago, and it wasn't like anyone was going to judge homeless stray humans for having sex. No one even spared stray humans a thought, which was really cold comfort given the situation you’d found yourself in.

Meanwhile, Taehyung was going about his life pretty much normally. The apartment was a little colder, quieter and duller without your presence, but he was still too angry to let himself dwell on that for too long during the first two weeks that you'd been gone. It was only when he'd calmed down some and realised that he might have overreacted that he was able to think rationally about the whole situation. He missed you, he realised, and it was a real asshole move of him to kick you out, although he wasn’t too worried about you, sure that you were safe in one of his members' apartments while he got his head on straight. No one had come to talk to him about you, but he figured it was just as well since he didn't think he was up to having you back at home yet.

Still, he wanted to give you some sort of peace offering, to let you know that he wasn't going to abandon you forever. Maybe you'd like some books or something, he thought. You always had your nose in one book or another, just like Namjoon, so he figured he'd pick up the one you were reading and pass it on to the member you were staying with.

With that in mind, he came home from work one night and went straight to your room instead of his. His nose wrinkled at the musty scent in the room, although that was to be expected since the door had been shut for the last two weeks. Your scent was barely in the room now, and he didn't know whether he should be sad or relieved to note that. He found the book you were reading fairly easily, of course, since it was on the little table next to your cozy reading chair with the pretty bookmark that he'd gotten for you overseas still in it. What surprised him, though, was that your phone was sitting beside the book. The battery was long dead, of course, and he picked it up together with the book, taking it to his room to charge it.

The next morning, he brought the phone and the book to the studio with him. Unfortunately, without you around to wake him up every morning, he'd reverted back to his old habits and was the last one in the studio, later even than Yoongi, who just looked at him with an unimpressed expression when he burst into the studio.

"You should comb your hair before leaving your house, Tae," Jin reprimanded gently as he started trying to pat Taehyung's wild bedhead down. Taehyung frowned at his hyung, but didn't otherwise respond, pulling your phone and book out of his bag.

"I brought Y/n's stuff," he explained, unnecessarily, he thought, since it was obvious that the phone in the pretty floral and rose gold case was yours. He was slightly confused by the blank stares from his members that met him when he raised his head to look at them again, so he elaborated.

"You know, she's been staying at one of your apartments, right? She didn't have her phone and I wanted her to have her book back."

"Taehyung-ah... I have no idea what the fuck you're talking about," Yoongi, ever the frank one, said bluntly.

Taehyung blinked. "She's not staying at yours?" he asked, his voice now a lot less certain.

Yoongi shook his head, and denials from the rest of the boys abounded as well.

"I didn't even know you guys had fallen out... what happened?" Jimin asked curiously. Helplessly, Taehyung's eyes fell on his leader, begging him for some assistance. Namjoon's face said it all, though. Taehyung had fucked up.

[wri0thesley]

Trusting - Melone x Reader (Kinktober Day #7: Hypnosis)

NSFW. 18+ ONLY. Neutral reader. Hypnosis kink; coming untouched, kind of voice kink? Consent is discussed within the fic and heartily given. 2k.

Melone’s teammates don’t seem to trust him. But you do. 

Melone has a lot of very interesting ideas. 

Some of them you indulge him on, some of them you do not - sometimes, Melone goes too far even for you, and though he pouts a little, he marks it off in the neatly ordered files of his mind and busies himself with something that he knows you’ll have no objection to. You and he are remarkably well-suited - you suggest the ideas just as often as he does. 

When you’d first become an item, your teammates had twisted their lips and told you to beware of the blond, warning you that he took things too far. You’ve noticed that they’re wary around him - that nights out at the bar are not extended to him, that nobody wants to sit beside him. Your boyfriend does not seem to mind - but he is often distracted. His eyes often take on a distant cast. He taps away at his laptop, concentrates very hard on the paperwork that Risotto gives him, and you think perhaps he is so engrossed in his work precisely because he has nothing else to think about. 

It makes him a very good assassin - and, too, it makes him a very attentive lover when somebody does want to give him the time of day. 

You learn every inch of Melone’s body intimately - the curve of his spine, the scarring of his eye beneath the mask, the way his throat bobs and breath hitches when you touch those particular spots in the spaces between his ribs. In return, he learns you - the part of your neck that has you a melting puddle, the words that have arousal coiling low and heavy in your gut. 

He has never hurt you - you don’t think he would, despite what the others whisper about him and his stand. Professionally, Melone is clinical - personally, he is hot and desperate for your love. He doesn’t say so much in words, but the feel of his arms around you and him nosing into your neck and sighing your name is enough to convince you. 

So when he brings it up, you do not hesitate all that much. 

He’s brought up some far stranger things as possibilities in the bedroom - some of which have required specialist equipment, or even changes to the structural integrity of your bedroom. Those you’ve gently put down, just for the logistics of it - but this? Melone just needs a pocket watch and chain and maybe a blindfold, and you figure those are things you have no real complaints of being used in the bedroom. 

Part of you, too, thinks it’s bullshit. You don’t think Melone - for all of his psychoanalysis and fake science mixed in with real science and intensely accurate knowledge of the human brain - is actually going to be able to hypnotise you. 

So, you obediently let him get you comfortable on the bed, dressed in only a too big for you shirt. You obediently let him sit himself in front of you, check your pulse quickly, make sure that you were absolutely fine and comfortable with what he was going to do. 

“It’s probably going to be intense,” Melone tells you, his face very earnest and sweet - it is sweet, to see him like this. So present and switched on. You find yourself smiling at him, and only some of the smile is because you feel so silly. “So if you want to not do this, tell me now - I don’t think you’ll be able to when you’re under.”

“I’m fine,” you tell him. You reach over and squeeze his knee. “I promise.”

He smiles back at you, exclaiming;

“Di molto!” He reaches for the pocket watch laid on the bedside table, chain delicately pinched between thumb and forefinger. He brings it a little way’s away from you, his hand held fairly high so that the clock-face is level with your gaze. “Alright, amore. Watch the clock sway. Listen to the ticking. Let yourself breathe in, slowly.”

You listen to what he’s saying, focussing your gaze on how the watch is swinging in the air. The tick-tock of the second hand seems a little longer than you’re used to. You let your body breathe in deep and release as it wants to, the air seeming to stay in your chest cavity more than you knew it could. 

“That’s right,” Melone is murmuring. His voice is low and lilting. “Back and forth. Back and forth. Tick tock. Let all of your thoughts just . . . melt away.”

It’s easy to lose your thoughts listening to Melone’s low tones, like the soft hum of a radio a few rooms over. You have been stressed recently, haven’t you? The feeling of your tensions draining away is almost physical, like cool water trickling down your spine. 

“Good. Let all of that go. You’re tired, aren’t you?” Melone makes a soft noise in the back of his throat that feels like a physical caress. “Your eyes are heavy. You’re so tired you’re going to drop, if you don’t let your eyes close and your mind go blank . . .”

Your eyes are heavy. Molasses-thick, your brain feeling half-melted and pliable, you let them fall. Your entire body feels thick and not-real, heavy everywhere. 

“Good,” Melone breathes softly. “Now. I’m going to touch you. First, your face.”

You feel Melone’s fingers scoop up your chin, his breath against your lips. He smells like vanilla. One of his gloved thumbs swipes across your bottom lip. “I’m going to kiss you,” he says. Soft lips meet your own - Melone’s skincare routine could rival any celebrity - and Melone is softly nipping at your bottom lip, sending lazy spires of pleasure all through you. 

In your heavy, hypnotised state, everything feels like it’s been intensified threefold. Every drag of Melone’s lips against yours, the soft warmth of his breath, the fingers that dance over your neck. 

“I’m running my fingers down your chest,” he murmurs to you. You feel it, the pads of his fingertips warm. “I’m going to take off your shirt.”

Fabric over your waist, over your chest - you feel cool air on your skin and your nipples stiffen into peaks. 

“I’m touching your nipples,” Melone breathes. “They’re hardening for me. You like it when I pinch them like this--”

He pinches your left nipple and hot electricity lances through you, adding to the heat low in your belly. You shift, whimpering, and he lets out the ghost of a laugh. You’re winning - you’re not hypnotised. You can feel everything he’s doing to you, more ardently than ever before. You swear you can feel every whorl of his fingertips as they move from your nipples, dragging down your stomach. 

“You’ve got goosebumps from the slight scratch of my nails on your hips,” Melone tells you, and you feel them - pinpricks on your skin, Melone’s fingers scratching an itch of needing to be touched. “You’re spreading your thighs for me. Oh, look at you - you’re excited.”

You do, and you are. The way that the closed eyes and the awareness of the clock ticking in the back of your mind have heightened your senses mean that touches that before might have just made you shiver have you full-blown turned on, and your arousal is obvious between your legs.

“Is this for me?” He asks, and the laughs softly again. “What am I saying? Of course it’s for me. You’re this excited for me. I’m touching you, now - oh, look how your skin is jumping.”

You feel the little jolt when he finally makes contact with that hot aching part of you. Your sigh is choked in your throat, as Melone’s fingers continue to dance all over you, stroking and petting. You’re all over heat, down there - every part of your lower body feels like it’s in flames. Your thighs shake with the pleasure of being touched. 

“I’m going to take off your underwear,” he says, and you gladly lift your hips. The drag of the fabric against your swollen and aching lower half feels torturous, but it’s worth it for the cool air to hit you - it’s worth it, too, for Melone’s hands to return and touch bare skin instead of fondling you through slick fabric. 

“You’re close,” Melone tells you, and you nod, gyrating your hips towards him, searching out his fingers again. “I haven’t stopped touching you, don’t worry--”

“Don’t stop,” you whimper, the first thing you’ve said since he began. You fancy that you can hear the smile in his voice when he assures you that he won’t stop, soft little noises of comfort as his fingers continue to work on you, ceaselessly petting and rubbing at you. Those flashes of white-hot want are frequent behind your eyes, now - every hair on your body standing up straight. He’s still wearing his gloves, and the texture of those against your heated lower half . . .

“You’re going to come for me,” Melone murmurs, his own voice very low now. You know he likes it when you’re helpless for him - you know he must be close too. You can’t hear the slick noises of him handling himself, but you can imagine how hard he must be in his body-suit, watching your body jerk with his movements as your face remains serene. “You’re coming, amore--”

You come at the order. You were coming before, weren’t you? There’s no way that he could have made you come just by telling you to do so! But come you do, your body trembling, the tight ball of tension in your stomach finally becoming unravelled, tight strings snapping as aftershocks roll over your needy, heated skin. Even the stickiness of your arousal and orgasm doesn’t feel unpleasant right now, though you wonder if Melone feels differently. 

“Good,” he hums. “Very good.” The hand between your legs gently pulls back, stroking your thigh reassuringly as it goes (even that small sensation has you shivering. “You did very well.”

You can’t quite make proper words. Your mouth seems to be plugged with honey, your tongue too lazy to move. You concentrate on the sounds of Melone’s voice, as melodic and even as ever--

“Now. You can still hear the clock, hmm? Concentrate on it again. I want you to say it in time - come on, now. Ground yourself. Tick, tock. Tick, tock.”

Little by little, your tongue seems to free itself from the strange hold. Little by little, moisture returns to your throat. And after a few more moments, your voice is mumbling along with the clock. 

“Yes! Now. Move your hands, just a little - clench your fists. Ah, yes, yes, di molto! Breathe in, and out . . . Open your eyes, amore.”

You let yourself adjust, body snapping out of the trance-like state. Maybe Melone had put you under, just a little bit . . .

Your eyes drift open. You’re suddenly hyper-aware that there’s fabric against your thighs. You look down, baffled - you’re still wearing the old shirt. The one that you swore that Melone had taken off of you. 

“I--” your eyebrows dip into furrows. You’re baffled, as you grab the hem of the shirt, peeking below - to see that you have also somehow regained your underwear. They’re soaking. You have to have come whilst still wearing them. “M-Mel? I . . . you took these off.”

You look at your boyfriend. A smirk is curling the corner of his lip. You stare at him, trying to take him in - his face is flushed from watching you, and there’s an obvious tightness in his already-tight body suit . . . But his hair isn’t ruffled. His fingers don’t glint with your wetness. In fact, aside from having put down the pocket watch, it appears that he hasn’t moved at all. 

“I haven’t touched you,” he tells you, a thread of unrestrained glee running through his voice. 

“You must have,” you protest weakly. “I can’t have . . . without even being touched . . .” Your cheeks heat up. Melone is still grinning. 

“Everything I did,” he says. “I did with my voice. I didn’t think you’d be so sensitive, but you were under so quick--”

“I can’t have,” you try to say, but his story is seeming very likely. There’s no way he could have put your shirt on without you feeling it - and absolutely no way that the underwear, in its current soaking wet state, could have been slipped back up your thighs without you complaining about it. 

Oh my God, he actually hypnotised you - and what’s more, he hypnotised you into coming just by talking to you! You knew Melone’s dirty talk was good, but not that good . . . The real weight of what Melone could do with this newfound power makes you glad you’re sitting down. You feel dizzied by the possibilities, light headed - but the way that the thoughts of being controlled by Melone affect the region between your thighs is very heavy and obvious indeed. You squeeze your thighs together. You wet your lips. 

“Would . . . would this be something you’d like to do again?” You ask him, hoping you don’t sound too eager. But Melone knows you too well. He’s moving up, slinking like a cat to sit beside you on the bed and draw you in for a heated kiss, pressing your thigh against the hardness in his body-suit as a reminder of what exactly your shared performance had done to him. 

“I thought you’d never ask,” he purrs into your mouth. “I have so many ideas.”

[starlightsearches]

Someone Else Pt. 2

Hello friends! No official request for this one but a few people did say they’d like to see part two and it kind of just . . . happened ¯\_(ツ)_/¯  Here’s a link to part one if you missed it!

Warnings: Language, infidelity, minor sexual content, threats/violence against the reader, so much angst oh fuck, but a happy ending so i guess it cancels out?

    General Hux stares deeply at his own reflection, searching intently for any hint of this deception. His eyes travel up from the bottom of the mirror, catching the shine of his boots as they pass upwards, scanning his uniform, which—as far as he can tell—is immaculate, without a spot or wrinkle. He checks his face next (blank, impassive) before his eyes roam over his stark red hair—combed back, neat. Not a strand out of place. And yet he can’t escape the feeling deep down in his bones, the one that leaches into his consciousness every time he’s with you and she’s still lurking the back of his mind: everybody knows.

    Hux rolls his eyes and gives up on the hopeless view in the mirror, sliding it back into its hiding place before turning to face you. He needs another set of eyes if he wants to know the truth. “How do I look?” 

His heart stutters again when he meets your gaze—stuttering like it did when your palms brushed over his chest, your nails raking thin red lines into his already flushed skin—and thinking about it is fire in his lungs. You’re still looking disheveled: half-dressed, hair wild, and swiveling back and forth in his chair behind his desk, your feet propped up on the surface—a move that would bother him if it were anyone else but you. A smile crawls slowly across your face, your expression blissful as you respond, “you look very handsome.”

Gods, he’s blushing again. It had taken minutes for the color to drain from his face the first time, but a soft look and compliment from your parted lips and brings it all back, alerting anyone who would look at him to his red-hot shame. 

And when you see it, your smile turns sad.

You drop your feet from off his desk, straightening your own uniform with a little less care than Hux had, your steps tentative as you cross the distance between his desk and where he stands by the door—only a few feet, but it feels like miles when you stop just out of his reach, wrapping your arms around yourself, holding tight . . . like he wants to hold you, again. Hux balls his hands into fists, forcing them to remain at his sides, fighting the urge to brush his fingers over the edge of your lips, trace the delicate skin of your jaw. Peel the uniform from your shoulders and snuff out all of his unease with velvet kisses. Hux silences those desires. After everything he’s put you through, he hardly deserves to breathe the same air. 

You examine him with sharp eyes, willfully ignoring his inner turmoil that he’s sure you notice to focus on the matter at hand. Your inspection yields good results; you meet his eyes again with the slightest frown.

“You look the same as before,” you say, corners of your mouth pulling down further, brows furrowing, “no one will be able to tell.” Hux lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, a mixture of shame and relief filling the empty space in his lungs.

Had he always been such a coward? Hux had never thought of himself as one to give into such base wants, but so far he’s been totally unsuccessful in his attempts to resist you, to bide his time until he’s dealt with the root of the problem. No, he keeps coming back, each time the last time, fucking you in cramped closets and over his desk while she’s warming his bed. Losing himself in the iridescent high of your body and ignoring the sharp pangs of your love that he leaves unopened in your waiting hands. 

Silence hangs, the air full of unsaid things and your lips part—words balanced on the tip of your tongue that would pierce like knives and Hux can’t hear them because it will hurt you to say them, and he’s already caused you so much pain. 

“I have to go,” he says, cutting you off before you get the chance, “Bristol will be back soon.” Her name is out of his mouth before he can think to stop it, and your face falls, a grimace crossing your features that you can’t remove quickly enough. There are tears pricking the corners of your eyes, he thinks, but he’s not close enough to know for sure. He doesn’t step any closer. 

“Alright.” You swallow hard, suck in a deep breath through your nose so that he won’t see you break, but the smile you plaster on your face chips at the corners, and it doesn’t reach your eyes. “I’ll be here.” 

The air in the room is stifling, filled with your deafening sadness, all the feelings you try to keep from him because you know it hurts him to see you like this and you care about him so damn much. You care too much. He doesn’t deserve you. 

“This,” he whispers, like if he’s quiet enough he won’t have to hear himself say it either, “can’t happen again.” It’s not the first time he’s said these words to you, but it breaks you just the same. If it goes on for much longer, he’ll never have the chance to put you back together.

“I understand.” You turn towards the back wall, unwilling to let him see you cry—for his sake or yours, though, he’s not sure. 

Hux leaves without saying goodbye.  

No one gives him a second glance when he steps out of his office doors and into the commotion of the bridge; his worries were unfounded, just as the rational part of him knew they would be. Still, the guilt only grows as he moves through the halls of the Finalizer, on his way to greet his wife.

It wasn’t supposed to be this way. After the wedding, after that night in his office when you had kissed him for the first time and everything felt right, he had made plans—how to rid himself of Bristol and Pryde, plans to keep you at his side, love you the way you deserved to be loved. Plans that had crumbled like dust between his fingers the second he stepped foot off the transport to the Alfospar system.

He couldn’t explain it at that time, the way his resolve shriveled like paper in water when he first saw that gleaming city, the towers and spires of the royal home so different from the sleek, black halls of the Finalizer, towers and spires that Bristol had walked her entire life. Now he knows what caused it: the fear that gripped his heart. Not just fear. Inadequacy. He had looked to his new wife, saw the haughty determination in her features as she surveyed the grand palace with a look of utmost boredom, and he hated her. But he hated himself even more knowing that she was capable in ways he could never dream. She was born to rule. He had done everything imaginable to earn that kind power, and still he came short.

The two weeks in the palace passed in a color-leeched blur. Hux attended meetings. He met Bristol’s family. They consummated the marriage. And he never stopped thinking about you.

When he returned to the ship, he made new plans, plans to remove his heart with surgical precision, plans that would leave him empty and miserable for the rest of his life but would save you from him.

Those plans had crumbled, too, the moment you whispered in the darkness of your quarters, “I missed you, did you miss me?” and he had been too selfish to lie. That was the first time he had fallen into your arms, let you drown out his pain without any concern for your own.

His father had been right all along. Hux is spineless. Everyone else managed to see it. He wonders how he had you fooled for so long.

                 ______________________________

    You’re having trouble adjusting to the quiet. It’s a feat of engineering, really—a true testament to his genius—that the general’s office manages to be quieter than a grave despite the teeming world of the bridge that lives just outside it. It had been the quiet that had first made his office such an appealing location for these meetings. That, and no one would question your presence here.

    You had been careful from the beginning—given no indication of the affair, raised no suspicion, and had been ready to smother any rumor that might have spread. There was never a need for that kind of action; you covered your tracks. But sitting here in this demonic silence, you want to ruin it all. Turn every touch and kiss and loving look into a song, a battle cry. A death sentence. You want everyone to know what you’ve done. Maybe then you’d feel something.

    Your cheeks are sticky with long-dried tears, and you try to brush them off with a sleeve, a brittle laugh escaping your lips thinking back to the day of the wedding. At the time, you had believed your heart to be broken. What a fool you used to be. How little you had known about how it feels to set your heart gently into someone else’s waiting hands and then watch them shatter it.

    You stand from the chair abruptly, cutting off the image before it takes root in your mind. There’s no time for self-pity when you have work to do.

    You grab your data pad from where you left it on his desk, turning the screen face you. Your heart jumps a little in your chest when you see the messages light up the screen, but you’re left feeling sour. None of them are from him. 

    He did that sometimes, after he left you—occasionally sent an apology, told you that he hadn’t really meant what he’d said. Sometimes he wanted to see you again, already, and you’d go searching for whatever conference room or closet he had commandeered, the warmth pooling between your legs erasing any of the harsh feelings from the moments before. 

    But no message this time. Maybe he had meant it. Maybe he didn’t want you like he thought you did. Maybe he never had.

    You’re sure, now, that the uncertainty will eat you alive, burst from your chest like some grotesque thing and feast on every part of you, rip and tear and bite until it’s sated and you’re left in pieces. You wish it would. Death is better than waiting. 

There’s a gentle beep from your data pad, and you look down again, distracted momentarily from your spiraling. It’s an urgent alert, from one of the admirals. They need your help interpreting some notes the general gave them on a recent project proposal. 

You stop just before the doorway, taking in three deep breaths, letting the cool air wash away the fire of your thoughts. There would be time later to ruin yourself over this mess, when sleep evaded you in the late hours of the night cycle. For now, duty calls.

You move through the bridge with ease, reading the messages you had missed. Your eyes scan them with practiced precision, sorting them by urgency and responding to the ones you can take care of quickly as you journey deeper into the ship. It doesn’t take long for you to get lost in the process, the dark tiles passing underneath your feet unnoticed as you lose yourself in your work.

The sound of footsteps in the otherwise empty hallway pulls you out of your trance, and you look up briefly, more out of a passing curiosity rather than any real interest. Your heart grows cold when you catch her eyes, and the feeling spreads like ice over a body of water.

“Hello, your highness,” you try to keep any tension out of your voice as you address Bristol with a small bow, skirting around her in the hallway in your best attempt to avoid her sustained notice. Her eyes narrow when they focus on you, and the cold feeling shatters, the dread climbing up your legs like the water level rising in a sinking vessel.

“You,” there’s venom in her voice, a kind of hatred you never thought you’d inspire in anyone and you feel every barb of it when she latches on to you, gripping your upper arm with such strength that you can feel the indentations of her nails through the fabric of your uniform. 

The wall of the hallway meets your spine as you step back, your attempted escape only leaving you trapped, chest heaving as she stares you down like a predator. It’s clear in every aspect of her being that she’s ravenous.

“Well?” she snaps, and you flinch, the durasteel biting your shoulder blades as you try to gain as much distance as you can from her, straining every muscle in your body for any kind of relief, but she won’t let you take it, pressing you into the wall. “Where is he?”

    “I’m not sure where the general is right now, your highness,” you speak slowly, trying to gauge the direction of her anger, “I was under the impression that he’d gone to find you.”

    The moments pass in deathly silence, and the waiting stretches each second into a lifetime, but there’s nothing comprehensible in her expression. She’s wild, animalistic, the same fierceness you’ve seen in her as a leader now morphed into something frenzied and feral. It’s only a moment before it's lost, replaced with something extinguished and icy. Her grip on your arm tightens.

    “I know you’ve been fucking my husband.”

    You plunge into whatever depths she’s created for you, the shock of it short-wiring your brain and all you can do is gape at her, your mind refusing to form a single thought, let alone any string of words that might convince her to believe a lie. It’s too late anyway; your expression tells her everything she needs to know.

    “How dare you? Embarrassing me like this? I could end your life right here, and he’d have your replacement in his office tomorrow morning.” Each threat brings her closer until you can only see her in fragments—the corner of her mouth as she spits these vile words, the flash of fire in the depths of her eyes. Your heart rate spikes, a rush of adrenaline flooding your veins but your thoughts are still unfocused, without form or direction. Would she really kill you here, now? The look on her face tells you that she might.

    You struggle uselessly against her grip, but she’s got you pinned—one hand on your shoulder and a knee at your hip. Your body goes still when you feel the whisper of metal at your throat. You didn’t know she had a blade.

    “Gods, you’re just as pathetic as he is,” she laughs, quick and sharp, and the weapon quivers—you feel the gentle sting as it parts the first layers of your skin. The sting brightens as she pushes the blade further, leaning in close to whisper her parting words, “maybe you deserve each other.”

    A flurry of movement clouds your vision, and the pressure lifts; in the periphery of your thoughts you can hear the blade clatter to the ground. Your knees threaten to buckle as you lean more heavily against the wall, trying to find the source of your salvation.

The general is there, but as unlike himself as you’ve ever seen him. He looks like a storm, towering over her, shaking with rage. Like a force of nature—it’s the kind of anger you’ve never seen in him before.

Time stops. Understanding crashes into you. It's like you've been blindfolded, without even knowing it, and the covering has given way to an astonishing brightness when you first comprehend what this action means. The realization staggers you.

"You don't-" he can hardly get the words out as he seethes at Bristol, speaking through clenched teeth, "don't ever-"

Bristol quivers, aghast, and it seems that she, too, is seeing her husband with new eyes.

The hallway is filled with loud, echoey beats of a heart, and you're not sure who it belongs to. It strikes you, this sudden fear that someone might be watching these events unfold, that it might be their heart making these sounds, alerting you to their presence. You search the corridor, whipping your head from side to side but there are no prying eyes, no silent watchers, and your heart settles minutely.

You turn back to the general, wondering how he'll react to the news, but his eyes are only on you.

Bristol pulls herself from Hux's grasp and the tension reshapes itself as her mood shifts again, haughty as ever.

"So," she looks between you and the general, and as much as she'd like to hide it, her anger is not gone, "you've chosen the little whore. Interesting."

Hux ignores her statement, still watching you.

"I won't stand for this," Bristol goes shrill now, attempting to pull his attention but his eyes are locked in place and you burn under his gaze. He wants something from you, a confirmation, you realize. He wants to know that you're alright.

You nod—still hesitant, not entirely sure that this is what he's asking for—and only then does he look away, turning back to Bristol with a stare so cold you feel the chill. 

“The next breath you use to threaten anyone on this ship will be your last,” Hux speaks with an authority you’ve never heard him use around Bristol and she flinches, like she’s been slapped, “and you will stay away from my . . . assistant.” 

His eyes flash to yours again, full of unsaid things—a kind of apology for this lapse in language, but you understand perfectly. There are no words to describe what he means to you, either. 

Bristol laughs, one short barking sound, and you know she means to demoralize him, but Hux stands firm, unaffected. “You think you can scare me with empty threats? I’m sorry to say that I’m unimpressed. If only your father were here to see this-”

“But my father isn’t here,” Hux interrupts her, “he’s dead. Because I ordered it. And you should know,” he steps closer to her, his voice a deadly whisper, and she shrinks, “my threats are never empty.”

Bristol quivers slightly, unable to hide her fear and you don’t blame her. She gives up on threatening the general and looks to you instead, her eyes flashing with one last weak attempt to intimidate you before she stalks off, leaving the corridor empty. 

You search for something—anything—to say, your mouth gaping open as the general turns to look at you, but there’s nothing, your mind blank and empty of any feelings small enough to be condensed into a few words. 

There’s no need to shrink your feelings; before you can say anything, Hux has bridged the distance between you, pulling you into his arms with more force than you thought possible. It’s both suffocating and liberating—your lungs struggling for their next breath but your mind is euphoric when you can feel the press of him against you.

He has a hand around your waist, one cupped against the back of your head, and you can feel his whispered apologies as they brush against your hairline, followed by the slow drag of his lips. A low thrill crawls over your skin. How long had it been since he said he’d never touch you again? You’d live through that pain a thousand times if it meant you could experience this.

“Are you alright?” he pulls away slightly, just enough that he can look at you, the pad of his gloved thumb wiping away the thin streak of blood left by Bristol’s blade. His touch ghosts along the injury, but you still feel the sting, unable to hide the way you wince in response.

His thumb stills as soon as he catches the flicker of pain, and there’s deep fountains of regret pooling in his eyes, a sadness so complete you can’t fathom it.

“I’m- I’ll never be able to say,” he swallows, pulls in a shuddering breath, and you feel his hands threaten to part from you but you only hold him tighter, anchoring him to you, “how sorry I am for the way I’ve treated you.” 

The anguish spills over, and he’s crying in your arms a second time, quick tremors shaking his shoulders. You can’t collect the tears fast enough, brushing them away with shaking hands, silencing his fears with soft whispers.

“I love you,” he says through hiccuped speech, “and I always have. And, if you’ll have me-” you silence his doubts with a searing kiss. For you, there has never been—never could be—anyone else.

[zeldasayer]

Loving Dyn VII - It’s Lonely Out In Space

(Or, Life As We Knew It Part 2)

Pairing: Mandalorian/Dyn Jarren x Reader

Summary: Dyn and Baby have disappeared. You try to find some kind of life without them.

Warnings: ANGST. HEARTBREAK. DISTRESSED BABY GREEN BEAN. I’M SORRY. Smoking, language, death.

“Keep you waiting, hour after hour

Every night, in your lonely tower

Looking down, at all of the wreckage

When we met, you never expected”

There is shuffling and grunting of a fight on the other side of the wall of yours and Dyn’s bedroom. You curl the blankets up around you as you hear the scuffling getting closer. Baby.

Adrenaline takes over as you fear for your sweet boys life, you kick off the blankets and leap to the door. You pull it open and you’re met with the most hideous man you’ve ever seen, your breath hitches. He raises his blaster to your face and you know that you are about to die, you close your eyes.

You hear the sound, but nothing happens. You open your eyes as the man falls to your feet. Your head shoots up and you see him - Dyn in full armour. You can’t see his face, but you hear his modulated breathing and you know it’s him. His blaster smoking, still pointing at you, and he’s panting.

“Dyn.” You gasp.

He turns to Baby’s room and starts.

“Dyn.” You yell, but he’s not listening.

He retrieves Baby, and you latch on to his arm. “Dyn, don’t do this.” Your voice breaks as it’s is full of nothing but desperation. With him in his armour, and you in just your sleep shirt you feel tiny against him, like he could crush every bone in your body with just his arms. That would hurt less than the emptiness in your chest.

“Dyn, PLEASE.” You cry as he keeps walking, and Baby reaches for you, little face full of terror.

“Baby needs me.” You sob. “I need you.”

Dyn tries to shake you off his arm and Baby starts to whine. He’s still reaching for you and the small bits of your heart Dyn left behind shatter.

“Why are you doing this to me?! What did I do?!”

Dyn stops at the door. “Let go of me.” His voice is low and dark, it’s practically unrecognizable. Baby tries to climb out of his arms to get to you, but he stops the child by shielding him away from you.

“Dyn, where are you going?!” You look up at him, but he’s just looking forward at the door.

“I’m sorry. I love you.”

You wake up from the dream in a cold sweat and you are reminded instantly of the crushing weight of reality. Dyn and Baby are gone. You sleep on the couch, because the smell of Dyn in your bedroom makes you want to be sick. You’re still in your night shirt from days ago, because you’ve barely moved since you woke up without him. You have covered every reminder of Baby, because your lack of sleep and heartbreak have begun to delude you and you can make yourself believe you can’t remember the sound of his cooing. It feels like you’ve died every day without them.

There’s a tap at the door and you sit up, taking a sip of the cold tea left over on the coffee table. Your head feels tight, and your face is sticky from crying and you are just realizing it is late at night. Had you slept through the day? Two days? You tie your hair up as you walk to the door.

The winter air nips at your face and you grimace as you meet one of your mother’s droids in the door way.

“Hello, Miss. Juniper.” It says.

“Hi, Seven.” You sigh.

“Are you ready?”

“Yes.” You pull on your brown fur coat hanging next to the door and you stand there.

“Is there anything I can help you bring?”

You look around the cottage for a moment, “No. Nothing.”

You cross your arms, “I’d just like to leave. Please.”

The droid nods and you follow it out.

Your mother has sent for you. Once you confessed to hardly caring for yourself the past few days, Wilhemina decided it was best not to leave you alone and insisted you come stay with her at the residence until you felt like a human being again.

You arrive just as dawn is breaking and you kick off your shoes before silently walking up the grand spiral staircase.

“Perhaps a bath?” The droid calls from the bottom, and you don’t respond. You walk through the corridor, past your own childhood room, the guest rooms, bathrooms, to the room at the very end. Your mother’s.

You push the door open quietly and peek in. You can’t see much, the only bit of light seeping in from a crack between the drapes. But you can make out the huge white canopy bed, and slip out of your coat, leaving it on the floor.

You pad across the room, like you did so many nights as a child after a nightmare. This felt similar, and just like then you want to remind yourself it isn’t real. And that’s what makes this so much worse.

You lift up the comforter where your mother lays and she stirs, but moves to make room for you and you crawl in next to her.

“Hello, my star.” She says, voice raspy with sleep.

You lay there, facing her and you pull the blanket over your heads.

“Hi-i Mom” your voice breaks as you tear up again and she pulls you to her.

You don’t sleep, but you lay there in the darkness, focusing on her breathing. Waiting. Tears pooling in the corner of your eye and you wonder if you’re even alive.

Later in the morning, you sit in the tub, knees pulled up to your chest, your arms wrapped around them. Wilhemina pours water over your head and down your back and you just stare into the sudsy water. She’s finished washing your hair after you said you didn’t have the energy to bathe at all, and she says, “You will be okay, my star. It’s going to hurt until it doesn’t.”

You turn your head completely to the side, to shield her from seeing you cry and you feel her stand. Wilhemina walks out of the bathroom, closing the door behind her. You stay in this position until it begins to strain your neck and look back down. Tears rolling off you chin and into the bath water, you feel as dreadfully alone as you did as a child and for a fleeting moment, you let yourself think about Dyn completely. How he swore you’d never have to feel the childhood loneliness that shaped you ever again. You groan as you tilt your head back and your sight goes blurry, eyes filling with tears again, and you wonder how there could possibly be any moisture left at all.

You fall back into the water, submerging yourself totally. The hot water stings your face but you don’t care. It’s the first reminder in days that you are truly alive. Blood pumping, heart beating alive and it’s killing you. Under the water you are hyper aware of your emptiness and you scream, lungs filling with water.

The days drag on like this. Each one melting into the next as you take long baths and pace around the mansion in your big t-shirt and fur coat. Sneaking your mothers cigarettes to smoke outside, like you did as a teenager. Watching the sun set, how it once made you feel so alive, now left you with nothing. You can’t remember if you’re sleeping, you genuinely don’t know and all you want to do is tell Dyn it hasn’t fucking stopped raining since he left. You want to pull Baby out of the grass when he falls asleep after a long day of keeping up with the other children. Hear his excited coos when Dyn walks through the door, or when he brings you the insects he’s found. You want to read to them on the beach, then nap to the rhythmic sound of the ocean softly crashing into land. You want to hear Dyn’s voice. The way your name drips out of his mouth, how his moustache would tickle your jaw. You want to feel the warmth of his skin against yours and you want to hear him say “The sun rises and sets for you.” Because you aren’t sure anymore.

Your mother has bought you a new closet full of beautiful clothes, and art supplies as you left the cottage with nothing but you just keep rewashing the same big t-shirt and doing mindless activities to keep yourself occupied. It’s like your attention span has depleted, and your memory is playing tricks on you. You find yourself falling into fits of rage, for how could someone, one person, have this much influence on you that their disappearance has set your whole world on fire. And as you look down on the wreckage, you’re scared you’re forgetting how it used to be.

Days seep into weeks and suddenly -

“It’s been a month.” You say, looking up from your breakfast as you sit across from your mother and stepfather. Your eyes flutter in the realization and you stare off in thought, your eyebrows knit together. A whole month without any kind of communication. Could this really be it?

“I’m going to send Seven to the cottage for more of your things.” Wilhemina breaks your concentration with her words, “You’re wasting away here. You need your books. Your paints. Everything that makes you, you.”

“I’ll go with Seven.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” Your mother responds, lifting an eyebrow.

It isn’t a good idea. Especially since you have the grotesque idea to lay on Dyn’s side of the bed for a moment when you’re back. The thought both comforting and tearing you a part. You have a sick desire to be reminded of his smell, to burn it into your skin, for you feel in your gut that it may be the last time. You need the reminder that you were once with him at all, existing, together.

“I just want to make sure Seven gets the right things. I left so many ongoing projects.” You say, trying to sound as neutral as possible.

Your mother squints. “Alright.”

You land at the cottage later that evening

“I’m going to go in alone, Seven.” You say flatly.

“I’ve been given strict instructions to help you Miss. Juniper.”

“I know, but this is something I need to do on my own.”

“Miss. Juniper I really must insist-“

“Seven, do you want my mother to know how often you snuck me back into the house, all hours of the night, as a teenager?” You’re starting to get frustrated and in the same instance wonder if this is now worth it. There really can’t be any good in putting yourself right back in the middle of memories that are going to just pull you right back down.

Seven turns, looking forward. “Very well.”

“That’s what I thought. I’ll let you know if I need any help.”

You exit the ship, throwing your arm over your head and run through the pouring rain and up the steps of the cottage. You fumble with the keys as you start to feel nauseous and you know this isn’t a good idea. You stop and look back at the ship, debating wether or not you should just let Seven do this after all.

No, you think, I can do this. Get my books. Familiar clothes. Get out.

You unlock the door and you step into the dark cottage. It smells like home and it makes you want to cry.

You close the door, turn on the light and pause.

“Where have you been?” A deep, modulated voice demands darkly from behind you.

Your face goes cold and you turn slowly, coming face to face with The Mandalorian.

Tags: @otherthingsinhead @aeryntheofficial @maryan028 @readsalot73 @osric-the-l3m0n-l0v3-demon @capsironunderoos @antclottz @intense-sneezing @igotmadskills @applesislife @marrvelle-fics @killtherandomness @holyground1996 @taoiichii @fahhhhq

A/N: I know the title is from Rocketman but the true inspiration for this comes from We Don’t Deserve Love by Arcade Fire. I recommend if you want to be emotional and we’re only going to get more emotional from here so buckle up babies. Love, Zelda

[virtueangel]

limitless.

chapter nine.

wc: 2,350. original publish date: october 19, 2020. 

The morning fog is crisp against the windows of the car, condensation bubbling against the glass.

"Do you actually have a plan, or are we just driving willy-nilly?"

JFK grins at his reflection in the rearview mirror. "I have a plan!"

Van Gogh glares at the boy playfully.

"Okay, that plan might involve driving willy-nilly."

"Well, I guess that's still technically a plan..." Vincent laughs. And then, "Wait, I actually have a legitimate idea."

"No you don't," Kennedy jokes.

This earns him another glare from his best friend. "Did you see the general store when we first drove in?"

JFK nods. "You think they'd have stuff there?"

Vincent shrugs. "It's worth a shot. I mean... someone's gotta be living in this town, right?"

"Well, they don't have to do anything. It really could just be abandoned."

"So why are the roads so fresh?"

"Fresh?"

Gogh rolls his eyes impatiently. "You know what I mean. Clean. Maintained."

JFK goes silent, and at first Van Gogh worries that he's been too pushy, too pretentious, but Kennedy is only thinking.

"Maybe there's a groundskeeper," he suggests, and Vincent looks up at him with knit brows.

"One, for a whole town?" He sits back in his seat. "That hardly seems feasible."

John shrugs, keeping his eyes on what he can see of the road. "The wear in the houses is... I don't know. Formulaic, I guess is the word."

Vincent raises an eyebrow at the boy. "Maybe you mean fabricated?"

JFK nods eagerly. "Yes! Fabricated! That's exactly the word!"

Van Gogh snorts. "What, like someone built this hellhole to look the way it does?"

"It doesn't sound ridiculous coming from your mouth."

"Maybe not, but it would sound ridiculous coming from yours."

Kennedy shoves the boy playfully. "Asshole."

Vincent shoves him back, but doesn't throw an insult.

The boys drive in pleasant silence for a few moments longer, both sitting contentedly in their pyjamas, the seat heaters turned up to high. The windows are fogged over and Van Gogh draws a smiley face with his finger, dotting the eyes so firmly his bent finger turns yellow.

"You know that won't come off without, like, Windex or something, right?"

Vincent flashes his most innocent smile. "Oops."

JFK grins without looking at the boy, and Gogh's breath catches at the sight of his Colgate-white teeth.

"We're here," Kennedy says not a minute later, the low rumble of the car engine ceasing. He and Van Gogh unbuckle their seatbelts at the same time; they seem always to be in unison.

The wooden porch is wet and soft, lichen eating away at it. The door is hanging lopsided off the hinges, but only just enough; there's nothing wrong with the hardware.

"Looks like someone hung it like that on purpose," Vincent mutters as he walks through the door.

JFK turns around, his lips parting in satisfaction. "Told you."

"No, John, you did not 'tell me' anything. This is one bang-up job. Next you're gonna say someone planted the lichen on the porch?"

Kennedy lengthens his gaze to the deck. "It's possible."

Van Gogh rolls his eyes. "You're incorrigible."

"And you're fastidious."

"That's not even how you use that word!"

"Fastidious!" JFK insists.

The boys bicker all the way through the store, picking whatever looks edible off the shelves. Vincent checks a few expiration dates, and most of the refrigerated items have gone bad, but the shelved items are still safe to eat. He makes JFK carry it all, and to his pleasant surprise, the boy doesn't protest.

"Are we just supposed to steal all of this?" Gogh asks, concern washing over his face.

"There's no cashier."

"I know. That's what prompted the thought."

John looks around some more. "We could leave a note and check back tomorrow," he suggests, which is a real solution. Van Gogh didn't think he had it in him.

"Do you have a pen and paper?"

JFK peers over the counter and nods toward something. "Behind the cash register is a stack of Post-Its and a Sharpie. I obviously can't get it, with all the shit you made me hold."

Vincent rolls his eyes. "Everything's so difficult."

"Hey, I'm doing a good thing for you!"

Van Gogh turns around to show his best friend his smile. "I know that. I'm just kidding."

"Sometimes it's hard to tell."

"I guess that's one of my many shortcomings." When JFK doesn't reply, Vincent adds, "That was a joke. You can laugh."

But John doesn't.

Van Gogh doesn't seem to notice his best friend's silence as he scribbles down on the Post-It. He turns around and takes bags of chips from Kennedy's arms, recording the prices and the quantities. "Can I have your phone?" He asks.

"What about yours?" JFK replies, holding the snacks against his chest with one arm while pulling his phone out of his back pocket nonetheless.

"It's dead. I forgot to charge it last night. And you know its battery doesn't do well in the cold."

"Neither does yours, apparently," John says under his breath, but he doesn't mean it as a jab.

Vincent ignores the boy's comment, choosing to interpret it as a joke. He begins punching numbers into Kennedy's calculator app, adding up the prices and writing down a grand total at the bottom of the Post-It. He peels it off from the rest of the pad and is about to stick it to the desk computer before deciding to leave their names and JFK's phone number, just in case.

John glances over Vincent's head at the neon green paper stuck to the computer and snickers to himself.

"What?"

"Nothing, just... are they going to know that we're clones? They might just think we're trolling them."

Van Gogh looks back at the Post-It and can't help but giggle. "God, you're right. Here, we can give ourselves fake names."

"I'll be Jack Kensington, FBI detective."

Vincent laughs, scribbling over the boy's real name. "I'm not writing the last part."

Kennedy shrugs. "Suit yourself." And then, "Who are you going to be?"

"I'll be Victor Hughes."

"That's so boring."

"Who should I be instead? Victor Frankenstein?"

"Yes! That's better."

Van Gogh rolls his eyes, but there's still a smile on his rose-painted lips. "No, that's ridiculous. I can't steal Mary Shelley's OC."

"OC!" Kennedy laughs. "Frankenstein is a classic novel!"

"Mary Shelley still thought of Victor Frankenstein herself! That's what an original character is."

JFK shrugs. "Fair enough."

John and Vincent walk back to the car in favourable silence, smiles still pulled taught across both of their lips. Van Gogh has to channel every ounce of restraint in his body to keep his lips from parting into an overeager grin. He can't remember the last time he was this happy. It's always been him and JFK, but never like this. There was always someone else in the picture, someone Kennedy had to get away from to tend to Gogh. But now, it's just the two of them without any responsibility. Just the boys and a shiny red convertible, with all the time in the world.

"Oh, wait, I have to run back inside real quick," John says, dumping his armfuls of snacks into the backseat.

Van Gogh freezes, his arm hovering above his seatbelt. "How come?"

Kennedy shifts uncomfortably, trying to pull a secure lie out of thin air. "Uhh... I think I left my phone on the counter in there. I'll be right back."

When the boy turns around, Vincent can see his bright red, caseless iPhone tucked into the back pocket of his khakis.

Vincent waits in the car, staring out the windshield and picking at a loose thread in his flannel pyjama pants. God, I can't believe I'm wearing these out, he thinks. They're so ugly. Who even wears flannel anymore?

Kennedy comes out of the general store four minutes later, hugging two pairs of dark green rain boots to his chest.

"It's not raining, John. It's just fog," Vincent says with a smirk as the boy gets into the car.

He passes the smaller pair of boots to his best friend. "I had to guess your size. Six, right?"

Vincent takes the boots skeptically. "Yes... What are these for?"

JFK looks at Van Gogh with a wide grin. The grey light from the fog bounces off the white of his teeth. "You'll see! Just put them on."

Van Gogh obeys, and begins untying his Keds. His socks only go up to his ankles which may be a problem in the boots, but he doesn't care. His stomach is doing that whirlpool thing again, but this time, it feels good. He could drown, but it wouldn't hurt because he knows he'd be drowning in Kennedy.

John exchanges his sneakers for the boots before buckling his seatbelt and starting the car. He holds one hand over the clutch, the other draped over the steering wheel. He turns to his passenger, the orange of his hair bright against the cool paleness of his skin. JFK sinks in his brown eyes, but it's not suffocating like it usually is. His stare is soft, inviting. Kennedy relaxes, his eyes smiling in conversation. "Ready?"

Vincent nods eagerly. "Yeah. Yes, I'm ready."

The boys drive through town, and Vincent is convinced that they're lost. He's about to open his mouth in protest, but JFK shushes him. "We're almost there, I promise."

"Do you actually know where we're going?"

John giggles. "Yes, I know where we're going! I know you're not used to not being in control, but please trust me."

The comment stings, Vincent has to admit. But paired up with please trust me, he lets it go. He does trust JFK. He didn't always, but he does right now. Their silence is pleasant, and Kennedy says he knows where they're going.

Kennedy stops the car at the far end of town, past all the houses. The thick grove of trees is spread out through the windshield, but there's still a fair bit of marshland in front of them, sticky and wet under the car.

"Your tires are going to get so dirty," Vincent comments.

JFK leans forward to pinch the boy's cheek. "Nobody cares about that except for you, Vinny." He opens the car door and climbs out, the mud of the marsh oozing around his boots.

Vincent, still in warm and gooey shock from the nickname, melts into his seat until Kennedy knocks on the window. "Hey, Minivan! You coming, or what?"

Van Gogh pushes the door open, playfully knocking John in the hip. "I'm coming!"

The boys slosh through the marsh, the mud squeaking beneath their boots. Vincent nearly slips and has to grab onto Kennedy's arm for support. JFK sneaks a glance at the boy, smiling to himself as he struggles to keep steady through the wet earth. John stealthily wraps his arm around Vincent's torso, pulling him close and holding him firmly. Van Gogh slings his own arm across John's back, letting the boy support him as he walks through the uneven terrain.

"Thank god you bought us boots," Vincent laughs nervously, an unsure headache starting to set in. His nostrils are clogged with the scent of JFK; this, too, is uneven terrain.

John glances down at the boy affectionately, his gaze soft. "I know you don't like to get dirty, Vincent."

Van Gogh looks up at Kennedy then, and it's a miracle the taller boy had looked away before Vincent could catch him staring.

They walk through the marsh, commenting and giggling, pointing out frogs and funny-shaped pebbles and whatever thoughts pop into their heads. The boys sneak glances at each other as they walk and talk, their stomaches lurching with excitement and nervousness each time they think the other might've caught them staring.

At one moment, though, Vincent and John glance at each other at the same time, their cheeks immediately flushing pink as they look into each other's eyes. Neither of them look away, waiting for the other to say something, to know if this is safe territory or not.

Van Gogh takes a deep breath in preparation to speak at the same time that Kennedy says, "Vincent."

His voice is breathy and serious, and Vincent can't look away. He swallows. "John."

Gogh takes a deep, shaky breath, summoning all the courage he has left in him. "I really want to..." He lets his voice trail off into the cool April air, his eyes flicking between Kennedy's lips and the rest of his face.

"I know," JFK replies. He opens his mouth to agree, but his voice gets stuck in his throat. Instead, he repeats himself. "I know."

"Can I?"

"Yes," John replies too quickly.

It doesn't matter to Vincent. Consent is consent, and he's been waiting for his best friend's for years. He hasn't known it until now, but it's an explanation for all of his stomachaches, all of the twisting he felt in his chest when he saw JFK with Cleo, with other girls.

His eyes flutter shut as he raises himself to his tiptoes, shifting his arm from Kennedy's back to cradle the nape of his neck. John leans down to meet him halfway, his arm still wrapped tightly around the boy's abdomen. Their lips brush softly, innocently, and Vincent is immediately filled up with butterflies, their wings eager and flapping rapidly against the inner walls of his body.

JFK kisses back just as softly, and it's a different kiss than anything he's ever felt. His stomach knots itself with excitement, and he's falling through the sky, but he knows he's going to have a soft landing.

Vincent breaks away first, his eyes staying shut for a millisecond longer than they need to.

"I've been waiting years for that," JFK replies, his voice low and his eyes twinkling.

"How long?" Van Gogh whispers back, his tone just as light.

"I don't know."

"Me neither."

"Can we go again?" Kennedy asks after a moment, his eye contact with Van Gogh never breaking for a second.

Vincent nods, and John leans in. They are arms wrapped around torsos and around necks, hands in hair and on faces. In this moment, Van Gogh doesn't mind the ooze of the mud beneath his feet, and Kennedy doesn't mind the stillness of the kiss.

[humanperryfic]

Everybody Needs Somebody to Love

When uncle Perry coughs up a whole flower at breakfast, Candace is understandably worried. She's also confused when she realizes that he has no plans to confess his love.

Despite having no idea what's really going on, and being told not to interfere, Candace is determined to get her uncle and his crush together.

Life might not always be a romance novel, but Candace is going to make it as close as possible.

Title from the Blues Brothers song

AO3/FF.net

TW’s for mild blood

The alarm on Candace's bedside table goes off with an obnoxious beeping noise. Candace groans and throws her arm out, attempting to silence the annoying noise. It's a teacher workday, why did she set her alarm? 

That's right, she wanted a head-start on her busting. Looking out her window, she sees Phineas and Ferb already building. Perfect. 

She rolls out of bed and pulls on her usual outfit before running a brush through her hair. Despite her sleep-deprived brain, she manages to put together a few coherent answers to Stacy's overnight texts before leaving her room.

Candace stumbles down the stairs to the kitchen, barely managing to avoid tripping over her own feet. It's early, and she was awake until almost one in the morning last night. 

The only person who's in the kitchen is uncle Perry, who's pouring himself a bowl of cereal. Good morning, he signs. 

"Morning," she grumbles, scrubbing at her eyes to rid them of the typical early-morning bleariness. "Where's mom and dad?"

Antiques convention, remember?

Candace sighs. That's right. Mom and dad are at a three-day antiques convention over the long weekend, leaving Perry in charge. Which means no busting. As long as they're safe, Perry's perfectly fine with what the boys create.

If he's ever there to see the creations. He's always getting called off for work. 

Candace pulls her mug out of the cupboard, adds a teabag, and sets it next to Perry's, waiting for the kettle to boil. She could use the caffeine.

Stacy texts her back, so she sits down at the table to answer. After she sends the message, she puts her head down on the table. It's too early for anything to happen.

Perry sits down across from her, the bowl making a soft thump against the wood. He snaps his fingers to get her attention. 

Candace pries one eye open. "mmm-yeah?"

You should eat.

She shrugs. "After tea."

Suit yourself. 

Candace lays her head back on the table. It's still way too early to think about anything.

Perry starts coughing. Candace raises an eyebrow, still not picking her head up off the table. He's been sick since her freshman year, you'd think he'd be fine by now. Or at least that he'd see a doctor. It's kind of weird.

Eh, he's always been weird. He travels all over the place for work. He says he's a sort of special cop, but never wants to talk about his job. He doesn't talk, only makes that weird chattering noise. And he's always really weird about those Hanahaki soap operas, even though they're Candace's favorite.

Still, the cough is rather strange. 

Candace opens one eye just in time to see Perry spit an entire white rose flecked with blood into the palm of his hand. 

Now fully awake, she watches as he makes a face, gets up, throws the rose into the garbage can under the sink, and starts to wash his hands, unaware of Candace's staring. 

Well, that makes sense. 

Sort of. There are still a lot of things wrong with this. 

Now that she's awake, she might as well eat breakfast. She stands up and moves to the cupboard, getting a bowl out. Setting the bowl down with a purposeful clank (it's never a good idea to startle uncle Perry), Candace turns to get the milk out of the fridge."So when were you going to tell us you had Hanahaki?"

Perry turns around, surprise painted on his face. Candace continues. "Seriously. That was an entire flower. How long have you been hiding this?"

He sighs. Almost two years. Candace gasps. Two years and she never suspected a thing? That was his mysterious sickness? "Who is it?"

Just someone I work with. 

"And you never thought to tell us."

I told your parents.

Candace pours milk into the bowl. "I guess that's something. Are you going to confess?"

He looks to the backyard, where Phineas and Ferb are starting to build, and shakes his head. I'm getting it removed in three weeks. 

Candace gapes. Removed? After two years of pain and suffering and blood covered roses? "You're just going to give up?" she asks. 

Perry shrugs and turns off the tap. He's not interested in me, what else can I do? 

"He might be. You never know." Perry raises an eyebrow as he sits back down at the table. "I mean, if Jeremy and I can get together, you and your crush can too," Candace continues. 

Life isn't a romance novel. Sometimes it just doesn't work out.

"Have you even tried?"

Like I said, he's not interested.

"I hate to suggest this, but maybe the boys could help out?"

No.

"Why not? I bet they could make your crush have feelings for you."

If it's forced, it would make it even worse.

"It's worth a shot, right?"

No, it's not.

"Really?"

Coughing up flowers isn't fun or cute. He grimaces. It's actually pretty painful.

"You're really no fun."

See, this is why I didn't want to tell anybody. At Candace's affronted look, he continues. I'm an adult, I can deal with my own feelings. If that means getting rid of them, so be it. End of story.

"But-but-but I could help too!"

Perry narrows his eyes. End of story, Candace.

Candace pours her cereal into the milk. "Fine, whatever."

Look, I know you want to help, but I'd prefer to get through the next few weeks without dying.

Candace's eyes go wide. She'd completely forgotten that people could die from Hanahaki. Once they start coughing up full flowers, they've got only a few months left without intervention. "Oh," she says, her voice now small and meek. 

It's scary, I know. Trust me when I say the surgery is the best option. 

The kettle starts to whistle, so Perry takes it off the stove and pours the hot water into their mugs. Candace sits down at the table and starts to eat. "So there's really nothing else you can do?"

Nothing I can do at this point without making it worse. I suppose if he liked me back then it would be different, but I can't influence that.

A lightbulb goes off in Candace's head. Maybe uncle Perry can't ask this guy about it...but she can. She can convince this guy that Perry would be the best boyfriend ever!

"Tell me about this guy." She'll need some information if she wants to find him. 

Well, Perry says, handing Candace her mug, he's got brown hair, blue eyes, and he's about six foot two, although he slouches. 

Perry's watch goes off, and Candace groans internally. He always has to go to work at the worst times. "What's his name?"

For a brief moment, Perry looks conflicted. Heinz Doofenshmirtz, he signs. 

"Doofenshmirtz like the mayor?"

Perry nods, drinking most of his tea in one gulp. I have to leave. 

"Evil never rests, I know." Perry smiles. "Don't worry, I'll make sure nothing explodes while you're gone."

Perry smiles. See you later.

Candace nods and waves. As soon as Perry is in the garage, she puts her bowl of cereal in the sink and darts up the stairs. She grabs her purse out of her room and puts her phone and earbuds in it. She's about to go back down the stairs when she gets another idea. 

She has a whole lot of pictures of Jeremy- and she didn't even have Hanahaki. Uncle Perry has to have a picture of his crush somewhere. That will help narrow down the search.

Carefully, she pulls her Ducky Momo 33rd Anniversary Commemorative lock pick out of her purse and picks the lock on the door to his room. She feels a little weird, but this is a love or death situation. 

The lock opens with a click, and she opens the door. 

The room is about what she expected. Neat, for the most part. There's a stack of cheesy romance novels on the bedside table, a bookmark in one. On his desk, there's a tall stack of paperwork. Several papers are stamped with Classified in red ink, but Candace ignores them. She has other things to look for. 

She opens the top drawer of the desk. Pens, sticky notes, and paper clips. The next drawer down holds envelopes, a Classified stamp, and a red ink pad. 

The bottom drawer is locked. Once again, her Ducky Momo lock pick comes in handy. 

In the drawer is what looks like a grappling hook, a strange red disk, and a green box. 

Candace picks up the grappling hook and the disk and puts them on the desk. Gingerly opening the box, she finds it stuffed full of immaculately cleaned white roses, with a few  pictures along the sides. 

She looks at the pictures first. Each one has uncle Perry with the same guy. A slouching man with brown hair and blue eyes, dressed in a lab coat. 

This must be the guy. Heinz Doofenshmirtz. 

But where would she find him? The only connection she knows is that uncle Perry works with him. 

That's it. She'll just follow uncle Perry to work. Candace puts one of the pictures and a few of the fresher roses into her purse. On second thought, she adds the grappling hook and the red disk. 

She can hear Perry's motorcycle revving in the garage. She closes the drawer, then runs out of Perry's room and down the stairs.

Candace opens the garage door and wheels her bike out. Thank god for Phineas and Ferb outfitting it with rocket boosters, she'll need them to catch up with Perry's motorcycle. 

She only makes it to the end of the driveway before she hears a very loud, scary sounding bang come from the backyard. Despite her new mission, her boys-busting senses tell her to investigate.

Nearly trampling Baljeet, she dashes to the gate and throws it open. "What was that?" she demands. 

Phineas grins. "It's our new rivet gun! Isn't it cool?"

"Pfft. It's a rivet gun. How cool can it be?"

Ferb merely rivets another piece of metal, producing a similar bang. "Very cool, Candace, very cool," Phineas says. 

"Whatever." Candace rolls her eyes and jogs back around the front of the house to her bike. She pedals down to the first stop sign before she realizes that uncle Perry is long gone by now. She'll never be able to catch up to him. 

Maybe there's another way she can find his crush. How many Doofenshmirtzes are there in Danville? This Heinz might be related to Mayor Doofenshmirtz somehow. 

Downtown Danville, here she comes. 

~~~

Candace makes it to City Hall in twenty minutes. She locks her bike to the rack outside and walks in. 

"How may I help you?" the bored-looking receptionist asks. 

"I'd like to talk to Mayor Doofenshmirtz?" Candace asks. 

"Name?"

"Candace Flynn."

"He'll be free in a few minutes. You can wait here." The receptionist points to a small waiting area. 

"Thank you," Candace says, and she sits down. 

What a day. And it's not even close to being over. 

Her phone rings. It's Jeremy. She picks it up right away. 

"Hey Jeremy," she says. 

"Hey Candace," he says. "I was wondering if you wanted to hang out later today?"

Candace thinks. Yeah, hanging out with Jeremy would be great, but she has a mission. "Sorry, but I'm doing something for uncle Perry today. I might be able to do something tomorrow, though."

Jeremy laughs. "You're such a good niece. See you tomorrow?"

"See you tomorrow."

"Love you."

"Love you." Candace ends the call with a click. 

Vanessa Doofenshmirtz walks in the door. "Hey Candace."

"Hi Vanessa," Candace says. "What are you doing here?"

"Oh, I wanted to talk to uncle Roger. He's probably busy, though. What about you?"

"I was waiting to do the same thing. Waiting to talk to the Mayor, at least. He's not my uncle."

"Really." Candace nods. "I don't know if he'll talk to you, he's always crazy busy."

Candace sighs. Maybe this lead won't work out after all. 

Except...Vanessa Doofenshmirtz. Related to Roger. Is she related to Heinz?

"So why are you here?" Vanessa asks.

Candace pulls one of the pictures out of her purse, as well as one of the roses. "My uncle Perry," she points at Perry, "has Hanahaki for this guy," she points at the other man, "Heinz Doofenshmirtz. I wanted to ask the mayor, since they have the same last name. Do you know him?"

"Know him?" Vanessa laughs. "He's my dad."

Candace's eyes grow wide. "Your dad? That's perfect! Do you know if your dad likes my uncle? Like, like-likes him?"

Vanessa looks at the flower in Candace's hand. "I'm pretty sure he does, but you'd have to ask him directly."

Another lead. Perfect. "Where is your dad?"

Vanessa shrugs. "Probably at Blueprint Heaven. He's kind of an inventor."

"Thanks so much."

"I should warn you though, he's kind of cold. He'll probably just shrug you off."

Candace shrugs. "I'm not worried."

"Okay, then good luck."

Candace jumps out of her seat. "Thanks, Vanessa. See you later." She stuffs the photo and the rose back in her purse, then walks out the door. She unlocks her bike from the rack and hops on it. Thankfully, Blueprint Heaven isn't too far. 

Her legs are burning by the time she makes it to the blueprint store. She peeks inside, watching as a slouching man with brown hair, wearing a lab coat, purchases a few blueprints. That must be him. 

As the man leaves the shop, she puts out her arm.

"Hey, watch it, kid," the man says.

"I have something to ask you," Candace says. "Are you Heinz Doofenshmirtz?"

"That's Doctor Doofenshmirtz to you. And if you're selling those Fireside Girl cupcakes, I already bought two dozen."

Candace rolls her eyes and pulls the photo out of her purse. "I want to ask you about this picture."

The man pulls out a pair of reading glasses and studies the picture. "What do you want to ask me?"

Candace points at Perry. "Do you like-like this guy?" 

"That's a rather strange question to ask, isn't it?"

"Danville's a strange place."

Dr. Doofenshmirtz shrugs. "You got me there. Y'know, he looks like this other guy I know." He points at the picture. "What's his name?"

"Perry," Candace says. 

"Really? I, uh, work with a guy named Perry. Sort of. We're like, work rivals. He's really nice though, even if he doesn't talk much." 

Candace's Busting Senses start to tingle. "I wonder if they're the same guy?"

Dr. Doofenshmirtz hums. "Maybe. It'd be just like him to be all mysterious and suave and all that." He pauses to cough into the arm of his lab coat. When he pulls his arm away, the sleeve is red and covered in petals. "Oh, come on, I just washed this one."

"You have Hanahaki?" Candace asks. "Can I see the flowers?" 

He looks at Candace funny. "I guess? They're roses, white ones." He wipes one of the petals off on his lab coat and shows it to her. "You know, I googled the meaning, and they mean young love and innocence and all that stuff. I mean, it's like the last thing I'd relate with him."

"So your soulmate is your work rival," Candace clarifies.

"Awkward, right? Man, the universe really has it out to get me."

Candace merely nods along. This...inventor has the same flower as uncle Perry. Another strange coincidence. Or is it? Is there another Heinz Doofenshmirtz in the Tri-State area?

"Listen, it was great talking with you, but I kinda have to go to work now, so..."

Candace nods. "Nice meeting you."

"Likewise," Dr. Doofenshmirtz says, and he walks off down the road. 

Hmm. Perry has Hanahaki for a guy named Heinz Doofenshmirtz that he works with. This Heinz (sorry, doctor) Doofenshmirtz has Hanahaki for a guy named Perry that he's work rivals with. Vanessa told her that her dad Heinz likes Perry, and Perry's got a picture of him with his crush Heinz.

They've got to be the same guys. 

And they must be pining over each other. 

What idiots. Uncle Perry said this was nothing like a romance novel, but it practically is.

Candace watches as Dr. Doofenshmirtz walks into the apartment building shaped like Ferb's head. The one that says Doofenshmirtz Evil Incorporated on its front...wait, what?

The final pieces click together. Doofenshmirtz Evil Incorporated. Perry always says "Evil never rests" when he runs off to work. This guy mentioned that he and Perry are work rivals. Could Perry be fighting this guy for work?

No wonder Perry didn't want to get with his crush. If they're on opposite sides of the great Good and Evil debate, dynamics change.

This just got a whole lot more interesting. 

Candace is still getting them together. Secret relationships can work. 

She sizes up the apartment building. A person on a jetpack flies up to the balcony, landing and disappearing from view. That must be Perry. She runs down the street and tugs on the door of the building.

Damn it, it's one of those buildings where the residents have to buzz people in. She doesn't have time to wait around for someone to let her in. There's got to be another way.

She looks into her purse. The red disk says "Standard Issue Glider" on the bottom, with a button. Good to know, but that won't work right now. 

No, the thing she needs right now is the grappling hook. She's afraid of heights, but this will have to work. She's Candace Flynn, she can do whatever she puts her mind to. If that means grappling up the side of a forty-story building, so be it. It's worth it for love. She steps back, pulls the hook out of her purse, and aims it at the balcony. 

Thankfully, she's still wearing her bike helmet. She fires the grappling hook towards the balcony. Once it sticks, she presses the button on the side and holds on for dear life. The building flashes by in a rush of purple, then she's landing on the balcony with a thud.

It seems that nobody inside noticed her stunt. Dr. Doofenshmirtz has his back to the balcony, and uncle Perry (in a 1940's fedora) is stuck in a net. 

Yep, Good and Evil are clashing in this apartment-slash-lab.

She ducks behind a strange-looking planter. Thankfully, nobody's seen her. She needs a plan. 

Maybe she could just go up to them and tell them about each other? No, that wouldn't work. 

Throw them a paper airplane? She doesn't really have any paper, except for the photo. 

Hmm. What about the roses? Both of them have the same flower, that might spur the connection along.

She peeks around the corner. Uncle Perry and Dr. Doofenshmirtz are fighting now, sparring as if they've done it a thousand times before. Candace bites down on the inside of her cheek to keep herself from cheering. 

Uncle Perry lands one more kick, then throws his hat across the room. It hits a big red button on the side of a machine, and the machine promptly explodes. Candace ducks to protect herself from the flying bits of metal. 

However, instead of leaving, uncle Perry goes to help Dr. Doofenshmirtz up. They move to another part of the lab, where a small kitchen is. Dr. Doofenshmirtz pours them both glasses of water, handing one to uncle Perry.

Now's the time.

Candace carefully sneaks out of her hiding place. She pulls one of the roses out of her purse, aims, and throws. As soon as the flower leaves her hand, she ducks back behind the wall. After a second, she peeks back around the corner. 

Both uncle Perry and Dr. Doofenshmirtz have tried to cover up the rose, thinking it's their own. They both look away from each other. Even from across the way, Candace can tell how flustered Perry's gotten.

She watches as uncle Perry says something, signing much faster than usual. She thinks she catches the signs for "Hanahaki", "love" and "rose", although it's hard to tell from this far away.

He finishes what he has to say and drops his hands into his lap. For twelve seconds (vintage Ducky Momo Awkward Silence Timer), nothing happens. 

Then Dr. Doofenshmirtz grabs uncle Perry's tie, pulls him in, and kisses him. 

It's all Candace can do to hold back a squeal. 

When they part, neither make eye contact for six and a half seconds. Then Perry signs something, making Dr. Doofenshmirtz laugh. Perry leans up and places a short kiss on Dr. Doofenshmirtz's lips. Both men grin broadly.

Yeah, uncle Perry's going to be alright. 

Candace pulls another one of the roses out of her purse and throws it at the couple, not bothering to hide this time. This one bounces off the back of Perry's head, causing him to look over at the balcony.  

"Enjoy your romance novel ending," she shouts, a broad smile nearly splitting her face in two. Perry gets up from the counter and starts over towards her, a look of shock painted over his face. Candace merely pulls the red disk out of her purse, presses the button on the bottom, and watches as it expands into a red hang glider. 

She winks and salutes, then kicks off the ledge to glide off the balcony. 

As she glides over Danville, she grins. And uncle Perry said it wouldn't work out. Well, she just proved him wrong. 

Something on the glider starts to beep. A tinny voice emanating from a hidden speaker starts to talk. "Warning. Unauthorized use of OWCA tech. Returning to base."

Well, it was fun while it lasted. Candace attempts to let go of the glider as it nears the ground, but cuffs clamp down around her wrists. A rocket engine pops out of the back and steers her in an unknown direction.

Fifteen minutes later, she finds herself in an underground bunker, being stared down by a man with an intimidating mustache and a scrawny intern with a camera. Uncle Perry stands in the background, his hands in his pockets and the beat-up fedora from earlier on his head.

The man with the mustache starts to speak. "Do you know what you've done?'

"I just saved uncle Perry's love life?" she guesses. Behind the intern, Perry shakes his head. Candace can see the amused smile on his face. 

The mustached man sighs. "Not quite. Your uncle Perry is actually a top OWCA agent, and as such, his identity must be kept completely secret." Candace considers this. A secret agent, huh? That certainly explains the grappling hook and the hang glider. 

Man, being a secret agent would be so cool. 

"Candace Flynn," as you have compromised Agent P's position, your memory is going to be wiped."

"What, there's nothing else you can do?"

The intern speaks up. "We could relocate him to another continent, and you'd never see him again." Candace's eyes go wide, and she shakes her head. "Yeah, we figured you'd like the memory wipe option better."

"Anything else you'd like to say, Ms. Flynn?" the mustached man asks. 

Candace thinks for a second. "I don't know, I think uncle Perry owes me something."

For a brief second, Perry looks confused. Then he smiles knowingly. Thank you, Candace. 

"You're welcome. Now, hit me."

The green ray hits her square in the face, and her mind goes fuzzy.

~~~

Candace steps off the bus. Finally, the last day of school. Phineas and Ferb are throwing a party, and for some odd reason, she doesn't even want to bust them for it. 

(That reason has nothing to do with the fact that Jeremy will be there. Nope, nothing at all.)

She runs up the stairs to her backpack down in her room, then runs back out into the backyard. 

Phineas and Ferb have already set up rides, food, and of course, live music. Perks of middle school- they get out earlier.

Already, most of the neighborhood has shown up. It's starting to look like it's going to end up being a big block party. 

Under the tree in the backyard, uncle Perry and some guy in a lab coat are talking. This must be his boyfriend. When Perry sees Candace, he waves her over. 

Candace, I'd like you to meet someone very special to me.

[copias-thrall]

The Stars Are Fire

One more romp before NYE

⬅️ Previous

New Year’s Eve Eve, and Mary is back at your place. You kind of feel like you need to eat bags of carrots, but he’s pumped, gesticulating wildly as he explains what an honor it is that the main band contacted him and asked him to attend their first debut after being signed.

“I get a plus one, Suey. Please.”

And even though all you’d like to do is lie on the couch and drink water—oh, would carrot juice be the best answer to both your problems?—you agree to beautify yourself and accompany him to this pre-party of sorts at one of the bigger local venues.

The music is loud, and the guitars are screeching. Lights are flashing, and the room is moist with sweat.

Mary is jumping around in the mosh pit, and every now and then you can see his head emerge. You’re on the outer limit, holding the too-soft plastic cup full of piss beer you guys are sharing—you gave up your moshing days after some dude punched you in the ear, which ripped out your tragus; your piecer had said he’s redo it for free … but one look at your ear and he advised against it because of the scar tissue.

The crowd is being particularly frantic to the current song, so you’re surprised when Mary emerges from the hive—he usually loves a good mosh. His neck and bare arms are glistening with sweat, and his t-shirt is sticking to him; his paint runs in streaks down his face, and his forelock is matted to his forehead.

His grin is feral as he yanks the cup from you and begins to chug. The sides dimple, and some of the liquid sloshes down his neck to join the other moisture there. He throws the now-empty cup in the direction of a trash can, and it disappears amongst the bodies.

“Thanks for sharing, asshole,” you quip.

“Oh. My bad—did you want some?” Mary shakes himself like a dog, and the sweat and beer fly off him, splattering you.

“OH MY FUCKING GOD, MARE!” you screech as you try to distance him with a hand to his chest. His grin only widens as he easily buckles your arm at the elbow, and then he’s on you, smearing his hair and face all over you.

You’re laughing as you grip his hair to tug his head away from you, but he just starts growling and nipping at your neck.

“I’m the Mary monster … and I’ve come to eat you!” he rumbles in your ear right before you feel his arms go round your waist—and then you’re being spun in circles. You yelp and wrap your arms around his neck, the two of you bumping into other people who cheer and goodnaturedly bump you back.

He finally sets you down with an Oof, wincing exaggeratedly as he presses his hand to his back.

You slap his shoulder, the smack landing wetly. “Well, that’s your own fucking fault.”

“Yeah, I know. Worth it, though,” he says grinning before he’s leaning down to kiss you. He tastes like beer and sweat and bitter makeup—but that’s just Mary.

You’re just about to deepen the kiss, when he breaks away with a whoop, shouting,

“Fuck, I love this part!”

He grabs your hand, and you jump along with him and the rest of the audience as the myriad disparate voices join together to form the bridge of the song.

“You can go back in the pit, Mare Bear,” you say into his ear as soon as he stops flailing around like a bunch of wet noodles stuck together.

But he just turns and pulls you into his sweat-damp body. His hands slide down your body—shoving your skirt out of the way—to grab handfuls of your leggings-covered ass.

“Mmm, I’d rather bump and grind with you.”

To punctuate his statement, he rubs his crotch into you. You grab him by the belt loops to pull him further into you.

“Uh oh—is it that time again? Do I need to milk my boyfriend before he explodes?”

Mary backs you into the rough, concrete wall, his body a firm line against you as his lips brush yours.

“Are you offering?”

You run your hands up under his shirt, fingers sliding through his sweat.

“How can I resist this?”

He nips at your ear.

“Stay here,” he says as he scampers off.

You lose him as he delves further into the crowd, but you busy yourself with yanking your skirt back down and tugging at your fishnet top until the seams line up correctly (you’re wearing it over a black, patent-leather bra, and Mary nearly derailed the whole evening when he first saw you in it).

He finally reappears, his face open but determined. You don’t have time to question him before he’s grabbing your hand with a firm C’mon and yanking toward the back hall with the bathrooms. You think that that’s where he’s taking you, but he doesn’t even pause when you pass by the lines.

Mary takes you practically to the back door—which has been inconspicuously propped open with a small stone so the smokers can come and go as they please—and hisses at you to keep watch.

Before you can ask for what, he has a set of keys out. He fumbles with the lock of a door you have overlooked initially.

“Mare …” you begin, but are cut off when the door clicks open and he yells Ah-ha! before yanking you into the room.

He quickly slams the door behind you, which leaves you in darkness.

“Uh, there should be …”

You hear him fumbling around for something, so you fish your phone out of your bra and turn on the flashlight app.

“Ah! Good call.” He goes for the table lamp your tiny light has illuminated.

“It’s why you keep me around.”

“And the blow jobs.” He clicks it on with the pull chain.

“And the blow jobs,” you echo.

With the light now on, you see that you’re in a closet of an office—a small desk, a wooden office chair, a file cabinet, and a lost & found box. When you turn back to face Mary, he’s beaming at you. He twirls the key ring around his finger as he advances on you.

“I know a guy.” He reaches out a hand to thumb at your cheekbone. “Only the best fuck locations for my baby doll.”

You smack his hand away, but you’re grinning.

“Kiss me,” you say, and then Mary’s lips are on yours, your tongues tangling as you grip his ass and he runs his hands all over you; one finally settles in between your legs to press in pulses at your clit. He works you up so good that you hadn’t noticed you were rocking him into you by the meat of his butt.

He pulls away from you, eyes dark and predatory; he brings the hand that had been touching you up to his nose to smell and then down to his mouth to taste.

“Fuck. I want you.”

“Get on the chair,” you say. Mary blinks at you, but then hurries to obey. “Take your dick out,” you order as you fumble to divest yourself of your leggings. You’re not wearing underwear, and a sticky line of your slick clings to the crotch before landing against your thigh. Mary’s eyes track it, and he lets out another Fuck as he gives his hard cock a loose stroke.

When you’re good, he holds his cock out in invitation, and you clamber onto the chair. There’s a horrifying moment with the whole thing tips back—you tumbling into Mary with a small cry as his arms fly out to grab anything—before the two of you realize the chair is built to do that. You both let out a relieved laugh, and Mary bitches at you to stop squashing his dick.

He once again steadies it at the base, and you ease the tip inside you. It goes in easy, but you still slide down slowly, reveling in the stretch. Mary moans and grips the armrests. Using his shoulders for leverage, you slide up and down his cock—slowly at first, just to get your bearings. Mary’s hands fly down to grip at your hips; his eyes are already glazed, and his bottom lip is white from how hard he’s biting it.

After a few recalibrations, you start to bounce on his cock in earnest. Every time you slam down into his lap, you try to angle it so his cockhead punches into your G-spot before mashing your clit into his curls. You’re definitely using him, only bouncing and mashing insofar to chase your orgasm.

Mary just lets you—his hands only slightly trying to move you up and down, and his hips only giving shallow thrusts up into you—his tongue practically lolling out of his mouth watching you take your pleasure from him.

He babbles at you. “Yeah, fuck. C’mon, baby. Ride my cock. That’s right—use me. Use my cock. Fuck—look at you all flushed. Cum on me. Can you cum on me?”

One of your hands flies down to play with your clit, but Mary bats it away.

“Keep fucking riding me,” he says before he licks a thumb and then presses at your nub.

You were worked up before you even sat on his dick, and it’s been a simmer ever since. When the pad of his thumb makes contact with your clit, it’s like it unlocks a dam of pleasure. You stutter to a stop to moan and clench around him.

“Fuck, Suey. Don’t stop,” whines Mary.

The need to cum now is imperative, and you start frantically bouncing in his lap—arms wound round his neck—while he lets the motion of your body help to swipe your throbbing clit.

You know how he gets about you crying out his name, so you’re chanting MaryMaryMary as you pant against his cheek. The wood of the chair is hard on your knees, but you keep riding him until you’re oh so close. Your mouth drops open as you feel your impending orgasm—and you’re pretty sure you drool all over him—and you gasp out Uh uh uh uh as you feel yourself hover. That’s when Mary’s thumb goes to town, and you lock up.

You’ve hardly gotten “Oh fuck” out of your mouth, when Mary’s suctions on to yours. Your orgasm is crashing over you in waves—you clenching in pulses around his hard cock—and you’re riding him in languid rocks while you grunt into his mouth. At some point you broke his kiss and your head lolled back, your movements ceasing as Mary started to thrust up into you as you rode the aftershocks.

As you feel the calm wash over you, you’re prepared for Mary to plant his feet and fuck up into you. But instead he stands up—forcing you to yelp as you hastily wrap your legs around him. There’s a bit of fumbling, but eventually your back hits the small square of carpet before Mary starts wailing into you.

His lips smear down your cheek and neck and shoulder as he babbles at you. “You fucking tease. I’m going to fuck the shit out of you. Your cunt is here to please me. I’m gonna fill it up so good, I wanna see my jizz dripping down your legs.”

“I want to feel you empty inside me, wanna feel your cock throbbing.”

His hips are working into you double time when he starts to scream his song of release. You wrap your legs tighter around him and say, “I want your hot cum spilling out of me.”

Mary bites down hard at your shoulder—and you stifle a surprised scream—his cries muffled in your skin as he gives one long, hard thrust, followed by a few staccato jolts. Finished, he lifts himself up on his forearms a bit and rests his head on your sternum as he pants, and you run your hands up and down his moist back.

He finally rolls off you and sprawls on his back, one arm draped over his eyes, the other strewn to the side. When you flop onto his chest, he seems surprised, and both arms come around you—which is why he can’t immediately defend himself when your hand shoots out to stroke his softening cock.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Suey,” he says as he stiffens. “Sensitive,” he whines as his one hand reaches down to remove yours from his cock. You laugh at him as he jerks and gasps until he manages to pry your fist free.

He’s still got your wrist in his grip when you wiggle on top of him and press your face to his.

“But would you let me, though?” you say as your lips touch his. “If I wanted to keep going, would you be a good boy and let me tease you?”

The grip on your wrist tightens and the hand you hadn’t realized had clamped onto your thigh digs in.

“Fuck, Suey,” Mary says in an exhaled breath. “I’d let you do almost anything.”

Biting his bottom lip, you pull it out before letting it go to snap back. “That’s what I like to hear.”

You shift to rise, but one of Mary’s hands sinks into your hair and presses your head down. He kisses you hard, but in a slow, sated way. You grind down into him, rubbing into his chest and his clothes.

“Jesus … again?”

“I’m still horny,” you whine, as you mash into him.

“When are you fucking not horny?”

“Mary …”

“Ok, ok. Christ, you’re greedy. Here—roll over …”

Rolling off him, you lie onto your back; Mary shifts onto his side, his one hand working between your legs to press at your clit.

You grab his wrist to ground yourself. “Yes, Mare.”

You let yourself get lost in the ministrations of his index finger; it circles your sensitive clit before flicking over it. Then it dips down to tap at your hole before stroking up and down between both sweet spots—only to repeat the process.

It’s a great process even if Mary’s being matter of fact about it due to circumstance, and you writhe unabashedly—moaning and grunting—as your next orgasm draws closer. Your pussy pulsates in warning, and you curl a little towards Mary, your hands flying to grip into his shirt as you let out an Ugn, Mary. His finger speeds up, and you feel your eyes roll back. You let out a wet Ffffff right before your walls clench … and then you’re juttering and moaning as you cum to the tempo of Mary tapping at your engorged clit.

Even as you’re slumping and Mary is slowing his motions, he leans down to whisper in your ear.

“You’re so fucking hot. Another?”

And you could—you really could. Mary’s got the fit fingers, and your clit throbs at the suggestion—but you’re very aware that you’re also on the dirty floor in a bustling venue. So you roll into him, mouth half missing his before you suck his tongue down. Mary goes with it, and soon enough you’re once again in his lap. His hands ruck up your top and sneak under your bra to fondle your tits.

“Fuck,” he slurs, “I just wanna get you back to your place and fuck you again.”

You tilt your head back to give him access to your neck.

“Don’t you need to say ‘hi’ to the band or something?”

“Or something,” he mutters into your clavicle. You let him follow the slope of your shoulder, flinching slightly when he makes contact with his bite mark.

“You bit me again,” you grumble, rolling your shoulders.

“Sorry.” His tongue traces the livid red though the fishnet.

“No you’re not.”

“No, I’m not.”

“C’mon,” you say as you squirm on him. “We should go.”

He plants his face into your chest, one hand moving up to rest on your neck.

“Do we have to?”

“Sucks, I know. But we can’t sit here all night with our dicks out. I at least need to pee.”

Mary tilts his head to grin up at you, and you quickly cover his mouth with your hand.

“Mare! Do not.”

When he gives your palm a long, slobbery lick, you just make a sound of disgust and wipe it off on his shirt.

The two of you get up and start to put yourselves back in order. You cast about for your leggings only to find Mary trying to stuff them in his pocket, and you notice that there are sticky wet spots on his jeans.

“Mare. You can’t use my pants as cover up.”

“Cover up?” He squints at you and then follows your line of sight down to his crotch. “Oh. This?” He swipes his index finger through a patch, then rubs it against his thumb before seeming to inspect it. His tongue darts out to lick it off his digits. “Mmm, maybe I’m saving this as a snack for later.”

“Gross, Mary!” You’re 90% sure he did it just to squick you out, but you never know.

He smiles, pleased with himself.

You step toward him, hand outstretched. “Give me my pants!”

He steps away from you. “Nuh-uh.”

“C’mon, Mary!” You reach forward with a grabby hand, but he swipes them out of his pocket and holds them above his head. “What the fuck?!” you gripe.

His eyes dart to your bare, exposed thighs. “Maybe I really do wanna see my jizz trickle down your legs.”

You make a mean lemon face at him, and when he throws his head back to laugh, you playfully punch him in the gut. Still laughing, he doubles over with an Uff, and you take the opportunity to snatch your leggings from his grasp.

“Come on, fuckhead,” you grumble as you ball up the fabric as much as you can in your hands.

The two for you sneak out of the office—only to run into a smoker sneaking back in through the back door. There’s moment when the 3 over you all stare at each in other in a cursed tableau, until Mary says,

“None of us were ever here.”

Smoker glances down at the pants in your hands, smirks, and gives you both a salute before making an “after you” gesture. You break off to wait in the line for the Ladies’ Room, and Mary honks your ass.

“See you on the floor, baby doll.”

You turn to glare at him, but he’s already walking away.

Between waiting in line; cleaning between your legs with moistened, paper hand towels; and cleaning Mary’s make up off the rest of you after you see yourself in the mirror—a few women smirking, a few judging—it takes you a good 30min to get your situation in order. When you get back to the pit, you don’t see Mary anywhere in sight. He’s not on the outskirts either, or at the bar. Texting him would be useless because even if he hadn’t let his phone go dead, he always keeps it on silent.

The only place else you can think of is that he’s made his way into the Green Room. Even though your wrists bands are the same color as everyone else who is of age, you did notice that the bouncer grabbed yours from a different bunch, so you hope maybe you can get backstage without Mary.

You approach the bored-looking bouncer who’s guarding the hall, ready to explain, but he just asks for your wrist in a monotone. You stick out your arm, which he takes in a professional manner so he can twist and turn it; he has a little black light that eventually illuminates an “x” on your wrist band.

Huh.

“All right,” he says, his eyes already off you and back to scanning the room before he even drops your arm.

You can hear the guffawing down the hall, so you just follow the noise. You poke your head around the corner of the doorframe; the room is filled with mostly skinny boys in various states of ripped shirts (if they’re wearing shirts), denim pants, and big hair from teasing or glue. You squint, trying to find Mary like this is a Where’s Waldo? picture.

“Can we help you, sweetheart?” says a voice, and a handful of heads turn your way.

“Mine,” says Mary, and you turn toward his voice. He’s straddling what looks like an amp, or maybe a table shaped like an amp, and holding his arms out to you and making grabby hands. There’s a chorus of “hoorays” as you walk over.

“I told you dudes she was smart.”

He pulls you down onto one leg—and you hope he can feel the cold dampness of your crotch through his rips, because honestly you should both suffer that indignity—and wraps both arms around your middle.

“Why am I smart?” you ask as you turn your head to his and hook your arm over his shoulder.

“They didn’t think you’d find me.”

You lean back into him. “Well, it was either here or you left, and I didn’t think you’d be that stupid.”

There’s a chorus of chuckles and a few shouted insults about Mary’s intelligence, which he graciously meets with his middle finger.

“Can you really know what a wild Goore will do? Seems like a lucky guess.” shouts someone.

“Yeah! He’s pretty feral!” shouts another, which is met with some snickering.

Mary just gives it back in different plays of flipping the bird. You wind your fingers into his greasy, sweaty hair so he has to look at you.

“Mary knows his place.”

You hear someone choke on something and someone else say “Jesus”. Mary’s eyes widen, and you swear that if he had a tail, he'd be wagging it. There’s a bit of nervous laughter before the conversation veers off around the two of you. Mary tilts his head so that he can whisper in your ear.

“Wanna get out of here?”

Grinning, you nod.

Mary takes the leave for the both of you amidst playful chiding and some cat calls. He just drapes his arm around your shoulder.

“What can I say? The lady isn’t wrong.” He gives you a leering once over. “I know exactly where my place is.”

As you roll your eyes at him, the whole corner of the room erupts—with empty soda cans and balled up napkins being thrown at you.

“Get the fuck outta here, Goore!”

Laughing, the two of you hightail it out of the room. Mary immediately pushes you against the wall.

“You’re a fucking menace, you know that?” He leans down to nip at your neck. “I have a reputation to maintain.”

You giggle. “I don’t give a shit.”

There’s groan, and the two of you jump apart.

“Fuck’s sake, Goore—get the hell out of here!”

“All right, all right! We’re leaving.”

***

It’s a cold walk back to your place, Mary shivering despite his leather jacket as his sweat cools.

“Wanna get a slice?” you ask him.

You can always eat pizza, but a little warm up might be good for your dumbass boyfriend and his allergy to wearing his winter coat.

“Yeah, sure. You’re kinda a bitch when you’re hangry. Fuck, ow.”

There's a place on your walk home that makes bank by doing only pizza slices after hours, and if you get there before the 2 o’clock show, there’s even space to sit down. When you and Mary get there, there’s a line to order, but a free table, which Mary hens you to go save while he gets the slices.

He arrives like a conquering hero, smirking as he saunters lazily, plates in hand … until he realizes that the way he’s stacked them has made the cheese of your one plain slice stick to the bottom of his plate.

“Shit, sorry,” he says and he fumbles to scrape it off.

You shake your head in mock disapproval. “You’re fucking useless, you know that?”

“Quiet, you,” he says as he licks the grease from his finger. “I even got you that disgusting trash you like.”

He’s referring to the other slice (Hawaiian) that you’re now blowing on.

“Whatever, salami boy,” you respond as you tilt your chin at his paper plate—now translucent with grease—covered in slices of pepperoni.

He peels off a piece of the meat and flicks it at you; it lands with a splat on the top of one tit, and you make a disgruntled noise at him.

Mary just wiggles his tongue. “Want me to get that for you?”

You only glare at him and put down your slice so that you can peel off the circle, dabbing at the sauce on your top with a napkin. Mary picks up his own to eat—which gives you the opportunity to flick it right back. It hits the lapel of his jacket, and he flails in horror. You smack your hand over your mouth to block your cackle, and shove some napkins over to him.

“Suey,” he whines as he begins to rub at it.

“Wait wait wait—blot, don’t rub!”

Mary just whines again as he begins to dab violently at it. You grab a few napkins and scamper over to the end of the counter where an Asian woman is switching out trays. When she looks up at you, you give her an imploring look.

“Can I get some dish soap?” you ask as you wave the napkins.

She blinks at you and says, “One moment,” before she’s yelling to someone in the back. “Hēi, Zhāng Wēi, nǐ néng zài zhǐ to shàng fàng xiē xǐ wǎn jīng ma?”

A moment later, a man comes out from the back holding a soapy paper towel. The woman points at you, and the exchange is made.

“Thanks!” you chirp as you spin on your heel back to Mary. He’s pouting up at you. You tsk as you half straddle his one leg. “Don’t be a baby, it’s fine.” You blot gently at the small slick of grease, the soap resting in white crests atop the black of his leather as you press.

It takes a few passes with drying in between, but it finally comes out ok.

“There you go, Mare. All better.” You plant a wet kiss on the affected area.

When you move to climb off him, Mary grabs your wrist.

“What about my kiss?”

You scoff at him. “You aren’t the injured party.”

“Not the—it’s my fucking jacket!”

You spin out of his grasp so you can reclaim your seat and eat your pizza.

“And who fired the first shot?”

He exaggerates his pout. “Whatever.”

You listen to him as he waxes poetic about the bands the two of you saw tonight and interject when you can about the attractiveness of the members just get him in a lather. Even while doing most of the talking, Mary eats all 3 of his slices in the time it takes you to finish your two, and then he eats the crusts you leave.

You quirk your eyebrow. “Hungry much?”

He leans back and pats his food baby.

“If I’m gonna fuck your greedy ass all night, I need some fuel.”

“Ok, bot-thario.”

***

As you walk home, Mary grabs your hand and stuffs it into his pocket, interlocking your finger together like you might fly away. He looks up at the sky and huffs out a puff of breath that mists in the air in front of him.

“You ever wish you could see all the stars? Like, some out of the city shit?”

“You mean without the light noise?”

“Yeah. My middle school always took the 7th graders to the Poconos at the end of the year. One night they took us out to a field where we chomped on those lifesavers, you know? The mint ones? They spark in the dark.”

“Wint-o-green?”

He looks over at you. “Yeah. They also had us lay down in the grass and talked about the constellations. I think we were more impressed with being allowed to be up so late … but I do remember thinking that the stars were so bright and so … prolific.”

There’s a moment before you respond.

“We took a yearly camping trip most years. More glamping than anything, but I liked to go exploring and climb up the rocks.” You grin at him. “Always covered in scrapes and dirt.”

“The scandal!”

“It kind of was, though. But we also did our fair share of star gazing, especially if there was a meteor shower.”

Mary bumps you. “Aww, Suey. Did you wish upon a star?” He leans down to your ear. “What did ya wish for?”

You scoff and lean away from him. “Everyone knows you can’t tell or it won’t come true, Goore.”

“Tell meee,” he hisses as he gets closer.

“Stop!” you laugh as you pull your hand free to keep him at bay.

He wraps his arms around you even as you try to squirm free. “Tell me your seeecreets!”

“It won’t come true!” you squeal.

He nips at your ear before giving the shell a lick.

“Well, I’ll tell you one of mine because I’m not fucking stingy.”

Mary slips one hand to rest against your cheek.

“I’ve always kinda wanted to do that again.” He pulls back to look at you. “I mean, maybe not that exactly … but see the stars like that again, yeah?” He searches your face.

“If you say something about my eyes right now, I will spit in your face.”

Mary rolls his eyes and pushes you away from him with a palm to your face and begins to walk on.

“You’re a pain in my ass.”

You catch up with him and shove a hand into his back pocket before giving it a squeeze. “Only sometimes.” You leer up at him.

He looks down at you through slitted eyes.

“Don’t distract me with sex.”

You rub yourself into his side, your other hand traveling down to his crotch.

“You love being distracted with sex.”

Mary suddenly grabs you, and you find yourself pressed against the brick wall of a building. He presses himself into you, a hand winding into your hair to tip your head up so his face can meet yours.

“Yeah, ok. Maybe.”

His other hand fumbles to unhook the first few button toggles on your coat.

"You’ve brought this on yourself, little girl.”

Mary scrambles to get his arms under your thighs, and you wrap your legs around his slight waist and your arms around his corded neck so that he doesn’t drop you. His head comes down to worry at your neck as his pelvis squirms to find a good angle to press in between your legs. He gets a few good ruts into you before you feel his arms begin to tremble.

You’re about to suggest to him that he should put you down when someone across the street whistles. Mary growls, but lets you slide down him. When the two of you turn toward the callout, you see two alternative boys giving the thumbs up. Mary salutes. You lick your middle finger.

They whoop back, and you watch Mary watch them until they’re small on the horizon. When he turns back to you, his gaze is full of intent. He reaches into his pants to adjust himself, then he grabs your wrist.

“Let’s go.”

The causal saunter back to your apartment has turned into a forced march with Mary at the helm. His legs are longer, so you stumble after him until he finally lets go of you—but you still have to do double time to keep up.

When you reach your building, Mary is impatient—his body draped on you and his mouth sucking at your neck as you struggle to unlock the building door. Once inside, you push him away with a laugh before you break out into a run. You have the advantage of a surprise head start, but Mary’s in better shape, and he catches you before you even make it off the second floor landing.

“You’re in so much fucking trouble,” he snarls before he tosses you over his shoulder.

“OH MY GOD, MARE! PUT ME THE FUCK DOWN!”

He just slaps your ass through your coat a few times. You beat ineffectually at his back—cursing—as he totters up the next two flights, but Mary doesn’t put you down.

When he gets to your door, he’s panting. You squirm, but he’s not moved.

“Stop wiggling unless you want me to drop your ass. Gimme your keys.”

Because you’re an asshole, you drop the keys on the floor instead of into his hand. There’s a long pause during which you try to hold in your laughter even as the jiggle of your body gives you away.

“Well played—but don’t think this gets you out of the trouble you’re in.”

He sets you down so that you’re boxed in between him and the door while he squats to grab the keys. You reach down to grab his hair, but he bats your arm out of the way before standing up again.

“Nuh-uh. None of that.”

Mary makes sure to lean into you as he works at getting your door open, so when it does, you go stumbling backwards with an ungainly exclamation. Then you slip on all your mail—envelopes scattering everywhere—and your arms pinwheel for balance. Mary’s arm shoots out to grab at the collar of your coat, steadying you.

“That’s your own fucking fault,” he rumbles as he slams the door behind him. Then he yanks you back into him, pressing his lips hard to yours before giving them a good nibble. You go to lean into him, but makes a sing-song “nuh-uh” sound before pushing you into the wall.

He pins you again with his body.

“Fuck. I want you here, like this. Take your shorts off.”

You love it when Mary’s like this—rabid, savage, all Id—just as much as when he’s whining at your feet, and your heart beats in between your legs in anticipation. Once again, you contort to shimmy out of your leggings. When you’ve got one leg free, Mary’s hands are at you—undoing the rest of your coat toggles and shoving your skirt up around your stomach. His dick is already out, and he yanks up one of your thighs to hip level, his other hand sliding back to grip into the meat of your ass.

“Guide me in,” he half whispers, and you reach down blindly, grasping for his dick. You get the tip into you, and Mary grunts—resting his head against the wall—pushing in the rest of the way. “Fuck. You’re tight like this.”

You moan, your hands scrabbling at the back of his jacket as you clench around him. The grip on your thigh becomes painful, and he begins to thrust into you shallowly.

“So fucking wet too. You wet for my dick, huh? Dripping at the thought of what I was going to do to you?”

“Your fucking cock, Mary. Are you gonna punish me with it? For being such a tease?”

“You’re goddamned right I am.” He lets go of you, his dick slipping out of your pussy as he leans back. “Turn around … and take that coat off.”

You grapple with your coat, trying to shake it off your arms. When you feel Mary grab ahold, you hiss, “Rip my fucking coat and I’ll rip you.”

“Shut up,” he grumbles, but he also gently eases you out of the garment before tossing haphazardly to the side. “Over,” he rasps as he bends you—one hand on your head, the other pressing into your belly—so that your palms are flat against the wall. He kicks your legs together before he’s sliding into you again.

Hands gripping your hips, grunting with each movement, Mary pounds into you. Hard. When he finally punches into your G-stop you moan low and long, buckling forward a bit. Mary hisses at you to keep position, but after that he manages to hit your sweet spot on most thrusts.

“Oh fuck, Mare—harder,” you slur as your head rolls onto one of your arms.

There’s a slight pause, and then he’s rolling his hips before giving you sharp jolts.

“You want it harder, or you want my finger on your clit?”

You make a long Mmm noise. “One, then the other.”

“Fucking picky,” he grumbles, but then he’s punching into you again. And again.

And again.

You moan and grunt, pressing back into him where you can as he pounds into you. When your fingernails start scrabbling at the wall, one of Mary’s hands detaches from your hips and slides down between your legs; it splays, and one of his fingers starts rubbing at your neglected clit.

This time you really do buckle forward with pleased Uhn, and you feel the heat of Mary’s hard cock as it slips out of you. A breathy Shit escapes his mouth as his finger leaves you so that he can reposition you and slide his cock back in.

“Oh!” you gasp. “Fuck me good, Mare!”

“Christ, I’m trying. Stay still.”

You acquiesce as best you can, letting his finger slip slide on your clit as his cock punches into you. You’re gasping and moaning, rolling your head from side to side, and at some point you started banging your fist on the wall. The closer you get to your climax, the more your legs begin to tremble.

The two of you babble nonsense at each other.

“Oh, I want it—I want it! I wanna cum. I wanna cum. Make me cum, Mare. Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me …”

“I’m gonna give it to you so good, baby doll. My cock’s gonna make you cum so hard. Are you gonna do it? Are you gonna cum on my cock?”

You press back into Mary and then rock into his finger, trying to climb over the hill of arousal to your climax. He’s beginning to lose his steadiness, his speed and consistency becoming erratic.

“Fuck, Suey—I’m gonna … I’m gonna …”

The thought of Mary blowing his load and moaning his pleasure into you brings you to the crest of your hill, and you yell out Fuckfuckfuck—banging your fist into the wall—as you feel yourself tighten, then spasm in pulses. You almost slide down the wall, but suddenly Mary’s hand is gripping the front of your neck and angling you up as he starts slamming frenetically into you, panting hard.

He lets out a loud grunt as he cums, thrusting hard into you and pressing you into the wall; he squashes you further as he fucks out his aftershocks and attempts to latch onto the nape of your neck before deciding to just suck the ever-loving fuck out of your skin there.

Your face and arms are pressed against the cool of the wall, and Mary’s suction is turning into little kisses as his arms wrap around your middle.

“Mmm,” he purrs as he nuzzles into your skin.

You can already feel Mary’s cock softening, so you wiggle around to face him; he’s already there and waiting, his mouth finding yours to worm his tongue into. His hands run up to wind into your hair as he rubs against you.

“Fuck. What did I ever do to deserve you,” he murmurs against your lips.

“Probably the blow jobs,” you mutter back at him, and he laughs.

Mary’s hand travels back between your legs, two fingers tapping at then sliding in and out of your hole.

“Mare,” you grunt, pulling away from his kisses.

“What?” he asks as his mouth only starts to travel down your neck.

“Mare, what’re you doing?”

“Hmm,” he hums. “Just feeling my jizz drip out of you. S’nice.”

You make a sound of indignation and push him away from you. Even stumbling back he’s got a shit-eating grin on his face.

“Don’t be gross, Mare.”

He raises his hands up in supplication.

***

After you’ve made Mary join you in a quick shower—laughingly fending off further lascivious attacks—the two of get ready for bed.

Mary actually crawls into bed way before you do, so you wrap yourself around his half-asleep comma when you slip under the covers.

“Mare?”

He grunts.

“Do you really want to see the stars again?”

There’s a pause—and you think he must have drifted off—but then one of his hands rests atop yours.

“Yeah,” he croaks.

“Ok, baby,” you say, kissing his neck.

He tenses for a second, then relaxes.

“Ok,” he says as he grips your hand tighter.

Next ➡️

[setsailslash]

Hi! I don't know if you are still taking prompts, but if you are, i would love to see straight macho red hood getting stuck in a wall (or fence) and being used by some thugs and naughty street-rats. Love your work!

so this prompt had me stuck (hah) for the longest fucking time that i almost gave up on it because im not a noncon kinda gal and also because i never could quite figure out a concept that made stuck in a wall trope make sense. but here it is!! classed up because nothing but the best for my boy 💖

warning: this is consensual mob/jay with a bonus scene of (slight dubcon) father/son incest, if that doesn’t float your boat, stop at “daddy dearest” and you will still have all the mob/jay content my gutter trash brain can provide.

Side A.

The tiny bulb over the doorway was nearly inconspicuous. 

It was a simple system really. When it was green, it meant the room was available. And when it was red, it meant the room was occupied.

A hand on the door knob, a twist, and an easy push inwards: Four unfurnished walls in one solid colour and a hole in one. 

Impossible to miss really with the room set up just for this, and Jason got to say, he was impressed.

When he took over the Iceberg Lounge, he didn’t know about the kind of entertainment hidden in the back rooms of the club. He knew Penguin for all of his shady dealings, knew the man’s schedule down to his very last shipment of umbrella machine guns but he never did quite guess the level of depravity within the man’s prized villainous lair. 

He probably should have though.

It was effectively a hole in the wall. The hidden trap door blended nearly seamlessly into the rest of the room. It was evenly padded around the hole in the same nude shade, just enough to make sure there wouldn’t be any bruises or scrapes at the waist even when it got a bit rough. And Jason could only imagine how rough it got.

There was a dimming light switch by the door and even at its brightest setting, the warm lighting of the room was kept low enough for things to be seen but not nearly enough to catch the truly unsavoury details to be examined for long.

Jason didn’t know his masochistic streak ran this deeply but. 

It wasn’t like anyone had to know.

-

Side B.

Jason’s cheeks burned. 

Both his ass and across his face, even if no one could see the latter.

He lost count after the eleventh round, losing time with it too as the way one man fucked him would blend into the next.

At times, it felt as though there weren’t a single pause in between, and he’d imagine one faceless man lining up after another just outside of the door with their cocks already hard and straining inside of their pants. The bulb would turn red to green and right back to red just as quickly when they got their cocks sinking balls deep inside of him in one easy plunge with the way the hole in the wall kept his ass right at fucking level.

A taller man might even have to drag him up by the hips until he was standing on his tip toes to push into him.

At other times, he’d be left alone just long enough for him to clench down on empty, left aching and be given nothing at all. This felt especially punishing when he could feel the cooling trail of semen trickling down the inside of his thighs as he struggled to keep from rubbing his legs together in any sort of attempt to keep from feeling like he’s gaping.

At those times, Jason tried to recall the details, focusing on how he could feel the way the different men would fuck him instead.

Some came easily, a few short erratic thrusts and they were done. Jason barely felt the way they would sheath all the way inside, filling him in girth and depth before they were already coming.

A few liked their foreplay, using what felt like three or four fingers to prod and pull and dig into the rim of his hole, pushing in deep to their last knuckle and aiming right for his prostate. And they would be particularly merciless about it too as they rubbed the rough pads of their fingers over that single spot where he was oversensitized already until they could finally feel the way he tried to squeeze weakly down around their digits as he shuddered through an orgasm before they ever even pulled their own cocks out of their pants. 

There were even men that didn’t just ignore Jason’s erection between his legs. One jerked him off in pace with his thrusts while another reached around and kept a near bruising grip around the base of his cock long after he was rendered to sobbing for relief. This one man in particular had pressed his thumb against Jason’s slit, smeared the tacky drool of precum all over the crown of his cock and kept him on edge until it hurt.

It left him babbling even though he knew the man wouldn’t be able to hear a single word out of him.

On his side of the wall, the room was much smaller where Jason was laying down on his front on a padded board. His skin was slick with sweat and each time they thrusted into him hard enough to rattle the wall a little, he could feel the rub of his hard nipples over the fabric of the thin tee he never considered to take off.

The friction burning raw and hot, pulling whimper after whimper out of him if the man on the other side decided he wanted to be especially brutal with him. 

Slapping a hand down on his ass and squeezing hard, gripping him by the hip to pull him onto his cock even if the hole in the wall provided very little give for that, less than an inch of space if Jason kept the narrowest part of his waist right at the circumference of the hole itself. But it was that tiny bit of drag that forced the free falling moans into a near wail when the man would fuck into him, full force still, pressing his balls right against his backside like he could force that inside of him too.

The sound proofing was good enough that Jason couldn’t make out the sound of the door opening and closing on the other side at all. Sometimes he could hear snatches of the things the men that were taking him would yell as they came inside of him. 

Most of it obscenities and more of it some variation of what a disgusting filthy whore of a public toilet his hole made. 

The dehumanization at being referred to just a hole to be fucked over and over again like a mantra was just enough push him over that edge once more, this time screaming into his fist to stifle the noise. Drool trailing down over the bitten swell of his bottom lip to smear all over his chin as he saw white.

Jason could feel the distinctively warm splash of the man’s cum as he pulled out at the last minute and came all over the small of his back, rubbing the length of his softening cock over the crack of his ass to leave thick sticky streaks of release everywhere before he pulled away completely.

There was a pat against the side of his hip that he faintly registered in the aftermath, like a wordless little good job that made Jason curl his fucking toes into the wet tiles beneath his bare feet.

There was no more room inside of him. 

An unmistakable heaviness inside of his abdomen. He was stretched and stuffed full and dripping wet. He was also pretty sure there was a puddle of cum and who the fuck knew what else at his feet if the feeling between his legs was any indication at all.

Because he was soaked.

His vision was warped by the wetness gathered over his lashes, leaving them clumping against his cheeks. He was still catching the last of his breath when he felt the curl of another man’s hands around the swell of his ass. Felt the dig of the man’s thumbs against his wrecked hole, pulling his rim apart, exposing how ruined he was for anything else.

And Jason could only begin to imagine what he looked like after having been fucked this many times while he was kept pinned in one place.

There was the press of the man’s cock against him, searing hot and thick and going slow as he pushed inside. There was an obscene sensation of the semen already in him seeping out around where he couldn’t quite clench down tight enough with how used and abused he had been all night.

The remaining thought inside of his head as his eyes went dark was this: What was one more time really in a string of many?

-

Daddy Dearest. 

When the light goes dark and stays dark for the night, Jason has already passed out. 

Even though his arms were always kept free and the latches to get himself out of this very literal hole in the wall were all entirely within reach for him, Jason never even came close to thinking about that.

Wingman is the one to come in through the employee side of the room, unlocks the door to the sight of his boss fucked to oblivion. Jason’s hair is a mess and his face is worse off when there’s drying sweat and snot and spit, eyes all red and puffy and still wet with tears.

As he unlatches the hidden trap door that allows the occupant of the hole to come out, Jason barely even stirs. Wingman is gentle as he maneuvers Jason out from it.

A faint groan from a mouth that’s been bitten hard enough to draw out the taste of blood, and Wingman swipes the pad of his thumb over the small split. Feels how lax Jason’s mouth goes as his jaw falls open for him, how easily it is for the man to press his thumb all the way inside of that mouth to run it against the edge of teeth and the soft cloying touch of tongue. 

Jason draws it into his mouth and sucks at it like it’s reflex.

It’s only logical that Wingman shows his boss to another one of Penguin’s back rooms when the time is right. A night much like this one where Jason needs this kind of love but a room where Jason gets to stay on his knees all night as men use him for his lips and mouth and throat until there’s nothing else he knows but the sweet sore ache in his jaw kept wide and the taste of semen filling up his stomach with every cock he takes.

His boy’s gorgeous really when he’s been given the thorough attention and adoration he craves. 

Love not said in any kind of superficial lies but told in actions, in the strict repetition of acts performed until all the evidence amounts to zero deniability. In providing Jason with everything he needs.

Wingman picks him up, brushes the sweat soaked bangs from Jason’s forehead and presses a faint kiss to it with all the affection he can give.

“I’m proud of you, son.”

For all of his misgivings as a father in the early years of this boy’s childhood, Willis Todd likes to think he can start to make up for some of it if he tries his hardest now.

[rangoatemybabynsfw]

Body Touch Game Part 2

(PART 1 in case you missed it)

**********

He’s closed his eyes like Lance asked him to but thanks to that all he can focus on is the thundering pulse in his ears. Is that really his heartbeat? Why is he so nervous and yet...so excited? He holds his breath as Lance raises his hand to touch...Lance’s knee.

“You still have to guess...if you want to keep the game going,” Lance hints.

“Knee,” Keith barely utters and then clears his throat to be more clear. “Your knee.”

Lance nods, not that Keith can see that. He then moves his hand up. Lance presses Keith’s palm firmly to his inner thigh and Keith swallows nervously when he realizes it’s inches away from crotch.

“Th-Thigh,” Keith stammers.

Instead of moving the same hand Lance takes the other. He leaves Keith’s previous hand on his thigh and moves the new hand...up his shirt. Keith flushes bright red and bites his bottom lip as his fingers itch to touch more than just abs and bellybutton. He resists but his breath shallows.

“Stomach,” he whispers.

When did their bodies get so close that he can feel the heat from Lance’s legs? Lance takes Keith’s hand and slides it up up up until his fingers are on a hard nipple. Keith hears Lance suck in a shallow breath as the pads of his fingers rub over that sensitive bit of skin.

“We’re still playing the game...right?” Keith asks, swallowing his nerves.

“You haven’t figured out who I am yet,” Lance says his hot breath on Keith’s lips. When did Lance lean in real close like this? “Game doesn’t end until you say my name.”

“What if I...move my hands myself? And keep guessing?” Keith suggests, his lips brushing Lance’s.

“Fine with me,” Lance tells him and releases his hold on Keith’s hands.

Keith’s hand at Lance’s thigh slides up and squeezes hip making Lance sigh.

“Hips,” Keith guesses as he pushes Lance down onto the bed. He parts his mouth and sucks Lance’s bottom lip between his own making the both of them moan. “Lips,” he adds as they kiss.

All the sounds Lance let out make Keith feel bolder and bolder. He keeps his eyes closed and continues the touching game. Lance’s jaw. His neck. His shoulder. Keith sucks on his pulse and then pinches Lance’s nipple.

“K-Keith,” Lance moans.

“Nipple,” Keith breathes out raggedly as his hand goes down down down. “Chest...stomach…”

“F-Fuck,” Lance gasps when Keith’s hand dips into his pants and squeezes his hardon over his boxers.

“I wonder...what that is,” Keith chuckles into his neck. “I’m sure I’ll figure it out…”

They continue to make out as Lance humps into Keith’s hand with eager moans. Lance’s fingers are buried deep in Keith’s thick hair to keep their mouths together. Then Keith’s hand adjusts until he’s under the boxers. Lance makes a weak noise as fingers, Keith’s fingers, wrap around his cock.

“Ah...Now I know what that is…” Keith rasps. “That’s a very hard...very big...dripping cock.”

“K-Keith, hah...fuck…” Lance moans. “Keith, open your eyes already,” he begs.

“But I’m not sure who you are yet,” Keith teases. “A few more minutes and--

“I’m not gonna...last...a few more minutes,” Lance interrupts with a whine. “And I want...you to see who you’re touching,” he adds.

Keith opens his eyes and finds Lance under him. His shirt scrunched all the way up to his neck. Blush spreading down from his cheeks to his exposed chest. He’s panting, his lips puffy and red from how hard Keith’s been kissing him. He’s still rocking into Keith’s hand as he pants.

“Lance,” Keith breathes out like he can’t believe what he’s seeing.

“That’s right...me,” Lance swallows, then licks his lips.  “Technically...that’s game over but...I...really don’t want to stop.”

“Me either,” Keith admits.

Especially now that he can see what his touches are doing to Lance.

His thumb rubs over the slick dripping from Lance’s cock and the connected guy’s head snaps back with a gasp. Lance humps up with a moan, clutching tight to Keith’s hair. That tug actually gets a groan out of Keith too, stroking Lance’s cock faster. He’s eager to make Lance come from their little touching game and it shows.

“Don’tstopdon’tstopdon’tstop,” Lance whines as his hips hitch.

“I won’t,” Keith promises. “Can we...play this game again?”

“K-Keith--!”

“Really want you to put your hands on me,” Keith whispers to him. “Just like this, Lance,” he adds and rolls his wrist perfectly.

At the sound of his name in his ear and the quickened stroke, Lance lets out a great moan. He comes hot and sticky in Keith’s hand, still gripping him tightly. They don’t let go for several minutes, breathing hard and looking into each other’s eyes. Keith swallows as he slowly pulls his hand out of Lance’s pants. They both laugh awkwardly before Lance points at the tissues on the desk. He takes a few before handing the box to Lance who snorts but takes a few too. They wipe clean and Keith sits back down on the bed with Lance, awkwardly fiddling his fingers.

“So uh...Lance, I, uh--” he turns and gets a mouthful of Lance’s tongue that he has absolutely no objections to.

When Lance pulls away, it’s only after he plays hockey with Keith’s tonsils for a few minutes. His eyes are lidded and looking at Keith’s lips but then they dart down to the hardon tenting his pants.

“You uh, wanted to play again? Right?” Lance says, licking his lips. “Or is Shiro on the way to get you?”

“I haven’t actually hit send on that text yet…” Keith admits. “So...I got time to...play again.”

Lance puts his hand into Keith’s with a puckish smile.

“Then I’ll close my eyes...” he says and does so. “...and we can...play again.”

[PART 3]

[moonstruckbucky]

Wanted

Pairing: Cop!Bucky Barnes x reader

Word Count: 1.3k

Warnings: A little sexual tension but other than than, none!

Notes: This is for @delicatelyherdreams 1K writing challenge!! I chose the Cop!AU. I had such a blast writing this and it’s probably the fastest piece I’ve ever written, and it might just be one of my favorites. Feedback is always appreciated.

Bucky basks in the praise as he, once again, proves he’s the best detective the NYPD has seen since...well, probably Olivia Benson and Elliott Stabler. He knows they’re fictional, which is the whole point—the NYPD hasn’t seen a detective like him, ever. He’s whip-smart, able to pick apart cases seam by seam, unraveling the mystery until it’s presented to the chief on a platter. He’s won awards for his bravery and his ability to always nail the bad guy, and they hang in his apartment, on proud display.

Two of the uniforms lead the would-be carjacking rapist back into a holding cell until arraignment. Bucky’s broken away to drop his jacket on his chair, listening to the others around him congratulate him on a case well-handled. He prepares to sit, but the chief popping out of his office makes him pause.

“Barnes, need you in here,” he says before his head ducks back inside. Everett Ross is the youngest chief in NYPD history, having taken up the mantle when his father retired. He’s a smarmy shit who Bucky can’t stand a lot of the time, but he deals with him with the help of a beer after every shift.

“Yes, Chief?” he asks as he loiters in the doorway.

Ross drops a file on the desk, open and filled with paperclipped printed sheets. “Think your burglar is at it again.”

Suppressing a grin, Bucky kicks off the door frame and picks up the file. Time-stamped video surveillance screenshots show a hooded figure exiting a gated property, back hunched as it tries to avoid the camera. No such luck. The photo is dark, but he knows it’s her. He has her form pretty much memorized, and he knows where he’s going to find her.

The bar is nearly empty, not unusual for a Wednesday night, but he finds her in the same place he always does. Back corner, facing the door with her back to the wall. Her hood’s been lowered, allowing her hair to drape freely around her face. She’s unsurprised to see him when he saunters closer. In fact, she already has a drink set in front of the chair across from her, her own tumbler in her nimble, sticky fingers.

“How’d you get me this time?” she asks, voice as smooth as the bourbon she’s nursing. Bucky drops into the empty chair, his knees propped open. He picks up the glass.

“Surveillance camera. You should know those neighborhoods have those. What did you lift this time?”

With a smirk, she pulls a gold wristwatch and a pearl necklace from an inside pocket in her jacket. Bucky sighs, shakes his head as if in disapproval. She looks affronted.

“They didn’t need them,” she reasons, tone defensive. He merely raises an eyebrow. She deflates. “I’m pawning them. Saw a mother and son begging on the street. Everyone just walked on by. These’ll at least get them a room inside for a little while.”

His relationship with her is unconventional, to say the least. She’s a thief, a criminal, sneaking in and out of rich people’s houses to lift their belongings and pawn them off later.

But she never keeps any of it.

It always goes to a family more in need or a women’s shelter or an animal rescue. So even when he figured out who she was a year ago, he doesn’t turn her in. He can’t. His morality won’t let him. She’s a modern day Robin Hood, and though Ross will have his ass if he ever finds out, Bucky can’t bring himself to bring her in. So he chases her, lets Ross think he’s closing in, only to fall behind again.

Her eyes glitter in the dim lighting and she leans forward, smirking. Her perfume assaults his senses. “Does it bother you? Letting me give you the runaround?”

He chuckles deeply, and he doesn’t miss her shiver. “Honey, if it was a runaround, you wouldn’t keep showing up here, waiting for me. You love to gloat about your spoils.”

She nods, mouth twitching, and she leans away, taking her marvelous scent with her. “Fair enough. Maybe I like the chase. Maybe I like you chasing me.”

He shakes his head, pupils dilating. “You’re a tease, doll.”

They make eyes at one another over their drinks until Bucky’s face turns serious. She knows what’s coming, and it settles sourly in her stomach.

“They’re going to catch you,” he murmurs. He’s afraid to speak any louder in case she picks up on the worry in his voice. For her. Damn his job. He can find another one. But her? This life is what she knows, and he’s scared for her future if she’s ever caught. She’s evaded punishment so far, but luck runs out.

She takes a while to respond. Her bottom lip is between her teeth when he looks up at her. He somehow dreads what she’s thinking.

“I’m leaving.”

It hurts worse than he cares to admit, and he inhales sharply. She frowns. He knows this was inevitable, knows nothing could really happen between the two of them. But he knows she needs to lay low, away from New York, for a while. So he nods, resigned, and drains his glass. It clatters loudly on the table when he lets it go a couple inches above the wood, slight anger masking the unexpected hurt he feels in his chest. She watches him, a combination of wariness and worry swimming her eyes, and he can’t take it. He looks at his lap.

“I know.”

He’s glad this admission has the same effect on her. Her shoulders drop and a deep sadness settles behind her eyes. He’s glad he’s not the only one heartbroken. He doesn’t say anything else, and it’s like her tongue is rushing to fill the now awkward silence.

“This couldn’t work, Bucky,” she implores. She knows he knows, and yet, she’s trying to convince herself as much as him that this is the right choice. “You’re a cop, and I’m….”

“A criminal.” His wall has gone up, and he misses her flinch.

“Yeah. A criminal.”

They’re at an impasse, both afraid of what’s to come, neither willing to admit that this has become so much more than a game to them. She sighs, tips back the rest of her drink, and makes to stand. Bucky remains seated, his eyes watching her shirt because he’s too scared to meet her eyes. She tosses on her jacket, twirls her hair and shoves it up under her baseball cap.

She rounds the table and pauses next to him. Her hand is warm through his leather jacket, and he swallows. It’s the first time they’ve ever touched, and he really hates that it’ll be the last.

“Good luck, Bucky,” are her final parting words, and then she’s gone.

Her perfume still hovers around him as he stays there, lost in his own head. The aroma threatens to make him drunk, both off of it and off the daydream he’s playing in his head. A daydream of their shared life together, of happiness, laughter, and love. But it’s a farce, and he shakes himself from it. The walk back to his lonely apartment is cold, and he feels like there’s now a hole where his heart is supposed to be.

She took it with her in her exit.

                                              ➳ 8 Months Later ➳

Bucky pokes his head out of the bathroom, thinking he’s mistaken when he hears a knock at his door. He waits, and it comes again. Furrowing his eyebrows, he tosses the wet towel he dried his hair with into a hamper and pads to the front door. He’s dressed for bed, having showered after a long afternoon of paperwork, and he isn’t expecting any guests.

When he opens his door, she’s the last person he’s expecting, and his surprise must register on his face because her smile turns sheepish. She’s changed her hair, dyed it and cut it short, but it’s her. Bucky knows because no one else’s eyes have turned him to complete putty in a matter of seconds.

“Hey stranger.”