#grey stained wood floor

[hellyeahkaito]

Enclosed - Kitchen Enclosed kitchen - large transitional l-shaped medium tone wood floor and gray floor enclosed kitchen idea with an undermount sink, shaker cabinets, white cabinets, quartz countertops, gray backsplash, glass tile backsplash, stainless steel appliances, an island and white countertops

[celeberoticafanfic]

Boston Kitchen With an undermount sink, shaker cabinets, white cabinets, quartz countertops, a gray backsplash, a glass backsplash, stainless steel appliances, an island, and white countertops, this enclosed kitchen features a large transitional l-shaped medium tone wood floor and gray floor.

[napleonsolo]

Music Room Living Room in Denver Large transitional open concept light wood floor and gray floor living room photo with a music area, gray walls, a standard fireplace, a stone fireplace and a wall-mounted tv

[detroitsabitch]

Modern Home Bar - Home Bar Large minimalist galley with a brown floor and vinyl flooring, a seated home bar, flat-panel cabinets, dark wood cabinets, quartz countertops, and gray countertops in a picture.

[moresnowbots]

Transitional Home Office in Chicago Example of a large transitional freestanding desk in a home office library with a dark wood floor, brown walls, and a two-sided fireplace.

[scydiahs]

Family Room - Game Room Idea for a large, contemporary, open-concept game room with white walls, a ribbon fireplace, a tile fireplace, and a wall-mounted television.

[francinesoleil]

Modern Home Bar Milwaukee Inspiration for a large modern galley vinyl floor and brown floor wet bar remodel with an undermount sink, flat-panel cabinets, dark wood cabinets, quartz countertops, gray backsplash, quartz backsplash and gray countertops

[rinaedin]

Dining Room Great Room Denver An illustration of a sizable transitional great room with light wood floors and gray walls.

[betsyloop]

Enclosed - Traditional Kitchen

[charleytakeabow]

L-Shape Home Bar in Bridgeport

[lashtuns]

Great Room Kitchen

[the-case-book-of-fanfiction]

Crawl Home To Her

Ship: Astarion x fem!Tav/reader

Summary: As awful the feeling of blood on the skin is, sometimes it can be helpful, you have to admit. At least, when it comes to Astarion, blood is always helpful. You'll have to take his word for it—and that's oh so easy bathing with him.

Word Count: 5,461 words

Warnings: sexual content (18+) blood, gore, nudity, sexual & non-sexual touching, bathing each other, soft Astarion, established relationship, brief mention of past sexual encounter, dealing with past trauma, teasing from Karlach, mention of dismemberment, fluff & smut mix

18+ Warnings: brief fingering (f receiving), tiny bit of a hair kink, sensual touching, semi-public sex/nudity

Note: Part 2 of Burns Like Rum is coming soon! But here's a little something to tithe you over until the sequel (Sweet Like Rum) is ready!

☟ Continue below the fold ☟

Shafts of pale sunlight fell on your face as you walked through the forest, your arms swinging at your sides, small critters running amok in the bushes around you. Birdsong filled your ears, pleasantly light and summery, reminding you distantly of a childhood memory you couldn't quite reach. The weather was warm enough that you were thinking you might have to change into something lighter. The few weapons you had on you were already starting to make you break out into a sweat.

For a day that had started with murder, the weather was surprisingly nice.

You hummed as you walked—the song pulled from your childhood, the words long forgotten but pieces of the melody clunking around in your head. You strung them together the best you could, tapping out a rhythm against your leg.

You were on your way to the waterfall you'd spotted several days ago while hunting. It was small and nothing too violent. The pool it fell into wasn't deep enough to drown you, nor was the flow of water all that fast. You trusted it—and the rock ledge behind it—would suit your purposes quite nicely.

Coming upon the pool was like stepping into one of the fairytales you had heard in your youth, sitting upon your father's knee in a tavern, listening to a traveller tell a story you weren't sure was entirely true.

It was guarded by willow trees with branches that swayed in a breeze you hadn't felt until you came upon them. Pushing the curtain of branches away revealed an almost perfectly circular clearing, the ground covered in vibrant green moss that squished delightfully beneath your feet and sprung back up when you stepped off of it. Patches of flowers sprouted all around, pink and yellow and purple blooms that grew up to the sun. The pool was as blue as the sky above, clear and shallow, surrounded by a few feet of soft white sand. The water shimmered in the sunlight, rippling over the pebbles that covered its floor. From the pool, the water flowed into a thin river that could hardly be called a river and out into the woods.

You sat by the pool's edge and pulled off your boots. They were just as bloody as the rest of you, the sticky and quickly drying substance staining the black leather. You splashed water over them and scrubbed with a cloth you had designated for this purpose that had once been grey.

Only after your boots were clean did you stand back up and step into the soft sand. You wiggled your toes, smiling at the feeling. You breathed in the crisp, sweet air. It smelled faintly of flowers and citrus, a scent that was familiar, though you couldn't place it.

You stripped slowly, hissing and wincing as you tugged at the places where blood had stuck the fabric to your skin. It acted like glue when dry, staining your skin and leaving a mottled pattern across your flesh. The fabric of your shirt had grown stiff with semi-dried blood.

One by one, you pulled off belts and straps holding weapons, the gloves you protected your hands with, your shirt, your trousers—until you were standing naked at the pool's edge. You gave yourself a cursory inspection, searching for any wounds you had acquired in the fighting this morning that you hadn't noticed; it wouldn't be the first time you'd walked away from a fight and realized you were injured only hours later. But, this time, there was nothing.

Usually it was Astarion who noticed you were injured, catching your smell in the air when it shouldn't have been. But you were drenched in so much blood already that you imagined it would have been very hard to pick out your distinct scent.

You waded into the pool, taking your clothes with you, and sat at it's deepest point. Standing, it reached your knees; sitting, it almost came to your shoulders. You scrubbed the blood from your clothes, using the soap you had brought with you.

You watched the blood and soap swirl together in the water and flow toward the river, a thin stream of red and bubbles slipping away from the crimson cloud surrounding you. You almost felt bad to ruin the clarity of the water, but the others—back at camp—were taking far too long to wash the blood from themselves with your limited store of water. This was better, in the long run.

Astarion would have a field day with this if this wasn't goblin blood, you thought to yourself, staring at the blood drifting just below the surface. He would drink it, from time to time, but never happily.

You scrubbed at your clothes until your fingers were stiff and sore and the blood was no longer coming out of the fabric. You inspected them and deemed them clean enough to put back on the moss, spread out so they would dry faster.

To clean yourself, you headed toward the waterfall. You climbed up onto the stone ledge behind it, reveling in the surprisingly gentle spray of water that reached you and the stillness of the water that it fell into, high enough to reach your knees.

You stepped under the water. It cascaded over you, dousing you in its coolness that reminded you of the first time Astarion had ever touched you—

—gentle hands, cascading down your sides—fingers lifting your chin so you would meet his gaze—a kiss to your forehead—a hand on the small of your back—his lips on your own, warmer than you had anticipated—his fingers in your hair, keeping your head off the ground—his hand slipping between your legs—his little giggle when you shuddered beneath him—the pleasured sigh from his lips as he slid inside of you—

Stepping out from underneath the water, you shook your head, banishing the memory. You had spoken recently about all of this. He'd told you, "I don't think I want you to think of me in terms of sex." He'd said, "I don't want to be just a body for you, darling." And though he'd teased you that you were more than welcome to "sustain yourself" (his words) with your memories of him while he took time away from intimacy, some part of you still felt like you violating his wishes any time it was his body that you thought of, rather than of, well, just him.

You wiped the water from your eyes and knew your tears had mixed in with it; Astarion had been very vulnerable with you, so you knew his reasons for it all. You had two responses: either unbearable sorrow that he had been forced to endure it all (which the current cause of the crushing weight in your chest), or blinding rage that birthed the desire to see Cazador's head on a spear.

You carded your hands through your wet hair, trying to work out the tangles. Your fingers came away covered in watery blood.

"Mind if I join you?"

You jumped, eyes flying open, and looked up. Leaning against the stone wall was the vampire himself, a gentle smile on his face. Gods, how you loved that smile. In this light, you couldn't tell his eyes were red and his fangs were hidden. If you didn't pay attention to how pale he was, you could imagine he was just an elf again—the life he deserved.

Astarion still wore his clothes, which were slowly darkening as they soaked up the spray of water and splattered with as much blood as his handsome face, but his boots were placed neatly next to yours on the moss. He'd cleaned them already; how had you not heard him before?

While he waited for your answer, aware of your admiring gaze on him, he pulled his shirt off over his head, mussing the curls you loved so much. He stripped quickly, nearly falling over when his trouser leg caught on his foot, and left his clothes in a pile on the rock ledge. Perhaps you were imagining things, but his skin looked paler than it had this morning, when you'd been rudely awoken by a horde of goblins invading your camp.

You held your arms open to him. "I'd like that very much."

He stepped into your arms, wrapped his own around your waist, and buried his head in your neck, breathing in deeply. "My love," he whispered, his lips against your skin. He kissed your neck softly and pulled away, cupping your face in his hand, to look into your eyes. "Are you alright?"

You nodded. "I'm okay."

"No injuries this time?" Astarion's eyes slid down your naked body, examining, his gaze concerned when it had once been sensual. You felt yourself relax in his arms, at ease with his concern. It felt real, honest in a way you hadn't had a chance to be yet. It was natural, somehow, to be checking each other for injuries in the time you finally caught together, away from the others.

"Not this time," you said, leaning into him. More watery blood dripped from your hair and across his chest, leaving streaks that made it look like he'd just returned from a rather messy feeding.

He kissed the top of your wet head. "Good." He leaned away to smile at you. "I was worried you'd run off to take care of your injuries by yourself, if only to keep me from smelling the blood."

You shook your head. "If only we'd been attacked by something you could drink from, satisfy your hunger for a few days." He smiled weakly and you knew the thought had been on his mind, too. "What about you? Are you okay?"

He spread his arms and did a little twirl for you. You giggled at his antics, glancing over his skin, pleased he was comfortable enough to even be naked with you. "Yes, darling. Not a scratch on me."

The two of you looked at each other, your hair already damp and clinging to your head, and his curls slowly being matted down by the thick mist of the waterfall. His ears poked out, more noticeable than normal.

Astarion bent and picked up your bar of soap. "May I help you wash off all this grime?"

"Please," you said, your voice soft but as loving as you could make it, your eyes fixed firmly on his.

He lathered his hands with soap and scrubbed gently at your skin. His nails, kept trimmed and neat, were hardly more than a light sensation as he worked at the dried blood until it crumbled away from your skin and ran down your body in red rivulets. His touch was soft, caring where it had once been lustful and groping. You leaned into his touch, enjoying the sensation of his fingers digging into your tired muscles, and held him. You adjusted your hold on him as he moved across your body—an arm draped across his shoulders, a hand on his bicep, your fingers against his chest, your head on his shoulder.

You looked up at Astarion, blinking quickly to keep the water out of your eyes. His gaze remained fixated on your hips as he gently washed off the blood, but he smiled, aware of your stare.

"See something you like?" he asked, tone playful.

"Someone I love," you corrected. He looked up at you, a tender smile growing on his lips. "Someone I love dearly." You leaned close, cupped one side of his face, and kissed the other. "I love you, Astarion."

He kissed your cheek, too. "And I love you." His lips found yours. He kissed you with a sweetness that simultaneously broke your heart and mended it. You wrapped your arms around his waist. He hummed happily into your mouth and cradled the back of your neck.

The pair of you fell into a tight embrace. You felt the adrenaline drain from you and leave you limp in his arms, your hot skin going cold under the water. Despite how suddenly you must have slumped against him, Astarion held you with ease. He gave the crown of your head a quick kiss, then made an unpleasant sound of surprise from the back of his throat.

"Darling, do you mind if I wash your hair? There's an awful lot of goblin blood in it."

You forced yourself to stand up straight on your own, still holding his sides for support. "Oh, yes—that would be from Karlach throwing one she'd just chopped into over my head." Even as you said the words, you felt the blood splattering into your hair again and shuddered.

Astarion grimaced. "Let me help you with it, then." He lathered his hands and put them in your hair. As he fell into a rhythm, you closed your eyes and let him doing the work, your thoughts drifting...

At first, you weren't sure why you had even woken in the first place. The light coming in through a crack in the tent's opening was still the watery and grey color of pre-dawn, much earlier than you usually woke. You frowned and pushed back into Astarion, his arm squeezing you tighter, sleep once again tugging at your eyelids.

And then you heard a shout, vicious and loud. It was close to camp, maybe even in camp. The shout came again and you realized it was Lae'zel's war cry.

All at once, the sounds of a battle filled your ears. You jerked awake in an instant, clambering onto your knees and shaking Astarion awake next to you. Of course the one day Astarion decided to indulge in the very human activity of sleep was the day you and your friends were attacked.

"What's going on?" he mumbled as his eyes flickered open, his words slurred together.

"Come on, grab your knives," you said, pulling your lightest set of armor on over your clothes. You were suddenly very relieved Astarion had decided skin to skin contact was a bit too much for him last night. "I think we're under attack."

He woke just as quickly as you had. He swore, dragged a quick hand through his hair, and grabbed his knives. He waited until you had your own weapon in hand before he opened the curtain flap of his tent.

The camp was a sight to behold. Already it was trashed and overflowing with goblins. Some were already on the ground, their blood oozing everywhere in the dirt and grass. Gashes from Lae'zel's sword seeped blood and gristle, if she hadn't horribly disfigured the corpses and turned them into little more than lumps of flesh. Many of them bore scorch marks that ranged from minor burns to melting flesh. It smelled horrendous and nearly acidic; you bit back the bile in your throat.

A dismembered arm fell at your foot. You kicked it away on instinct, looking up to see Karlach ripping a second goblin limb from limb.

"Now that's just vile," Astarion said, still looking at the arm, a fang poking out over his curled lip.

"Complain about it later," you said, grabbing his chin and giving him a quick and customary 'good morning' kiss. "We've got to help the others."

"If you insist."

Astarion ran to Karlach's side; you headed for Shadowheart and Gale. Wyll was approaching, too, cutting a path through the goblins.

"Morning, you two!" you said cheerily. "How'd this happen?"

"We're not sure," Shadowheart said, kicking a goblin in the face as it ran at her with a scream. "Lae'zel said they came from the north, just over those hills."

"Odd. I wonder if we camped too close to them for their liking, and now they're trying to do something about it. Are goblins territorial creatures?"

Gale grunted, casting another fireball. "Enough chatting. Let's just kill these things and figure out where they came from and why later. Got it?"

"Fair enough," you decided. "Whoever kills the most chooses dinner for a week."

"I'll take you up on that," Wyll said from behind you. "I'm dreaming of a good meal for once."

Astarion's hands sliding out of your hair abruptly brought you back to reality, to his body pressed against yours and the waterfall at your back, shielding the two of you from the world.

"Where'd you go?" he asked, voice soft. You could feel his fingers toying with the ends of your hair, curling it on his fingers.

"Back to the fight," you admitted. "I just keep wondering how they snuck up on us."

"No matter now," he said. "We'll let Lae'zel criticize us all for not anticipating every possible disaster when we get back, but not yet. Not here."

He went back to massaging your scalp, despite the blood being long gone, and your sighed happily. He smiled and kissed your forehead, adding pressure. A content whimper slipped from your lips and you blushed instantly as his eyes lit up; he'd heard far more obscene from you, yet still the slightest sounds you made embarrassed you and delighted him.

"My, my, the noises you make for me, lover," he teased, giggling. He wrapped his hand in your hair and tugged, hard enough to draw a loud moan out of your chest.

Astarion covered your mouth with his hand, his eyes playfully wide. "Shhh, unless you want the others to come looking. We're not that far away from camp."

Heat rushed through your body. "Oh, gods, Astarion, I'm— I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to— And I certainly didn't expect it to be that...that loud—! I..."

He swallowed your frantic apologies with a kiss. Against your lips, he whispered, "If you can keep quiet, though...I can grant you all the pleasure you want. You need only ask, darling."

Your heart skipped several beats in your chest. You put your hand up to his face. "Oh, I don't... Star, I don't need you to, I wouldn't want you to...feel obligated." He pulled his forehead away from yours to see your face. "We agreed not to do anything until you're ready. And that wasn't that long ago, so... I don't want you to be uncomfortable—"

Astarion cupped your chin with his hand, dragging his thumb across your lower lip. The words died in your throat. He met your gaze, his crimson eyes open and honest, and said, "Your pleasure is a gift. Even if I don't want to be touched yet, that's not stopping me from touching you. Only you can stop me from touching you."

"Star..."

He pulled you into a tight hug. You wrapped your arms around him, suddenly too aware of the raised scar you felt against your arms. "I trust you. Wholeheartedly. I trust you to...to respect my boundaries. To check in with me. To see when I'm uncomfortable. You've already done it, again and again, and proved that you're worthy of that trust. And do I look uncomfortable now?"

You studied him. His pupils were blown. His eyes told a story of contentment. The tenseness you had once noticed laying deep and dormant in his muscles was gone. He looked at you with a fondness you realized now was a profound trust and he stood utterly relaxed in your arms.

So you answered him honestly. "No."

"Exactly, darling. I'm not uncomfortable. I want to do this for you, if that's what you also want. I feel...safe with you. I've never felt like this around anyone before," he admitted, a bit of sadness creeping onto his face, "and I don't want to ruin it. I don't know... I don't know what I'm doing, but I'm going to try to do right by you. So if you want me..." He placed his hand low on your abdomen. Your stomach did flips. He put his lips against the shell of your ear. "Tell me, darling, because I certainly want you. All I ask is that you not touch me, not just yet."

You whimpered. "Please, Star. I promise not to touch you, I promise. But please touch me."

"That's my girl," he whispered. "Spread your legs for me, no need to be so nervous."

You readjusted your stance, widening the space between your previously clenched thighs. His hand filled the gap, cupping you gently. You sighed, leaning your head against his chest again, looking down to watch his ministrations.

Astarion pressed his palm to your clit. You watched his wrist move as he slid his fingers along your slit, teasing you and never quite touching you where you needed him. You whimpered as his fingertip lightly ghosted your entrance, just barely dipping inside before he moved his hand back up, his fingers toying with your clit.

"That's it," he whispered in your ear. "Make those quiet, pretty sounds for me. Show me how you feel."

You rocked your hips against his hand. "Astarion, please..."

He kissed your temple. "Feeling good?"

Your broken moan was your answer. He chuckled, sliding his hand up your side, taking your breast in the palm of his hand. He rolled your nipple between his fingers, making you gasp and buck your hips against him. He closed his lips around it and sucked gently.

"More," you whispered. "Please. I need...I need you."

"Alright, darling, alright," he said against your skin. He rubbed your entrance for another moment, then slid his finger inside you. You clenched down on him as you sighed your pleasure. He curled his finger inside you, rubbing away at your walls, and you gasped loudly.

Astarion grinned. "Make those noises. Moan for me. I want you to show me how good this feels, show me you want me." You gripped tightly onto him, one hand on the back of his neck and the other on his hip. Your breaths grew heavy and your whimpers louder. "Yes, that's it! Be loud for me, my sweet, the loudest you've ever—"

A branch cracked in the forest. A voice called out your name, then Astarion's. You jumped a mile and Astarion's finger slipped out of you. You stared at each other with wide eyes.

"D...did you hear that?" you asked. "Or am I hearing things?"

As if an answer, the voice—Gale's—shouted again, "I know you're over here, I can see your boots!"

"Shit," Astarion sighed. He craned his head to peer around the curtain of water. "What the hells do you want?"

"Is she with you?" Gale asked. "Shadowheart sent me to find you both, the rest of us have all finished washing up! There's water left for you."

"That's what we're trying to do, Gale!" you called, reaching an arm through the waterfall and waving at him. "Use the water for something else, we'll make do here."

He harrumphed. "If I had known this was just a few minutes away from camp, I would have come to wash up here ages ago."

You and Astarion exchanged a look. So much for a secret getaway spot.

"Be back soon, or Karlach will start worrying," Gale said, in the tone of a chiding parent. "And no funny business!"

"Oh, shut up!" Astarion shouted, the tips of his ears turning a deep pink. He ducked behind the water again and holding you close. You barely held back your giggles while the two of you listened for Gale to walk away. One slipped out and Astarion hurriedly covered your mouth with his hand. You licked his palm and he pulled it away quickly. "You weirdo!"

You wrapped your arms around him and leaned into his chest. "Yes, but I'm your weirdo. You love me anyway."

Astarion pushed a strand of your wet hair behind your ear. "I love you anyway," he admitted, with a fondness that turned you into mush in his arms. He held you close for several moments, then asked, "Do you want me to continue?"

You thought about it, then shook your head. "Not just now. I suspect Karlach will be on her way to investigate the waterfall I didn't have the decency tell anyone about very soon."

"Very well," he said. "I'll finish you off later in my tent, then. As long as you can keep quiet for me, darling." He gave you that charming smile that made your stomach do flips.

"I thought you liked me loud," you teased.

Astarion rolled his eyes, playful and flirtation in such a comfortable way that it warmed your heart more than any of his touches ever could, delightful as they were. "Only when I have you all to myself, lover." He nipped at your neck, his fangs scratching but not breaking your skin. "Your moans are mine."

You stood together like that for several more moments, his hands on your hips and your arms looped around his neck, your foreheads pressed together. You exchanged dainty kisses, basking in each other in the few minutes left you had alone.

At last, you planted one firm, lingering kiss to his lips. "Let me clean you off," you said. "Though you're going to have to crouch for me to get your hair." Most of the blood and grime had been washed away by the waterfall's spray, but his silver hair was still speckled with it all, and you could taste it on his lips—sour and gritty. No wonder he only drank from goblins as a last resort.

Astarion bent his head down, pressing his forehead into your shoulder and holding you by the waist. You ran your fingers through his hair, scratching his scalp and smiling (but saying nothing) every time your touch managed to pull a soft whimper or moan from him without him realizing it.

You washed his body anyway, wiping away the remaining grime and massaging his muscles. You enjoyed the way he relaxed in your arms, quietly asking for more or less pressure.

"My back," he said, voice quiet and almost timid. "Can you...?"

"Are you sure?" you asked, frowning.

He nodded and turned in your arms, exposing his back to you. You started slowly, massaging his upper back and shoulders before working your way down, giving him plenty of time to tell you to stop if he needed to. But he leaned into your touch and responded with more of those gentle and timid—but happy—sounds.

You kissed the nape of his neck when you were finished, rested your head against his back, and wrapped your arms around his waist. His hands found yours and laced your fingers together.

"Thank you, my love," he said. "I've never... No one has ever done that for me before."

You hugged him tighter. "Any time you need me—I'm here. I will always be here." You stepped away and guided him out of the water with a hand. "Come on, we should head back."

The pair of you helped each other dress, though neither of you were wearing anything that required the help. You suspected Astarion just wanted to keep you close; when he got into his cuddly moods, it lasted for hours at a time. You would sleep wrapped up in your vampire's arms, safe and comfortable, tonight.

You were both pulling on your boots when Karlach found you.

"There you are!" she said. "Why didn't you tell us where you'd run off to?"

You shrugged. "I wanted the peace and quiet," you said honestly. "Besides, you all take forever to clean off."

Astarion snickered. "She's right about that."

Karlach sat on the moss, staring at the waterfall. "Well, you're right about one thing, soldier—this place is peaceful."

You hummed your agreement. "Yes. I'm glad we camped near it, or I never would have found it."

"How did you find this place?" she asked.

"Hunting," you said.

"Really? I assumed it must have been when you and Astarion sneak out so the rest of us can't hear you having sex." You choked on air and she laughed. "What? He found it easily!"

Astarion spluttered. "Because I could smell her!"

You sighed. "Karlach, we stopped sneaking off ages ago. We don't need to, we sleep in the same tent now. Rest assured, if anything is happening, it's happening silently and the rest of you are none the wiser to it."

"That doesn't make me rest assured."

You laughed. Astarion smiled at you, the kind of smile that made his eyes seem a little less dark and made you really remember that he was an elf.

"Well, I don't know about you two, but I'm going back to camp," he said. "I'm sure there's much to discuss about these...impertinent creatures who keep attacking us." He kissed your cheek and whispered into your ear, "I'll see you tonight, darling. What we do is up to you."

Before he could leave, you reached over and held his cheek, kissing him firmly on the lips. He smiled into it.

"Lovebirds," Karlach groaned, rolling her eyes, "will you please get a room?"

"The next time we stop at an inn—yes," Astarion said, winked at you, then disappeared into the woods.

You gulped. "I pity whoever is in the room next to us."

Karlach snorted. "I pity you and your poor cervix!"

"Karlach!" You splashed her with water and she roared with laughter.

"I'm kidding, I'm kidding! Only slightly."

You huffed, scooped up your weapons, and started back to camp. Karlach followed.

"I mean, in all honesty, you two were so loud that first time we all heard you at camp, even though you snuck away. Kept us all awake, but you sounded like you were having a good time. So clearly he's doing something right, but can you take all of that every time? You were walking with a limp the next morning—"

"Okay, let's change the subject," you said loudly, heat racing through your body. Remembrance pulsed through you again, ghostly touches and reminders of just how easily Astarion made you scream.

She giggled. Gods, she was spending too much time with you and Astarion; he was rubbing off on her. "Oh, yes, because what would poor Gale say if he heard?"

You rolled your eyes. "It's not Gale I'm worried about, it's Astarion. If he hears you, he's going to become insufferable."

"Isn't he already?"

You whacked her with the flat end of your sheathed dagger. She laughed, putting her hands up in surrender.

The others were cleaning up camp when you arrived, scrubbing blood from tents and carpets and hauling away corpses and severed limbs.

Gale waved when he saw you, then jerked his thumb toward Astarion. "Didn't he just wash?"

You looked over at your vampire, only to find him feeding on a goblin. He looked up at you and grinned sheepishly, a trickle of blood sliding out of his mouth and down his neck.

"I just washed him, actually," you said dryly. "Astarion, you aren't that messy of an eater. What on earth are you doing?"

"Oh, so now you deign to eat the goblins," Karlach scoffed.

He shrugged. "What? I'm hungry!"

You spluttered. "You could have just asked me!"

Astarion wiped his mouth with a feral grin. "Well, I'll keep that in mind later, darling." He winked at you and then blew you a quick kiss. He shoved the carcass into the woods and went into his tent, closing the flap behind him.

Gale sighed heavily before looking back at you. "That one. Are you sure you want to choose that one?"

"Yes, Gale, I want that one."

He shrugged. "Suit yourself."

~❊~

Night fell. One by one, the others retired to their tents. Only Karlach and Gale remained awake when you left the fire and slipped into Astarion's tent.

He was laying on his side, reading and drinking blood, the picture of leisure. He closed his book immediately when you laid beside him and pulled you flush against his body.

"There you are," he said, snuggling into your shoulder. "I was beginning to wonder if you were coming."

You reached up and dragged your fingers through his perfect curls. "You don't have to wonder about that ever, Star. As long as I live, I'll be coming home to you. Even if I have to crawl."

"Gods, I love you," he said, wrapping himself around you. You kissed the top of his head.

"I love you, too," you whispered. He sighed happily and cuddled into you, sliding one of his legs between your own and settling there. A few minutes later, you felt the pressure of his knee against your clothed crotch. "What are you doing, mister?"

He grinned at you, showing both fangs. "Finishing what I started," he said cheekily. He began undoing the lacing at the front of your pants. "Now, just lay still for me, dear. And please do your best to keep quiet—I'd hate to have to cover that pretty mouth with my hand. Again."

☞ ❊ ☜

[Image Caption: I do not give permission to repost, translate, or publish my work on any other site or app by anyone except myself. I do not give permission for my work to be fed into AI (for audio, art, or writing).]

Baldur's Gate 3 // Astarion Acunin

Taglist: {comment and let me know if you'd like to be added to the Astarion taglist!} @wayward-hel @cheeslyy @ofmyth-andmagicart @neetheslayer @whispering-depths @freesidexjunkie @lightsinmycity @the0ldmann @gobbodoggo @oooof-ifellforyou @beeblisss @fangboner @aquaarietes @fiercest-eigengrau-skies @niqhtfell @call-me-nyxx @lueji-m @ceres-xiv @tricksy-trinity @graynstairs @rosa-rubus @ynisthatyou

[paperultra]

HOME (TO THE OL’ BALL AND CHAIN)

(OR, THE PIÑA COLADA SONG)

Pairing: Chilchuck Tims x Fem!Chilchuck's Wife!Reader Word Count: 2,499 words Warnings: None Summary: Five years after leaving your first and only love, you take the plunge into the dating scene – and immediately regret it. Maybe you're too picky, but none of the men you go out with seem to fit the bill; they're too non-committal, or too eager, or too happy, or too sad, or simply just too much ... so after a particularly bad experience, your youngest makes a last-ditch effort to set you up on a blind date with someone who she insists deserves a chance. You reluctantly agree. read on ao3 | read on quotev

DATE #1: CASUAL LUNCH Estranged husband — 1 Estranged wife — 1 Everything left unsaid — as desired

There’s bacon grease on his shirt.

You can see it underneath his collar, round fingerprints staining the pale linen grey, and when he leans across the threshold into Fler’s home all you can think about is laundry day at the end of the week.

It would be rude to admit that out loud, though.

“Thank you for walking me home,” you say.

“When can I see you again?”

“I don’t know.”

Abelwood teeters forward still. “Well, don’t take too long, hear? You ain’t gettin’ any younger.”

Laughter erupts from the beer in his gut, and you laugh along with him. Abelwood is a rowdy drunk, you’ve learned, which is better than a cruel drunk or a lecherous drunk. It is not the kind of drunk that you are used to bringing home, even if he is only brought to the front door, but –

You smile, regardless.

“Goodnight,” you bid, closing the door inch by inch, your last bit of energy disappearing with the click of the lock.

You hold your breath. It takes three minutes and thirty-seven seconds for the man to leave your front doorstep, and you wait thirty more seconds after that to peek through the window, verifying that he is far enough away before resting your forehead against the door with a groan.

“Oh, boy.”

“I’m too old for this, Fler,” you mutter into the wood. “He was awful.”

Flertom lets out a sigh and closes the distance to squeeze you in a hug, pressing her cheek against your back like she’s done ever since she grew tall enough to do so. “I’m sorry, Mama,” she says.

“I’m sorry too.”

As you pat her hands and turn around to smile wryly at her, Puckpatti pipes up from the middle of the living room.

“He was a pig,” she exclaims. “Calling you by your first name! And he wasn’t even that handsome!”

“Looks aren’t everything, Puck,” you reply sharply, and she pouts, squeezing the lump of clay in her hands until it squishes out between her fingers. “He was a pig for the way he acted.”

“Well … that too.”

“He also smelled like one,” Fler says.

You detach yourself from your daughter to loosen the belt at your waist, frowning down at your dress and nice leather shoes. The dress feels just about as worn out as you do, the fabric soft and droopy from the humidity, the sunshine-yellow color less vibrant than it had been earlier this evening. The man had spilled beer on the floor of the bar and your shoes still look slightly sticky. Peeling them off just reminds you of the way he had laughed.

“Fler,” you say, “get me a wet rag, would you?”

“Sure, Mama.” Flertom turns to Puckpatti. “Puck, get a wet rag.”

“My hands are all dirty!” your youngest protests, showing her grey palms. “Mei’s closer to the water bucket.” She points to Meijack, who you now notice lingering by the kitchen.

Meijack blinks slowly, then silently fetches a rag, wets it, and brings it to you.

“Are you gonna keep trying, Ma?” she asks while you scrub the heel of your left shoe. “All these guys seem to be wasting your time.”

The chuckle that leaves your mouth is short and dry. “After this one, I don’t think so.” You glance up at your daughters and smile, straightening. “Maybe I should just take you all out on a girls’ date next time, huh? Forget about men for a little while.”

Meijack shrugs. Puckpatti nods eagerly.

“I just don’t know what’s wrong,” Flertom frets. “I’ve seen most of them at work before, and they seemed nice enough even when they were drunk …”

You shrug hopelessly and cross into the living room to sit on the couch. “Maybe it’s me.” As you lean back into the cushions, Meijack and Flertom join you on either side. “I’ve only ever been with one man my whole life. Maybe I don’t even know what I want …”

There’s a moment of silence. You look up at the ceiling of Flertom’s home, rubbing your temples and willing your frustration with yourself to not spill over while your daughters are watching. How embarrassing. Here you are, their mother, who is supposed to show them an example of a happy relationship, only for them to comfort you after another failed date. It should be the other way around. Half-foots don’t live long enough for things like this; your own mother had told you when you first left him that you should’ve just sucked it up.

Finally, Flertom speaks up. “Mama,” she starts, hesitant, and you look over to see her playing with her fingers, “Do you really want to date someone?”

“It’s been long enough, don’t you think?” you answer.

As you say so, a name resurfaces in your mind, unbidden, and the face that belongs to it. Your jaw tightens and you look down at your hands.

“Well … um … Papa wrote last week, and he said that he wanted to talk to you sometime. Just a little bit.”

Your tone hardens. “And what does that have to do with me dating, Fler?”

She flinches and her lips push out. “Come on, Mama! It’s been years, and after everything he went through, I really think he’s better now! Don’t you at least want to talk to him? You were so in love with each other before he started adventuring, and now that he’s retired from it …”

You hold your hand up, and her jaw clicks shut.

“I know what you’re getting at, Flertom,” you say quietly. “And right now is not the best time to bring up your father.”

Your daughter deflates, her cheeks rosy. “But –”

“I mean it.” Standing, you heave a deep breath and examine the cluttered workstation that Puckpatti had set up on the living room table. “Puckpatti, make sure to clean up after you’re done. I’m going to bed.”

While the girls mope, you head to your bedroom, doing your best to occupy your thoughts with work at the blacksmith’s tomorrow. You think about the chain mail you’re supposed to be making, the little metal rings to form and weave together, and hope they’re what you dream of, not self-absorbed dates or unwanted kisses.

You blame Flertom for the auburn hair and hearty laughs that plague your night instead.

—

A week later, Puckpatti accosts you as soon as you walk through the door.

“Mama, I found a man for you!”

“Oh?” you reply blandly, hand still clutching at your chest from having the living daylights scared out of it. “Who is it?”

“That’s a secret! But he’s really nice, I promise.”

Sighing, you remove your vest. “I don’t know, Puck. How did you meet him?”

“He bought one of my clay sticks.” You can’t stop yourself from frowning, despite your desire to support your daughter’s entrepreneurial spirit, and she giggles. “Oh, please, Mama, he didn’t believe my pitch. I think I just charmed him into buying it. He seems really clever!”

“Are you sure he wasn’t interested in you?”

She makes a disgusted face. “Eww! No, I told him about you and he seemed interested.”

“Oh, really?”

“Mama, you’re a catch. Of course he’d want to go on a date with you.”

“That’s sweet of you to say, honey.” You glance at her before heading to the kitchen to put away the bread and cheese you’d bought. “Is he a half-foot?”

“Maybe.”

“I thought I’d met all the half-foots in Kahka Brud.”

“Maybe he just moved here.”

She looks up innocently when you raise an eyebrow at her. “And you’re sure I’ll like him,” you drawl, more suspicious by the minute. (Of what, you’re not quite sure.)

“Positive.”

It is incredibly difficult, you think with equal parts pride and concern, to say no to your youngest daughter. It’s probably why you worry about her the most. “This is the last date I’ll go on, Puckpatti. It will be on you.”

Puckpatti cheers. She hugs you as you chuckle at her enthusiasm, jumping up and down. “Yay! I’ll get a time and day that’ll work best. It’ll be great! You’ll love him!”

“For your sake, I hope so.”

—

The day arrives with a mellow sun and clear sky.

You wear your green dress with the floral details, and Puckpatti picks a necklace to go along with it, a thin, simple one that you haven’t worn in years. Flertom does your makeup and Meijack does your hair.

And as you sit in a corner of the tavern fifteen minutes early, hands nervously clasped in your lap, you wonder, just as you have with every date prior, what you’ve gotten yourself into.

Maybe he won’t show up. It would be improper, and juvenile, but then you could go home and say that you did try. Your desire for a new romance has all but dwindled completely, and as you trace the scratches on the wooden table, you wonder if it was even a desire at all.

Footsteps approach from behind. You can tell they belong to a half-foot by the weight and sound – light and small – as they come around to the other side of the table. Your shoulders tighten. Forcing a smile, you look up.

Your heart promptly surges upward into your throat before plummeting to your toes.

Chilchuck gawks down at you, eyes wide. His mouth parts to utter your full name, and you feel your lungs squeeze at how it sounds coming from him, soft from years of disuse.

“You came,” he says.

“Chil – Chilchuck.” His name is ashy and sweet behind your teeth. “What are you doing here?”

He furrows his brow. “What do you mean? The girls said that you were willing to meet up.”

“No, I’m meeting with one of Puck’s customers.”

“What? That doesn’t …” he trails off, and the two of you seem to realize the same thing at the same time.

You bury your head in your hand as Chilchuck grits his teeth.

Those scheming …

“I’m sorry they dragged you into this,” you mutter as you get up from your seat, your voice cold and flat. “I’ll be going now.”

His head snaps up. “Going? But –”

You hurry past him, dodging the hand that you know has reached out for your own.

Home is a ten-minute walk away. You can clear your head in that time, then scold your daughters for meddling, though it’s partially your fault for not questioning Puckpatti about your supposed date more thoroughly. You just didn’t think that they would try something like this.

(Or that Chilchuck would bother to go along with it.)

You pull the door open with some effort and rush out into a downpour of rain.

Your hair gets drenched before you backpedal with a yelp. Pressing against the wall underneath the awning, you look out helplessly at the soaked streets, their gutters already filling with water and debris flowing down the incline. Is … is that a drowning rat?

The storm’s earthiness floods your nose, late in its prediction by half an hour. Just your luck.

You fumble with the clasp of your necklace to remove it, not wanting to get it wet. While you struggle, the tavern door creaks open behind you.

“So you don’t even want to talk. Even after all these years, you’re going to walk away again.”

“Do you know why I walked away the first time?” The damn thing won’t unhook. You scowl, the presence at your back making your usually nimble fingers clumsy.

“No,” Chilchuck says. “I don’t. Not for certain.”

“That’s why.” With each failed attempt to separate the rings, your fingertips grow sorer, your throat thickening. He’s too close. You hate how he’s watching you fail such a simple task. “You stopped knowing, Chilchuck. That’s why.”

Underneath the sharp sound of rain, you can hear his breath hitch, then quiet.

You bite your lip and let your arms fall to your sides, giving up on trying to take your necklace off. Your chest aches. You don’t want to cry in front of him.

“So, there, we talked like you wanted.”

He stops you before you can step out into the rain.

“Wait. What … what about your necklace?” he asks hesitantly, like it’s not what he really wants to say, but merely a way to stall for time.

This time, you look over your shoulder at him. “I’ll dry it real well once I get home,” you reply.

Chilchuck’s mouth presses into a fine line. He grabs the cloak folded over the crook of his elbow, and it is then that you notice the bouquet of blue and pink flowers in his other hand. The ache in your chest flares into a raw, pulsing hurt.

“I’m guessing you’d rather not have me walk you.” He speaks evenly, holding his cloak out towards you. “It’s not completely waterproof, but keep this over your head, at least …” his voice quiets, “please.”

Wordlessly, you take the garment from him. The inner lining is warm against your skin.

“I’m sorry,” he tells you. “For not knowing.” His fist tightens around the flowers, and he stares at you resolutely. “I want to again, if you’ll let me.”

Ah.

You swallow. “I … I don’t know.”

“It doesn’t have to be today. I can wait.”

Breaking eye contact and looking down, Chilchuck roughs his fingers through his hair, mussing it up. The cut is the same as it’s always been, auburn bangs thick and soft over his brow. And you recognize the shirt he’s wearing, a practical, clean wool shirt that you made some years ago. He’s taken good care of it.

It’s all the same. All the same, and yet, something that you can’t quite identify has changed.

You bring his cloak closer to your chest and bite your bottom lip.

“… Give me a week.”

His entire body loses its tension.

“Really?” He looks at you like he can’t believe it, and you avert your gaze, ears warming and moving back the slightest bit.

“Give me a week to decide,” you clarify. “Fler or Mei will let you know … this is really abrupt, after all …”

Chilchuck nods. “That’s fine!” he exclaims. “You didn’t know, so I understand. A week is – a week’s good.”

You nod back, hesitant.

The rain continues its heavy downpour.

“Right … well …” you turn slightly, casting him one last glance, “I’ll give your cloak back, regardless. Don’t get sick.”

“Okay. Stay … stay safe.”

With that, you wrap yourself in the thick fabric, rushing out of the safety of the awning. The run back home smells of woodsmoke and thyme, and when you open the door to three guilty daughters and three apologies, it lingers.

You hang his cloak near the fireplace. It’s evidence of a weak resolve that you stay until it’s dry, and even more damning that you know your answer long before it is.

[bat-mom-writer]

Rage and Redemption Part 2

Bruce Wayne X orphan(Female) Reader

Summary: months after losing your parents in a fire, you become a troublesome child for the workers at the orphanage. But one day Bruce Wayne comes to your orphanage to adopt you.

Rating: sad, angst, happy ending?

Part 1 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Bruce Wayne, dressed in a casual yet elegant suit, stepped out of his sleek black car, which purred softly as it came to a stop. Before him stood the orphanage, its ivy-covered bricks telling a story of neglect that starkly contrasted with his polished vehicle. He took a deep breath, his heart weighed down by the enormity of his decision. The cool air, tinged with the faint scent of charred wood from the fire that had devastated the nearby apartments, stirred painful memories. The image of the girl’s tear-stained face lingered in his mind, pushing him to move forward as he approached the building, filled with a sense of compassion and resolve.

As he walked up the familiar, well-worn steps, the door of the orphanage creaked open, unveiling a warm and inviting interior that contrasted sharply with the cold exterior he had just left behind. The joyful sounds of children’s laughter and chatter filled the air, creating a vibrant atmosphere that felt like a heartbeat amid the heavy silence he had endured since that fateful night. He gently closed the door behind him, the soft click echoing down the corridor. Approaching a kind grey-haired woman at a desk, he shared the reason for his visit, his smile reflecting a mixture of hope and nostalgia. In response, she offered him a warm and encouraging smile, guiding him toward Ms. Jenkins' office with genuine warmth, as though she understood the weight of his journey.

With a mischievous grin stretching across your face, you dashed down the dimly lit hallway of the orphanage, the sound of your footsteps echoing off the worn wooden floors. Your heart raced wildly in your chest, a mix of adrenaline and exhilaration coursing through you. In your grasp, you held tightly to a small purse, its fabric cool against your fingers, a prize you’d deftly snatched from Ms. Jenkins’ cluttered office, a thrill of rebellion sparking within you with each step.

A stern voice echoed behind you, but you refused to look back. You knew it was her, the one who had been pursuing you for what felt like an eternity. The click-clack of her heels grew louder, yet you were faster, driven by anger and an urgent need to break free from this place. You charged through the cafeteria, skillfully dodging tables and chairs as the other children stared at you in wide-eyed disbelief, their spoonfuls of oatmeal suspended in mid-air. The smell of burnt toast from the kitchen enveloped you, momentarily overpowering the usual stench of the orphanage.

You jumped onto the first table, the metal screeching under your weight. You kicked a plastic tray off the edge, and its contents splattered on the floor with a loud crash. The laughter of younger kids encouraged you as you moved from table to table, creating chaos. Trays clattered and food was scattered everywhere. You felt a rush of excitement, a feeling you hadn’t experienced since the fire took everything from you.

Ms. Jenkins’ shrill voice closed in, making it clear she was far from amused. The rapid clicking of her heels echoed as two imposing male staff members charged behind her. You could practically feel the heat of their breath on your neck. But as you approached the last table, you seized your moment. You took a determined running start and propelled yourself off the edge, targeting the exit of the cafeteria. The open floor loomed ahead, and freedom was within reach just as Ms. Jenkins and the two staff members rounded the corner, their eyes wide with shock and fury.

With a swift and powerful kick, you launched the last tray into the air, sending its colorful contents flying like a delicious, chaotic storm. As the food scattered across the floor, the three adults—each one heavyset and awkward—lost their footing on the slick surface, their arms windmilling wildly in a desperate attempt to regain balance. The burly men collided with one another, their bodies thudding together, which sent Ms. Jenkins toppling to the ground with a surprised yelp.

The delightful chaos sparked a wave of laughter and squeals from the circle of children nearby, their eyes wide and gleaming with a mix of delight and mischief. The entire scene unfolded like a scene from a live-action cartoon, a perfect blend of slapstick humor and unexpected absurdity, and you couldn't suppress a giggle at the hilarity of it all.

For a brief moment, everything around you seemed to come to a halt, as if time itself had decided to pause. The chaos of the chase morphed into an unexpected dance of slips and stumbles, each mishap adding a touch of humor to the frantic scene. With a surge of adrenaline, you seized the opportunity presented by their misfortunes and sprinted through the cafeteria's exit door. The cool breeze that greeted you felt refreshing against your skin, whispering promises of freedom and escape.

But as your sneakers touched the polished tiles of the hallway, a sudden collision interrupted your joyful laughter. You ran headlong into a wall of muscle and affluence—none other than Bruce Wayne himself. The impact knocked you back onto the floor, sending your purse skidding away from your grasp. Disorientation set in as you blinked up at him, his eyes wide with surprise at the unexpected encounter. Yet, amidst the initial shock, you noticed his expression soften as he recognized you.

“Hey, are you okay?” he inquires, his hand outstretched in an offer to help you up.

But you were quicker than he anticipated, weren’t you? The adrenaline coursing through your veins transformed you into a blur of motion, nimble and swift like a fox darting through a forest. You seized the purse from the cold, unforgiving floor and bolted toward the door, your heart pounding in your chest. The metal handle glinted in the dim light, tantalizingly close, as if it held the promise of liberation just beyond its threshold.

Freedom was merely a push away, an intoxicating invitation to the vibrant world outside that had been beckoning you for far too long. The smooth, cool surface of the handle felt like the key to a cage in which you had been trapped, yearning for escape and the sweet taste of the open air that awaited you.

Just as you were about to dash away, a hand—firm yet gentle—wrapped around your arm, bringing your frantic movement to an abrupt halt. Startled, you looked up to see Bruce Wayne's familiar face, his expression a mix of concern and determination as he kept you from making your escape.

"What are you running from?" he inquired, his voice steady and calm, cutting through the tension in the air. His grip tightened just enough to convey importance, not enough to inflict pain, but enough to signal that he wouldn’t relent easily.

"Let me go, dipshit!" you snarled, attempting to pull away from him, your eyes blazing with defiance. The purse was still in your hand, and you swung it around, ready to use it as a weapon if necessary.

Bruce's grip didn’t waver. His eyes searched yours for something beyond your hidden anger and fear. “I won’t let you get hurt,” he said, his voice firm yet kind.

Ms. Jenkins and the two male staff members stumbled into the hallway, their faces flushed with exertion and embarrassment from their fall. "There you are!" she exclaimed, her voice high-pitched from the effort of chasing you. She straightened her skirt, her eyes narrowing as she surveyed the scene before her: you, holding her purse, and Bruce Wayne, standing as an unexpected obstacle to her authority.

"Mr. Wayne!" she exclaims her voice a mix of surprise and urgency as her eyes flicker nervously between the designer purse you hold in your hand and the calm, unwavering determination etched on Bruce's face. "I sincerely apologize for this disturbance," she continues, her tone softening slightly as she takes a breath to steady herself. "This girl is quite a handful," she adds, casting a wary glance in your direction as if trying to gauge the situation. With a swift motion, she tilts her head toward the staff members nearby, her fierce expression conveying a clear message for them to take action and intervene.

In an instant, the two burly men grab your arms tightly and pull you behind Ms. Jenkins, wrenching the purse from your grip and spilling its contents on the floor. You struggle to break free and run for the exit, but their hold on you is unyielding.

Ms. Jenkins bends down, her nose in the air as she rummages through her purse, her eyes narrowed in accusation. She picks up a lipstick, then a set of keys, before her hand closes around a small, tattered photo of a family, its edges burned. The sight sends a jolt through her, and her expression softens for a moment as she looks at you, recognizing the pain. But quickly, her face hardens again.

"You know why you can't have this back," she says, her voice low and measured. She holds up the photo, the flimsy paper almost transparent from your constant touch. "You've caused enough trouble today, young lady."

Anger surges in your cheeks as her words pierce through you. That photo was the final fragment of your old life—the one before everything turned to ash and despair. It captured a moment of joy, with you, your mom, and your dad all smiling, the happiness you've yearned for since that fateful night. You wrench against the staff's grip, desperation flooding your voice. “It’s mine! Give it back!” you cry out, but Ms. Jenkins only tucks the photograph into her pocket, a painful reminder of the fire's merciless destruction.

"You'll only get it back when you learn to behave," she says, her voice icy and dismissive. Each word feels like a dagger to your heart, twisting deeper with every syllable. "Take her to detention for the night," she commands the staff, who nod and move to drag you away. You kick and scream, desperation clawing at your throat, but their grip is like iron, unbreakable. Their faces are as hard and unyielding as the prison bars that seem to loom closer with each step, leaving you feeling utterly powerless and frightened.

As you are taken away, you catch a glimpse of Bruce’s face, his brow furrowed and eyes filled with concern. For a moment, you see a flicker of anger aimed not at you, but at Ms. Jenkins. That brief comfort vanishes, replaced by dread as you leave the only person who has shown you kindness since the fire.

Ms. Jenkins looks at Bruce as the two staff members take you to detention. She straightens her skirt and smooths her hair, regaining her usual authoritative stance. "I'm sorry you had to see that," she says, her voice overly sweet. "We have rules for a reason. She's a troublemaker, that one."

Bruce nods, his eyes fixed on you as you turn the corner. He can feel the anger radiating from you—a fierce intensity that he knows well, one that drives his nightly battles as Batman. He fully understands the pain of loss and the unwavering need for justice that comes from witnessing the suffering of the innocent.

Ms. Jenkins clears her throat, regaining his attention. "Not that you're not welcome here, Mr. Wayne, but is there something specific you were looking for?"

He nods, his eyes still lingering on the spot where you had disappeared. "Yes," he clears his throat, "I am looking to adopt."

The words linger in the air, heavy with meaning. Ms. Jenkins’ eyes widen in surprise, and for a moment, she is speechless. Then she smiles broadly, clasping her hands. "How wonderful!" she exclaims. "We’re thrilled to have people like you offer homes to our children. They need someone like you to give them a chance at a better life."

Bruce nods, his eyes never leaving hers. "I'm interested in her," he says, pointing down the hallway where you were taken.

Ms. Jenkins' smile weakens as she glances back, expecting to find someone there, but finds the hallway empty, save for the distant echoes of your protests. "Who?" she inquires, her tone a bit less pleasant than before.

Bruce maintains his steady gaze on her and responds with clarity, "I’m referring to the girl you just sent to detention—the one you were chasing."

Ms. Jenkins' smile fades into a strained grimace before she quickly recovers. "Ah, her. She's quite a handful, I'm afraid. She's still adjusting to the loss of her parents in the fire, you see. It's been quite a challenge for us to manage her grief and behavior. Would you be interested in another child?" she suggests, her voice saturated with insincere kindness.

But Bruce's mind is made up. With a firm expression on his face, he shakes his head and declares, "No," his voice is steady and resolute. "It's her."

Ms. Jenkins' eyes narrow, and she crosses her arms over her chest. "Mr. Wayne, I must advise against that. She's a very… troubled child. She's been through a lot, and it's affected her in ways we're still trying to understand. She's prone to outbursts, theft, and violence. We've had to restrain her more than once."

Bruce's jaw clenches, but his gaze remains unwavering. "I understand she's been through a traumatic experience, and she needs guidance. I believe I can provide that for her."

“I’m sorry, Mr. Wayne,” she says, her voice suddenly cold as ice, “but she’s not even on the list of children available for adoption.”

Bruce's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "What do you mean she's not on the list?" he demanded, his voice firm with confusion and determination.

Ms. Jenkins' smile shifts into a smug smirk. "Exactly, Mr. Wayne. She is not suitable for adoption at this time."

But Bruce isn't one to be deterred. He reaches into his inner pocket and pulls out a sleek black checkbook. "Twenty thousand," he says, his voice steady, "she's on the list."

Ms. Jenkins' eyes widen at the sight of the checkbook, and for a moment, a greedy expression crosses her face before she quickly regains her composure, adopting a professional demeanor. "Mr. Wayne, I appreciate your generosity, but it's not that simple. The welfare of the children here must be our top priority."

Bruce's hand hovers over the checkbook, the pen ready to sign. "Fifty thousand," he says simply, the words slicing through the tension like a knife.

Ms. Jenkins glances around the empty hallway, seemingly wary of being caught. The distant laughter from the cafeteria fades away. She licks her lips, and her greed is evident. "Why don’t you and I talk more in my office?" she whispers conspiratorially, nodding toward her door, its nameplate glinting in the fluorescent lights.

"Thank you, but I would like that picture back," Bruce says firmly, holding out his hand with his palm up, expecting the family photo.

Ms. Jenkins hesitates, her eyes flicking from the checkbook. "Mr. Wayne, I must insist that the photo stays with us for now," she says, her voice a delicate balance of greed and authority.

Bruce's eyes narrowed, a steely glint reflecting his determination, as he slowly tucked the checkbook back into his pocket. "First, the picture," he repeated, his voice a low, menacing rumble that reverberated off the walls and sent an uneasy silence down the hallway.

Ms. Jenkins lets out a heavy sigh, her shoulders sagging with the weight of her emotions. With a subtle, trembling hand, she reaches into her pocket and withdraws a worn photo, its edges frayed with time. She places it gently into Bruce's outstretched palm, the paper warm from her touch. To you, it feels like a lifeline—a precious remnant of a past that has been shattered beyond recognition.

As Bruce gazes down at the image, the fierce anger that once burned in his eyes begins to dissolve, giving way to a profound sadness that reverberates in the depths of your own heart. It’s a shared grief, one that has lingered like a haunting shadow since the day of the fire. Carefully, Bruce tucks the photo into his pocket, the corners peeking out like a fragile promise, a glimmer of hope amidst the overwhelming darkness.

“Thank you, please lead the way,” he says, his tone firm and a winning smile on his lips.

Ms. Jenkins nods, her arrogance fading as she realizes she must comply with Bruce. She turns and walks down the hallway, her heels clicking against the floor.

Bruce trails behind, his eyes fixated on the very spot where you were forcibly taken from him. The memory lingers in the air like a haunting specter, as he can almost hear the anguished echo of your cries—each one a desperate plea that pierced through the silence. He recalls the raw urgency in your voice as you begged for the one thing that could provide even a flicker of solace in this cold, heartless world. A tight knot of anger and determination forms in his chest. He vows, with unyielding resolve, that he will never allow anyone to strip that comfort away from you again.

Part 3

[consultingskeletondetective]

Virginal, chapter 4

You're given a rare day off from work to recover from your wounds, both physical and emotional, trying to process what the hell was happening to you and what your life had become.

You were Michael's play thing now, and it wouldn't be long before the shape came looking for more fun.

masterlist ❤️🖤 ao3

chapter tags: serial killer, murder, death, violence, blood, gore, weapons, knife, female reader, non con, stalking, forced orgasms, choking, squirting

Three days this time. 

Three, for crying out loud, wasn’t Michael meant to be a patient man?

You woke late on the third day. It was a rare Saturday where you weren’t working, all to yourself, you already had messages from your friends asking if you wanted to go out that night, and a few messages from a dating site you’d absentmindedly joined a while ago. You pointedly ignored those. Infact, you left your whole phone on the bedside table as you went into the bathroom after you woke up. It was nearly midday by then, and you'd rewarded yourself with a lie in. Those were few and far between anyway, but then you were generally exhausted these days.

You rolled your eyes, you had no idea why.

You stripped out of your nightclothes and left them in a messy pile on the floor by the bath, no matter how many words you’d had with yourself to leave them in the laundry hamper you’d bought for exactly this reason. You turned the shower on and waited a few minutes for the temperature to even out, and you were just about to step under the running spray when you caught a glimpse of yourself in the slowly steaming bathroom mirror.

Your legs were a mottled mess of aggressive bruises. You’d thought that black and blue was a phrase that people threw around but now you knew that it was irrevocably true. Your body was a canvas of pain and destruction. You watched your own hand travel to your throat, it was still sore from where Michael had stuck his cock down it a few days before.

You shivered at the memory, the pain and the way you couldn’t breathe, like it had burned itself into your mind. 

You wondered if this was his method of killing you - to put so much strain and stress on your body that it simply gave out. Perhaps it was simply an experiment. Michael definitely seemed to enjoy it, otherwise he wouldn’t keep coming back for more. 

Your thoughts were blank as you showered, it was almost as if it was your minds way of protecting you from the dark thoughts that seeped black ink into the grey matter of your brain, staining you dark just like him. Michael was leaving his own sickly imprint on your body with every cruel fuck.

You wrapped a freshly laundered towel around yourself, not bothering to dry your skin anymore than that. It was a warm day and you didn’t mind the chill on your wet skin as you walked into the kitchen.

The kitchen was alight with sunbeams streaming in through the gaps in the closed blinds, highlighting the dust particles dancing in the air. The plaque of wood you’d fixed temporarily to cover the hole in the glass left by Michael’s fist cast a grim shadow across the otherwise pleasant day. You planned on fixing the door yourself - it wasn’t like you were going to tell your landlord that a murderer had made child’s play out of your double glazing with his bare fist - but honestly you had no idea about glass or doors.

This was what men were for, you thought absentmindedly, perhaps you’d ask Michael to take a look at it the next time he dropped by.

You smirked at the absurd thought as it crossed your mind before your smile promptly dropped. You really were going mad, weren’t you? Maybe Michael hadn’t escaped at all, maybe he was just a figment of your crazy imagination, or maybe you were locked up next door to him in Westbrook Sanitarium. 

You opened your fridge door and spied a bottle of Chenin Blanc you’d bought for this very weekend, wondering briefly if midday was too early to start drinking, but then you figured that if anything were to drive you to it, then your new friend was.

You hadn’t made your mind up when your kitchen went dim, like someone had turned the brightness down on the sun, and you frowned to yourself. It was rarely sunny in your hometown and you were enjoying the temporary reprieve from the cold and rain, but now it looked like it was turning back to your regular scheduled programme of overcast grey skies.

You closed the fridge, one hand wrapping around the knot at the top of your towel to keep it secure, as you turned to the back door.

Oh fuck.

It wasn’t the clouds that had blocked out the sun, it was Michael.

You couldn’t see him clearly through the blinds, but his bulky silhouette casting a dark shadow over your kitchen floor was enough.

Fear shot through your spine and you backed off, nearly tripping and stumbling over your own feet. You couldn’t, not again, you couldn’t take him again, fuck, fuck, fuck.

You glanced towards your only exit, the door to the living room, before remembering how well that went last time. 

“Just leave me alone!” You screamed foolishly at the door, and the monstrous presence that lurked behind it. “You sick fuck! I don’t want this, just fucking go away!”

You supposed it was your distance from Michael that made you so brave, the door between you giving you some sort of power that you knew you didn’t really have.

Your screams were silenced with a deadly ferocious crunch of wood as your back door shuddered dangerously, another thud and a large crack appeared in the wood, your door creaking and dipping, hanging on for dear life by the aged metal hinges fixing it to the doorway, the wood splintering at the edges. You screamed again at this inhuman knocking, before another blood-curdling blow came, and then another, rattling the door, the frame, the walls and all you could do was sob and watch as the metal hinges gave out and bent inwards, screws spitting out onto the floor, and then the entire door was loose and falling, slamming into your kitchen lino with the same death rattle as Gulliver being slain.

Michael stood in the doorway, his bare hands poised in front of him as if he were preparing for a fight. His knuckles, you could see, were torn and bloodied, from pulverising your door to the ground, no doubt.

Your stomach jumped into your throat at the sight of him bleeding, before he was marching into your home again. His heavy footfalls creaked the wood of the door at his feet that he was walking over, until the glass of the backdoor was cracking under his boots, then he stepped off of the door and onto your lino, stopping in front of you.

He lowered his hands to his sides again, unclenched and unflustered, and merely peered down at you with a slight cock of the head, as if it was no bones to him that he’d just torn your door down - unphased by something it would take a team of men and power tools to accomplish.

You shivered in your towel, were you crying? You didn’t know anymore. Your cooling skin felt like it was being burned by Michael’s close proximity with the heat that broiled off of him. Hell fire.

You glanced up at him with fearful eyes and your voice came out shaky: “I - I should give you a key so you st-stop bre-breaking th-things.”

He cocked his head from one side to the other as he regarded you through those empty eyes of his devoid mask, as if trying to decipher a foreign language you were speaking to him in. 

You blinked, now you could feel the hot tears on your cheeks.

“Just kill me, please,” you begged softly. “I can’t live like this. I don’t know what you think I can give you, but I can’t, please just let me go.”

You didn’t know what you were asking for, to be honest, your brain just went to mush around Michael like it always did. You just wanted whatever this was to stop, so you didn’t have to feel all this guilt and regret anymore. Your stomach felt hollow just at the thought of never having his thick fingers around your throat again, or his thick cock stretching you open, but you didn’t care. 

You closed your eyes against him, trying to expel the heinous thoughts from your mind that ignited those animalistic and wrong urges inside you. He was a murderer. He murdered innocent people. Why couldn’t you get that through your thick skull? Maybe you deserved to di-

A solid brick hand around your throat made your eyes fly open again, meeting Michael’s mask. He was closer to you now, his back bowed to reach down to you, his heavy breathing faster and harder than before, as if angry with you for closing your eyes against him. He wanted your full attention and he took it. You will look at me, little girl, you’re mine.

Both of your hands shot up to grasp at his wrist and you shuddered when your fingertips didn’t even touch each other. You tugged uselessly at him, but it only made your own muscles flex. He just stared at you as you tried to wrench his hand away from your neck, as if slyly asking, are you done yet, with a tilt of his head.

“Please, let me go.” You gasped. Michael wasn’t cutting off your oxygen, not as much as you knew he could, but your voice still came out raspy.

Michael’s only answer was that heavy breathing, loud in the otherwise quiet room. He was utterly still as he held you firm against the fridge, but you caught a shadow dancing across the sunbeams that were streaming in freely now through the open cavity of your kitchen and then those bloody knuckles of his free hand were pressed against your collarbone and his thick fingers were curling hot around the knot of your towel.

You wailed when he ripped it from you, letting the sodden fabric hit the floor disinterestedly as he took a step closer to your now completely naked body, utterly bared for him. Michael’s large back protected you from the spirals of chilly air coming in through the hole he’d made in the back of your house but you shivered all the same. His heat crowded you as he stood closer still, his mask hovering just above your forehead, head cast down so you could feel the cool rubber against your hairline, his metronomic breathing was the only sound.

Michael’s hand flexed on your throat, almost as if in warning of what would happen if you even tried to move. You stifled your cry and bit your lip as you swallowed your own tears, feeling more afraid and more vulnerable than you’d ever felt around him, naked and exposed like this. 

Michael pressed his rough and calloused palm against the soft flesh of your belly and you let out a low moan, expecting it to hurt and you were surprised when it didn’t, except for the drag of hardened flesh of course. It was an experimental touch, flat-palmed and curious. You trembled. 

Michael watched his own hand as he dragged it up your side, rough and tickling, hot and heavy until every hair on your body stood up, tingling in the wake of his rough, killing hands on you. 

He paused when his fingertips pressed against your ribs, he didn’t need to pick a left or right side, his hand settled comfortably around your entire rib cage. You imagined he was weighing up how easily he could close his hand, crushing your ribs inwards until they pierced your own heart. You wondered how many people he’d done that to and felt panic rise in you like bile.

Michael finally moved his hand and cupped your breast. 

You let out a breathy exhale. His skin was hot and rough against your tender flesh there. Your head span, your nipples peaking to attention, your insides soaking yourself. 

He waited like that for longest moment, maybe even minutes as he just stared silently before finally giving your soft and vulnerable breast an experimental squeeze.

“Oh, fuck,” you moaned quietly.

He wasn’t listening to you, but then how would you know, as he ran his whole palm over your breast, grazing the stiffened peak of your nipple with his calloused flesh and you gasped loudly. The sensitive sensation went straight to your clit and you trembled.

You were utterly frozen, caged in a murderer’s hands as he tried and tested the most vulnerable nerve endings in your body, and all you could do was take it. You didn’t know if it was actually possible to come like this, but your desperately clenching cunt was giving it a damn good try.

Michael’s mask moved stiffly, finding your face again, and he kept his head bowed so he was level with your gaze, as if studying your face, as he dragged his palm across your nipple again and you bit your lip, your cheeks scarlet with blood as you stifled your moan.

Your body wriggled. You’d always been particularly sensitive there, it was a sensation you wanted more of and was too much for you to handle. 

He flexed his fingers around your throat, tightening incrementally but you didn’t know what that meant, you didn’t know what he wanted from you so you kept silent and still. 

He dropped his hands from your breast and your throat and you barely had time to take a breath in before you felt his fingers curling around the backs of your thighs until he was scooping you up, quite literally lifting you into the air.

You gasped at the suddenness of it before tucking your legs around his waist to stop yourself from falling. Your hands, once gripping his wrist, worked on instinct alone and you wrapped your arms around Michael’s neck for support as your fingers linked together and your whole front was pressed snug against him, your head in the crook of his neck.

You could smell him like this, the heat and dirt and copper of blood. You could feel him against your cheek, just a single strip of human, male flesh where his boilersuit met his mask and your whole body shuddered against him.

His hands were solid under your ass, holding you tight against his body as he took you from the fridge and walked the pair of you away from the kitchen and into the living room. 

You couldn’t guess why he was moving you, maybe he didn’t want an audience with the door off or maybe he just liked fucking you on the couch.

You trembled even as you clung to him, unsure as always of what was going to happen to you, if you were going to make it out alive this time, all you knew was that you were at his mercy. 

You could feel the heat and pressure of his solid cock, pinned against your core and sodden with your wet cunt pressed against it, wetting the dark blue of his boiler suit to black with your desperate desire.

He stopped in the middle of the living room where your coffee table used to be and you were grateful for his large hands curled under you. Your arms and thighs were beginning to strain under the effort of clinging to such a thick body, he was quite literally about three times the size of you, and your legs weren’t meant to spread that far. Michael made them spread as far as he wanted. 

He tilted his hands and your whole body followed, tumbling back slightly in his grip and your forearms tightened a little around his neck in response. You were face to face with him this way, well, face to mask. In any other situation, if you were a normal couple, this would be the part where he kissed you. But you weren’t and he didn’t.

You dipped slightly when he adjusted his grip on you before he steadied you again and good christ why was that so hot? The cocksure flex of his fingers like he knew he wasn’t going to drop you, it made your body flush with heat.

You realised what he’d done then, transferred your body weight to one hand so his other could drag his zip down, which was quite a feat, really, with you pressed against his front like you were. That must have been why he tipped you back, to make that room for himself. 

Not that you cared even a little bit as that sliver of pale flesh came into view. For one mad second you wanted to push the fabric aside and see him, but you knew you were going mad, and that you’d be dead before you even tried. 

Then Michael’s cock was in his fist and you lost all sense completely. It was thick, hard, his head red and sopping and twitching in his mammoth grip and he pumped himself in his hand just once. Your mouth fell open as molten lava flooded your core just at the sight before he was adjusting his hand under you once more and running his head through your soaking wet folds.

His cock glistened with your need for him until it dribbled down his hot shaft and wetted his balls. 

You tried to breathe steadily. You wanted to close your eyes, or maybe bury your head back between the crook of his neck, but you couldn’t look away from the way he fucked his cock against you before he sunk inside, like he was enjoying the foreplay, and it was the single hottest thing you’d ever seen. 

Your hole was quivering entirely of its own volition, desperate to be stuffed and fucked and he knew it, he was playing with you, watching for your reaction as he slipped his crown up and inside you and your eyes rolled. 

He kept you speared just on the thick and unforgiving head of his cock as both hands cupped your ass again, keeping you utterly immobile as you clenched uselessly and deliciously on just the tip - you wanted desperately to beg for more but you just couldn’t, not to Michael, not to a murderer.

He seemed more patient with you today than he had been before, more exploratory, like he was testing your body’s limits and reactions. You hardly knew why, maybe he just didn’t want to accidentally kill his favourite wet hole.

His devoid mask was inches from your face and if he wasn’t wearing it then you’d have felt his breath fanning over your lips.

His fingers gripped the meat of your ass and the familiar sparks of pain made you sigh, before he began lowering you down on his cock.

Oh, fuck, yes, your mind gasped at your descent, as Michael stretched you obscenely around the fucking steel rod he called his cock, sliding inch after inch wetly into you, his weight and heat and girth carving up your insides like a pumpkin on halloween. 

Your legs tightened around his waist and one of his hands inched up, pressing the small of your back firm against him while his cock twitched and jerked, fully seated inside you. Your mouth fell open as your head tipped back, you’d swear you’d never had him so deep before. It felt dangerous , like any minute shift from either of you might tear your insides. It was worth it, it was so fucking worth it, he felt so fucking good that you might die anyway if he didn’t move.

Michael tilted your hips and your thighs responded by clinging even more pitifully around his broad waist. Every shift inside of you felt like fire, felt like breathing again after days of being under water.

Your cunt squelched audibly around his cock and you winced, fear thrumming through you and adding to your arousal as Michael tipped you back. You envisioned your back crashing to the floor and at this height? Something would break.

Then hot and large hands were curling around your hips, holding you steady and you let out a little breath, your eyes fixed to Michael’s hollow mask eyes as your heart hammered. He began to move your hips up and down, bouncing you on his solid cock and every upward thrust drove him up into your guts.

Guh, fuck, your head tipped forward into his neck, your whole body trembling as he fucked up into you. Michael’s body was utterly immobile, a solid mass, a shape, servicing himself inside your weeping cunt with every brutal bounce of your hips.

Your eyes fluttered at the mixture of pain and pleasure, both one and the same, and the lightning in your nerve endings. Cradled like this in his large hands, your tits bounced with every one of his thrusts and you waited in embarrassment for when his mask tipped down to watch but it never did, it just stayed on you,

Tight to his pelvis like this, you could feel every vein of his cock as he slid into you, and the fat head splitting you open from the insides, making room for himself in your small body. Your wet folds kissed his black pubic hair as he pulled you down on him over and over again with that same steady rhythm that managed to be calm and aggressive all at the same time. He went as he always did, like a machine, the stamina of a teenager and the control of a middle-aged man. He was everything, both, nothing, all at the same time.

You tipped your head back as your cunt clenched and your stomach rolled, thighs quaking - you didn’t know what ripped it from your throat but rip it did -

“Michael, I’m going to come.”

Suddenly, the pressure between your legs became intense as the piston of Michael’s hips sped up until he was ramming inside you. You could hardly tell if he was thrusting in and out anymore, it was just a hard and fucking amazing feeling of fullness. 

You couldn’t help it when your mouth curved into a silent cry and you came hard on Michael’s cock, your fresh spend copious and spurting around his thick length, flying eveyrwhere with how hard and fast he was fucking into you.

Your eyes actually crossed as he kept his brutal pace, hurtling you over the edge once again in a matter of seconds and the feeling of your release being fucked from you was glorious, it made your entire body quake.

The noise you made was loud and hardly ladylike as pure animalistic pleasure was ripped from you. Michael didn’t react, not in any discernible way and somewhere in your subconscious, because your conscious was having its brains fucked out, you realised that you weren’t being punished for making noise. Instead you rode out orgasm after orgasm, coming pitifully on this beast’s cock over and over as he didn’t falter for a second and you had no choice as you were forced to clench and squirt and shiver until you couldn’t think straight, no, you couldn’t think at all.

Your vision was hazy and your head was swimming, nothing in your mind but hot fierce coming pleasure as you eased your forearms down Michael’s neck a little, not realising until you’d done it that you were searching for and then gripping the seam of his exposed flesh with your fingers, shuddering under the warmth of his hot skin.

He stepped closer to you, bringing your hips down against his, until that space between your torsos disappeared and your bare and sweat-soaked chest was rubbing against the unforgiving material of his boiler suit with every measured rut into you. Your nipples rubbed cruelly against the fabric and you winced and shivered as your hitherto untouched clit trembled and kissed Michael’s solid abdominal muscle.

You buried your head where your hands were, and you sobbed as you came again, the new sparking sensations running tight through your body forcing you indelicately over the edge again. The rubber of Michael’s cool mask pressed into the seam of your neck, that loud breathing right against your ear and you whimpered.

The rub of his boiler suit against your cunt was unforgiving, scraping your clit in a way that was almost painful. You didn’t think, your animal brain zeroed down as you let one hand leave his neck and trail between your tight bodies until the pad of your finger found your clit. It was hard and aching, ready for the attention it had been so cruelly denied for the last few weeks, and you shuddered as a gentle rub made your eyes flutter and your cunt clench deliciously on the big cock inside you, this new and intense orgasm making you dribble onto Michael’s collar.

You yelped a little unexpectedly as your body dropped, but then Michael’s hand was framing your ass again and you breathed as you rolled your hips against him, your hand pressed protectively against your still twitching clit.

Michael’s large hand framed yours, his fingers pressing messily against your spent cunt and you squeaked as you felt his calloused fingers rubbing hard against your clit in a poor and heavy-handed imitation of what you’d just done to yourself. You winced as pleasure shot through you, too over-sensitive to feel anything other than intense, and your fingertips found the bones of his wrist, not so much to pull him away but more to hold on for dear life as he rubbed sloppily against your poor, used clit and your cunt squeezed his still moving cock as your hand reflexively squeezed his wrist and you came sharply and painfully, clamping down on him until a deep exhale caught your attention and Michael stilled, holding you tight against him as his cock erupted a gallon of burning seed into your used core. 

You blinked slowly, overwhelmed, grip not loosening on his wrist as you felt your exhausted head spin. The feel of Michael’s heartbeat under your fingertips accompanied your descent into darkness.

The world came back to you slowly, like strips of colour entering your vision as your heavy eyelids blinked open. You floated aimlessly on the edge of consciousness for a few moments before your mind re-entered your body and you groaned, feeling every sore and pained inch of it. You were still naked, and still damp from your shower, but you were rested wonkily on your couch like a cadaver in a horror movie.

You sat up with a frown, muscles stiff, trying to remember when you’d passed out. Your thighs were stuck together with the creamy white mess of Michael’s come and the memory of the herculean beast bouncing you on his cock came back to you with a flash and your eyes fluttered.

It was still light outside, so you reasonably couldn’t have been out for very long, but you couldn’t see or hear Michael anywhere. You made your way cautiously upstairs to retrieve a nightshirt and pull it over your head for decency, and for the chill that was beginning to sit deep in your bones. Michael wasn’t up here either.

He must have left, you thought, like last time, as soon as he’s done with you.

You walked, bow-legged and shaky, back into the kitchen, definitely after that wine now.

The first thing you noticed was a hammer on the countertop, which was weird, primarily for the fact that you were fairly sure you didn’t own one. The second thing was that the door was no longer on the floor, which you’d completely forgotten about, but rather it sat wonkily back in the door frame with heavy screws brutally nailed through it until the heads were at odd angles. Regardless, the door was back in its frame, haphazard but sturdy. You walked slowly towards it like it might jump out and attack you. It creaked a little as you swung it open onto the empty street, but open it did. 

Huh, your startled brain chipped in, as was often its way lately, at the most inopportune moments, Michael really did know about doors.

[cheollipop]

Yo you're so right about Wooyoung's nose. Wanna ride it 🤧

HNNNNGHHHH DON'T EVEN DO THIS TO ME RN IT'S ONLY NOON

(also may or may not have dedicated an oral scene to riding wooyoung's nose in this bc of how hard I was brainrotting—shameless promo ahem ahem)

no bc it's curved just right?? just imagine him being so desperate all day, pacing around the living room, dusting the shelves, testing out his baking skills—all to distract himself from thinking about the taste of you on his tongue while you finished up your back-to-back meetings in the room only three meters away from him. imagine you finally getting a break, trudging to the kitchen while stretching out your sore back to find wooyoung carrying a tray of cookies, the oven mitts you'd gifted him last christmas shielding his palms from the heated metal.

those same mitts now on the floor, you found yourself with your back flat against the dining table, your bottoms discarded somewhere behind the man between your legs, lapping at your cunt as though it was his last meal. two fingers found their way inside you, the back of your head colliding with the stained wood when the tongue previously flicking over your clit slid down to catch the arousal gushing out of you, now replaced by the curved slope of wooyoung's nose. your legs constricted around the sides of his head, a veined hand gripping your inner thigh to spread you open for him again. 'taste so good,' his words vibrated over your folds, 'wish I could do this all day,' and he'd purposely nuzzle his nose into your throbbing clit, moving the rounded tip from side to side before sliding down to pass the bridge over your sensitive nub. his fingers pounded into you, curling into your walls to hit the spongy spot that made your back arch, your hips rolling frantically to meet his thrusts as a sweet melody of moans sent violent waves of arousal straight to his cock—pressed against the grey material of his sweatpants, precum forming a dark spot around his crotch.

the familiar squeeze of your walls around his fingers alerted him of your impending orgasm, a whispered 'ride my nose, baby,' enough to turn your vision white, desperate moans rolling off your tongue as you pressed your feet to the edge of the table, urgently chasing your orgasm over the slope of wooyoung's nose. you came with a broken cry, the pads of his fingers prodding against your g-spot as he guided you through your high, gliding his nose over your swollen clit once, twice, before moving off to flick it with his tongue, the corners of his lips curling at the violent spasms shaking your body.

moving off you, he wrapped his arms around your upper thighs to pull you towards him, pressing his softening cock to your spit-soaked folds, a pool of his cum soaking through the thin fabric. the rough material rubbed over your overstimulated cunt, breathing out a soft moan as you fixated on the content smile gracing wooyoung's features—having came in his pants to the mere feeling of you riding his nose.

(haha, ha. HAHA. feeling so sane rn)