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a-lonely-dragon · 1 year ago

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Strike! - Chapter 1

Montgomery Gator x F!Reader

Working at the Mega Pizzaplex was a sweaty, sticky, eardrum-exploding nightmare, but you just had to stick with it until you heard back from literally any other job. It couldn't be too long now, what was the worst that could happen?

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Navigation: Chapter 2

You're taking in the traffic hazard of a shirt when the thought occurs. It isn’t the first time, God no, but this time around it strikes you as a real, genuine consideration. The council had gathered, spoken, and all came to the same conclusion.

You should quit.

Enough was enough, right?

The job market isn’t fantastic at the moment, yeah, but there had to be something better than being yanked around by Fazbear Entertainment. They had their millions of STAFF bots and plenty of desperate people ready to fill in your position.

And yet, you still hesitated. Lifting the new button-up from the bed, you throw it on before you can second-guess yourself and grimace at your reflection in the vanity mirror. You’re entirely swallowed by the riot of colors. Somehow, the material feels scratchier than the last one. Bright lime green, vibrant purple short sleeves and a smattering of yellow spots. You’d only just gotten used to the Bonnie Bowl’s ugly uniform, even grew fond of it in a weird way, and now here you were, transferred to the attraction of the same animatronic that had taken your favorite’s place, sporting his colors.

Chewing your lip, you threw a glance at the alarm clock on your night stand. It wasn’t long before you’d need to leave if you wanted to make it on time for your crash course in manning the golf course. If it was anything like the bowling alley, it’d involve a lot of running around, herding sugar-rushed children, and being berated by slews of cranky adults. Only this time, there’d be no cheery blue rabbit to break up the tedium.

You sigh, and begin to toss around your bed’s blankets, searching for your phone.

There was no use dwelling on it, what was done was done and, hey, maybe it was a good thing. No more scrambling for an answer when a kid asked Where’s Bonnie? No more digging pizza and cake out of the gutters or discovering new molds in the rental shoes. Most importantly, you wouldn’t have to see Bonnie’s face plastered everywhere, wouldn’t have to feel that bitter sting like you’d lost a friend out of nowhere.

No, you thought, finally recovering your phone. I’ll just be digging pizza and cake out of golf hazards and have to deal with the animatronic that hates everyone.

But, checking your bank account, and thinking about the upcoming rent, you force aside the mess of feelings. God knows how hard it was to find a new job in this town, the reason you’d jumped to take a position at the Mega Pizzaplex in the first place, despite its less than stellar reputation.

So lime green button up it was. Collecting your Fazwatch from its charger, you toss a couple of spare clothes into your bag and make for the door.

---

Freddy Fazbear’s Mega Pizzaplex is located at the very edge of city limits, which makes sense considering its theme park-esque size. The parking lot alone is twice the size of your apartment complex. You pull into employee parking at the far corner of the lot, and complete your step count before you even make it to the doors. Gotta leave the most convenient spots open to the guests, after all. Your first manager had been fired for parking in lot E instead of F, actually. Horrible guy, always smelled like onions.

You pause at the front doors, fingers tightening around your backpack straps. Despite the fact that you’ve been draining your life away here for the past few months, your stomach is in knots akin to your first day. You can turn around right now. Go home. You shake your head to clear away the feeling. It was just for a while longer, you reason, and force yourself to step inside. You’ll start putting in resumes elsewhere as soon as you’re back home.

Inside is a familiar cacophony of lights, generic jazz, and boards advertising all of the fun you’d surely have within the walls of the Pizzaplex.

Scanning your employee ID at the front gates, you glance around the lobby curiously, trying to spot any familiar faces among the rest of the staff trudging along to their own designated areas of the ‘plex. You can’t help but wonder if your coworkers had survived the downsizing of the bowling alley, but you didn’t recognize any of the people shuffling along. Though, considering how you weren’t able to leave the bowling alley during your shifts and hardly ever felt compelled to explore when you weren’t on the clock, it wasn’t the strangest thing.

The lobby of Monty’s Gator Golf is entirely devoid of human life as you power walk through it. You flash your badge at the STAFF bot manning the elevator, who waves a hand and monotones, “Welcome back to work, valued employee,” before the doors slide open behind it.

You suffer through a prerecorded line from Montgomery Gator as you descend, and afterwards a few seconds of Glamrock music. It feels like forever when the elevator finally opens with a cheery ding and deposits you into the jungle, where you’re immediately hit with a new cacophony of noise. Bass music bumps through the speakers and periodic hisses come from somewhere within the space. Your new manager, Rodney, is waiting for you as soon as you exit. He isn’t subjected to the same horrendous uniform as you, dressed in a simple button-up and slacks, but he sports a garish spotted tie and, above his nametag, a Monty Gator enamel pin flashes. He glances up from his Fazwatch, and you’re immediately nervous at how unimpressed he looks. The managers around the Pizzaplex were . . . not well liked, to say the least. While you could sympathize with how stressful their jobs must be, juggling customer complaints, major attraction malfunctions, and so on, more often than not, they were strict as hell and quick to terminate employees at the drop of a hat.

Plastic retail smile sliding into place, you approach. “Hello, nice to meet you. I’m–”

“Welcome to Gator Golf,” Rodney says flatly, pulling a tablet from his pocket and tapping at the screen. “Let’s get going, you’ve already studied the map of the golf course, I hope? Security has more important things to worry about than finding lost girls.”

Jackass. You bite down your irritation and nod. How hard can it be to navigate a mini golf course?

“Good. I’ll walk you through your tasks today, but from tomorrow on you’ll be on your own. You’re not a new hire, so I don’t expect you’ll need babysitting.” He turns on his heel and begins walking, voice just loud enough for you to make out over the ambient noise. “You’ll receive a list at the start of each shift, and you’re expected to complete all tasks before you clock out. Anything left undone will be sent to me to review. If you need to work overtime to complete these tasks, you need to message me first.”

As you trail after Rodney, nodding along to his instructions even though he doesn’t look your way the entire time, you take in what will essentially become your second home until you can find a new job. Much like its reptilian mascot, it’s very in-your-face. The lights are dim and hidden fog machines churn out puffs of white that hang over the water hazards, further obscuring the plastic foliage that hangs from the ceiling and crawls up the walls and pillars throughout the course. Neon lights run along the railings, meant to guide patrons through the courses, with a sign designating each hole.

Compared to the open floor plan of Bonnie Bowl, this area felt much more enclosed. The curving pathways that skirt around the course’s main turf wind to and fro, with large fronds and near life-size trees further blocking line of sight.

As you crane your neck to admire the tiny yellow bulbs scattered throughout the foliage, you can just make out parts of a catwalk peeking from the darkness. There’s an upper half to the attraction, you remember reading about it in the email. The Hurricane Hole-in-One where patrons could ride around in carts that zip above the course and try to hit targets, spilling a massive bucket full of plastic balls into a pit below. It sounded more like a waterpark themed ride to you, but who were you to say where giant buckets could or couldn’t be?

“Most of your tasks will keep you here on the ground,” Rodney says, noticing your attention drifting upwards. “Guests aren’t allowed on the catwalks and maintenance takes care of the ride when necessary.”

You let out a silent sigh of relief when he turns back around. Heights didn’t scare you, per se, but you weren’t sure you wanted to test Fazbear Entertainment’s ability to keep suspended walkways up to code.

As you trudge on, you find that the noise is truly endless in this attraction, especially with the damned alligator heads constantly hissing as they pop across the course, wiggling and taunting you. Those were going to get real old, real fast. You almost ask Rodney if they had to be on constantly, but think better of it. He probably wouldn’t appreciate you interrupting his explanation of how often you’re supposed to check the rivers for lost items (at least monthly). You cast a wary look at the dark water. It smells stagnant, with a hint of chlorine and an undercurrent of pizza. You’ll have to bring your rubber gloves from home, just in case you aren’t out of here before having to suffer plunging into those depths.

As the two of you make it to the far side of the room, Rodney motions towards a red door half-hidden by hanging leaves. “You can go through here to get to the backroom. It’s where you’ll find the cleaning supplies and most of our inventory. The rest is kept in storage below, I’ll show you the way after the Pizzaplex closes, but you can find directions at the end of your Monty Golf Employee pamphlet.”

You have a feeling you’ll be referring to your map often for the first few weeks, but otherwise your duties don’t seem to be that much different from your time at Bonnie Bowl. Fielding questions and demands and complaints, directing the staff bots when messes and spills inevitably happened or having to clean them up yourself when those state-of-the-art machines couldn’t get somewhere. All of that on top of basic restocking, reshelving, and inventory for the gift shop, and confiscating Faz Cams when necessary, apparently.

“Any and all Faz Cams you collect can be brought back to the security office at the end of your shift.” He leads you to a different door and, through that, into the blandest hallway you’ve seen in this entire building. Beige tile walls and linoleum floors, not a poster or product placement in sight. Honestly, the cold and clinical feeling it gave you was almost eerie.

The security office is thankfully nearby, and with a swipe of his ID, the door sweeps open with a heavy clank, and beyond it is a sudden return to the Fazbear decorating scheme. Checkerboard floors and mascot faces plastered everywhere, and sitting before a massive screen displaying a multitude of tinier screens, you finally see another human being other than Rodney. The security guard startles a bit at your sudden appearance, letting out a hiss as coffee splashes over the rim of the paper cup in his hands. You wince in sympathy as he snatches a wad of napkins from the desk and dabs at his pant leg furiously.

Rodney grunts, but you can’t tell if it’s apologetic or not. “Guard, newbie. Newbie, guard.”

“Nathan, it’s Nathan,” the guard says, setting his cup aside and quickly getting to his feet to offer you a hand in greeting. You take it and give him your name in return. “Nice to meet you, I’m usually the one on shift here.” He looks nice enough, if a little nervous. A mess of brown curls escapes from beneath his security cap, and when he smiles a dimple appears at the corner of his lips.

“You know how to contact security already through the watch, right?” Rodney asks, his nose once again buried in his tablet. “Great. Then let’s go, you need to help open the course.” You barely get the affirmative out before he’s leaving the room, and you throw a hasty goodbye to Nathan, who gives you a pitying look, before scrambling out after him.

By the end of your first shift, you can’t wait to be left to the wolves. Having Rodney hover over you throughout every single task was driving you up the wall. He doesn’t help with any of the jobs, just . . . watches. You have no idea what he’s doing on his tablet, but you’re convinced he’s taking notes or already filling out your employee report. Periodically, guests stop you to ask for directions, where certain animatronics are at the time, or, in one man’s case, to notify you that he’d somehow launched his golf club into one of the trees and needed a new one. Rodney piped up every now and then, but it was clear this was a test run for you. There was no doubt that if he didn’t find your work adequate today, you might find yourself cut from the Pizzaplex sooner than you planned.

The manager over in Bonnie Bowl, Pam, hadn’t been much better during your first month, but she’d delegated your training to one of your co-workers. You suppose it makes some sense, you’ve been working here for a bit already and if you’re going to be going around mostly on your own it stands to reason the manager would want to know you aren’t entirely incompetent. But every raise of his brow and grunt makes your gut twist with nerves.

A wave of relief washes over you as you check off the final task on your Fazwatch, just a couple of minutes before you’re supposed to clock out, but Rodney clears his throat and you immediately tense once again. You turn to Rodney expectantly. You did good today, you know you did, but that didn’t matter. What matters is this old guy’s opinion.

He glances back at the now empty golf course, scanning the area as if he’s searching for something out of place. You bite the inside of your cheek, cold sweat clinging to your upper lip. Honestly, you can’t figure out if you’re worrying about being fired right away, and thus being a failure, or being deemed competent enough to return to this place tomorrow. Then, finally, he turns to you. “A decent start. I expect you know the policy for clocking in?”

“No more than two minutes before or after my shift without prior approval,” you recite. No getting a head start on work for you.

“Good. I’ll send you a review of your performance today. I believe in constant self-improvement and genuine hard work here.”

God, he was one of those bosses, huh? “Understood.”

---

With a yawn, you shrug on your jacket and sling your bag over your shoulder, novelty keychains clattering against each other. The locker room smells of sweat and someone’s forgotten lunch, but you’ve been in here enough that you’re getting used to it. It’s all but deserted by now with only a few stragglers like yourself shuffling about, with the exception of a single woman two lockers down from you. The security guard.

She looks wide awake, if not a bit grim-faced, as she tugs her blonde ponytail through the back of her black cap. A flashlight hangs at her belt along with a pronged baton the length of her thigh. You have to withhold a shudder at the sight of it. How many volts did it take to incapacitate an animatronic? It was only a precaution, you’d been assured the first time you’d seen your manager brandish it proudly, since all of the bots and animatronics were programmed to the teeth with the sole purpose of protecting their charges and wouldn’t in a million years be capable of harming a human–and yet.

Your job wasn’t all sunshine and roses, sure, but at least you weren’t the night guard. The thought of those creepy STAFF bots skittering about in the dark sends a chill up your spine.

“Cute magnet.”

You give a start at Vanessa’s comment, a small flush of heat crawling up your cheeks as you follow her gaze. The inside of your locker is pretty sparse, apart from a few sticky notes and some cheap round magnet clips to hold reminders, but near the top is a Glamrock Bonnie magnet, smiling cheekily and winking. “Ah, thanks,” you say, more than a little surprised that she’s spoken to you. From what little you’ve seen of her, she doesn’t go out of her way to talk to anyone first.

She doesn’t come closer, but tilts her head a bit, still admiring it. “They don’t sell those anymore, right?”

You frown a bit and nod. “Got it a couple months ago.”

Vanessa sighs. “It’s a shame they got rid of him, I always liked rabbits.”

“Me too,” you say, and the conversation dies there. After an awkwardly silent second where it becomes clear neither of you have anything to bring it back to life, you shut your locker and Vanessa blinks, and maybe it’s just the shitty lighting, but the dark circles beneath her eyes seem heavier than before. “Well, uh, have a good shift.”

Vanessa’s lips quirk, a shadow of a smile lightening her features. She lifts a single hand in a lazy wave. “Thanks. See you around.”

#montgomery gator x reader #dragon writes #monster boyfriend #animatronic boyfriend #five nights at freddy's #fnaf security breach #security breach #fic

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honey-climb · 2 years ago

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The Vivisection

Characters: Philip Wittebane, The Collector, Previous Grimwalker

Rating: Explicit

Graphic Depictions of Violence

Major Character Death

Tags: Blood and Gore, Blood and Violence, Dismemberment, Amputation, Torture, Dehumanization, Surgery, Descriptions of Guts, Explicit rating is for the gore - nothing sexual happens, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat

Word count: 8k

Description:

Philip has questions about his new Grimwalker that he intends to answer.

Viv·i·sec·tion (noun) -

The practice of performing operations on live animals for the purpose of experimentation or scientific research.

Read on AO3!

From the loosely packed, humid earth clawed ghostly hands, one after the other. Frantically they cleared the soil, making way for the matted, blond head that followed. Deathly skinny shoulders came next, the discs and vertebrae visible through practically translucent skin.

The creature—the first Grimwalker born by Philip’s hand—was the size of a ten-year-old child. It moved without hindrance and with precise coordination as it freed itself from its grave. Aside from how skinny it was, so far it seemed to be an excellent first attempt.

Pride swelled in a dark corner of Philip’s heart, muted against all the other emotions flooding him. He had succeeded in an ugly and impossible task; he had raised life from death. There was little now that stood between him and God.

That thought made him smile slightly.

Philip then welcomed his Grimwalker to the world with the heavy swing of a shovel delivered to the back of its head.

A sickening crack rang out through the small cave-turned-workshop. Philip’s hands were slick with sweat against the handle of the shovel; when it made contact, he almost lost his grip as the force wracked through him. The Grimwalker jolted forward, then fell in a heap, face-down on the upturned dirt from which it crawled.

The Collector on the wall behind Philip shrieked with laughter. “Holy crap!” They shouted. “Didja kill it?”

Philip wet his lips to chase away his horrid smile. “I’m not sure,” he admitted. Even still, he kept the shovel raised, his shoulders tense and hunched, as he prepared a second strike if necessary.

The Collector laughed harder. The sound pierced Philip’s mind and mixed painfully with the pounding of his heart in his ears.

“I think you did! You killed it!”

That worked to rid him of his smile. A familiar feeling of dread and uneasiness welled up in Philip’s stomach. Combined with the Collector screaming, he found it almost impossible to focus then. Part of Philip wanted to retreat into his own mind and avoid the reality he had created, but still he forced his attention on the creature.

The Grimwalker showed no signs of moving; its arms lay out, partially pinned under its body from its collapse. Its shoulder-length hair was thick and, toward the base of its skull, came a slow trickle of blood. Everything about it, so far, was eerily similar to that of a human. Or a witch, Philip supposed, as he observed the tips of its pointed ears poking out shyly from its hair.

Another beat passed. Its body lay completely still, with no sign of breath.

Philip allowed himself a slow exhale; it did little to quell the adrenaline rushing through him. He lowered his shovel and stabbed the spade securely into the soil at his feet.

The Collector slid across the walls to the side adjacent to Philip. They hung overtop his cluttered work bench, their shadowy legs swinging against Philip’s collection of open books, various tools, and assorted knickknacks. The Collector gawked; their mouth turned up in absolute delight.

“Whaddya think it looks like?”

“We’re about to find out.” Philip replied. He rolled up his shirt sleeves to his elbow, uncomfortably eyeing the Grimwalker all the while.

“What if it’s all gross looking?” The Collector commented. “Or— or what if it has three eyes and two noses? And a b-iig mouth full of shark teeth? And—”

“I suspect that it will be entirely average-looking.” Philip cut in. With his sleeves secure, he reached behind his head to tighten his ponytail. “If the book of forbidden knowledge is good to its word, it should look almost identical to its… Source material. And I’m sure that I followed the recipe exactly.”

The Collector pouted. “That’s lame. Maybe you should mess up the next one, to see how freaky they can come out.”

Philip pursed his lips and shot the Collector a look. Then, after a brief pause, he eased slightly. “…Actually, that isn’t a bad idea. However misguided you may be, that is the mindset of a scholar. We ought to push boundaries and expand our knowledge through trial and error… Excellent thinking.”

The Collector smiled wider. They puffed out their chest proudly. “Heh, well, sometimes I do have pretty good ideas.”

It was a fine line that Philip treaded often, keeping the Collector sated with praise and humouring them. After all, if Philip was going to continue wringing them for knowledge, he needed every advantage he could take.

That aside, Philip gazed once more upon his fallen creature. An uncontrollable shiver shot down his spine. At a quick glance, he could have almost convinced himself that it was a younger Caleb laying there, face-down in the soil.

But it wasn’t, Philip reminded himself.

He had spent weeks mentally preparing himself for this moment, and he couldn’t get in his own way now. Though the book of forbidden knowledge that he possessed was extremely detailed on the ingredients and synthesis of a Grimwalker, it lacked further information. There was nothing written on the creature’s temperament, or its anatomy, just a brief description and the recipe.

It was because of this, and Philip’s innate thirst for knowledge, that he made an important decision upon undertaking the creation of his Grimwalker:

Regardless of how it looked, how it acted, what it said or did, Philip would treat this first Grimwalker for what it was—a cadaver. An experiment.

The Collector’s eyes bore into Philip as he crouched over the Grimwalker. He laid his hand upon the creature’s shoulder, and immediately recoiled. Its skin was hot and damp to the touch. Disgusted initially, Philip wiped his palm against the leg of his pants.

He felt then that there were a hundred sets of eyes upon him. A quick glance up confirmed that the Collector had multiplied themself across the cave walls and ceiling, every set of their eyes spectating Philip and the Grimwalker. When they noticed him look, each mouth grinned wider. Anticipating the face on the Grimwalker, just as Philip was.

Philip drew a steadying breath. Better prepared now, Philip once again took the Grimwalker’s shoulder. Its pale skin was slick with sweat, making purchase difficult as Philip rolled it over.

The reveal of its face was… Underwhelming. A sigh of relief—disappointment?—trailed past Philip’s lips.

The Collector, more vocal about their disappointment, moaned, “Aww, man. It’s not weird at all. That sucks.”

The book of forbidden knowledge spoke of how the Grimwalkers took on the face of the corpse they were built from. Philip prepared himself to be faced with an exact copy of Caleb. What he saw instead was more akin to a distant cousin, or a distorted memory.

The nose was wrong, first of all. The Grimwalker lacked Caleb’s broad, prominent nose, instead its thin bridge sloped crookedly to one side. Its eyes were too far apart, its mouth too big. A hooked finger into its cheek revealed perfectly straight rows of white teeth. Observing down further, Philip noted its jutting collarbone and thin, frail emancipated body. If the creature were sentient and not a soulless husk, Philip would consider it a male. Above that anatomy, also, was smooth skin across its stomach, with no sign of a belly button. But that made sense—after all, it hadn’t grown in a womb, thus had no umbilical cord.

Other pieces worth noting, which Philip would later record in his journal, was that the longer the Grimwalker sat out, the more it seemed to pink up. Practically before his eyes, he watched the creature’s cheeks turn round and rosy, and its fingers, toes, and joints flush.

Overall, the Grimwalker was basically a stranger. That would make the following easier.

“It’s awful skinny,” Philip commented, mostly to himself. He pressed his hand against the diaphragm of the Grimwalker and was met by surprising resistance. He expected to feel the bite of ribs, and instead felt the shift of liquid, as though he were handling a leather canteen. A shudder went through him. “Yet it feels solid. Are they always this skinny?”

“I dunno,” the Collector offered in a symphony from the walls.

Philip wanted to roll his eyes but resisted. “Was it the soil content, I wonder? You know how crops grow stronger in rich, composted soil… Are the Grimwalkers similar to plants that way?”

The Collector shrugged in a wave across their clones. They watched with interest as Philip proceeded to poke and prod at the Grimwalker.

“We’ll need to investigate further.” Philip said. As he went to draw his hand back, he felt a thump against his palm. Then another, in a slow rhythm.

Philip’s skin crawled. The Grimwalker was still alive.

But it was too late to turn back now.

Philip reminded himself that the Grimwalker was a corpse, a cadaver, less than an animal. It was nothing; he had created it, and he could destroy it however he saw fit.

The audience, which was the Collector, observed with interest as Philip gathered up the Grimwalker in his arms. They followed him across the room, to the stone table Philip had built with glyphs beforehand. At each corner were short pieces of rope tied and anchored down. The Grimwalker’s body flopped, listless, as Philip loaded it up on the table. Grey smudges of bruises were left in Philip’s wake across its skin.

The Collector shrunk themself back down to one shadow. They perched high on the wall, giving themself a bird’s eye view.

Philip tied the ropes around the Grimwalker’s ankles and wrists, securing it to the table, arms above its head and its legs spread-eagle. Its skin only became oilier the longer it was left out. Along with this, Philip became aware of another problem; the Grimwalker was much smaller than he had been anticipating. Had the creature been a full-sized man, as Philip accounted for when building his workstation, he would have had more than enough rope. However, the rope stretched tight to reach the Grimwalker’s short limbs and Philip was only able to knot it once.

A quick pull on the restraints left Philip satisfied that they would hold regardless. Plus, he felt confident that the Grimwalker wouldn’t escape—it was barely alive as is and frail enough that a sharp breeze would knock it over. Surely it would be fine.

Anxious now to begin, Philip took a step back from the table. He went instead to his desk, where his journal and necessary tools had been laid out. He took up his quill and jotted down quick, short-hand notes. He couldn’t exclude anything, or forget his train of thought; Philip would need to reference these notes when he began building the next Grimwalkers and all their variations.

Behind Philip, the Collector gasped with delight.

“Hey, it’s still alive! I saw it twitch!” The Collector called out, laughing. “That’s so cool!”

Philip tensed slightly. With his shoulders hunched over his desk, he ground his jaw shut and forced himself to continue writing. His handwriting stuttered slightly across the page. He knew that the Grimwalker was still alive, but it was easier to comprehend it in his own mind if he pretended that it wasn’t. Having the Collector there to remind him that the creature he planned to dismember was, in fact, a living thing put a slight damper on things.

Philip finished scribbling his last thought, then exchanged his quill for a tool from the table. He was quite lucky to have scavenged it washed up on the beaches—a slightly rusted handsaw. The handle sported intricately carved designs; whoever had owned it before obviously took much pride in it. Philip hoped to honour it well once more.

It was the same saw that he used to dismember his decaying brother, what felt like a millennia ago. The shovel he used to subdue the Grimwalker was also the one that dug Caleb up. Perhaps Philip ought to use the same knife to carve up the Grimwalker, just so he’d have the completed set.

Though he wanted to laugh, the thought settled sour in Philip’s stomach.

“Whaddya gonna do next?” The Collector asked. They had slithered off the wall and now wrapped themself around the handle of Philip’s shovel like a snake.

“I’ve done my external observations,” Philip explained as he approached the Grimwalker once more. “Now I will proceed with the dissection.”

“Ooh,” replied the Collector. “What’s that mean?”

“I’m going to cut into it and observe how it works internally. I’ll start by gathering a sample of its bone.”

“While it’s alive?”

Philip glanced back at the Collector with a forced, patient smile. “I’d hardly call this thing living, wouldn’t you?”

(The Collector quietly contemplated that statement as Philip turned and moved in on the Grimwalker. They had a hard time viewing anything as a living object whereas their perception of time and space was so much different than other beings. Inside, they felt like Philip was doing something despicable, but he was so casual about it. Besides, Philip wouldn’t do something bad intentionally, he wasn’t like that. Maybe he was right—the Grimwalkers couldn’t be considered alive.)

Philip stood at the Grimwalker’s side now. The saw handle fit almost perfectly in his palm.

In the face, the Grimwalker appeared as though it were peacefully asleep. Its soft expression was relaxed and its wet lips slightly parted as it breathed. At first glance, Philip could almost convince himself that this was a real child strapped to his work table, instead of a creature synthesized from a corpse.

Philip blinked that thought away, and said decisively, “Let us begin.”

The Collector, from their perch on the shovel, watched on with wide-eyed wonder.

Philip laid his right hand on the Grimwalker’s shoulder to steady it. The Grimwalker stirred slightly, though it didn’t open its eyes or wake. Then Philip placed the jagged teeth of the saw against the creature’s skinny bicep. He drew in another deep breath, bore down, and forced the saw against the Grimwalker’s arm.

The young, pale flesh offered no resistance. With little effort on Philip’s part, the saw chewed through skin and muscle with a grisly tearing sound. Blood sprayed hard and fast from the wound, as though a pipe had been burst, staining the table and Philip’s hands red.

Before he could complete the first cut, the Grimwalker’s eyes shot open. Its chest leapt with a ragged gasp, which then fuelled the ear-piercing scream that left its mouth.

The Grimwalker twisted and writhed against the restraints as it screamed. Desperately it tried to escape from Philip’s saw, though Philip merely doubled down. He leaned his weight fully against the Grimwalker and drew the saw back, chewing away at the tender flesh. Skin and muscle flayed away from each other, appearing then that an animal had taken a bite of it, rather than a saw. The sight almost turned Philip’s stomach, as hot blood poured over his hands and strings of snapped muscles convulsed before him.

After two tearing strokes, the teeth of the saw sunk into bone, impeding his progress. The Grimwalker’s screams turned into sobs. Fat tears mixed with blood and snot rolled down its cheeks. It gasped breathlessly, a high-pitched whining emitting in-between, as its body twitched and tugged uselessly against the restraints.

“Strange that it isn’t begging for mercy,” Philip mused aloud, a little breathless himself. It was harder work than he imagined chewing through living bone and marrow; when he dismembered Caleb (then dead for the better half of six months), the rotten flesh offered nowhere near as much resistance.

“Maybe it can’t talk,” the Collector offered. They stuck their tongue out as the Grimwalker wretched and bled all over the place. They had never seen such a show before; though they were disgusted, they couldn’t look away.

Philip paused. He hummed. “I hadn’t considered that. Do you imagine it’s mute, or does it need to be taught language?”

The Collector shrugged. They slithered down the shovel handle to the sticky, bloody floor. “It sure is makin’ a lot of noise, though. Maybe it doesn’t know it can talk.”

“Interesting.”

This aside helped refocus Philip’s mind. As he wondered on the specifics of Grimwalker speech and learning, his mind blocked out the sobbing screams of the creature under his palm. Philip once more put his weight behind the saw; he grunted with effort as the Grimwalker’s panicked and pained screams rose to the ceiling.

Sweat beaded across Philip’s forehead from the effort it took to gnaw through the surprisingly sturdy bone.

“Bugger,” Philip mumbled. His hands, slick with blood, struggled to find purchase against the squirming Grimwalker and the slimy saw handle. “I should’ve gone through the elbow. I imagine it would’ve been a great deal easier.”

The Collector snorted a chuckle. At Philip’s feet, they changed their shadowy body into an interpretation of the suffering Grimwalker, missing the arm that Philip currently sawed away at, complete with a cartoonish bone stuck out at the nub. “Ohh, oww!” They wailed in a mocking tone. “Boo-hoo!”

Finally, with a last few powerful thrusts through the spongy marrow, the blade completed its journey. As Philip shoved his weight behind the saw, he almost toppled forward; he cleared the bone and severed the flimsy skin holding it together underneath. The Grimwalker shrieked louder as it stopped feeling the blinding pain from both ends of its arm.

Philip heaved a sigh of relief at the sight of a job well done. He tossed the saw aside. Blood, sharp bits of bone, and spongy dripping marrow splattered on the floor as the tool bounced away. He plucked at the rope loosely holding the limp arm and picked it up. Philip examined the appendage, briefly disgusted that it was still warm and now especially wet—both from the hot blood pouring out of the grisly wound and from sweat.

A childhood of torturing small animals along with a brief apprenticeship with Caleb at the local butcher meant that Philip was no stranger to blood and bone. Though his knowledge of internal human (no, witch; there was nothing human about the creature at his table) anatomy was limited, Philip was impressed. What little he did know based on an examination of his rotting brother and a few sparse anatomy books seemed accurate to what he observed in the Grimwalker.

Philip brought the arm closer for studying. The entire appendage was drenched with blood; he estimated that it weighed only a few pounds. As he waved it about, held by the elbow, rigor mortis had yet to set in. The pale wrist and fingers dangled and flopped with every movement. Philip noted previously that the Grimwalker was fully articulated as it escaped its grave; seeing its joints work in-real time up close was nothing short of astonishing. Philip bent the elbow twice, testing how smoothly he worked the joint, then moved to the amputated end.

The saw did a nasty job of the bone. Philip never bothered to sharpen it, and it showed. The entire nub was gored, the bone splintered and jagged. Dark pink marrow and fat black blood clots seeped out. Blood dripped from the frayed, torn shreds of skin and the stringy muscle.

Curious, Philip swiped his finger across the amputated wound, collecting a small sample of blood. He sniffed it, then decisively tasted it. Sure enough, the familiar warm coppery taste rested on his tongue.

“Eww!” The Collector shrieked.

Philip glanced down. The Collector laid between his feet, gazing upwards. Their expression twisted, quite literally, with disgust.

“Are you gonna eat it? Is that what humans do?”

“No!” Philip snapped, his cheeks flushing red. “I will not be eating it. For all the things I am willing to do in the name of science, that certainly is not one of them. Plus, that’s a disgusting notion.”

“I’ll say!”

Philip stepped around the Collector, huffing. He carried the severed arm over to his workbench on the other side of the room. He abandoned the arm there, on a spot he had specifically cleared for it, then returned to his Grimwalker. The screaming had stopped some time ago, Philip realized.

The Grimwalker now lay listless, its wine-red eyes almost glazed over as it stared up at the ceiling. Any colour that previously tinted its face vanished; somehow, it appeared even more ghostly than before.

Blood pooled on the table and cascaded to the floor in a slow, steady drip. Yet, despite the endless amount of blood that the Grimwalker lost, Philip still caught its chest rattling. From its wet, quivering lips and chin came quick, stuttering breaths.

“Resilient thing,” Philip mused aloud.

Though he held little respect for the Grimwalker’s life, Philip still produced a bandage that he’d set aside earlier, makeshift from an old, torn shirt. He pressed it tightly to the sawed-off wound. Hot blood soaked through it quickly, dampening the cloth and Philip’s hands once more.

The Grimwalker weakly turned its head. Its eyes seemed unfocused, but still Philip felt it observing him. There was no resistance or fight left in the creature.

“This is a weird game,” the Collector offered from across the room. They hung on the wall behind Philip’s work desk, taking their turn then to also examine the severed arm. They feigned poking at it with their shadowy finger. “Won’t it need this?”

Philip shook his head. He finished tying the bandage with a hard knot, then he patted the Grimwalker’s shivering shoulder.

“I don’t imagine it will, but beside that point. This isn’t a game—it’s science. It’s experimentation and research.”

“Well, that’s stupid.”

“To each their own, my dear Collector.”

The Collector huffed and made a show of how bored they were getting with the whole ordeal. Philip put them out of his mind as he went to rinse the blood from his hands in a small water basin.

While Philip’s mind wandered to his questions and hypotheses about the Grimwalker, the Collector’s eyes roamed over to the creature itself. The Grimwalker’s creepy red eyes gazed back.

(A strange feeling crept up inside the Collector again, although they didn’t have the words to describe it. They felt like the Grimwalker was trying to plead with them, attempting in futile to reach inside and touch them. But it shouldn’t be able to; like Philip said, it wasn’t alive. But it moved and looked at the Collector and screamed bloody murder like it was alive…)

Either way, the Grimwalker obviously had no idea that in this limited form, the Collector was practically as useless as it was. Just until Philip released them, anyway.

In response to its desperate pleading gaze, the Collector smiled, made a funny face, and waved.

Philip returned, wiping his hands on the front of his pants. Once dry, he stepped to his desk and took up his quill.

“I have to ask that you refrain from tormenting it,” he chided.

“I’m not!” The Collector argued, pointing at the Grimwalker. “It was lookin’ at me funny.”

“Somehow I doubt that. That thing certainly lacks any higher thinking power, especially now.”

The Collector frowned. Philip intentionally avoided looking at them as he scribbled in his journal. He caught a glimpse of their shadowy body cascading over the wall and out of his direct line of sight. More focused now, Philip finished his thought and began a quick sketch of the severed arm beside him. Blood pooled underneath it, though the outward bleeding from the wound had stopped. Philip made special note in his journal that the underside of the arm, where it rested on the table, had gone dark and bruised looking—where the blood inside now pooled, presumably.

The sketch when it was done wasn’t perfect, but it didn’t need to be; Philip would do a more detailed diagram of the bone and the marrow once he was finished completely disassembling the Grimwalker. He would have to shave the skin and the meat from the bone as well, to get an accurate look at how it all came together.

Satisfied for now, Philip pushed his journal aside, away from the severed arm, and exchanged his quill once more for another tool; this time, a meticulously sharpened, several inch-long blade. The weight of it was similar to the one that had started the entire process, and it filled Philip with a disgusting sense of nostalgia.

When he turned back to the stone table, his expression fell. Philip pursed his lips.

The Collector grinned up at him. They draped their shadowy body over that of the shaking Grimwalker, and twisted about, making a show of it all.

“No-o-o-o, don’t cut me up!” The Collector wailed dramatically. “Ahh, I’m so scared right now!”

“Collector.” Philip said sternly. He waved his hand over the Grimwalker’s stomach to shoo the Collector away. “I told you that this isn’t the time for games. Move, please.”

The Collector frowned deeply. They pouted and crossed their arms over their chest.

“It’s never time for games anymore! All you care about is this stupid Grimwalker!”

“Collector—”

“You spent all this time makin’ it and now you’re just takin’ it apart! Where’s the fun in that? You aren’t even gonna play with it first!”

Philip opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again. Getting worked up and talking out of turns to the Collector would prove to be unhelpful, so he chewed over his words and cycled through what he needed to say. It was difficult to remember sometimes that the Collector was but a child, and needed to be treated as such. They needed gentle words to calm their fits, although Philip had been raised under the motto that if you spare the switch, you spoil the child. He supposed, however, you couldn’t switch a shadow nor a child-like God of all knowing knowledge.

Finally, Philip eased his expression. He allowed himself a small sigh, as he switched the knife from his left to his right. He stepped in closer, then placed his hand over the Collector’s—and by extension, the Grimwalker’s—shoulder. Under his palm, the Grimwalker shook.

The Collector’s expression twitched. They tried to stay pouting, though it became difficult then.

“Come now,” Philip urged gently. “Once I’ve finished with this Grimwalker, I must assemble the next one. What if we made a game of it?”

The Collector turned their head into a flat profile, glancing away from Philip. Underneath, they exposed the terrified, hazy left eye of the Grimwalker, otherwise forgotten.

“…How would that be a game?” The Collector asked. They failed at keeping the intrigue out of their voice; Philip knew by the note in their tone that he had won them over once again.

“How about you think on it. You’re an intelligent young man, or… Whatever you are. I’m sure you could come up with a way to make it all more fun, hm?”

Philip gave them a warm, doting smile. Almost immediately the tension and troublesome-ness fled the Collector. Moments later, a wide smile broke across their masked face.

“Yeah! Okay!” They grinned, their eyes turning up into elated crescent moons. They snorted and giggled. “I’ve got some great ideas already!”

“Excellent. I won’t be much longer. Run along and keep thinking.”

“Aye-aye!”

The Collector slid off the table, exposing the ruddy, jaunt cheeks and the hazy, distant eyes of the Grimwalker below. As the Collector relegated themself to the far upper corner of the cavern to scheme, Philip dropped his smile. He stared down impatiently at the Grimwalker.

Its hollow chest still moved with breath, miraculously, although at this point that notion had lost its intrigue. Philip no longer cared that it still breathed soft, whistling breaths from between drooling lips. The fact that it was still alive now was proving to be a nuisance more than anything. He hoped that this was a fluke, and that the other Grimwalkers weren’t going to be so hard to kill.

Philip wiped the Grimwalker’s sweat off his left hand on his pant leg, then switched the knife back.

“Alright,” he said, mostly to himself, though the Grimwalker’s eyes moved pathetically to him. “Let us continue.”

Philip pressed the tip of the blade to the skin just below the Grimwalker’s breast bone. With little effort, the blade pierced the skin and sunk inside; using great restraint, Philip dug the knife in less than half an inch. Blood swelled and spouted from the incision, and cut small streams of red down the Grimwalker’s ribs.

The Grimwalker jolted, a startled, “ghhk,” sound escaping it. A wave of fresh tears flowed from its puffy, crusted eyes, though it made no further sounds.

Philip proceeded with the first cut.

Once upon a time, very briefly, Caleb had worked an apprenticeship with the local butcher. Too young to work or be left alone, Philip had accompanied him most days. He learned second-hand how to cut and clean almost any animal—though Philip never had any interest in such a hands-on job. Neither did Caleb, who was incredibly squeamish and didn’t last long at the apprenticeship. However, they were there just long enough for Philip to absorb all the information he could, which he would later finesse on squirrels and mice and cats that he would capture, and now on his magnum opus.

Philip smiled at the memories, as the Grimwalker once again pitched into a sharp, short scream. The long cut, which Philip was careful to keep consistently deep, went straight down from the bottom of the ribs, across the Grimwalker’s belly, and ended just below where it ought to have a belly-button.

Blood flooded freely as Philip drew back his knife. The screaming Grimwalker’s quaking abdomen was painted entirely red, as the pulsating wound flushed out a comical amount of blood. There was no inch of the table left dry now, and a considerable puddle formed on the floor. Philip walked carefully through the tacky liquid, as to not slip, as he moved back up to the upper half of the Grimwalker.

In addition to the long vertical cut across its body, Philip traced two diagonal cuts from the top of the first. Each of the new incisions trailed over the Grimwalker’s shrieking, bumpy ridges of its ribs, and stopped below either nipple.

The incisions weren’t perfect due to the Grimwalker using the last of its fading willpower to struggle and flop like a dying fish, but none the less, Philip was impressed with himself. He set the knife down on the slippery table under the Grimwalker’s amputated armpit, then slid his fingers under the vertical incision. Gently, ever so gently, he peeled back the Grimwalker’s skin.

As the tender flesh separated from muscle and bone structure, the Grimwalker cried and screamed to the heavens. If Philip had thought he needed it, he would have gagged the Grimwalker. However, as he unveiled the beautiful, disgusting mess of the Grimwalker’s innards, everything else became ambient background noise.

Philip found his breath taken away as he gazed down at the Grimwalker’s dissected abdomen. He watched the Grimwalker’s diaphragm quiver and snap behind its ribs, shielded only by a thin layer of muscle and mucus that hadn’t been cut on the first incision. Its bulging digestive track stared back at Philip just below, shining in horrid hues of red, pink, purple, and grey. Exorbitant amounts of blood pooling from the skin and between the organs made it hard to discern at first glance what exactly was what, but it was wonderful. It was so wonderful. To see this all before his very eyes, the inner workings of a creature he had created with his own hand—the only way to describe it was overwhelming.

Philip was overwhelmed to the point of almost crying himself. Out of pride, or disgust, or anguish, or euphoria.

To cry because he had dismembered his beloved brother once again.

To cry because this pitiful creature wasn’t Caleb, and he hadn’t gotten to kill Caleb again.

For a moment, the feelings overtook him. In the back of his mind, Philip thought, damn science, damn the sake of learning. Acting purely on want alone, Philip shoved his left hand deep into the Grimwalker’s abdominal cavity.

Wet, hot heat enveloped him, slick and strange and unlike anything he had ever felt before. Philip didn’t need to know what the internal organs of his Grimwalker felt like, but he wanted to. And to have the Grimwalker’s guts and offal squirming about his hand, knowing that it belonged to creature that was both alive and dead at the same time… It scratched an itch inside Philip’s brain he never realized was there. It made him smile as much as it all disgusted him.

Philip pushed his arm in farther, the gore sliding up his forearm. The Grimwalker finally lost its ability to scream at full volume, its voice gone hoarse or perhaps even dead altogether. The low, whining noise that escaped it now may have well been a death rattle. Philip didn’t care.

All he wanted was to rip through the pericardium, so carefully cradling the Grimwalker’s stone sleeper heart, and feel it beat in his palm. He wanted to squeeze it until the organ exploded and then tear out the remains.

This urge, however, Philip resisted. All movement around him seemed to stop then. Finally, the creature must have died. Surely.

Mentally, Philip reigned himself back in. Indulging in these impulsive thoughts was good for the soul, but he needed to be more controlled than that for the future. If Philip were to complete his end goal successfully—and he would—he needed self restraint. He needed to be calm and collected.

He shoved down all the thoughts of Caleb and the hurt and the evil things he wished he could do to make something hurt as much as he did. He drew his hand back from the Grimwalker’s body slowly. Its organs made a sucking sound as he withdrew. His arm was coated in blood and mucus, to his sleeve rolled at the elbow. Briefly, Philip admired the sight of it, then he turned his attention back down to the Grimwalker’s gaping cavity.

In his mind, Philip compartmentalized everything; he secured his feelings away, and mentally brought his mission back to the forefront. Then he turned away from the Grimwalker, and went back to his desk.

There was a slight shake in his hand as Philip took up his quill once more. He wrote quickly to distract his mind, hoping to become fully absorbed in his work once more. He noted everything he could about the internal structures of the Grimwalker from a first glance.

The Collector made themself known again. They hung low on the wall by the desk, peering over Philip’s shoulder to the dead Grimwalker.

“The next step will be to disassemble it completely,” Philip said aloud, partially to the Collector but mostly himself. “I’ll remove the organs to examine them, and then compare them with the witch’s book of anatomy.”

“Umm, Philip?”

“I’d like to know in particular if the thing has a bile-sack. Given its nature, could it perform magic?”

“I think you’ll wanna see this.”

Philip didn’t intentionally tune out the Collector, however he also didn’t register them speaking until they waved their shadowy hand across his journal. As Philip blinked, he also noted that he had smeared the page with the Grimwalker’s blood. He hoped that his notes weren’t too obscured to read later.

Philip pursed his lips and looked up at the Collector. They smiled back.

“What is it?” Philip asked.

The Collector clasped a hand over their grinning mouth, the corners poking out over the edge of their palm. They slid back up the wall more, giggling, and pointed over Philip’s shoulder.

“Look behind you!”

Exasperated, Philip straightened his back. He turned to the table with the dead Grimwalker.

Except the Grimwalker wasn’t dead.

Philip jolted with a gasp. He grabbed the edge of the desk as he almost lost his footing.

Somehow, somehow the Grimwalker had freed its hand, and then it had untied its ankles, too. Now it sat upright, wielding Philip’s bloody knife left discarded on the table. It stared at Philip, its eyes hazy and blurry. It swayed as it weakly kicked the restraints from its ankles.

The rope! The damn rope wasn’t secure!

Philip’s heart lodged hard in his throat. “What the hell?” He managed to whisper.

“What’s ‘hell’?” The Collector asked, ever helpful.

Philip ignored them. He kept his focus on the shivering Grimwalker. Likewise, the creature kept its drooping eyes steady on Philip in a tense stand-off. Philip was positive that he could easily overpower the Grimwalker, especially considering its condition, but if the damn thing had lived this long, who was to say it could be killed at all? Knowing Philip’s luck today, the creature would probably outlive him at this rate.

Philip gathered his courage—how stupid he felt then, being secretly afraid of a dismembered child—and shifted forward. He held his hands out, ready to either attack or defend himself.

The Grimwalker steadied itself likewise, its body quaking. Blood poured from its gaping cavity wound as it pulled itself fully upright and scooted towards the edge of the table.

The wet squelching sound that followed would live forever in Philip’s mind. Every one of the Grimwalker’s organs crushed together, all loosely packed in the abdomen. The sound echoed across the cavern, making Philip almost wretch. The Collector, meanwhile, laughed like it was the funniest thing they had ever heard.

“Why aren’t you dead?” Philip mused aloud again.

The Grimwalker failed to respond. It pointed the knife as steady as it could at Philip. Carefully, one at a time, it swung its legs to the floor.

Philip watched on in awe. Despite everything, and the yawning, grisly wound dominating its body, the Grimwalker lived. It still breathed. It still moved. And more than that, it was learning. It evidently had learned from Philip that the knife could be a weapon and how to wield it—or was this knowledge inherent to it? Horror suddenly washed over Philip like a wave of icy water; had the Grimwalker retained Caleb’s memories?

Philip locked eyes uncomfortably with the creature as it slid off the table. Holding this terrible thought in his mind, Philip was able to see more of Caleb then, reflected in those distant, hateful red eyes.

The Grimwalker drooled over its slack jaw. Keeping its body stiff and steady, perhaps keenly aware that the only thing holding it together then was its willpower alone, the Grimwalker took a shaking step forward.

Foolishly, Philip prepared himself; as if he expected it to lunge at him, knife and teeth gnashing.

Instead, a tearing sound occurred, like ripping wet cloth. The Grimwalker’s eyes shot open. Its breath came in a sharp gasp from its throat, as though someone had punched it.

The incision of its abdomen split open completely. The tear continued from where Philip had stopped cutting, around where the Grimwalker’s belly button should have been. That small strip of untouched flesh until now had held a majority of the Grimwalker’s organs together. Now, it tore open, succumbing to the weight and the pressure of being upright. The skin ripped, tearing hard and fast down its pubic bone, and cleaving through its penis and testes. In the same instant, its entrails were expelled outwards; fat ropes of intestines and a surge of bile and blood rolled out from the cavity and splattered on the floor in a heap.

Philip winced and stared. Disgust boiled inside his own cold stomach as the sight and smell both hit him at once. The Collector shrieked with laughter behind him.

The Grimwalker staggered at the force of its insides sliding out. It looked down upon its mound of innards strewn from its body. Some ropes of its guts hung against its legs, dripping wet and bulging. Finally, the last of the colour vacated from its face. The Grimwalker dropped the knife with stiff fingers, allowing the weapon to bound away. Instead, it reached down, eyes wide and pale expression unmoving, as it grabbed a handful of its own guts. It attempted, unsuccessfully, to shove the mess back into its cavity; each time it tried, its intestines quickly slithered back out, squishing and squelching against one another. Having only one hand now certainly made the task all that much harder.

Philip wondered briefly if the thing even felt pain anymore, though based on the dumb, shocked look on the Grimwalker’s face, he doubted it. Finally, its physical state must have caught up with it—the Grimwalker’s shaking became more violent as its actions got slower and slower.

Finally, perhaps in an act of mercy, on the third attempt at putting itself back together, the Grimwalker’s shaking turned into full convulsions. Its heel skidded on the sticky blood pooled at its feet, and it pitched over backwards. The Grimwalker’s feet shot out from under it, and its insides were briefly tossed into the air like party streamers as it went airborne. The Grimwalker made no sound as it crashed down, landing on its neck; only a sharp snap rang out.

Philip reeled back and winced. The Grimwalker’s head bounced on the hard ground and came to rest at an unnatural ninety-degree angle. After a second, the twitching ended. The Grimwalker now lay listless on the floor, covered by its own gore and tangled by its entrails.

Philip exhaled in a deep rush. When he breathed back in, he did so through his mouth, to both calm himself and to avoid the smell. He found that the sour taste of raw guts and offal lingered in the back of his mouth instead.

“Ho-ly crap,” the Collector said beside Philip.

A glance to the side showed that they were a flat profile on the wall, gazing out also at the Grimwalker.

“That was… SO NASTY!” They squealed with chortling laughter, falling over backwards with their arms clutched to their stomach. “It was so wet inside! And then— and then everything fell out and it was like—” The Collector turned their eyes into big dinner plates, their mouth open with faux horror. “A wuh-huh-huh—”

“Collector,” Philip said. Though visibly shaken by the entire ordeal, he tried to remain calm and stoic when speaking. “Your inside voice, please. I need to think for a moment.”

The Collector turned themself over in a somersault and clasped their hands over their mouth. They grinned and snorted. “Sorry. It was just so funny!”

Part of Philip admired the Collector then; so ignorant and innocent that they couldn’t see the horror in front of their face. He would do well to mimic them that way.

Philip approached the Grimwalker to crouched beside it. He knew better than to presume it dead by this point, though he didn’t think to arm himself with the shovel or another weapon. For good measure, he ought to put a stake through its heart or cut off its head.

Again, Philip would have laughed if the dread inside him didn’t weigh him down completely.

This time, Philip pressed two fingers against the broken neck of the Grimwalker. His fingers basically sunk into the pale skin, as the artery underneath seemed to flatten. No pulse. Finally.

Philip wanted to be relieved, but relieved about what? The fact that the Grimwalker no longer suffered? That he wouldn’t need to watch it struggle to live after he dismembered it?

(That he wouldn’t need to see Caleb’s look of betrayal in its eyes?)

He told himself that the creature was never alive to begin with. It was a cadaver. An experiment. Philip needed to believe that now more than ever.

“Perhaps these creatures are more akin to plants than I expected.” Philip said. He brushed the Grimwalker’s bangs away from its forehead and found them to be soaked through with sweat. Likewise, every part of its body, even the ones untouched by blood, seemed to glisten.

“Whaddya mean?” The Collector inquired. They were on the far wall and craning their neck for a better view.

“It seems that underfeeding and overwatering undoubtedly influences their growth. Take this one, for example. It’s far too skinny and... Wet.”

Philip drew back and wiped his hand on his pants. He scowled with disgust.

“The humours are all out of balance, no doubt. I’ll change the watering regime for the next Grimwalker, and if it comes out similar to this one, in that it’s too hot and wet, I may have to prescribe bloodletting…”

He couldn’t risk having another Grimwalker with too much blood and too much will to live. Not to mention how quickly it turned to self preservation. Was there something Philip could do to prevent that from happening? If the Grimwalkers could learn… Could he gain their trust?

With the gears turning in Philip’s head, he found he was able to bypass his previous thoughts and feelings on the dead creature laying at his feet. Much like before, he compartmentalized everything—he needed to focus now on his research and write down his findings for further experimentation.

Philip rose to his feet, turning his back on the corpse. He grabbed the desk chair he had pushed aside earlier and drew it in. There he hunkered down and began furiously writing in the blood-soaked pages of his journal.

The Collector crawled up Philip’s desk and shrunk themself down so that they were the same size as Philip’s journal. They pointed over at the Grimwalker with a tiny hand.

“Are you just gonna leave it there?”

“For now.” Philip replied. Then he huffed over the scratching of his quill, “Hopefully it won’t go anywhere this time.”

The Collector took that in with a nod. Then they grinned.

They cascaded off Philip’s desk, then between Philip’s and the chair’s legs. They skated over the pools of blood covering the floor, until they were at the Grimwalker’s side. Seeing it up close now with all its guts and organs hanging out was disgustingly interesting. The Collector circled it twice just to get the full image.

When they stopped again at its side, they grinned wider. They waved their shadowy hand over the ropes of intestines wrapped around the Grimwalker’s leg, pretending to grab at it. With their mouth, they quietly mimicked the squelching sound it made earlier. They wondered what the intestines felt like; they bet it felt gross and slimy like big fat slugs. They imagined that the organs would squish and squeak in their palm.

Maybe when Philip finally released them and allowed them to use their physical form, they could find out for themself? The Collector’s imagination soared at the possibility.

While Philip wrote and the Collector played, the Grimwalker stared up at the ceiling with residual tears leaking from its eyes.

It did not cry, for it was already dead, but as the internal pressure of its body gave out and relaxed, a small streak of tears escaped its eye and collected on the floor.

#the owl house #toh fic #toh #philip wittebane #tw: gore #tw: violence #dead dove do not eat #emperor belos

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rustedhearts · 2 years ago

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Severed Lamb Part I: Blessed Be (Pastor!Steve x Fem!reader)

summary: your visit home for the summer comes with a handsome new preacher, who takes a special liking to you.

uses she/her pronouns and female anatomy.

♰ the steve collection ♰

♰ part ii: poor thing ♰

warnings: religious imagery/trauma, manipulation, abuse of power, age-gap (reader is 19, steve is 35), allusions to child abuse (you gotta squint, but the mom does some icky shit), mention of death/parent loss.

author's note: some dark stuff happening in this series, y'all, so read the warnings and take them seriously! i’m not responsible for your internet-intake. for the sake of this fic, i’ve given you (the reader) the name delilah (because 'y/n' just looks ugly and ruins my vibe). also delilah is a ballerina.

♰ Wyndgate, Georgia June 1981 ♰

The Georgian heat was insufferable.

A stiff, sticky heat that swells in your hair and bloats your cheeks. It made wading through the overgrown field of your childhood backyard a miserable task. But your mother requested fresh cherries from the tree, and you weren't one to deny your mother of her needs. You carried the old porcelain bowl, hand-painted with delicate lilacs, toward the tree in the distance, smacking off mosquitos and shooing away flies as you went.

When you reached the tree, you set the bowl on the ground and began to climb. The bark of the trunk felt just as it did when you were a child: solid, rough, mossy sandpaper against your palms. You wiped off the bark fragments on your denim shorts and began to pluck. Years of picking cherries gave you a keen eye for the ripest selections: plump, gleaming swells of red. You shoved a few into your cheeks before sliding down to fill the bowl.

The bowl was half-full and your stomach was full of cherry stem knots by the time you headed back toward the house. Birds chirped their evening goodbyes in the trees chasing the horizon line. Cicadas shook their wings and crickets rubbed their legs to make a chittering symphony. Just beyond the looming oak trees, the sun began to fade into a blur of gold and pink. The clouds looked like they were delicately etched by hand.

"Those for anybody?"

You jumped, hands slipping around the porcelain bowl clutched against your stomach at the sound of a deep voice before you. You steadied, tightened your grip, and settled your gaze upon the figure standing in front of you—a man. A handsome man. A crop of fluffy chestnut hair, a set of round copper eyes, a perfectly-sloped, straight nose, and a set of properly pink lips. Around his neck, he wore an intricate silver chain. Within the unbuttoned collar of his shirt, you spotted the glint of a small cross.

The man raised his brows, and you licked over your cherry-stained lips.

"N-No, sir, these are...these are for my mother. I got them from our tree, just there," you explained, turning to point toward your tree a few feet back.

The man followed your direction, hands tucked into the pockets of his brown slacks. Your throat bobbed with a swallow when his eyes roamed back toward you—your cheeks burned at the way they rolled over your skim-clothed body.

You weren't expecting company today, and usually the field behind your house was empty, seeing as it was private property. Nobody ventured into each other's properties...except him. Your denim shorts and thin-strapped camisole gave way to the shapes and curves of your body not suited for a man's eye. But what really caught this man's eye was not the way your breasts spilled from your top, or the way your thighs strained against the denim squeezed around them—but the cross resting below the dip in your collarbone. Gold, elegant, clearly hand-crafted for you.

A child of God. A beautiful lamb.

"Surely you can spare one for a lonesome stranger? I've traveled a long way," he cooed.

His voice was smooth and sweet. He had a way of talking and tipping his head all at once that made you feel like he was telling you a bedtime story. You found your fingers dipping into the bowl and plucking two cherries before your mind could catch up. Your hand brushed his as he collected them in his palm, and you followed his fingers as they approached his mouth.

"Mmm," he hummed around the sweet juices in his mouth. He ran his tongue over the front of his teeth and the inside of his cheek. "Sweet."

But his eyes were on you. They twinkled against the low-setting sun, golden light washing over him. You weren't entirely sure he was real, in that moment.

"I'll see you around." He passed by, curling two fingers gently around your elbow before he walked off toward the property next door.

♰ ♰

But that Sunday, you knew for a fact he was real.

The man from the field, the man that left you two cherries short and the recipient of a scolding from your mother, was standing just below the podium at the old evangelical church on Mulberry. Clasping the hands of bright-eyed women bearing crosses, bending into a gentle, respectful bow. Firmly returning the shake of balding men that were already sweating through their nicest shirts, still greased from a day's work at the auto shop. Crouching to cast a straight-toothed, dazzling smile at children not yet tall enough to reach the pews without climbing.

All the air in your lungs seemed to get caught in your throat as you approached him, arm looped through your mother's. Your Mary Janes clunked against the floor of the aisle, and your eyes sought something, anything, other than his handsome face waiting for you ahead.

"Ah, you must be Loraine."

His voice. It sounded just as it did that day in the field—sweet, smooth, like honey from the comb.

"Well now, how did you know that?" your mother giggled, reaching up to fluff her hair beneath her elaborately atrocious hat.

You curled your fingers into a fist behind your back, blunt nails digging into your palm. Your dress, pale yellow and dappled with embroidered daisies, suddenly felt too tight around your waist. Your mother tied it herself in the mirror this morning, pulling until it cinched so tightly that you could practically see the waistband of your underwear. There, now you look like a young lady.

"I've heard such wonderful things about your fashionable hats." He didn't have an accent. At least, not like the Georgians did.

He sounded more like they did in Pennsylvania, where you went to school. They had a certain way about over-pronouncing their vowels that made it clear they were Yankees—

"And this must be your daughter."

His eyes set upon you, and a full-bodied shiver ran down your spine. Your stomach clenched, and your mother squeezed her arm around yours a little tighter until you turned to meet his eye. She grinned toothily beside you, leaning to press your heads together. Her soft, fluffy hair tickled your cheek. You could smell the cigarettes still on her teeth from the car ride over. The man was looking at you with a half-mouthed smile that made you swallow.

He was so handsome. Too handsome for a preacher. Too handsome for Wyndgate.

"This is my baby girl, Delilah. Ain't she pretty?" Your mother reached behind your neck to tuck your hair behind your ear. Her pink nails scraped against the nape of your neck like a chalkboard.

"She's a ballerina, up in Pennsylvania. Came back to visit her Mama for the summer. Ain't that right, Lilah?"

You let your eyes touch the man's chin. The faintest collection of stubble gathered around his jaw. A mocha-colored mole kissed his neck. He watched you intently, hands suddenly returning to his black slacks like they did that day in the field. He donned all black today, and it made his eyes look golden. Under the fluorescents of the church, he glowed like something divine. He looked so young.

"Yes," you whispered.

His hand slipped from his pocket, a gentle whooshing sound. First, he clasped your mother's hand, giving it a delicate bob—and then he reached for yours. You didn't wait for your mother to nudge you, reaching out and slipping your fingers along his palm. His thumb brushed along your knuckles and your spine straightened. A terrible ache gathered between your thighs. You hadn't felt an ache like that since prom night, when Tommy Baker kissed you against his truck in the gymnasium parking lot.

"It's lovely to meet the both of you. Everyone's been so lovely to me, welcoming me into your congregation."

He spread his arms, palms upended, and motioned toward the church. Everyone was getting seated, shuffling about in the rickety old pews, murmuring amongst themselves about the handsome new preacher and his funny voice. In your periphery, you could see the young girls fanning themselves with pamphlets frantically. Mid-morning light blared through the stained glass and cast a violet rainbow over his cheek.

A kiss from God. Wyndgate talked for weeks about how God delivered His handsomest angel to them by hand.

You slipped away from the preacher and wandered toward your designated pew, sliding in beside your mother, tucked against the end. You carefully placed your bible on your knees and adjusted your dress, just as the podium creaked against the man's weight. He spread his arms again, like he was waiting to ascend and welcome in Heaven.

"Welcome, all, I'm Pastor Steve. What a beautiful day to celebrate our Lord, isn't it, church?"

And as the pews murmured their joyous agreement, Pastor Steve's eyes cut over to you. He grinned a half-cocked grin. You didn't know, if standing there behind the podium, was a gift sent from God, or a trick from the devil.

♰ ♰

Before he died, your Daddy converted the old hay barn in the backyard into a dance studio. Floor length mirrors covered nearly every inch of the wooden walls, hand-sawed lengths of log through their middle for balance bars. He hand-crafted all of it for you as a birthday gift just before you went to high school.

When he died, it became your only solace. A place of solitude, of lulling quiet—it was the only place you could think. Twirling on the top of your pointe shoe, watching the room spin and blur while you snatched armfuls of air, fingers delicately tapped together—it was your form of relaxation.

You left the barn door open today, letting the sticky heat billow in. It breezed over your bare arms and legs like a gentle whisper as you rotated and pranced around the room. Your elegant gold cross, a permanent token fixed around your neck, swinging in the air with every turnout.

"You always dance like this?"

A shriek left your mouth like a siren. You shot your foot out to put you at a hard stop, heaving for air and staring Pastor Steve straight in the face. He was leaning on the barn door, arms crossed, the toe of his leather loafer pressed to the shiny wooden floor. His church clothes abandoned, he donned a pair of brown slacks and a blue button down—crisp, pleated, rolled at the elbows. His silver chain glimmered in the soft glow of the evening light behind him.

"You alright?" he asked.

You blinked, hands finding your hips, cheeks burning. You swallowed, bobbing your head. Wisps of hair flounced against your forehead. From across the barn, Steve's eyes licked over your pale pink attire, your sweat-slick limbs, naked and bared for him. He found the cross resting above your breast and tipped his head to admire it.

“Y-yeah, m’ alright. Can I…what are you doin’ here?”

Steve took his lip between his teeth. His chin tipped down, eyes blaring through thick lashes to watch you reach for a water bottle on the floor. Your gold cross caught the sun like a beacon. He couldn’t look away from it. It glowed around your neck. You were divine beauty, a perfect little lamb. He knew it the moment he saw you scaling that cherry tree the other day. He knew it the moment he saw you floating down the church aisle like a bride. He couldn’t stop thinking about you.

God sent him to Georgia for you.

“Your mother,” Steve said, straightening up. He’d been staring too long. “I heard she’s the only woman in town that knows how to fix my robe the right way.”

You nodded along in agreement. Your mother was a talented seamstress—she could fix even the worst tear and make it look brand new. But you didn’t see a robe with him, and as your eyes flickered around to find it, Pastor Steve cracked a smile.

“It’s in my car,” he said.

You flashed a small, tight-lipped smile. Your cheeks swelled with more heat. His voice was so smooth and soft. It tickled your ears like a melody.

“Oh,” you murmured meekly.

Silence filled the barn. In the yard, birds twittered, and the chickens in your neighbor’s pen a few yards down clucked nosily. Steve continued to tip his head and inspect you. You swallowed again, bringing your hands to clasp together behind your back, and tapped your ratty pointe shoes together on the floor. Your good shoes were back at school, on rental for the semester. You scrubbed floors and cleaned the mirrors every night after class just to afford to keep them. Without the scholarship you earned, you wouldn’t be able to afford to dance at all.

“Um, I should probably head inside,” you piped up, rising to the tops of your toes only to press back down again.

Steve watched you closely for another moment. Everything about the way you moved made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. It was thrilling, the way you spun and twirled, the way you walked like you were airless. You were graceful, just like a swan.

You clutched your water to your chest and shuffled toward the corner where your sneakers waited. You opted to hook your fingers in their soles instead of changing—something about the way Pastor Steve followed your every move made you tremble and squirm, and you were desperate to get into the cool confines of your room and avoid his pretty stare.

You lifted your head and cast another small smile that had him clenching.

“Have a nice day, Pastor.”

Oh and your voice. Hushed, delicate, meek. You always sounded like you were delivering a line written by Shakespeare himself. It sent shivers down Steve’s spine, that voice.

You brushed past him in a breeze—a whiff of sweet sweat and rose soap—and Steve broke out of his daydream to catch a glimpse of the nape of your neck. With your hair pulled away from it, your neck looked enticing—a patch of clammy skin, braced with the fragile, glimmering golden rope of your necklace.

“Mhm,” Steve hurriedly hummed, lifting off the door of the barn as you sweepingly turned the corner toward the house. “See you inside.”

And as hard as you tried to avoid it, you did see him inside.

You hurriedly showered and scurried into your room as your mother extended her southern hospitality—soon, the lace dining cloth was covered in glasses of freshly-brewed sweet tea and bowls of cherries.

You sat down at the cushioned stool of your vanity and smoothed cream over your damp face, listening carefully to the murmur of your mother and Pastor Steve’s voices on the other side of the wall. Her laugh was over-joyous and sickeningly sweet, and you heard your name mentioned far too frequently for your liking.

Dressed in a breezy sundress, you settled down on your bed beside the open window, letting in a warm wind that fluttered your drapes, and cracked open an old favorite from your tiny shelf—Anne of Green Gables. You turned to the bookmarked page, letting the breeze from the window and the wind from the ceiling fan cool down your skin, still buzzing with thrumming warmth from your spinning in the barn and Pastor Steve’s heavy gaze.

But every turn of the page came with a glimpse of his eyes in your mind. A hazel color, big and round and penetrative. They followed you like they were pinned to the back of your head. You felt the weight of that gaze all through Sunday’s sermon, and again while you fidgeted in the barn. He was always watching. And something about the way he looked at you made you feel…special. Special in a way you didn’t feel back at school, or anywhere previously in Wyndgate where all the girls who got attention were slender and blonde and giggly.

But to Pastor Steve, you were something worth looking at. And a man of God’s approval, his praise, mattered most of all.

“Lilah! Lilah, come set Pastor Steve a place for dinner!”

Your mother’s voice washed over you like a cold drip, and your book fell from your hands to your floral quilt. Your cheeks bloomed with heat again, cursing under your breath as you shuffled toward the edge of the mattress. Bare legs dangling over, your hand flew to your chest to rub the cross between your knuckles in search of comfort. In the living room, the deep rumble of Pastor Steve’s voice made your stomach squirm.

“Oh, Lord,” you whispered pleadingly, eyes turning toward the portrait of Jesus in a frame above your bed. “Don’t do this to me. Don’t do this to me.”

Don’t make me go out there. He’s so handsome.

“Lilah Anne! I’m not callin’ you again,” your mother’s voice was just on the other side of the door, and a harsh knock followed after.

The door flew open, and you bounced off the bed. Flustered, you watched your mother sigh and ease the door into a crack behind her. She tiptoed toward you, checking over your appearance as she went.

“Lilah, he’s a very important man. I want you to use our nice plates. The ones with the bluebells, alright?”

You bobbed your head furiously. The back of your dress started to cling to your spine. You reached behind to pluck it away, give your skin some air to breathe, and your mother grabbed your arm. She leaned in close, and you knew by the purse of her lips what was coming next:

“Make yourself real pretty, alright? Pastor Steve is such a nice man,” she gushed.

She pinched your cheek and patted the skin, and your chest tightened as the back of her head disappeared through the door. When it closed, you spun around and walked toward the mirror, standing tall in the corner of your room. There you stood, pulling at your pale blue dress, frowning at your bare arms and legs. But Mama would want them like that, on display for Pastor Steve to see. Just like all those times when her friends came over. She’d bring them home from the bar and introduce you in the living room, and you always sat in a chair in the corner, pretending not to understand what it meant when they kept calling you “a sure thing.”

But Pastor Steve was different. Pastor Steve was a man of God. He’d never stray from God’s guidance.

So, you neatly plaited your hair and swept it over your shoulder. You rubbed strawberry chapstick over your lips and nose, and delicately placed your unfinished book on the nightstand for later. The ceiling fan hummed absently over your empty bed.

You gathered the plates—the gleaming porcelain with the hand-painted bluebells—from the china cabinet, and cleared the clutter from the table to fix it for dinner. All the while, as you bent to place silverware beside each place, you gazed beneath your arm over toward the living room. Pastor Steve stood, arms out, in the center of the wood-paneled room. Your mother knelt before him, working her needle through the hole in his deep, swampy green robe. The crosses embroidered on the fabric were golden and shiny.

His head turned, a strand of hair catching over his eye, and you ducked away toward the fridge. Yanking it open, you relished in the cool air blowing from the vent in the buzzing white light of its confinement.

"...should be all ready to—Lilah Anne, what on earth are you doin' in there?"

You hurriedly slammed the fridge closed, rattling the bread box on top and the glass condiments on the inside shelf—and standing on the other side of the table, was a furrow-browed mother and a perfectly well-stitched Pastor Steve. The latter flashed you a boyish grin, and your cheek burned as you looped your fingers together behind your back.

"I set the table like you said, Mama," you murmured softly, tipping your head toward the wooden table, adorned with its white lace cloth and bluebell plates.

Steve followed your gaze, admiring your organized layout. Your mother merely glanced, otherwise focused on the neatness of your braid. She swept the end of it over your shoulder to drape down your arm as she passed by, heading toward the fridge to grab yesterday’s chicken.

"I was just gonna heat up some of this chicken, is that alright, Pastor?"

You turned to the man anxiously, teeth pulling at the loose skin of your bottom lip. His loafers clunked against the tiled floor sharply, and you followed them all the way to the chair at the head of the table, a place set just for him. He placed his hand on the back of the chair—your Daddy's old chair—and set his eyes on you: neck bent, arms tucked behind your back, a picture of obedience and grace.

"That sounds wonderful, Loraine."

The chicken plate clattered on the counter. The tinfoil rustled and crinkled. The stovetop clicked, the pan sizzled. The kitchen became stiff with hot air, and the window squealed when your mother pushed it open. Outside, the cicadas were still chittering furiously. And you stood, exactly where you were, staring at the tops of your bare toes against the linoleum tile.

"Delilah, come sit with me."

Your head snapped up. Pastor Steve stood from the table and stepped to the left, pulling the chair from the table. He motioned toward it with a sweeping hand, and with a glance over your shoulder toward your nodding mother, you took small, timid steps over. You sank down, breath hitching when Pastor Steve came behind you to push the chair back in. His stomach firm against the back of your head, his hands big and warm on either side of your shoulders. They grazed your shoulder blades before he sat back down, and your body tingled with shivers.

A mere foot away from you, Pastor Steve was the closest he'd ever been. He placed his elbow on the table and his chin in his hand. The round face of his watch glinted in the low-setting sun, a warm yellow light. The band of it was brown leather, like his shoes, and fit him well. His robe was gone now, folded neatly and placed on the stool beside the door where you sat to take your shoes off. But he didn't seem concerned about it—his eyes were set on you.

"Your mother tells me your father passed a few years ago."

Your heart squeezed. You paused, eyes turning toward your mother's figure at the stove. She didn't like to talk about your Daddy very much. When she did, her words were usually biting and cruel. To her, he was a "lazy, no-good son-of-a-bitch." But to you, your Daddy was the sun and moon.

You nodded slowly. "Yes, sir. When I was fifteen."

Pastor Steve hummed.

"That musta been hard, especially at that age. I lost my father, too."

Your head tipped up. His heart skipped a beat at the sight of your eyes, peeking through your lashes, blinking up at him. Your cheeks were the loveliest shade of pink.

"Really?"

He nodded. "Mhm. I was twelve."

Your lips instinctually pulled into a frown. Before you could reply, your mother squawked from the stove:

"Oh, Pastor, I'm so sorry for your loss," she drawled.

But Pastor Steve's eyes never left yours. In fact, they were glued to you. And his hand, cupped around his jaw, fell to the table with a quiet thump. Your eyes flittered toward it, watching it slither across white lace. It came to a stop beside your plate, flipping to place his knuckles against the table, palm upended.

"I understand your pain, Delilah," he murmured.

Taking a deep breath in, you slipped your fingers into his waiting hand. It closed around your knuckles, holding your fingers to his palm in a soothing embrace. You met his gaze cautiously, heart thumping in your throat. Pastor Steve's eyes were soft and round like a puppy-dog's, brows furrowed in shared sympathy.

"God understands your pain. And though loss may lead us astray, we must stay strong, and put our trust in the Lord," he preached, voice smooth like whiskey. When a small smile touched your face, Pastor Steve mirrored it. "He'll take us exactly where we need to be."

The last sentiment was whispered, a shared secret between the two of you. His smile slipped sideways, another boyish image of the man before you, and a burst of endearment flooded your chest at the sight of him in your father's chair. You found yourself clinging to his words, replaying them in your head, etching them into your memory to grasp onto forever. And while you pondered, wading in the charming ease of his demeanor, Steve brought his hand under the table, and ran the length of his knuckles across your knee.

During dinner, he conversed with your mother about the historical society, the women's church group, the annual fundraiser at the end of the summer. Every few moments, his hand would brush your knee beneath the table. Each time your head turned to question it, he passed you a lopsided smile. It was comforting, that handsome smile. God will take you exactly where you need to be, Delilah.

Your mother packed him a Tupperware container of cherry pie to take home, and he gathered it atop his sewn robe as he headed toward the door.

"Thank you again," he cooed to your mother, whose smile was blinding.

"Oh, don't mention it, Pastor, we're lucky to have you. Lilah, why don't you walk Pastor Steve out, it gets real dark out back this time a' night."

Your mother pinched the back of your arm when you turned to protest, and you hurriedly stepped toward the door to obey. Pastor Steve flashed a tight-lipped smile at your mother, and swung the door open. The screen door groaned on its rusty hinges when he pushed it, and the sticky heat instantly sought home in the kitchen. You floated through the open doorway past his waiting figure, hands clasped behind your back once more, bare feet scuffing over the chipped paint of the porch.

You walked languidly, but with a refinement to your posture and an upturn of your nose that Steve adored. He watched you as you trailed along beside him, rustling through the grass like rabbit, quiet and small. His car was waiting in the drive around the barn. The license plate was from Indiana.

"Why'd you move away from Indiana?"

You don't know why you asked. The words came tumbling from your mouth like they were exorcised, wretched from somewhere deep inside. It must’ve been the Southern meddler swarming inside you. But Pastor Steve just smiled that boyish, sideways smile, and shrugged.

"I wanted a change of scenery."

You nodded approvingly, coming to a stop at the hood of the car. Pastor Steve scuffled to a halt right after, turning to gaze down at you, still clasping his chicken and green robe. You swallowed, and he watched your face twist with worry. He frowned, brows furrowing.

"What's wrong, Delilah?"

You chewed on the inside of your lip, gazing down at the tops of his shoes.

"Mama...did she say anything cruel about my daddy? They...didn't always get along."

Steve inhaled deeply. Your father. That was your soft spot. Like every fruit, you had a bruise—a soft spot, where he knew, if he pushed with just the right amount of pressure, you would burst.

Pastor Steve took a step closer.

"Don't worry, Delilah, I don't believe a word. I can see how much you loved him."

You nodded, tipping your head back to find his gaze again. His lips were plump and red from the pie.

"You know," he said, cocking his head again. "If you ever need to talk or just get out of the house, you can always come visit me at the church. I'm a great listener."

You grinned shyly. "Thank you, Pastor. I...haven't been to confession in...too long," you admitted lightly.

Steve shrugged airily.

"Oh, that's alright. God leads us exactly where we need to be, remember?"

You nodded quickly. "Right."

The sky had darkened to an inky indigo. In this great big clearing, flanked with bushels of dense oak trees, the stars were on full display. Steve could take count of every single one if he wanted to. But all he could do, in this great Southern expanse, was look at you.

His tongue flicked out to wet his lips, and your eyes followed.

"You're a beautiful dancer," he mused.

You flushed, ducking bashfully. In the back of your head, your mother's voice rang: men like weak and fragile. Men like women that bend to their will. Maybe if you bent, if you weakened, Pastor Steve would see how good you are, and in the eyes of the Lord, that was all that mattered.

All that mattered was that you were good, and kind, and lovable. That's all you wanted.

"Thank you, Pastor."

Pastor Steve's watch caught the moonlight as he brought his hand to your forehead. There, he swiped a stray wisp of hair from your lashes, shaken loose from your braid. He guided it behind your ear, where his hand slipped to fondle your delicate braid. The length of it glided through his palm like a snake. He watched it fall through his grasp while your breath became shallow.

"God's finest work."

Your heart pounded wildly in your ears. You beamed at the praise, glowing beneath his approving gaze. Steve, noticing the way you perked at his gentle, murmured tone, how you leaned into his coaxing validations, gave it a little push. His hand came to your chin, which he cupped in a gentle hold to pull you up. You allowed him to guide you, bringing your forehead to his mouth. There, he placed a gentle kiss.

When you settled back down on your heels, you gazed up at him dazedly.

"You are blessed, Delilah. God has a very special place for you in his heart."

Your throat bobbed with another swallow. His thumb pressed into your chin. His eyes roamed your parted lips.

"And I think," Steve whispered, chest heaving, "he sent me here to make sure of it."

♰ ♰

#rolly!#steve harrington #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x fem!reader #steve harrington x y/n smut #steve harrington x female reader smut #steve stranger things #steve the hair harrington #priest!steve harrington #pastor!steve harrington #joe keery #steve harrington fanfiction #steve harrington fanfic #dark steve harrington #dark!steve x you #dark!steve harrington

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munsonslove · 2 years ago

Note

I was wondering if you could write a smut about Eddie and his girlfriend on Halloween. She wants to be Eddie, so she wears his hellfire shirt with fishnet tights and either a black skirt or shorts over it, with combat boots. If the reader could be plus sized and gains confidence with this Halloween look that would be great, but if not that’s okay too! (Inspired by your angel devil smut) But could Eddie be the dominant one in this?

Late to the Party

(18+ only)

a/n: happy halloween y'all! this idea is super cute so i hope i did it justice xx

summary: Eddie's girl decides to go as him for Halloween as a surprise.

wordcount: 2.4k

tags/warnings: fem!plussize!sub!reader, softdom!Eddite, smut, established relationship, light bondage, praise kink, unprotected p in v penetration, no use of y/n

“Alright, I’m leaving now,” your boyfriend’s muffled voice says through the speaker of the telephone, “I’ll see you in fifteen, sound good?”

“Perfect,” you reply. You were mostly finished getting ready for the Halloween party tonight, there was just one final touch needed. “Hey, can you bring the cuffs?”

“Why?” he asks, his tone turning low and raspy. You can hear the flirtatious smile in his voice. “You wanna have some fun before we leave, baby?”

“No, horndog,” you scold jokingly, “I need them for my costume.”

“Oh god, please don’t tell me you’re being a cop,” he says, “Is that why you didn’t want to tell me?”

You laugh at his distress. “No, you doof. Not a cop, but you’re not getting any more hints! I told you it’s a surprise.”

“Fine. Just know the suspense is killing me,” he complains. “By the way, did you ever find my vest?”

“Yup, it was under my bed,” you answer, “Guess you just didn’t look hard enough. It’s a good thing you’re cute.”

“Ha ha,” he deadpans. “I could’ve sworn it wasn’t there though… Weird. Anyways, guess I’ll get going. See you soon, babe. Love you.”

“Love you too!” you say before hanging up. The truth is, his denim vest wasn’t under your bed. You had gotten up and hidden it during the night so that he’d be forced to leave without it this morning when he crawled out through your window. It wasn’t like you to lie to Eddie, but the garment was an integral piece of your plan for tonight. You were going as your boyfriend for Halloween.

The idea came to you late one night, months ago when your relationship was still fresh. Eddie had snuck you out and driven you to Lover’s Lake. Despite it being summer, the air held an unexpected breeze that left you shivering. He noticed right away, and shrugged his jacket off to wrap it around your shoulders. At first, you felt an ugly wave of self consciousness. The girlfriends you see on TV and in movies would have been able to simply wear their boyfriend’s jackets, but considering your arms were bigger than his, you knew they wouldn’t fit in the sleeves comfortably. Your man always had a way of putting your anxiety at ease though, and you forgot all about any embarrassment when he caressed your face and said that you looked like ‘a prettier version of him’.

That throwaway comment led to this moment, looking in your bathroom mirror and smoothing down your new skirt. It was shorter than you’d ever worn out in public, but you were doing this for your Eddie, and he always said he’s a sucker for your thighs. Still, you can’t help but feel somewhat silly. Since the vest didn’t have sleeves, you were able to slip it on- but it obviously didn’t fit you as loosely as it did him. Fortunately, the Hellfire shirt tucked into your skirt was slightly baggy on you (as per requested when Eddie offered to make you one), so that helped to quiet your confidence issues. The rest of your costume consisted of black combat boots, fishnet tights, a black bandana, and some of the rings Eddie had gifted you from his own personal collection. On the counter by the sink was a belt you planned to wear tonight, waiting for the handcuffs you were going to use in place of a buckle. Once that was settled, your outfit would be complete.

You spent the fifteen minutes it took Eddie to drive his van from the trailer park to your house fidgeting with your hair and wondering if you should apply more makeup. When you heard a familiar pattern of knocks, you called out ‘it’s open!’ and listened as he let himself in and looked around for you.

“Where’re you hiding, babe?” he called out with a relaxed laugh. “You’re not gonna try to jump out and scare me, are ya?”

“In here,” you replied while sticking your arm out the partly open bathroom door. “Hand me the cuffs so I can finish and show you!”

Heavy footsteps get closer and closer until cold metal slips into your hand. Once you grab a hold of it, you retract your arm and slam the door shut, shaking your head at his whining about wanting to see you already. He had graciously unlocked them for you, but threading them through the tight leather belt loops still took a little work. After you were done and satisfied with the way it looked, you fastened it around you where the waistband of your skirt laid and exited the bathroom.

Eddie had left the hallway in the time it took for you to fix up the belt, but you were able to find him easily in the living room. He stood facing the TV that was still playing the ‘A Nightmare on Elm Street’ tape you rented, and he was absentmindedly watching it while swaying his hips and waiting for you. The sight of him in his vampire costume made you chuckle. It was just his usual clothes with a knee length satin cloak and plastic fangs (which were held in his crossed arms instead of being worn). The cloak was black with bright red lining, and had an exaggerated collar that used hidden wires to stick up by his ears. His face lit up and broke out in a smile when he heard you laugh. He looked up from the TV excitedly, but his jaw dropped instantly and his hands dropped the fake teeth when he saw you. Eyes raked you up and down, taking an especially long time to go over your stocking-clad thighs.

“You’re… me?” he finally says, eyes full of adoration and the smile returning to his face.

“Surprise?” you reply, your shyness still lingering despite his seemingly positive reaction. “I thought it’d be kinda funny… but if you think it’s dumb I could always change.”

He doesn’t like that suggestion at all, and immediately surged forward to wrap his arms around you. “Don’t you fucking dare,” he says as he tackles you down onto the couch.

As you fall down onto the cushions, you screech in shock and burst into a fit of giggles as your boyfriend pecks short kisses all over your face and neck.

“You’re so hot. You’re gonna be the hottest girl at the party. You’re the hottest anywhere we go,” he says in between kisses.

“So you really like it?” you ask, though the worry you had has melted away.

“Like it? I love it!” he answers. “Now every single person there will know exactly who you belong to.”

“Eddie, we’re gonna be late!” you complain halfheartedly. In reality, you wanted him to keep going.

“I can be fast!” he promises, “Just give me twenty minutes, babe. You know I can make you feel so good with twenty minutes.” You make a mental note to wash the couch cushions when you get home tonight.

Knowing that you were looking forward to the party, he really does try to be fast. Right away, Eddie sits you up and slides the vest down your arms and the t-shirt up your torso. Then, he reaches behind you and unclasps your bra before practically ripping it from your body. Now that you’re bare from the waist up, there’s nothing stopping him from partaking in one of his favorite pastimes. His lips connect once more to your neck and travel down past your clavicle to your chest. He gently pushed you to be laying down again, continuing his kisses down your body. The space heater in the living room was turned off since you were expecting to leave as soon as you showed off your outfit, so the cool October air drafting in through the cracked windows contrasted by Eddie’s warm presence above you felt magical.

“Gonna let me have my way, baby?” he whispered against your heated skin, his voice low and raspy. “Gonna let me do whatever I want to you?”

Lowering your inhibitions and releasing your control, and knowing that your partner has you and will take care of you, that was the best part of sex in your opinion. Luckily, Eddie’s opinion was the exact opposite, so your relationship worked perfectly.

“Yes,” you moaned, ready for whatever he had in store for you. “God, Eds. Need you so bad.”

Eddie reaches into his back pocket to retrieve a set of keys that you recognize from many steamy nights (and mornings and afternoons). He unlocks the cuffs you fashioned into a buckle and pulls them off of you, letting the leather belt fall without care. You’re completely pinned by his weight as he sits on top of you with his knees bent at your sides, and he stares down at you with excited eyes as he tosses the keys onto your coffee table. He grabs your elbow and lifts your arm up, then takes the now opened cuff and positions it at your wrist. There’s a subtle clicking as he closes it, keeping one of his fingers between your skin and the metal so it wouldn’t be too tight. When one side is done, he moves to the other, repeating the same process.

“They’re not too tight, baby?” he asks when he's done. “It doesn’t hurt?”

You wriggle your wrists to check. “No, they’re okay.”

He shuffles down until he’s sitting between your legs and spreads them apart. It’s hard to get a good look at him from this angle, but you’re pretty sure you hear him undo the button on his jeans. The sound of a zipper reaches your ears, and then you can feel him shimmy his pants and boxers down to his knees. Instead of pulling your skirt and stockings down, he lifts the fabric up to your belly and threads his fingers in the holes of the fishnets. There’s a quiet ripping sound as he tears the netting of the crotch wide open.

“Eddie!” you exclaim.

“What?” he laughs, “Your skirt will cover it. No one else but me is gonna be getting into these pretty little panties, anyway.”

Ignoring your grumbling, he pushes your panties to the side and rubs his thumb up and down your slit, simultaneously stroking his dick with his fist. Your breath hitches in your throat as he lines his head up with your entrance and just waits there, pressing against your hole but offering no relief.

“Eddie,” you whine, “please. Don’t tease.”

“Sorry, sweetheart,” he apologizes insincerely, “just wanted to hear you beg all pretty for me one more time before I filled you up.”

Finally, he pins your bound wrists above your head as he pushes into you with one deep thrust and starts pumping in and out. He wastes no time starting out slow when you’re already this wet and willing, but speaking from experience you know that he’s holding back. Even still, the pace he sets has you moaning loud enough that you briefly worry about the neighbors until one of his hands moves to rub your clit. His fingers masterfully circle it in just the way he’s come to learn that you like. Tension builds up slowly, and you can feel all your muscles clenching in anticipation.

“I’m gonna cum,” you warn, instantly regretting saying anything. He would surely not let you cum without permission.

“Hold it,” he demands, no hint of leniency in his tone. Typical.

“Fuck,” you whine. “Please, Eddie, please!” The man above you simply rolls his eyes with a smirk.

He leans down to kiss you, but doesn’t take any pity on you. “Sound so pretty, baby,” he coos at you softly when he pulls away. “Feels good right? Being mine?”

“So good,” you answer truthfully. As big of a tease as he is, he knows with confidence that you’re in complete ecstasy. “Please, I wanna cum so bad.”

“Just a little longer, sweetheart,” he promises. “You can do it. You’re my good girl.”

And damn him, he’s fully aware being called that only edges you further. “I- I can’t Eds-”

“Yes, you can,” he cuts you off, “It’s tough, huh? You just want your pretty little cunt to be leaking my cum already, don’t you?”

“Y- yes,” you respond weakly, nodding your head while scrunching your eyes closed.

“But you have to be patient,” he orders, amused with your desperation. “Because you don’t have a choice, pretty girl. I’m in control.”

All you can do is continue nodding as you hopelessly tense up in an attempt to hold off your impending orgasm. You start squirming underneath him, trying to focus on the friction of your polyester couch rubbing against your netting covered legs instead of the euphoric sensations forcing you closer to the metaphoric finish line. He pumps into you approximately ten more times before he finally tells you exactly what you need to hear.

“Okay, baby. Cum for me.”

Suddenly, a fuse blows, and electricity pulses through your body. The combined stimulation of your clit and repeated pounding on your g-spot lead to an orgasm that is both intense as well as deep and full bodied. Your toes curl in your boots and your wrists strain against the metal cuffs harshly in a way that will surely leave behind marks.

“Fuck, Eddie!” you cry out, unable to really put words to what you’re feeling.

“Yeah, me too,” Eddie replies, quieter but sounding just as wrecked, as he releases into you.

It takes a few minutes for you to feel like you’ve fully come back to Earth, and when you catch your breath, your boyfriend is collapsed on top of you. His nose is buried almost uncomfortably in your neck, but the closeness that grants you makes it more than worth it.

“Alright, handsome,” you say after finding your voice, “Up and at ‘em. We’re getting dangerously close to being too late for ‘fashionably late’”.

Eddie groans against your shoulder but gets up anyway, pulling out slowly and swiping up any of his seed that leaked out only to finger it back inside you. He’s humming contently to himself as he works on freeing your wrists and helping you get your costume back to looking presentable. The entire time, a satiated smile never leaves your face. ‘I love you’s are exchanged as you both exit through the front door.

#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson smut #eddie munson fanfic #stranger things x reader #stranger things x you #stranger things smut #stranger things fanfic

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tefibetancourt · 8 months ago

Text

tefi was a hound when it came to vintage clothing. her eye was keen when it came to genuine articles and she was no fool when it came to labels and to price. thrift stores, like the so-called haven she was currently perusing, could often have hidden gems or items discarded by careless grandchildren that didn’t take the time to search through their late grandmother’s belongings for priceless items. flea markets, antique malls, and websites like ebay, etsy, and poshmark helped curate tefi’s collection. the problem was that now her collection was regulated to two pairs of jeans, five skirts, three pairs of leggings, seven blouses, four jumpsuits, two ratty-on-purpose band t-shirts, one terry cloth romper, and her trusty, well-loved white go go boots embroidered with flowers. there were also the ugly non-slip sneakers she was forced to wear at her serving job, but she refused to wear those in public so they didn’t count!

so, she was stopping by thrift haven to try to replenish her wardrobe. that was until a hand reached out for the pink skirt that tefi had spotted from across the store. without much thought, tefi instantly snatched the item off the rack before the other hand could grasp it—as a veteran of thrifting, she knew the basic rules, the most important being: be ready to dig, and be ready to fight. establish a perimeter and be prepared to defend it! don’t be afraid to argue with some bitch that encroaches on your space, though a bitchy sigh and haughty side-eye was usually enough to stave off the competition. intending to give them a ‘sorry, you lose’ expression, the frown went away the moment she realized just who that hand belonged to.

ah, there she was.

her replacement.

maybe no one would believe her if they grilled her on it, but tefi hadn’t come into thrift haven knowing that foster’s girlfriend was also there. really, she hadn’t! she knew a lot about phoebe, like where she worked, what she looked like, all of her social media profiles, and, of course, who her boyfriend was. she knew they were both brunettes with brown eyes and similar heights and builds. she knew that phoebe was, from at least how her new roommates cj and seb talked about her and just about everyone else she encountered in town, possibly the nicest girl ever created. that was where they differed greatly. tefi could be described as friendly, but never kind. not by the people that actually knew her. once upon a time, that had been foster. that was what she didn’t understand most of all: how could foster be with a sweetheart like phoebe when he had been such a fucking massive asshole to her? why did phoebe get to have the nice boyfriend with the good job and not the angry line cook that could just walk out on his wife one night, never to return? did phoebe even know about her? did she recognize her just now, like tefi had recognized her?

okay, so, like… maybe she was stalking phoebe yates. just a bit. how else was she supposed to know how best to ruin foster’s life than to study her replacement?

it wasn’t like tefi was at all jealous of her. foster had been excised out of her heart many moons ago, and from the way he was living these days, he had seemingly forgotten all about her as well. there was no love, not even simple nostalgic affection, for matthew foster within her. their marriage only existed in the strictest legal sense, and while tefi had zero knowledge of the law, she had to imagine she could fuck over foster in some way related to how they were still married after ten years with zero contact. abandonment, maybe? was that a legal… offense? if she had any money to hire a lawyer, she could figure it all out. oh, how satisfying it would be to have foster be served a summons or divorce papers or whatever it was that people got served papers for in front of phoebe, or maybe at his fancy chef job. anything that would provide him with just a fraction of the embarrassment that she felt waking up in blue god damn fucking harbor every day! up until now, though, she hadn’t actually planned on what to do when confronted face-to-face with phoebe.

in the battle of thrifting, sometimes it was better to relent and give up the item in question (especially if the opponent was your husband’s girlfriend). “oh no, you’re totally good, mamas!” tefi proffered the hanger outward. “i have, like, tons of skirts back home. i suppose my heart will mend if i have to part with it—it would look so much better on you, anyway.” so that was a lie, because tefi only had two suitcases worth of clothes and she was sick and tired of recycling through the same outfits. (rest in peace to her authentic betsey johnson dresses and vintage christian dior cowboy boots, among many other casualties that went to the cemetery called goodwill.) still, though, she knew how to search for a deal. hope was not lost! “in fact…” tefi looked around at the surrounding racks for something to accompany the skirt. after a moment, she settled on a cream-colored silk tank top and used her other hand to pluck it off the rack, then held it above the skirt. “this would look so cute together.”

> Thrift Haven. For @tefibetancourt

The best things about thrift stores also happened to be the worst thing. Each item was unique, which meant that sometimes it could be a battle upon two potential shoppers who had an eye on a particular one-in-a-kind garment. Today's prize had came in the form of a pink skirt, a little bit on the bigger side but something Seb could easily alter for Phoebe if needed. She had passed it once, giving another lap around the store before heaidng back to it, reaching for it when it was swooped from right under her nose by another. "Oh!" Was her immediate reaction at the abrupt gesture, letting out a soft laugh. "Guess I should have saw it coming, it's the only decent thing in here today."

#* narrative / thread.#* narrative / phoebe.#* phoebe / 001.#I AM SO SORRY FOR THIS BEHEMOTH!!! do not worry for a second abt matching length obvs!#also sorry that she's unhinged lol #but fr tho sorry abt the rambling i don't know what came over me

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chaoticgeminate · 3 years ago

Note

You want thots? I give you thots.

I am still thinking about Pero Tovar (by the end of it you will know who send this message lol)

He’s been gone all summer and is just so back before the first snow. And you prepared everything but…. Conveniently you left the wood chopping for him so here you are on the little porch in front of the little house you shaded, wrapped in a blanket that finally smells like him again, a tea in your hand, looking respectfully, as Pero chops firewood.

He started out with an old shirt but now, even though its freezing outside he got rid of it.

He groans everytime the axe comes down, his hair clinging to his face with sweat, his muscles flexing, sweat running down his chest….

Oh dear, my hand slipped, oops.

NSFW-ish below the cut 💙 Mentions of pregnancy, allusions to fertility issues

Summer hadn't been nearly as easy for you as you'd hoped, not with Pero being called upon by William for a new job right near the end of the Spring planting season, and as much as you treated that Irish menace like family you also wanted to threaten him with the business end of the woodcutting axe.

His timing was entirely unfair.

Your husband had promised his return before the cold winds of winter had settled around your little home, and your last night together had finally taken.

You'd been married just shy of two years and not once in the many times you'd lain with your husband had you been able to feel the signs of new life within you. Pero had been truly supportive in the wake of your growing fears, even offering to write to the Eastern soldiers for possible medicines to try, but that meant he would have to go collect them and you'd been fearful in his attempt he wouldn't make it home.

The rumors had been ugly in the nearest village, whispers of the word barren following you like a shroud, the church patrons whispered of sin and being cursed by their God. Now many of the men and women had begun offering help, with Pero away, and you'd turned down most of them out of sheer pride alone. The help you did accept came from those who had been kind, who had shown you sympathy and compassion, and your tiny cabin was ready to host a newborn at long last.

The blacksmith had helped repair the locks on the doors, windows, fence, and hen house; the tailor's daughter had ensured you had plenty of tunics and dresses to wear as your body changed, as well as clothing for the babe, and several young members of the militia had taken to fetching your water from the river and checking over the woodwork of the cabin and roof to make sure it'd stay warm through the winter and secure without your husband.

The cradle was a gift from the tavern owner's wife, all of her children grown and moved from the village due to work or marriage, and now all that was left was to gather your eggs daily and gather the wild berries that grew in the brush to clean and make treats to sell.

The woodpile had once been full but with your baking, your desire to heat water for a hot bath much more often, and the need to boil your water more thoroughly -at the doctor's advice- you were watching the pile of stored wood steadily decline.

The chill of fall had set in, winter winds nipping at your heels, when you heard the sound of metal armor and hoof beats on the path and you rose from bed slowly as the baby definitely woke up to the noise and pressed on your bladder.

Wrapping yourself in a blanket, sliding into your soft boots, you stepped outside and heard Pero talking with his stallion in the stable and resisted the urge to smile.

"You were racing winter, I see. Welcome home, my love."

Pero turned his head to look at you and you watched the way his eyes traced your face, then drifted lower, and you let the blanket fall open as you held your arms out for a hug. His dark eyes grew impossibly wide, the brush falling from his hand, and Pero's steps were slow as he approached.

"Mi amor, you are- we're going to have a baby?"

"Yes, Pero, I found out not long after you left-"

His kiss was voracious, taking you by surprise, and you smiled against his mouth as your husband's shaking hand pressed gently to your swollen womb. The baby, as if sensing their father's presence, kicked stubbornly against the interloper and Pero's breathing skipped in awe.

"I must- the wood store is low. I'll not have you going without baths and boiled water." You squealed in surprise when he pinched your derriere and guided you to the bench on the little porch, his eyes alight with joy, and it was easy to answer his questions after he stripped off his armor and brought several large logs to the chopping block.

As he worked you watched him begin stripping off layers, despite the chill, the way his skin was shiny with sweat and grime from the travel home. Your heart thundered in your chest and a different ache, a different hunger, began to make its presence known. When he stripped off his tunic, leaving his chest bare, your eyes traced every little sliver of richly colored skin.

By the time he was finished chopping the wood and storing it in the bin your desire for him was a mess between your legs and your lower lip was red and puffy from biting it, Pero's eyes found yours and you knew the moment he recognized what you wanted.

Watching his muscled arms flex, though you noticed he was thinner than when he'd left -which was about the usual way it went- and you missed the softness of your husband's body when he'd been home to eat and life peacefully. But this version of him, his beard somewhat longer and unkempt and his hair in desperate need of a trim, you didn't mind this version of him either.

His tongue darted out to wet his lips.

"Amor-"

"I'm allowed, Pero, if you're gentle. Please-"

His hand was slick with sweat as he cupped your face, calloused from his sword and the woodcutting axe, but Pero knew better than to deny you. Not that he would, your husband wasn't shy about how carnal his desires were and had told you many times that the sight of you carrying his child would likely make him more ravenous and grouchy than usual.

He pulled you against his body, the road filth and sweat soaking into your dress, and you dragged him inside by the placket of his trousers as he whispered about drinking you down while he waited for the bathwater to heat before he would do anything else to you.

#chaoticwrites #minors dni #18+ ficlet #pero tovar x reader #pero tovar x fem!reader

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lovelybarnes · 3 years ago

Text

scars- b. barnes

pairings: bucky barnes x reader warnings: heavy mentions of insecurity, focus on scars, injuries, blood, wounds, canon violence about: requested! (PK9) kissing scars, bruises, scratches, etc. + (PF26) person a wiping person b’s tears away a/n: thank you so much for requesting!! i hope this is what you wanted and that you liked it!!

[ @tylard-blog1 ]

you’re aware that everyone on the team has them; natasha romanoff, even steve rogers, with his unbreakable milk skin, and bruce banner, with the green that tinges the hue of his temples when a scar is made. they’re reminders of what you do, some symbols of the lives that you’ve saved-- and others the lives that you’ve taken.

yes, everyone has them, but that doesn’t make you like the ones that litter your own body very much. nor does it stop you from looking away from them when you catch a glimpse of the scars that peek out of the clothing you specifically choose to hide them away from the curious eyes of the public. it doesn’t stop the frustrated tears that ebb in your eyes when you run the tips of your fingers over the raised tissue.

sometimes you realize how unfair it is of you to hate the scars that splay on your collarbone, and the ones that run across your hips and thighs, when you press your lips against the ones on bucky’s shoulder, pleading for him to believe you when you say you think he’s beautiful. the thought lingers when you playfully roll your eyes at natasha on the rare moment when she narrows her eyes at the healed bullet wound that sits above her hip, genuine words assuring her she looks great no matter what slipping out of the same mouth that utters ugly words at the mirror. you ignore it even as it guilts you when you touch the scars on bruce’s arms with featherlight fingers, pressing that they don’t make him a monster, or any of the hideous words with which he describes himself.

you try to tell yourself the reassurances apply to you, too, because they’re true-- the scars don’t diminish the beauty of your smile, or the glow that you carry, and they shouldn’t hinder the upwards pull of your lips when you catch a glimpse of them in the mirror-- but even as you try to convince yourself of that, your eyes always flit away, hand positioning itself in front of the scars as you examine the way you’d love yourself without them.

you were never aware of the blue eyes that caught your moments of dislike for yourself, missing the bead of worry that embedded itself in the cerulean of bucky’s irises.

it was on a particularly bad day of yours that one of your relatively smaller missions was scheduled. listed underneath your name was bucky’s, although he was only on there because he had demanded you never to go on a mission to an active hydra base alone, even though he knew you could handle it; you didn’t mind, always enjoying the quiet moments you got on the quinjet with bucky-- and the pilot, usually clint or steve, who bit their tongue, unlike sam or tony.

it would’ve been fine on any other day, but your day hadn’t started on the best note. the scars underneath your clothing seemed to burn every time you moved in the way they had when you first received them. you had stared at them for far too long, wishing you had the super-healing of the asgardian gods or the super soldiers you surrounded yourself with, who would never get permanent scars from the things you had experienced. they felt especially ugly sitting on your skin, making you want to lay in bed all day, pretending they didn’t exist.

your mission cut off your day of wallowing in your bed, forcing you to shove on your suit and sit in the quinjet to arrive at the mission you could’ve easily handled by yourself had it been another day and you had felt any other way.

you were from the same black widow program natasha was from; you were probably impossibly better, more ruthless and uncaring because from the moment you were born, you had nothing to lose, no family to protect, no memories of a childhood--even a fake one-- to hang onto. your movements were always calculated and perfect, like they had been forced to be, and your emotions were never supposed to cloud your anything-- they never did, except for when you had the days that knocked you off your feet, just like these.

nevertheless, you were distracted in the base with bucky, although you shouldn’t have been, considering the delicate information you were handling. you flawlessly did the routine of knocking guards unconscious, ignoring the way a harsh heat flashed in your hip when bucky’s hand touched the place where one of your more brutal scars was. it felt nearly as if he could feel it under his fingers, even though it was a ridiculous thought considering the material of your tac suit.

it was still going relatively fine; you had recovered the usb file you had been assigned to secure, and most of the guards were dead, fallen in a trail that created a clear pathway for bucky to find you, usb drive clutched tightly in your hand as you bled out on the floor, a knife thrown next to the pool of blood quickly forming underneath you and the person who had done it lying dead a few feet away. your gun was in your other hand, one of its bullets embedded in the hydra agents’ chest. bucky could hear the strangled gurgles of breathing coming from the agent, but he paid no attention to him as he rushed to your side, eyebrows furrowing as his hands reached the stab wound. you hissed sharply when you felt the cold of his vibranium fingers meet the burning hot of the injury, pressing down hard as lightly as he could while he mumbled something into the comms you never used. you were suddenly gathered into his arms, cringing when you heard a scream you didn’t realize was yours until you felt bucky’s lips moving in reassuring sentences next to your ear, a string of apologies falling from his lips. you never let go of the drive, desperate to keep hold of something that connected you to the real world, not wanting to focus on your other alternative: it was irrelevant when compared to everything else, but through the blinding red of pain, the only thing you could focus on was obsessing over the fact that a new scar would inevitably heal in place of the stab wound-- one you knew you would survive because you’d survived a hell of a lot worse than it, but the next ugly thing to form in your abdomen might just make you never want to see yourself again.

warm tears rolled down your cheeks as bucky carried you back into the quinjet, one of your hands tiredly fisted at bucky’s shirt, trying your best to stay awake but ultimately failing from the loss of blood and will.

it’s stupid. you’re aware, but your first thought when you open your eyes again is how there is yet another scar that will form on your abdomen, making tears rush to your eyes in frustration because it was your fault it was there anyways. had you just paid attention-- just not concentrated so on the wretched things, a new one would not be forming right now. the collection of ugly tissue that littered your skin was already too large.

the frustration you felt overpowered the painful numbness that settled over the wound in your abdomen, making dried tears spring back to life and dribble down your apple cheeks, alerting your boyfriend of your state. “doll? what’s wrong?” he asks, and at the sign he’s there, listening to your whimpers and audible disdain, the dam breaks loose, your hands reaching up to your face and tugging at the gash.

bucky’s up on his feet, tender hands circling around your wrists to pull them back down, “y/n, what’s wrong, doll?” he repeats, gentle blue eyes scanning your tear-streaked face. you squeeze your eyes shut, another salty trail making its way onto the bow of your lips. bucky’s warm fingers wipe away the wetness, his fingertips light.

“baby, please tell me what hurts,” he begs, his vibranium hand making its way into yours. you shake your head, squeezing his cold fingers. “i hate them,” you mumble, feeling his palm cupping your jaw, “i hate them so much.”

“hate what, honey?” he questions gently, brows furrowing further when he sees your hand curling into a loose fist above the place where his hands have lovingly settled: right on your scars. “i’m sorry,” you cry quietly, nose scrunching up when his fingers trace over the tissue he’s memorized the location of, “i hate them. they’re ugly and i hate them.”

“these?” bucky inquires, surprised. he lifts your shirt-- really, his-- to see the object of your tears, catching when you shut your eyes again and more tears drip off your jaw.

“bucky, no--”

bucky looks up at you, pressing a kiss to your forehead, “y/n…” he starts sadly, pulling away to get you to look at him. “they’re not... “ his eyes flick down to one of the scars, and he taps on it gently, “d’you remember this one? it was a couple years ago when i barely joined the team.” you can feel a lump growing in your throat, perfectly able to recall where you got it.

“you barely knew me back then, but you did know i was a super soldier, and you jumped in front of that bullet anyways. god, i knew i had to ask you out before someone knocked sense into anyone else.”

you sniffle, biting your lip, “this one,” he touches another one, “you saved nat and a little girl from a madman. her parents were so thankful they stayed with you until you woke up to thank you.” his finger wipes away another tear, “she invited me to her birthday party this year,” you snivel, and bucky smiles.

“these are not ugly-- you are not ugly, i promise.” he tells you. “i love you, every part of you--” his head suddenly ducks down, and you can feel his lips softly pressing against the scars, careful to avoid your newly forming one. your hand reaches his jaw, running your nail along his stubble as more thankful tears slip from your eyes. “i love you,” he repeats, kissing your lips.

“thank you,” you whisper against his lips, sniffling as you feel the burn on the scars slowly begin to disappear with the coolness of bucky’s vibranium fingertips.

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slasherhaven · 3 years ago

Note

Hello! I adore your blog so much! Just a quick question, are you planning on doing part2 of 'Disruptive', Thomas x reader hc? Maybe reader finds out what happend to Ian and Cecilia (those were the names, right?)

Thomas Hewitt X Reader

Part 1 HERE

Disruptive Part 2:

Luda May had tried to shield you from the fate of your friends but you knew what was happening as soon as you heard Hoyt's gun go off. She held you as you cried, both from the feelings of betrayal and from the violence taking place outside.

She had continued to comfort you during the days following their deaths, shushing you and reassuring you. She had tried to get Thomas to see you, to take her role in comforting you, but he had refused each time. He was sure that you wouldn't ever want to look at him again, never mind be comforted by him. So, he took to avoiding you, assuming Luda May would bring you more comfort than anything else could.

Everything had happened so fast but you had managed to wrap your head around the main points and come to terms with them. Ian and Cecilia were dead, the family that you were now living with had killed them.

It was scary at first but the family never seemed to wish you any harm, Luda May always assured you of that. Even Hoyt refrained from threatening you or scaring you, apparently he hadn't been fond of your friends but had no real problem with you since you had been the polite one. Still, neither he or Monty went out of their way to make you feel particularly welcome.

In the end, you couldn't say you mourned your ex-boyfriend and ex-best friend all that much, considering the betrayal they had committed. More than anything, you had been afraid about what your time in the house would mean for you. But...it had never meant you any harm, and you believed they would continue to welcome you in their home.

Luda May had apologised for your loss, apologised for what the family did but assured you that you were safe here. She had also asked you not to blame Tommy.

Some time passed and the family trusted you to move freely around the residence. You were still polite and undeservingly kind to the family, helping with chores and assimilating with the family relatively easily. You were a welcomed addition in everyone's eyes.

Still, Thomas was avoiding you and you had become highly aware of it. Now that everything had calmed down, you could notice the lack of the large man in every room you walked into. At first you thought it was a coincidence, now you were certain he was avoiding you on purpose.

Despite wishing that Thomas wouldn't keep avoiding you, you hadn't had much chance to confront him about it. At least, until today.

The house was pretty quiet and you were in the kitchen, having just finished some chores when you glanced out of the window. From your position at the window, you could see Thomas outside by the collection of cars. Hoyt must have asked him to strip down the newest car, the car you had arrived in.

You smiled to yourself, determined to take the chance to speak with him. Grabbing a chilled glass from the tray, you hurried outside and skipped down the steps.

It reminded you of a graveyard, cars in various states of distress lined up in the field. Some stripped down to their frames, others barely touched but parts rusting away.

"Thomas" you spoke as you approached him, getting his attention since his back was to you. You bit back a small laugh when he jumped and turned to face you, clearly surprised by your presence.

"It's hot, I thought you would like a drink" you offered as you held out the glass of freshly made iced lemonade.

He looked a little suspicious of your offer at first but his face soon softened before he took the glass from you.

He tensed some more when he realised what he had been doing as you approached. He glanced back at the before, looking nervously at you before hanging his head.

Even though he didn't say anything, it was like you could read his mind. He was worried that you would be upset about him stripping your car for parts.

"Don't worry. It was Ian's car, you can do whatever you want with it" you assured him with a small shrug, lazily kicking the flat tyre as if to further your point.

Thomas nodded, relaxing slightly, before drinking from the glass that you had so generously provided him.

You rocked back and forth on your feet for a moment as it fell silence, feeling a little awkward and sensing the tension in the air.

"Have you been avoiding me?" you finally asked, deciding there was no point dancing around the subject.

Thomas just shifted his weight, unsure of how to answer. He could be honest and say 'yes', but he knew that would sound rude, and surely you wanted him to avoid you. Or he could lie and say 'no', but he didn't want to lie to you and he knew you already knew the truth.

"It's alright if you have, I get it" you reassured him, not wanting him to feel guilty for it. "Just stop, okay?...I'm not mad at you and...and I miss you" you confessed, noticing how his eyes widened slightly at your words.

How could you miss him? You had only known him for a day before he started avoiding you. He supposed the only real company you had now was Luda May, so maybe...that was why you 'missed' him. He couldn't wrap his head around you having forgiven him and wanting to have him around.

"I have to get back before Luda May finds me gone but stop avoiding me, okay?" you spoke again when he didn't really respond.

This time, Thomas nodded, making you smile before running back towards the house. Thomas smiled to himself as he watched you run back into the house, hoping that you really had meant it and he wouldn't have to avoid you any more.

Thomas was true to his word and stopped avoiding you. Conversations should have been a little awkward but you found any silences comfortable and you kept the conversation flowing. He didn't talk, you had learnt that for sure now, but he listened intently and always responded in what ways he could.

Now, you spent more time with him that any other Hewitt. Now, he did the opposite of avoiding you. He was always around, seeking you out just for your friendly company.

You were thankful for those developments but a new concern was worming its way into your mind. Even when he wasn't around, you were thinking about him, you couldn't wait until you saw him again. Whenever he was around, you would smile, practically giddy to be around him again.

Could you be developing feelings for Thomas?

From the first day you met him, defending him behind the gas station, you had thought he was sweet. You had also found him attractive, tall with broad shoulders and strong arms. God, you wondered what those arms would feel like wrapped around you.

You could never make out all of his facial features because of his mask but you could see his eyes. Oh, how you adored his eyes. They were expressive and beautiful. You wanted to tell him that whenever you could see him doubting himself.

You wondered if he would ever take his mask off around you, if he would ever let you see his face. You had heard from Luda May that he had some sort of skin condition and that was what he was hiding, but you didn't care. You just wanted to see him...maybe he would even let you k-

"I'm so glad you and Thomas are talking again" Luda May's voice brought you out of your thoughts, reminding you of where you were. You were in the kitchen, helping cook supper, but had completely zoned out with thoughts of Thomas.

"He's a good boy and he likes you, he's just a little shy" she smiled to herself. She obviously loved Thomas and it did make you smile, it was sweet.

You sighed and you collected yourself, practically deflating as you pushed away the thoughts about Thomas. Yes, you could be honest with yourself, you had developed a crush on Thomas but it surely didn't matter. You doubted he returned your feelings, even despite how highly Luda May claimed he thought of you.

"It's alright, he was just worried about everything that happened..." you cleared your throat, hoping she hadn't seen the change in expression on your face. You didn't feel like being questioned about it right now. "Do you want me to come to the gas station with you tomorrow?" you asked, changing the subject. You didn't like the idea of her walking down there on her own.

"No, that's alright, dear. Hoyt is going to drive me up" Luda May assured you and you nodded. "I'll ask Tommy to help you out with some chores tomorrow, I'm sure he won't mind helping" she offered.

"Oh, I'm sure I can handle it" you shook your head, able to handle some clean up on your own.

"Trust me, dear, Tommy will be happy to help" she insisted, giving you a knowing look.

You were sure she knew something you didn't, but you couldn't question her about it because Thomas had walked into the room, making you both look back at him.

"Hey Tommy, we're almost done with supper" you told him with a smile.

"Would you help Y/n clean up after breakfast tomorrow?" Luda May asked and Thomas nodded without hesitation.

"Thank you, Tommy" you smiled at him. You tried to hide it but Luda caught the light blush on your cheeks as you turned back to the task at hand.

The next morning, Thomas kept his promise. Hoyt was taking Luda May to the gas station, Monty was passed out in front of the television, and Thomas had come to help you clean up in the kitchen. Well, he was supposed to be helping but he was basically doing it all, not letting you help when you tried.

He had been working in a comfortable silence for a while, as your mind ran while. You watched him work, watching the muscles of his back moving under his shirt, smiling at him whenever he glanced over his shoulder at you.

Sometimes you thought he might return some of your feelings but then your newfound insecurities would show their ugly faces. You used to be so confident in yourself, able to take rejection with understanding, it wouldn't shake you. But now you doubted yourself, now you couldn't stand the idea of Thomas not thinking you were enough.

You sat on the kitchen table, where Thomas had placed you and silently ordered you to stay making you laugh, and anxiously picked at the wood with your nails.

"Thomas?" you finally spoke, making him look at you. "Do I talk too much?" you asked. Ian had believed you were too much, too chatty at times, too eager, just too much and yet not enough all at the same time.

Thomas instantly shook his head. He honestly liked how much you talked, that you even wanted to talk to him in the first place. Your face would light up as you rambled about something that had happened that day, and it made his chest feel warm. He couldn't help it but smile whenever you talked so happily, even about the most mundane things.

You almost smiled but not quite. He seemed to be being honest, you didn't talk too much. He didn't think like Ian had...but that didn't help much.

"...do you think I'm attractive?" you asked quietly after a short moment of silence. You never thought you were the most attractive person in the world but you had been comfortable in your own skin, at least until you found out your boyfriend had been fucking your best friend for months. There had to be a reason for Ian to betray you like that, you must have done something wrong.

Thomas paused at your question, his eyes widening.

Surely this was a trick question, how was he supposed to answer that? Of course he did! Of course he thought you were attractive, but would you think it was weird if he said that?

Thomas had thought you were attractive from the first moment he saw you. He thought you were the kindest and bravest person he had met since you took that punch for him, and still smiled up at him like he was worth it. Ever since your first encounter with each other, he was smitten with you. And those feelings had only grown as he spent more time with you. He absolutely adored you. God, he wished he could tell you all of that...

You took his silence as a negative response. He didn't answer because he didn't want to hurt you...

"Sorry, you don't have to answer that..." you hung your head, looking down at your lap. You shouldn't have put him in that position, you shouldn't have asked.

Thomas panicked a little, the last thing he wanted to do was make you feel bad. He just hadn't wanted to make you uncomfortable. He took a breath, trying to build up his confidence, before walking over to you.

You looked down at where your hand lay on the table when you felt Thomas' much larger one rest over yours. You teared your gaze away and looked up at him. He just nodded once you were finally looking at him again.

"Thanks, Tommy" you smiled. "I think you're attractive too" you confessed.

He pulled his hand away then, looking down at his feet. You were just being kind, saying what you were meant to say, or just straight up making fun of him.

"Hey" you frowned, quickly catching his hands in both of yours. "I mean it" you promised him as he met your gaze again, still looking unsure. "You doubt yourself too much, think too lowly of yourself" he tensed when you released on of his hands, bringing your hand up to his mask. "I don't know exactly why you wear this but I promise, whenever you feel like you can take it off around me, I will still think you're attractive" you promised, tugging on his hand to pull him closer.

Thomas let you pull him closer, swallowing the lump in his throat as he came to stand between your legs, hand still in yours. He had to do something, he had to savour the moment. Could you really be being honest with him?

He lifted his free hand and gently tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, making you smile softly up at him. He still didn't talk but you knew what he was saying. You too. You shouldn't doubt yourself, you were everything he could ever want, and he did want you.

Since you didn't pull away, Thomas' confidence began to grow. The hand he had hovering around your face gently cupped your cheek and he swore his heart skipped a beat when you nuzzled your face into his large palm.

Thomas wasn't Ian. Thomas clearly cared deeply about you, he wouldn't betray you, he wouldn't hurt you like Ian had.

You placed your hand over the only he held against your cheek, turning your head to press a kiss to his palm. Thomas just looked at you in complete awe.

It made him think back to the man you had arrived with, your boyfriend, Ian. How could Ian ever betray you like he did. Thomas had met your friend, Cecilia, and sure she was pretty but nothing when compared to you. And she wasn't even half as kind. Thomas would never hurt you like that, he couldn't even fathom it.

Here you were, tenderly kissing his palm and looking at him...lovingly, if he didn't know any better.

The sound of the front door slamming closed made you both jump, Thomas' hand falling from your face and landing instinctively on you thigh as you both turned towards the door of the kitchen.

"What the fu-" Hoyt began but cut himself off with a sigh and a shake of his head. "Y'know what, I don't wanna know. Just not in the fucking kitchen" he snarled before grabbing a beer from the fridge and leaving the room.

Both you and Thomas blushed at the implications of what Hoyt had thought you'd been doing, Thomas stepping away from you with an almost apologetic look.

"It's alright, Tommy" you smiled as you hopped down from the table. "Let finish up cleaning, okay?" you asked and he just nodded, assuming you were about to just ignore whatever the moment was that you both shared.

You smiled up at him again, taking your hand in his and lacing your fingers through his, before guiding him back across the kitchen.

#thomas hewitt x reader #slasher x reader #slashers x reader #slashers #slasher #my writing

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thunderheadfred · 4 years ago

Text

🦅Hawks HC’s🦅

This is SO unnecessarily long. Some NSFW. Minors do not interact.

- - - - -

General

Has zero social life or hobbies outside of work. He knows it’s unhealthy, but like, who has the time?? Oh? Lots of people do?? Haha what are healthy work/home boundaries? He desperately wants to retire and always talks about a world without heroes, but the truth is he would have no idea what to do with himself if he got his way. Take him to a park at midnight and watch him turn into a giant repressed child on a swing. He’ll do a standing-360 and it will be terrifying.

Listens to music way too loud in his headphones to drown out wind noise. Probably half deaf at this point. His musical taste is wild; listening history all over the fucking place. Algorithms have no idea what to do with him.

That visor? It’s prescription. Wow is he far-sighted. He wears glasses. He’s not blind without them (rather the opposite) but they help him see things directly in front of him without massive eye strain. Yeah, he looks really hot in glasses.

Prefers communicating via text. Sometimes it’s a lot of dumb memes, but mostly it’s sincere. He can say what he means when he doesn’t have to put on a public front.

Smokes like a chimney. Self medicates with stimulants. Coffee, tobacco, sugar. Fidgety, likes things in his mouth or hands. Gnashes on toothpicks and popsicle sticks. He really should go back to therapy, huh? His teeth are sparkling white for the cameras but his breath could use some work. Chews gum a lot to compensate, and always does it really loudly with a big shit-eating grin.

Impatient as fuuuuuck. Rude about it. If you take too long doing anything, you’re going to hear a foot tapping. He’ll smile and laugh it off, never ever directly criticize you about it. But lord, the dramatic sighs. He WILL nudge you out of the way and take over in order to finish a task faster, and it’s truly fucking annoying.

LOVES food. Has the metabolism of an actual bird. Will seize upon any excuse to eat. No need to be self-conscious about eating in front of him; he wants you to enjoy it. Steals bites from you and talks with his mouth full. Prefers street food and take-out, usually eats while walking or flying. Sit-down restaurants are an invitation for gawkers.

He’s one of those celebrities that looks way taller on TV. In real life, he’s small and compact. So you’re surprised the first time you see him in person. He has a big head. Literally.

If you’re taller or bigger than him, he does Not Care. He treats everyone like they’re four feet tall, even Endeavor. Everything you do is cute. If you’re actually short, he’s going to carry you around all the time, and there’s nothing you can do about it.

Collects big chunky overpriced watches. All the better to tell you you’re late.

Half his clothes are brand fucking new. Sometimes he forgets to take off the tags. (Don’t look at the prices, do NOT) He never seems to wear the same thing twice. He also never seems to go shopping. Brands just give him stuff, and he shrugs and goes “yeah okay.”

The other half of his clothes are old, faded, and patched up. Every item he acquires for himself has deep sentimental value. If you tell him to throw away that nasty ten-year-old pair of frayed cargo pants, be prepared to find out how wrong and evil you are for even suggesting it.

He doesn’t snore; he coos. Loudly. Like a fucking pigeon trapped in a megaphone.

- - - - -

Dating

Gift-giving is his love language. Bringing your favorite snacks. Leaving novelty magnets on your fridge. He found a copy of that book/game/movie you mentioned like a month ago, don’t you remember? If he has to go out of town on a job, he’ll bring back the ugliest possible souvenir, just to annoy you.

He likes gifting jewelry especially. Covering you in shiny baubles, little golden things. Not expensive, but unusual. Antiques or handmade, even bizarre vending machine crap. Gets really handsy if you wear or show off his gifts.

Since you’re the first person who has given him The Feels, if you are resistant to his advances (like, say, because he’s way too famous and you’re terrified he’s gonna break your heart) he’s going to go fucking nuts trying to woo you. Doesn’t have a single patient bone in his body but will wait as long as it takes for you to come around. He’ll act like he’s cool with just being friends at first, just hanging out, haha. Oh you’re busy today? That’s cool. Inside he’s shrieking like a tea kettle. Go ahead, make him wait.

Don’t bother giving him a key to your place. He’s coming in through the bedroom window or patio door. Just put out a damn welcome mat on your balcony... or a bird feeder.

A bit of a voyeur. He likes to watch you do your normal routine without interruption. He can see from miles away so if you’ve got your lights on at night, he’ll creep for a while before he comes in. It comforts him immensely, seeing a little slice of the world that isn’t constantly in need of saving.

Is super talkative and funny but a terrible communicator. Makes more jokes the worse he feels. Will almost never tell you what he needs. Most of the time, he doesn’t even know. You will learn to read between the lines and gradually notice his tiny unconscious cries for help. Back rubs make him emotional.

He shows up at your place at the weirdest times. All hours. You’re never ready. At first it was infuriating, because you wanted to look your best and have time to prepare, but you figure out pretty quickly that seeing you in your natural state is his favorite thing. He never gets to be around normal people, doing normal things. A boring, lazy afternoon is his idea of paradise.

He’ll pick through your things and ask a world of invasive questions. A medicine cabinet raider. He wants to know every fucking tiny thing about you, live vicariously through you.

He actually lives in a top floor penthouse. Because I mean, where else? Never spends any time there; mostly he seems to roost on the balcony. He has used the front door maybe once. He much prefers your place, and will only take you back to his after months of dating. It’ll take like, an entire emergency. You’ll end up in his bed by mistake.

Because when you finally come over, he’s embarrassed. Its sparse. White. Things in boxes. A new furniture smell. Like he’s not done moving in, though he’s lived there for years. He wants you to move in So Bad but doesn’t want to be pushy. If you don’t start leaving your stuff there, he’ll steal things from your apartment. Where the hell is your favorite t-shirt? Or that pillowcase you like? Dammit Keigo.

He’s a decent cook, a habit he made himself pick up because he thought it might make him feel more normal. It... didn’t. He never actually cooks until you give him an excuse. He’ll bring you breakfast in bed and watch you eat every bite with big hungry eyes.

He’s got a separate wardrobe for his hero costume and all his feathers. Yeah. His feathers. Because he can detach and control his feathers at will, when he’s alone at home he kind of just... shucks off his wings. The first time you see him do it, your eyes fall out of your head. He walks around in a tee shirt and boxers with these ugly little stumps covered in brownish, blood-red down. It actually looks kind of gnarly, like he got mauled by a bear.

He’s never dated until you. No one has ever been in his apartment until you. No one has called him Keigo until you. He has some bigass intimacy issues. Because. Y’know. The trauma. But god, he wants you in his life so bad, even if he has no idea how to make time for your relationship.

He’ll want to keep you to himself for a while. Once you go public he’s going to have an arm around your shoulders at all times. Publicly Displays his Affection way more than is socially acceptable in Japan, and gives precisely -100,000 fucks.

His fans either love you or hate you. There is no in between. He will immediately take your phone and threaten to drop it from a great height if he catches you reading shitty gossip about the two of you. Does NOT care about his public image anymore, doesn’t want YOU to care about it either. He’s gonna retire soon anyway, remember? That’s a lie.

Being a charming motherfucker is the core of his public persona, so you will get jealous. A lot. He will flirt shamelessly without realizing it. He will get photographed in compromising positions with gorgeous people.

Once you accept that he’s basically an actor 80% of the time and that Hawks and Keigo are separate identities, you’ll both feel better. When he comes home (to YOU) and falls over exhausted and stops being Hawks(tm), when he scratches his ass or burps in front of you, when he yells to you from the bathroom, when he groans childishly about his shitty day while laying face-down in your lap, you’ll know you have nothing to worry about. Keigo is all yours.

Boundaries? Never heard of ‘em. He’s either a million lightyears away or he’s glued to your hip. The whiplash is astounding.

Absolutely says “I love you” wayyyyyy to soon. It thrills you but scares you off at the same time, because there’s no way Hawks - The Hawks - can actually mean it, right? (He does)

Rings? Nah. When things get serious, he will make a necklace out of a feather for you, and if you ever take it off, you better be asleep or in the shower. Even then you’re on thin fuckin ice. If you’re not wearing it he knows. He’s never mean about making you put it back on, it just makes him nervous if he can’t feel your heartbeat.

- - - - -

SPICY CHICKEN NUGGETS

High sex drive. Horny like 25/7. Probably a symptom of having way too much pent up stress.

Often takes care of it himself when he doesn’t have the emotional resources for anyone else, even his S.O. Figures you don’t want him coming on to you as often as he would like to, but he’s too stupid to talk to you about it first. Morning masturbator.

Yes he’s fucked around a lot but he’s not exactly a playboy either. People have always thrown themselves at him, and before he met you he let them do it. Especially when out of town and staying in a hotel. Whatever happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, etc.

He’d never be unfaithful to you though; his loyalty and dedication are frankly a little unsettling. Sometimes you feel like the only thing in his life other than hero work. Teach this man to knit. Make him join a book club. Christ. Anything.

Does in fact have seasonal mating patterns and it’s super embarrassing.

An underwear-sniffing perv. He’ll definitely hump your pillow.

Gets a sick thrill out of breaking in and startling you. Coming up behind you in the dark, sneaking into your bed. It’s probably his worst habit, and even he hates that he does it. If you get better at detecting him he’ll be so proud. Land a slap on him and he’ll be a horny mess.

Dog-whistles at you. Often from rooftops, and you have no idea where he is but you know he’s leering.

He will call you a lot of really stupid pet names. He likes the way you blush when he finds a newer, stupider one. Calls you angel when he’s really far gone.

Likes to scratch you with his stubble until your skin turns raw and sensitive. If it annoys you or hurts a little? Even better. Making you squirm is his new favorite thing. Especially when going down on you. Your inner thighs are always exfoliated.

His cock is average in every respect. This is not a bad thing. He knows how to please you with every totally normal inch of that cock. He has some kind of homing beacon installed on your sensitive spots.

Goes absolutely insane for blowjobs. Any time, any place.

Likes to bend you around in all kinds of positions with an assist from his feathers to hold up an ankle here, an arm there. Get used to floating mid-coitus. It just seems to happen.

Spanky.

His number one priority is making you feel adored and at home in his bed. Ohhhhh he likes to make you smile. But if you encourage him to get pushy and dominant with you, you will have a good, good time.

He’s switchy, and will lose his shit if you initiate or take control. Again, he’s always horny for you, because he can finally let go. Breathe in his direction and he’s hard.

Doesn’t moan much, but Babe, he’s a dirty talker. He’s not smooth or deliberate about it, it’s more like he can’t fucking believe you let him do whatever he wants to you. You like that huh? Like he’s in stages of shock. He’s singing your praises to high Heaven and muttering oh shit oh shit oh shittttttt and laugh-crying as he cums. He never talks about his feelings; he fucks about them.

After. Care. King. He loves pampering and clucking over you anyway, this is simply another excuse to do it. He knows exactly how much water you drink in a day. Can’t take care of himself for shit, but you? You’ll never have a need he won’t try to fill. What’s all that hero work for if not this? Yeah, soak it up. You deserve it.

#hawks #takami keigo #hawks headcanons #hawks x reader #hawks x y/n #hawks x you #gender neutral #smut #bnha #mha #mha headcanons #bnha headcanons #mha fanfiction #bnha x reader #mha x reader #fred writes #no idea why I’m writing these #guess I’m just in a Mood

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pingutats · 4 years ago

Note

could you write a really fluffy bit on harry kissing every single self harm scar on your body? like, stroking them and cuddling with you and reassuring you that your body is beautiful and okay even with scars? 🥺

thank you for requesting this! this was genuinely quite therapeutic to write so i’m glad i did it — it’s longer than i meant it to be at about 2.4k words, but anyway. here’s a difficult conversation with new boyfriend!harry.

major trigger warning for discussions of self-harm and scars. this is not a story for everyone, and could definitely be triggering if you are not in the right headspace. please be responsible and look after yourselves <3

this is also pretty unedited so forgive any mistakes. okay!! onwards!

It’s getting late when Harry asks you, ‘Do you want to spend the night?’

The meandering film you found on Netflix is drawing to a close, finally. The characters are on a boat, drifting away into an Italian sunset. You barely have a grasp of how they got there — mostly, you just listened to Harry talk over the dialogue about a pretty little café he knows just around the corner from where this scene was filmed, or how cool the water gets at night there and so the actors must have been shivering. All of it wrapped up, of course, in a quiet suggestion to take you there someday so you can see for yourself. You get a little thrill every time he says something like that. It means he’s thinking of a future with you, which means he wants one, even though it’s only been just over a month since you’ve been seeing each other.

He trails his fingers up and down your arm, bringing up goosebumps beneath your sleeve, and looks at you. ‘Or I can drive you home, if you’d rather sleep in your own bed.’

You hum. ‘No,’ you say. ‘I’ll stay. I’d probably end up falling asleep in the car anyway. I’m so tired.’

His dimple appears. ‘Good, because I’d probably fall asleep at the wheel.’ He grabs the remote and turns the TV off, then pushes himself off the couch with a groan. He holds his hand out for you. ’C’mon, then.’

You grab his hand and he hauls you up, his other arm coming up to your back to pull you into his chest. You fall against him, grabbing his biceps to steady yourself. The two glasses of wine you’ve had tonight have thrown your balance off. He presses a kiss to your hair as you giggle. Then he brings his hand up to your jaw to tilt your head up to look at him properly. You nearly melt at his green eyes.

‘Hey,’ he says. ‘I can sleep on the couch.’ His gaze is completely sincere.

You haven’t slept together before, both in the literal and figurative senses. You haven’t had sex with anybody at all, actually, and Harry seems to have picked up on your hesitancy. He’s never asked for anything. He lets everything stay on your terms.

That’s what makes you trust him.

‘You don’t have to do that,’ you tell him.

He holds your gaze for a moment longer, just to make sure. ’Right,’ he says, breaking into a smile.

He finds a new toothbrush in his cupboard for you, and you brush your teeth together. It feels like a big step to do these nighttime rituals with him. It’s so domestic. He shares his cleanser with you and offers his moisturiser that smells like vanilla. You imagine spending every night like this.

As he leads the way back into his bedroom, he pulls his shirt off. ‘I get hot at night. D’you mind?’

You giggle — you can’t help yourself, at the sight of his muscled torso with all of its tattoos. He’s so handsome. ‘Not at all,’ you tell him.

He throws the shirt into a hamper in the corner, and the birds on his chest seem to fly with the movement of his shoulder, then looks back to catch you ogling him. He chuckles, and the sight of his dimples gives you butterflies.

‘You like?’ he asks.

You narrow your eyes. ’Are you flexing?’

He relaxes. ‘Yeah, a bit. Just wanna impress you.’

You snort at that. ‘Like you need to do anything to impress me.’

He grins. ‘D’you want something more comfortable to sleep in?’ He rummages around in his drawer for a moment, then pulls out a t-shirt and holds it up for you. It has an incredibly faded image of Flinstones characters on the front. ‘How’s this?’ he asks.

You smile at his courtesy. ’Perfect. I love your t-shirt collection, by the way. Where the hell do you find things like this?’

‘Oh, you know… Here and there.’ He tosses it to you.

You catch it with some semblance of grace — you’re proud of yourself for that. ‘Thanks.’ You glance at the bathroom door. ‘Alright. I’ll just… get changed in here,’ you say, slipping through the ajar door.

‘Alright, love.’

You shut the door, and realise you’ve forgotten to turn the light on, leaving you in pitch-black. You grope against the wall for the switch and turn it on, and take a deep breath. Why are you so nervous, so frazzled? It’s just Harry. You shimmy out of your leggings, then pull your sweater over your head.

You look at your reflection. Well. There’s a problem. It’s easy for you to forget when you’re alone, or wrapped up in layers of clothing — it’s just a part of your body now. Artefacts from a different time, years ago. Even the memory of how you got them — how you gave them to yourself — is slipping away, thank God. It’s all a haze. These scars were carved by a girl that you don’t see much anymore. They aren’t really a painful reminder anymore, just a fact of life. You know they're there. The problem is, no one else expects it.

You stare down at your wrists, seeing the lines that never faded. Maybe if they were all like the thin white lines, barely visible until you look closely, you wouldn’t mind. You’re going to sleep, anyway, and it’s not like he’s inspecting your forearms. No, it’s the three darker ones, hard twisting scar tissue that you can feel even through sleeves. Times where you went just a little too deep, were a little too reckless. The ones you regret the most. They’re big, and ugly, and too obvious. He’d notice them right away.

But he gave you his t-shirt.

You look at your reflection in the mirror, furrowing your brows. You adjust your pose, twisting your arms around so the inside of your wrists are hidden, facing behind you. You look ridiculous. You know, as soon as you see Harry, you’ll reach for him, and he’ll see.

Would that be so bad?

You look down at your arms again. It’s been years, and they’re still there. They’ll probably be there forever. They’re as permanent as the tattoos on his skin — except those are beautiful, and what you have is not. You can’t show this to him. The world where these scars exist, and the world where he exists, should never cross over. It wouldn’t be right.

You pull your long-sleeve back on, covering them again. Then you put the t-shirt, which is long enough to be modest on you. This is fine, right? It’s better than any alternative, at least.

You leave the bathroom holding your folded sweats up to your chest, nervous now realising that you are standing in front of Harry in just your underwear, more naked than you ever have been in front of him.

He’s checking something on his phone as he sits on the bed, back against the headboard and long legs stretching down the covers, but he brightens up at the sight of you. His gaze drops to your legs — which makes your cheeks burn, but his boyishly excited expression dissolves your nerves — then rises up again to your shirt. He frowns at the long-sleeve.

‘Are you cold?’ he asks. ‘I thought it was pretty warm but I can turn the heat up if you need.’

You shake your head, dropping your sweats on the floor beside the dresser. ’No, it’s fine.’

He sits up straighter, swinging his legs over the side so his feet rest on the ground. ’Can’t be comfortable to sleep like that.’ He hesitates. ‘You didn’t have to wear the t-shirt if you don’t want to.’

‘No, I want to. I do.’ You wrap your arms around yourself, trying to figure out how to navigate this situation in a way that won’t end in him being annoyed or disgusted. ‘It’s just…’ You trail off, but one glance at his frown, at the way he leans forward and hangs on every word, makes your resolve crumble. You’ll have to have this conversation at one point or another. ‘Okay. Shit, Harry, can I talk to you about something?’

The way he answers immediately makes you want to cry. ‘Yeah, of course. Anything.’ He sits up straighter, pats the covers next to him, inviting you to sit down.

You sigh and cross the room to sit next to him, not daring to meet his eyes. How the hell do you explain this?

He moves his arm behind you once you’re sitting. Not touching you, but enough so he’s close. ‘What’s wrong?’ he prompts. ‘Do you need me to drive you home instead? Because I didn’t—’

‘No,’ you interrupt. ‘It’s fine. It’s just, I kinda…’ You take a deep breath. ‘Okay, please don’t freak out?’

He frowns. His next words are measured. ‘I’ll try not to. Is everything okay?’

‘Yeah,’ you whisper. It feels like the greatest effort in the world, but you curl your fingers around the end of your sleeve and pull it up, revealing your wrists. ‘So, I have these…’ Your voice shakes.

‘Oh, baby,’ Harry says quietly, and that’s all you need to hear. His arm behind you reaches around and pulls you into his chest, hugging you close to him. His thumb rubs circles into your shoulder as you sniffle, his other hand resting on top of yours.

‘It’s in the past, you know,’ you say, muffled into his shoulder. He smells good, you notice. Not that it’s really important right now, but you appreciate it all the same. ‘Not a big deal. Just didn’t want to scare you or anything. ’S embarrassing.’

‘Listen to me,’ he says, pulling back and holding your face in his hands. He waits until you manage to look him in his eyes. They’re watery, you realise, and that might be the most painful thing about this night. ’It’s not embarrassing, alright? I don’t want you to feel like that. They’re part of you, and I really like you, every part.’ He smiles. ‘I really do, you know.’

You sniff, wiping at your cheek with your fingertips, trying to calm your tears. Suddenly all your fears seem ridiculous. Did you really expect him to turn you away, disgusted? Ask to never see you again? You knuckle at your eyes. ‘Okay. I’m sorry.’

‘Hey.’ He springs from the bed to grab the tissue box from the dresser and brings it to you, pulling out a tissue and dabbing under your eyes himself. He’s so gentle. ‘You’ve got nothing to be sorry for. I’m sorry, that you were worried to show me.’

You chuckle, grabbing a tissue from the box and blowing your nose. What more can you say to him? He’s so wonderful to you. It’s early days still, and you’re wary of moving too fast and coming on too strong. You aren’t experienced with relationships in the same way that you know he is. But you love him. You’re sure of it. You’ll tell him, one day. Soon.

‘You don’t need to wear my shirt if you don’t want to,’ he repeats once you’re calmer.

‘I’ll wear it.’ And to show him, in your sudden burst of confidence, you undress right next to him, taking off both layers and then putting the only t-shirt back on. You turn to him, and giggle. He’s turned his head away. ‘You can look,’ you tell him, nudging his knee with yours.

He looks back with a sheepish smile. ‘Didn’t want to be a creep.’ He scoots backwards onto the bed, settling his back against the headboard. ‘C’mere.’

You crawl over to him, settling with your back against his chest, sitting between his legs. His arms wrap around your middle, anchoring you to him. He presses kisses to your neck, the scruff on his cheeks tickling you. You curl up, twisting your neck away, giggling.

‘Harry!’

‘Sorry, love.’ His hands relax, and find your own. He rests his chin over your shoulder, and gently turns your palms upwards, so your wrists are visible to him.

You shiver, but allow it. You feel this is important. You don’t want to hide with him.

‘Y/N…’ he says quietly. You feel his chest push against your back as it expands with a breath. ‘Am I… am I allowed to touch them?’ he asks.

You’re surprised. You thought he would want to avoid them. You nod, then, realising he can’t really see you, you add, ‘Yeah.’

Your fingers are tense. You can’t help it. His thumb presses into your palm, massaging the tension away. He pulls the back of your hand to his lips and brings it back to your lap.

You close your eyes.

When he finds the first hard lump of scarring with his thumb, he pauses. He takes a shaky breath, then he runs his thumb up and down the length of it.

‘Y/N,’ he says softly.

You squeeze your eyes shut tighter. ‘Mm?’

‘You’re beautiful, you know.’ He pulls your hand back up to his lips, but instead he kisses the biggest scar on your wrist. ‘No matter what. You are.’

‘Harry,’ you whisper, because you don’t know what to say.

He kisses the scar again, then trails his lips up your wrist, covering them all. ‘I don’t want you to be ashamed of anything. You survived. That’s a wonderful thing.’ He drops your hand and cups your jaw, turning your head towards his. He leans around your shoulder to face you properly. ’I’m so fucking proud of you, you know?’

You never were good at taking compliments, so you just cross the distance between the two of you and kiss him.

When you’re lying together in the dark a little while later, with his arm thrown over you protectively and his soft breaths hitting your neck where his t-shirt doesn’t cover, you feel safe. Your arms are bare, you’re with another person, and you feel safe in this situation for the first time in years. It’s a wonderful feeling. All because of Harry.

You can’t wait to wake up in the morning and see his face again.

#harry styles fanfiction #harry styles fluff #harry styles blurb #harry styles x reader #fic #self harm tw

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1kook · 4 years ago

Text

kissanime & foreplay

this is part of my netflix & chill collection !

summary; You get a glimpse of the KissAnime screen for a good two seconds before about seven ads pop up. Another tab to a raunchy hentai website opens, and Jungkook groans. warnings; mentions of hentai yes u read right, kook leads most of it, cunnilingus, masturbation (f), oral (f), use of a sex toy, fingering, nipple play, face sitting/fucking/riding idk (f), praise kink, hints of dumbification, cum eating, jk is like passive aggressive in this one, 4 (f) orgasms, this is the kicker: sub kook at the end😳, like 2 sec of dom yn lol, & u get 0.002 sec of adams apple kink misc; more dumb story lines, made up sex stores bc my creativity knows no bounds, Jungkook plays nice but is actually mean for the majority of it, once again doyeon plays a pivotal role in the furthering of women empowerment, internal love monologues about jk best boy<3 wc; 8.2k

notes; back when kissanime was offed I remember looking at this fic in the drafts like what the hell we gone do now.. n almost deleting it but I was like yknow what this isn’t a 1kook fic unless there’s smthn weird going on so here we are. also yes I know ohshc is on Netflix shut up!!!!!

HAPPY BDAY MY LOVE AND MUSE JEON JUNGKOOK !!!! 🥺💜

—

The good thing about getting your own apartment is that you finally have a place to call your own. There’s no limit on how many potted plants you can squeeze into a one bedroom, one bathroom apartment, and if there was one, you’re twelve in and no one has said anything to you yet. You don’t have to share the shower space with anyone, label all your products with a hastily scribbled name. There’s a bathtub—something you haven’t had the pleasure of using during college—and a fairly open living space. There’s so many empty spots to fill with useless decorations and family heirlooms and that ugly plastic rooster Jungkook won you at the summer kick-off fair last month.

The bad thing about having your own place is that the entire world and their mothers seem to know now. Despite graduating from college, you still keep in touch with your trusted graduate mentor Kim Namjoon, who is still very much in school, and has made it his mission to bring you a new plant every week, hence your growing collection. Your childhood friend comes over every Saturday morning to lounge around after her Friday nights out. Jungkook, although the only one who is ever actually invited, runs through your strawberry scented body wash like a madman.

And of course, Doyeon.

Your beloved college roommate of four years, Kim Doyeon, has been the bane of your apartment experience so far. Unlike you, who had slaved away for four years, saving every penny you made during college for this moment, Doyeon was a big spender. She blew every dollar she ever came across, which is why she’s going to be stuck living at her parent’s house for at least a couple more years.

Nothing wrong with that, of course, if she wasn’t the most maniac online shopper in existence. It hadn’t been a problem in college because she was always good old pals with the students who worked the mailroom. If they saw something questionable, they’d let it slide as long as it was under Miss Kim Doyeon, Room 229.

The reason it became an issue for her now is because it’s poor Mrs. Kim who signs over the package from Sexuality Unleashed: The Best Toys Worldwide! one Tuesday afternoon as it is delivered to their suburban home.

So now she’s taken to ordering all her freaky stuff to your new apartment, where the small cabinet by the door has quickly become home to her impulsive shopping habits. Truthfully, you don’t mind accepting Doyeon’s weird packages, and have long since grown used to the uncomfortable looks the mail carrier gives you.

Jungkook’s supposed to come over today and you really hope he doesn’t ask about the state of your hall cabinet. Now that you work at a small company outside of your degree to make ends meet, time with Jungkook has been significantly decreased. You weren’t in college anymore, so you didn’t have the luxury of dropping by his house whenever you wanted to in between classes. Of course, it’s mostly your schedule that conflicts with your planned hangouts, because Jungkook is still working his dream job from home.

However, because Jungkook is quite possibly the most amazing person on this planet, he’s started coming over every Saturday night to make sure you’re still alive and not dying. And so weekly media binges are a thing, and it’s currently week four.

He gave up on showing you the Marvel movie franchise last week, after you had asked where Wonder Woman was three times in a row. Since the Barbie Movie Debacle of last month, you’ve found a nice medium between who picks when. Jungkook picks most of the time, because most of the time you don’t really care. It’s become a running joke between the two of you that movie binges are usually just terribly masked excuses to go to town on each other, so you don’t mind missing an entire 15th Century French Revolution documentary if it means Jungkook is deep in your guts by the time King Louis XIV gets beheaded or whatever they did to him. Is it too obvious you didn’t watch the documentary?

Occasionally, there are instances where one of you genuinely does want to watch something, in which case you have an intense match of rock-paper-scissors to decide who’s picking that night. Most of the time, Jungkook wins. But for every match Jungkook wins, he promises you’ll pick the next one so you’ve long since stopped trying to actually beat him.

Long story short, last weekend you sat through a two part Ancient Aliens episode on the connection between aliens and American presidents.

It was the most god-awful conspiracy theory you’ve ever heard of, but Jungkook ate up every minute of it. By the time the two hosts announced their conclusion you were just about ready to rip your own ears off and single-handedly fist fight every producer on the channel for allowing the production of such an atrocious show.

Anyway, because you had so bravely sat through the entire evening without complaints— well, no complaints towards Jungkook’s terrible taste; the show, however, was not safe from your wicked tongue —Jungkook has so graciously allowed you to pick the media for this weekend.

You’ve been telling him for the longest time that you were going to hook him on anime. It was one of the few interests you always believed Jungkook should possess, being a weeb and all, because it was only fair that he had one questionable trait to balance out the rest of his perfection. Liking anime isn’t bad— if a hottie like you enjoyed it, then it obviously had its perks. However, you know a lot of other people are turned off by anime-enthusiasts due to preconceived notions of the genre and the viewer-base.

Now, it was a widely known fact that you always had ulterior motives. So maybe turning Jungkook into a weeb was just a ploy to turn other women off from him and keep your jealousy at bay. Sue you, your boyfriend was a walking wet dream, and you’d do anything to keep him to yourself.

After long deliberation, you’ve decided on introducing Jungkook to anime with a classic: Ouran High School Host Club, a god among anime, a true Beyonce among shoujos. The only problem was that you absolutely refused to pay Crunchyroll or Funimation when you could so easily find the entire show on KissAnime.com, home to only the finest of hentai ads and Are You a Robot? questions.

He sends you a text when he’s outside your building, and five minutes later there’s a rap against your door.

“Hi,” you smile up at him, heart fluttering in that same trademark way it did whenever Jungkook was within a five foot radius. He smiles back softly, leaning down to peck your lips as you step aside for him to enter. He’s got on those cotton sweats that you love, the ones that send your brain into a censored frenzy. But he’s also got that soft curl to his hair that lets you know he came here straight out of the shower in his hurry to see you. How you managed to bag a dream boyfriend like him was beyond you.

You bask in the overwhelming feeling of unannounced love for all of ten seconds before Jungkook is lifting up a square package you hadn’t seen at his hip. “Mailman gave me this,” he says, waving around the signature bright pink packaging of Sexuality Unleashed. Jungkook, for all his politeness and respect, seemed to falter in those categories when it came to you. He turns the box over, reading the big fat name of the company on the side. “Since when did you start buying sex toys?” he asks rather loudly in the hallway.

You yank him inside, hurriedly slamming the door shut before any of your neighbors can come out into the hallway and get a peek of this avid sex toy consumer. “They’re not mine!” you hiss, standing still when he uses you to balance himself as he tugs off his shoes. You snatch the box out of his hands, turning it around to make sure it is actually addressed to your home. Sure enough, it’s for you. Couldn’t there have been some other sex toy fanatic on this floor?

With his shoes off, Jungkook wastes no time enveloping you in a hug, the Sexuality Unleashed box tumbling to the ground. “It’s okay, baby, no need to be embarrassed.”

You groan, leaning your forehead against his shoulder as he continues to pat your back like you’re actually embarrassed to be caught buying toys— you’re not. You’re embarrassed he caught you with a sex toy you simply can’t put to use. “Whatever,” you sigh, “your gross popcorn is in my bedroom and it’s probably stale.”

He releases you, not before pulling you into a slow and languid kiss that has you clutching tightly at the front of his shirt. He pulls away with a soft smooch, right eye falling into a wink. “Bring the box, gorgeous,” he teases, before sauntering off in the direction of your bedroom.

You groan loudly. “It’s not mine!” you repeat, but for some reason do as he says.

Not only do you have no idea what’s in this package, but you’re frankly not too keen on finding out. You’re more interested in Jungkook’s reaction to one of your favorite animes of all time. The package is tossed onto the end of the bed, where Jungkook has already stripped himself of his socks and cuddled beneath your covers.

Your laptop has gone dark from inactivity so you slam down on the space bar to bring it back to life. Your first mistake was pressing anything at all. It flickers back on alright, but you forget that you are working with a minefield of ads ready to explode. You get a glimpse of the KissAnime screen for a good two seconds before about seven ads pop up. Another tab to a raunchy hentai website opens, and Jungkook groans.

“What the hell is this?” he asks in a tone that screams he has never had to fight viruses off his computer just to watch something at two in the morning.

You ignore him, cuddling into his side as you hurriedly type in the title of the anime before another annoying ad can intercept you. “KissAnime,” you answer for now, accidentally clicking down on the mousepad with the heel of your palm. Another tab opens up to some sketchy credit site. You huff.

“Baby, I swear I just saw like twelve viruses,” he says. “And what even are these?” he scoffs, jabbing a finger at one of the many ads that lines the perimeter of the website. “Animated teacher porn?”

By the grace of god, you somehow manage to get onto the episode selection screen without having another tab open on you. You smile in relief, turning the power of your excitement onto Jungkook… only to find his eyes narrowed in on the square advertisement for some hentai website. “What? You wanna watch hentai now?” you snort, placing the laptop on his legs as you cuddle into his side.

Jungkook sputters, cheeks tinting red at the mere insinuation he would ever consume such media. “No,” he glares, releasing the arm around your shoulders to huffily cross them over his chest. “I am not going to watch anatomically incorrect illustrations of a woman teacher relieving herself, ___,” he says rather matter-of-factly.

You snort, repeating, “a woman teacher,” mockingly and in a high pitched voice that, honestly, doesn't sound anything like him. You click play on the video box that appears after only about twenty more pop-up ads. “Silence, you nymphomaniac, the episode is starting.” Jungkook pulls you close with a displeased expression, finally quieting down when you put it on full screen and the ads disappear from his view.

You’re beginning to wonder if Jungkook really is the script and plot dissector he claims to be, or if he just lives to get under your skin. He doesn’t make it three minutes without finding something to critique. First it’s the quality of the frames, and then it’s the characterization of the lead character. He nitpicks everything about the best anime in existence, and by the end of the first episode you’re considering breaking up with him.

“Oh my god,” you groan, tearing yourself away from him. He’s all laid up against your mountain of pillows, tongue prodding at the insides of his mouth in that ridiculously attractive habit of his. Usually, you’d be tripping over yourself to kiss him, but you’re about two seconds from ripping his head off. “I mean this in the nicest way possible, baby,” you sigh, picking up his hand in yours. “You gotta shut up.”

Jungkook rolls his eyes. “I have to shut up?” he asks in a scandalized tone. “You sang through the entire intro, off tune may I add.”

At this rate you’re getting nowhere, so you just snatch the laptop back up before you actually hurt his feelings. You escape the full screen, met with those hentai ads that are slowly becoming the bane of Jungkook’s existence.

“Who actually watches those anyway?” he mumbles, covering the sidebar full of naked cartoon ladies with his palm for you, a real gentleman if you ever saw one. “Really?” he says, knocking his pointer finger against a particularly raunchy ad with the caption Be a Good Boy and Let her Play beneath it.

You snort. “You are such a baby,” you tease, pinching his cheek much to his annoyance. “What? Can’t handle seeing some anime titties?”

Jungkook shoves your hand away, leaning back to become one with the pillows as you continue onto the next episode. “They’re just weird,” he admits. “And make unrealistic faces.”

“Unrealistic,” you repeat, finally giving one of the ads the time of day. There’s an adorably drawn character making the most perverted expression, knees hiked up to her chest. Her face is twisted up, drooling like a dog and with her eyes crossed in ecstasy. You shrug. “Just because you can’t get those faces out of me doesn’t mean they’re unreal.”

The second the words leave your mouth Jungkook is letting out a scandalized scoff, sitting up to level you with another glare. “First of all, I can get you like that,” he defends, tapping his finger against the ad on screen. “In fact, I can get you like that without even trying, so let’s not say anything too drastic now, okay?”

His sudden bout of defensiveness makes something playful in you switch on, laying back down beside him with a smirk. “Oh, you can make me all stupid like this?”

Jungkook scoffs. “Yes.”

“Uh huh,” you drawl, tracing a finger up his chest teasingly; Jungkook knocks your knuckles away, obviously still butt hurt about your comment. That’s fine, because a slightly riled up Jungkook was always the best Jungkook. You sit up and lean in close, letting your hand slip beneath his hoodie, palm running over his bare shoulder and around the top of his back. You give his nape a light squeeze, lips pressed against the shell of his ear. “Why don’t you prove it to me, Jungkookie?” you purr, before pulling away.

His jaw twitches at the nickname, one shapely brow unconsciously arching as he regards you with a calculative expression.

The thing about Jungkook was that, after almost a year of dating, you know just how to push his buttons. He has a rather calm and collected exterior to him, the same one he’s had since the day you met him, but beneath it all was a childish competitiveness that raged with the heat of ten suns. He disliked being taunted like you were doing now, especially when his credibility was at stake.

Honestly speaking, you don’t doubt Jungkook can make you look as goofy and messy as those hentai ads. In fact you’re rather confident he can. Either way, him being right or you being right, you would still get some fun out of it.

“Hm?” you add, tracing your hand up to dance over the skin of his cheek, pads of your fingers running over that stiff jaw. “Are you scared I’m right and you’re wrong?”

A hand snaps up to catch your wrist, fingers tight around your skin until you’re shivering against him. “Oh baby, I can make you cum until you cry,” he murmurs, his usual sweet and lilting tone dropping to a low vibration that makes your pussy throb beneath your panties. Your heart leaps in your chest, lips falling open when he ducks down to brush them against yours. It’s too light, just a simple touch that makes you follow his mouth when he pulls back.

With one firm shove, the laptop is tumbling off the bed, thudding loudly against your bedside rug. Jungkook leans over you, his usual trademark doe eyes zeroed in on you with the focus of a laser. “Have a little faith in me,” he teases, and when he presses close you can feel his fattening cock flush against your thigh. Your body is begging to be touched, every brush of his fingers against your skin searing trails in their wake.

Suddenly, he’s drawing back. “Kook?” you frown, barely biting down on a childish whimper when he snuggles back into your mountain of pillows, one arm stretched behind his head.

He flashes you a smile. “Go on,” he says, arms behind his head. “Show me how to get you like that.”

“By myself?” you ask, shifting onto your knees anyway. Jungkook nods, a soft jut of his chin as he gives you another one of those easy going smiles of his. His goal seems a little unclear, but you had a ridiculous amount of trust in your boyfriend that whatever he had planned was certain to be good. With one final skeptical glance his way, you sink down onto your bum, knees spreading and giving him a clear view of your little pink boy shorts, elastic band hugging your waist.

The material of your t-shirt is guided away, held to your chest by the hand currently not traversing the length of your stomach, gliding across soft skin, over your belly button and past that band until it slips beneath. You chance another look Jungkook’s way, only to find his eyes wonderfully downcast in the direction of your core. That smile is gone now, replaced with a somber look as he watches your hand move mysteriously beneath the fabric of your undergarments.

The first brush of your forefinger against your swollen button makes you twitch, back arching at the sensation that is magnified by his watchful gaze. “Mmh,” you bite down, hand twisting in the material of your shirt. Jungkook’s eyes glare a molten path across your skin, from the comfy bra that peeks out from beneath your rumpled shirt to the wrist slowly working beneath your panties.

A hand falls over your thigh, tattooed fingers giving the skin a light squeeze as you get to work swirling your bud around. The sight of his inked skin on yours makes something warm blossom in your lower abdomen, your eyes following the inky swirls up, up, up. They lead you to the face of your very handsome boyfriend, long lashes fanning across his cheekbones as he watches you play with yourself. “Wanna take these off for me?” he says, the tip of his pointer finger wiggling beneath the fabric of your shorts.

You nod hurriedly, wiggling around on the bed until you’re on your back, legs bent in front of you. The shorts come down your legs; the simplest press of your thighs makes something quiver in your abdomen. You toss them off to the side, and just as you go to sit back up, Jungkook places a hand on your knee. “Stay like this for me,” he says, sitting up from his mountain of pillows to glance down at you. You melt into the plush mattress beneath you, staring down at him between your legs. He’s got that adoring look in his eyes, the one that makes you feel so warm and in love, it’s only natural your hand slips down to play with your bare clit again. “That’s my girl,” he smiles, rubbing a hand down the outside of your thigh, urging your legs to fall open.

There’s this overflowing vat of arousal that builds up inside of you everytime Jungkook is around, like the moment your eyes land on him you’re reminded of every position he’s ever had you in. You remember the soft brush of his hands on your body, the way his lips feel on yours, the soft tickle of his hair when he gets too close. It makes your heart lurch in your chest, like if you don’t grab onto him tightly this feeling will slip through your fingers and out of your life. So you were crazily in love with your boyfriend— now what?

A puckered set of lips meets the inside of your thigh, the action ripping you from your overly gooey, overly soft inner rambling. Your hand trails down your quivering pussy lips, collecting your dripping wetness as you go. At the same time, Jungkook kisses down the inside of your thigh, soft smacks of his lips against your skin filling the air with an emotion that makes you bite down a whimper. Your hole puckers at the brush of your fingers, anticipating an entrance that you yearn to give into soon.

His mouth is on you before your finger can go deeper than a centimeter in. But Jungkook doesn’t brush your hand off, doesn’t shove you away to prove his mouth was undoubtedly better. He places a kiss over your knuckles, before swallowing up your significantly smaller hand with his, that of which he clasps together over your navel.

You groan, head rolling from side to side. “Don’t be so soft with me,” you whine, leg twitching when he presses a kiss against your engorged bundle of nerves. “Push me around like that one time, you know I like it.”

Jungkook grins, mouthing over your clit with practiced ease that has you releasing all kinds of whimpers and sighs. He’s got his other hand wrapped around your thigh, strong arm pulling you closer to that devious mouth and tongue that lavished attention on your clit. “Need me to be mean to you, baby?” he purrs, curling his tongue in such a way that it makes your entire body tense up, muscles pulled tight. “Want me to push you around like the stupid little girl you are?” You moan, head bobbing up and down at the ideas he stuffs in your mind. As he moves down the length of your cunt, that round nose you love brushes against your bud, and the cheeky shit takes an obnoxiously loud sniff of it, a soft groan breathed against your lower lips. “But isn’t this better?” he hums, languidly molding his lips against your lower ones, much in the same way he does with the ones on your face; he moves slowly, slips his tongue in every few seconds before eventually diving in head on. “Slow... and so easy.”

“Kook,” you mewl, getting this overwhelming urge to cover your face with your hands. But you can’t, because he’s knotted one hand with yours and his fingers only tighten when you try to yank them apart. Instead you’re left pressing one knuckle against your mouth, brows pinching as he begins slowly fucking his tongue into your cunt. “F-Faster,” you beg. He, of course, ignores your plea.

The wet mass moves past the clenched muscles around your hole, nose brushing against your lips with every intrusion. Every few cycles he stops to press a kiss against your pussy, so hard and wet that it hurts when he pulls off. You’re left writhing and moaning, your heel knocking against his shoulder when he pushes your leg up closer to your chest. “It’s enough,” you cry, your entire body shivering.

Jungkook pulls off with a loud pop, lips glistening with your arousal. He’s got this glint on his eyes, like he’s thoroughly entertained by your reactions. He shuffles around to get comfortable, finally releasing that grip on your hand. Immediately, your newly freed hand jumps forward to tangle in the hair above his ear, tracing down the delicate curve of his cheekbone. Jungkook turns his head, pressing a soft peck against your open palm that makes your heartbeat thunder in your ears.

As he moves around, his leg bumps against something that has both of you pausing. It sounds out of place next to your shallow breaths, and both of you glance down only to catch sight of that stupid package from Sexuality Unleashed teetering on the edge of the bed.

The moment you see it, it’s like you’re transported into an omnipresent view of the scene, the next few hours flashing before your eyes as Jungkook snorts. You know he’s going to reach for it in two seconds, and you know he’s going to tear the hot pink packaging apart with his bare hands. He does so with a scary amount of power, the industrial tape not standing a chance against him. A box roughly the same size as the package falls out, and before you can kick it away and save yourself from suffering beneath Jungkook’s teasing antics, he’s snatching up the box.

“The Bullet Bestie,” he reads aloud, dark eyes flying across the text with lightning speed before that box is also being ripped open. (Briefly, there’s a voice in your head that thinks of Doyeon, but you’re not sure why.) Out tumbles a little pink bullet with a strap on one end that bounces against your thigh and an even smaller remote.

“Baby,” you rush out, the sight of the tiny toy making your heart thunder in your chest. “We can look at it another time,” you try, hands coming up to brush against his face again. “Why don’t you finish off here?” you ask, a sickeningly sweet politeness dripping off your tongue as the knot in your tummy fades into the background of his attention.

Jungkook ignores you, picking up the remote with a wondrous look in his eyes. Before you can try to persuade him back between your legs, a quiet click cuts you off and the little bullet whirls to life. You yelp at the sudden vibrations against the inside of your thigh, so close to your throbbing core. The jump of your thighs has it falling onto the mattress below you, wide eyes snapping back to the smirk that grows on his face.

“No,” you say slowly, sitting back up, “no, no,” you try, your usual assertiveness melting into a whiny cry as you try to wiggle away from him and the nefarious ideas infesting his lust-addled mind. You’re barely turning, ready to make a run for it and hand him his victory by forfeit, when Jungkook is catching you by the waist. Your hips get pulled up, arms clawing uselessly at the sheets beneath you as he drags you close to him. He’s fast, already having moved onto his knees behind you, and when he yanks you up, you can feel every hot plane of his body aligned with your backside. “Kook, please just make me cum,” you gasp.

There’s a smile pressed against your shoulder, lips still wet from before, kissing along the side of your neck. “Look at my girl,” he murmurs, and you nearly jump out of your skin when something smooth is traced along your thigh. One hand slips beneath the material of your shirt, soothingly rubbing circled against your skin. This hand also holds the tiny remote between two fingers, and every nerve in your body is on edge waiting for it to be used. “Where’s that smartmouth now?”

“Jungkook,” you try to warn. But there’s no bite to your words, only an anticipation that grows the closer he moves that damned toy between your thighs. “Baby, we-we can play another time, okay? Just please—“

A soft click, and suddenly your spine is giving out on you, upper body flopping forward as Jungkook runs the vibrations over your clit. Of course Jungkook follows, never letting you slip far from his reach. A loud moan spills from your lips, lower lip wobbling at the unreal amounts of pleasure he bestows upon you with such a small toy. “W-Wait,” you sob, the coil from before suddenly magnified tenfold. It makes your orgasm loom over you bigger than ever, a wave that threatens to spill over and drown you in one go. “No-please.”

His mouth presses against your ear, hot breaths fanning against the skin there. “Hey pretty girl, does it feel good?” he husks out, kissing just below your ear. “Aw fuck,” he groans, something stiff pressing against the cleft between your cheeks, “can’t even see if you’re making that stupid face right now.”

You are, but you don’t even have the words to tell him that. The moment the vibrator had made contact with your already ravished clit, your eyes had rolled into the back of your head. You don’t doubt you look like those silly ads you’d laughed at earlier, mouth opening and closing every few seconds as he circles the toy around your bud. You settle on a high-pitched whimper that has Jungkook laughing meanly against your ear.

It ends too soon, the stimulation from Jungkook eating you out for a few minutes combining with the bullet to form a powerful duo that swallows you whole. An embarrassingly loud moan rips itself from your throat, hands twisting in the sheets beneath you as it washes over you. It’s so powerful, it blinds you, pussy spasming. Jungkook’s name is repeated about a thousand times in between, your body eventually melting back into the mattress as the final shocks run through you.

The vibrator clicks off just as quietly as it turned on, your harsh breaths filling the room in its place. “Good girl,” Jungkook praises, raining down a parade of kisses against your shoulder. You mewl in appreciation, still awkwardly shoving your face into the mattress, and your hips in the air. From the corner of your eyes, you watch him set the glistening toy off to the side, and you’re just about ready to thank the heavens for such an experience with your boyfriend, when said boyfriend hits you with a curveball.

The gentle pecks against yours shoulder dissolve into harsh kisses, rough hands trailing up your waist. The t-shirt gathers around his knuckles, pushed and pushed until he’s got those same hands cupping your breasts. “Did you like that?” he asks, biting down against your shoulder; the sensation is dulled by your shirt being in the way but it still makes you whine. You moan softly, nodding against the mattress as he gets to kneading your breasts over your bra. “Mm,” Jungkook sighs, “my pretty girl was so good for me, wasn’t she?”

Those deft fingers run back down, crawl beneath the elastic of your lounge bra and push it away until your breasts are bouncing out of their cage. “Kook,” you sigh, eyes fluttering shut as he traces circles around your nipples. “W-Wait,” you whimper, suddenly reminded of the swollen cock pressed against your backside when he leans closer.

“Shhh,” he soothes, tweaking your nipples. “Relax for me, sweetheart,” he coos, flicking your hardened nipples with his fingers. You can’t relax, not with your body still so sensitive and him playing with you. Still, the low intonation makes something soft and warm settle in your chest, the kisses against your jaw making your eyes fall shut. “That’s it,” he says, giving one nipple a playful twist that draws a high-pitched moan from you.

Just as you’re beginning to fall into the rhythm of Jungkook’s caresses and voice, he releases one breast to traverse his hand down and over your tummy, to your sensitive pussy. You gasp, biting down on your lip as he teasingly flicks your clit with his fingers. “Bet you could come again now,” he murmurs, taking the tip of your earlobe into his mouth and nibbling softly. You groan, shoving your face into the sheets as if that will save you from your doom. “Bet your pretty little pussy can cream itself just like this, isn’t that right, sweet girl?”

You whimper, hips bucking back against him when he begins nudging your bud, lewd sounds reaching your ears. His other hand remains on your breast, no longer toying with your nipple but simply holding it almost comfortingly. There’s a smirk pressed against your skin, that pearly white smile you usually adore so much teasing you as he circles your nub.

“Come on,” he encourages quietly, kissing up the column of your neck again. You moan, thighs quivering as he strokes a second orgasm out of you with no struggle. Your eyes and throat burn at the heat that washes over you, and you release a hoarse scream into the mattress— Jungkook chuckles at the sound, egging you on with that low voice until your muscles go limp a second time.

When he rolls you onto your stomach again, you try desperately to cover the tears that blur your vision, turning away from him like a child when he tries to look. “Crybaby, crybaby,” he sings teasingly, prying your hands away to capture your mouth with his for the first time that night. “Lemme see those tears, baby,” he purrs.

He tastes like you, tongue dripping with that sweet tang of your pussy, and he smells like you too. It strokes the flames of you ego, arms eventually wrapping around his shoulders as he settles above you. He pulls off with a curl of his tongue against your swollen lips, brown eyes lazily staring down at you. It’s embarrassing how well kept he still was compared to your half-nude state of dress. His skin is all glowy and pretty, not a single tear track in sight, and his grin is still too relaxed for your liking.

Jungkook’s body feels so warm and comforting against yours, muscles keeping the heat trapped between your bodies. You go to brush a hand through his hair, needing to feel the familiarity of those silky locks, before he’s suddenly leaning away. He shuffles onto his knees again, glancing down at your thoroughly abused cunt with a quirk in his brows.

“God,” you groan, knocking your foot against his side. “Just fuck me already,” you huff despite your earlier fatigue. You could only go so long without feeling Jungkook’s fat demon cock inside of you.

He snorts at your snappy tone, cutely tilting his head to the side to move his hair out of his face. His jaw looks sharp from this angle, facial features covered in shadows the lamplight behind him can’t touch. “Can’t,” he announces, and you could pull your hair out from all this unnecessary build up.

Truth to be told, you and Jungkook were both equally as unrestrained when it came to each other. Most of the time, the lead up to actual, penetrative, key-in-lock sex included a couple minutes of heavy petting from his end, and maybe a half assed handjob from you. Sometimes if you felt extra attentive, he’d eat you out and you'd him off. But for the most part, the two of you jumped straight into it after an orgasm, like horny teenagers despite the two of you being twenty-three now.

The most adventurous you’d ever gotten up until the point was maybe two orgasms bestowed upon you by a crazed Jungkook. And, well. You had hit two orgasms now. You were ready for his monster cock.

“Kook,” you whine childishly.

Jungkook shakes you off, placing a palm on both your knees. Slowly, he spreads your thighs apart again, eyes zeroed in on the glossy folds that come into view, the sparkling pearly cum that leaks out of your hole. “I can’t, baby,” he says, almost pained. “I gotta clean you up first,” he insists, and before you can tell him how counterproductive it is to lick you clean of your arousal before fucking you, he’s diving face first into your cunt.

But the biggest surprise doesn’t come from Jungkook going in for thirds, but from the hands he clasps around your thighs, the sheer strength he uses to roll you over (ignoring the shriek you let out) to sit you on his face. “No, no,” you yelp immediately, “I-I‘ll break you,” you cry, trying to escape from his hold.

From beneath your thighs, dark eyes peering up at you daringly, you can see the clear warning on Jungkook’s face. It’s a look that loudly says don’t you dare fucking move, shapely brows sending a jolt of genuine fear down your spine for a moment. “Jungkook,” you fret, trying to ignore the arousal that only continues to blossom as his tongue laps against your folds for the second time that night. “I’m, I’m,” you stammer, hands burying themselves in his hair as he ignores your cries. “I’ll break you,” you try again, spine arching when he slurps your clit into his mouth. “I-I’ll—“

He pulls off with a pop. “Fuck my face, baby,” he says, as if he hadn’t heard a single of your concerns at all. His nose nudges against your clit, a whimper catching in your throat. Briefly, his hand disappears from around your thigh, and when it returns, that tiny bullet vibrator from earlier is pressed against your thigh. “You got that?”

You nod, internally torn apart by your fear of crushing him and your need to drag your cunt all over your boyfriend’s handsome face. You glance down at him, watch him slip that vibrator into his mouth for just a second and lewdly coat it in his saliva, before he’s reaching around to shove it past your pussy lips. They’re still swollen and puffy, but have long since relaxed enough for him to slip it in. “B-But what if—“

“You won’t,” he cuts off, readjusting himself closer to your cunt again, “come on, pretty girl.”

The reason you think you and Jungkook click so well was because he was able to bring that vulnerable side out of you every now and then. He knew you liked to parade around with that huge superiority complex, and he loved it. But he also knew there were things you liked and disliked, and sometimes it took a little pushing for you to reveal them.

For a second, that horny cloud over his irises lifts, and he gives you one of those cute, sloppy winks as he taps your thigh gently. “Fuck my face, sweetheart,” he whispers, “drag that pretty cunt all over me until I can’t breathe.” A gasp catches in your throat, hands unconsciously curling against his scalp. He notices, and flashes you a lazy smirk. “You can do that, can’t you?”

Something akin to adoration blooms in your chest, and before you can blurt out something embarrassing—like I love you—there’s a soft click that has The Bullet Bestie revving up inside of you. You gasp, the sudden vibrations deep inside your pussy making your hips snap forward, clit rubbing against Jungkook’s nose.

“O-Oh,” you cry, and that’s all it takes for you to lose it. Your hips start off slow, at first just savoring the wet drag of his tongue against your lips, his nose against your clit. He sticks his tongue out for you, and part of you wants to tell him he’s a good boy, that corny hentai ad flashing in your mind, but you doubt you’ll survive the aftermath of that. Once you find that perfect pace, your hands are practically yanking at his hair, pushing him further into the mattress as you ride his face like he’s nothing but a toy. “Kook, Jungkook,” you pant, grinding your lower lips against his all too eager mouth.

It feels oddly weird being over him like this, using him like this. You like to think you and Jungkook have equal power in the bedroom, but you will admit that more often than not, he assumes control by default. You’re not particularly bothered by that, because you doubt you’d ever come up with the crazy ideas Jungkook did when he was horny (okay, a lie, because you definitely have thought of crazy sex schemes before).

But, this moment��

The power was quickly going to your head. “Fuck,” you sob, roughly dragging the length of your pussy over and over his face. The hands around your thighs are pressing against your skin with a strength that would hurt were you not blinded by arousal. His eyes are shut, lids fluttering open every now and then as he watches you buck wildly over his face like he was a pillow in high school and your parents were gone for the weekend.

It doesn’t help that the rhythmic pulses of the vibrator inside of you are doing their job well, the tongue that slips into your pussy joining together to form a powerful combination. It’s ultimately what has you halting your manic thrusts, instead falling into a slow grind over him. Your hips circle, eyes squeezed shut as you lose yourself in the lapping of his tongue against your dripping hole. “Mmmf,” you mewl, biting down on your lower lip as the wet muscle prods against a delicate spot within you. You hear feels light, view of the gorgeous man beneath you obstructed by the eyelids that can't seem to stay open. “N-No,” you cry, pulling his hair more roughly than you intended to in order to redirect him. “There, there,” you whimper, holding him tight against your pussy.

Beneath you, Jungkook exhales harshly against your lips, hands moving frantically over your thighs as he works his tongue inside of you alongside the bullet vibrator. If you weren’t so caught up in your own pleasure, all kinds of sounds spilling from your lips, you would have heard the quiet moans that fall from his. Alas.

It takes a few more pulses from the toy and a few more licks from Jungkook until you’re coming for the third time that night, features twisting up as your pussy clenches around his tongue before spilling down his mouth. Your back arches, a defeated moan escaping you as you release the same mess he’d claimed to clean up onto his lovely face. You can barely breathe afterwards, mouth dry and head dizzy when Jungkook finally pops back out from between your thighs. You barely have enough time to lift yourself up, pussy lightly brushing across his Adam’s apple as you stop yourself from crushing his windpipe. It makes you twitch.

“Good girl,” Jungkook praises with a cheeky smile that distracts you from the bullet toy he retrieves from your quivering cunt. His face is absolutely glistening from your arousal, skin warm and flush. He’s looking up at you like you’re some mythical goddess and he’s but a humble villager coming to pay his respects at the temple that is your body. Fuck, were you okay? You don’t think you’ve ever felt this good in your entire life, and Jungkook’s mushy gaze was doing things to your heart.

He presses a kiss against the inside of your thigh before helping you off of him, laughing meanly when you flop limply down beside him. He’s still fully clothed, a fact that irks you when he leans over to kiss you with that glossy face of his. “D’you like it?” he mumbles, kissing softly down your face. You nod, legs twitching from the aftermath of that wild ride. “I saw it, y’know,” he says suddenly.

“Saw what?” you mumble, mindlessly rolling your head to the side and exposing more skin when he begins kissing along your neck.

Jungkook says nothing, just rolls over you. Part of you thinks he’s crazy, but you’re suddenly hit with the realization that while Jungkook’s drawn three orgasms out of you in the course of an hour, you hadn’t done anything for him. Before you can dive head first into swallowing his cock, he’s kissing you softly. “That stupid face,” he smirks, slotting his mouth against yours. “That weird, now realistic face,” he tacks on.

You huff out a laugh, throwing your leg around his waist comfortably. Jungkook smiles, kisses you one last time before settling in your arms, face cutely pressed in between your boobs. “Hey,” you call, “don't you wanna cum too?”

He shakes his head, a soft sigh filling the air. “Nah,” he says, cuddles closer into you. “Rest now, baby.”

You roll your eyes. “I can feel your dick against my thigh,” you point out, wiggling your pelvis upward to brush against his throbbing erection. Jungkook holds you down in an effort to stop you. “Fuck me.”

He groans against your collarbone. “No, you’re tired,” he tries to convince you, but his skin is warm and flushed in the way it always gets when he’s riled up. “Sleep.”

With the leg around his hip, you pull him closer. “Fuck me, Jungkookie,” you purr, using the hands in his hair to turn his face up towards yours. His dark eyes are drawn down cutely, pouty lips too. “Use my body,” you suggest, “I’m yours anyway.”

His eyes flutter shut, a quiet whimper falling from his lips. “Don’t say that,” he sighs, “makes me wanna do very mean things to you.”

You smile. “You can do whatever you want to me, don’t you know that?” Another groan, his head falling forward until he’s hiding in your neck. Still, there’s movement from below, he sweats slipping down at his hips until that throbbing cock is pressed into the tiny crease where your thigh meets your pelvis. There’s a moment of hesitation, and you wonder if this is what he felt like earlier when he’d managed to get you to sit on his face. “Inside, Jungkookie,” you murmur, reaching down to line him up with your sensitive entrance. He whines softly, arms wrapping around you as he pulls you close. “Good boy.”

Despite your earlier belief that you’d never survive an encounter with Jungkook after using such a term on him, the result is much different from what you had anticipated. He visibly melts into your arms, cock slipping past your folds easily. “No,” he says, his voice feathery and whiny against your ear. “I can’t.”

You soothe a hand down his back, eyes fluttering shut as he begins slowly rutting against your swollen lips. “That’s it,” you encourage, tugging softly at his wavy hair. Jungkook moans wantonly against your neck, rolling his hips harshly against you until his arms are the only things keeping you from jostling out of his hold. “Do you like this pussy?” you ask, purposefully clenching around him, tummy tightening at the stimulation you keep packing on.

Jungkook shudders, pace growing slipping inside of you. “Yes,” he pants, “s-so wet… creamy.”

“Yeah?” you huff, pressing a smiley kiss against his forehead. “It’s yours.”

“Ffffuck,” Jungkook chokes, picking up his pace as his well-deserved orgasm reaches its peak. He’s breathing harshly now, and it’s taking everything in you to keep your pussy tight around him. But after the night he’d given you, the sounds and faces he pulled from you, it’s the least you can do. Besides, your body, after being so thoroughly pleased, still rears up for one final orgasm with him. “Mine,” he growls, bucking his hips into you. “You’re mine, baby, mine,” he seethes, ending his little tryst with a piston of his hips that makes you gasp, body almost unconsciously spasming around him. It’s painful, but so, so delicious how he manages to pull this last orgasm from you as he finally busts inside of you.

He comes with a stuttering garble of words, none of which you catch as he collapses into your hold for the final time that night. “Fuck,” he pants afterwards, leaning into your touch when he finally registers the soft combing of fingers through his hair. “That was evil.”

You laugh, pulling him closer. “As evil as you making me suffer through three orgasms before putting your dick in me?” you tease. Jungkook slips out of you, and you know it’ll be a hassle to clean your sheets tomorrow but it’s worth it.

“It’s called building the scene,” he weakly defends, blindly tugging the puffy blanket over the two of you. “I was gonna rhyme it with that horrible website you made me use but I already forgot it’s name.”

“Rude,” you snap, “it’s called KissAnime.”

“And fore-play,” he suddenly says, and you almost yank his eyeballs out of their sockets for doing that stupid thing again.

—

epilogue

Two weeks later, your favorite website and home to hentai ads is shut down after years of piracy. Jungkook laughs at your demise, sits and actually cackles at your heartbreak, until he eventually comforts you with his flaming demon cock and a subscription to both Crunchyroll and Funimation. Doyeon spends weeks tracking down a missing package, apparently some freebie she’d gotten for being such an avid customer on Sexuality Unleashed: The Best Toys Worldwide! before eventually finding it in your drawer. And because her and Jungkook have some awkward life-long rivalry for your attention, he doesn’t pay for that.

—

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