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anomaly-hivemind · 5 months ago

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Tangled Up ☆ Naga x Reader | Kinktober Day 25

Summary: You just wanted to camp out and explore the jungle, but apparently, something wanted to explore you as well.

Word Count: 2098

Tags: fem reader, double penetration, monster, naga, cunnilingus, slight perversion, reader depravity, tongue fucking, face fucking, face sitting, sixty-nining, power bottom reader, bondage (in a way), creampie, vaginal and anal penetration

I was going on a camping trip, it was going to be just me, myself, and the great outdoors all alone with nothing but trees and wildlife. My biggest dream is to find some once-in-a-lifetime thing. But for now, I just wanted to have a peaceful outing without city distractions. I had a book bag or two full of everything I could have possibly needed for half a week in the forest.

I was hiking up the mountain, seething in personal regret that led me to be out there as if it wasn't by free will. Maybe I should have worked out a couple of weeks in advance of this trip; maybe then I wouldn't have felt like death was wrapping its bony fingers around my legs. Everything hurts, I would turn around if I wasn't already so far in; it would be too much work. The better plan is to walk towards the nearest clearing and camp there for half a week. Thankfully, it wasn't that far off when I found a clearing. It was a nice mossy ground with a bunch of trees surrounding it; I couldn't have gotten luckier.

It takes about an hour to set up everything, and now I feel like I learned a little nap.

…………………………………………………………………

I woke up to shuffling noises outside my tent… was it some kind of wild creature like a leopard? Or maybe it was another person? Regardless, you grabbed your machete, carefully unzipped your tent, and peered outside. Your eyes widened at what you saw. It was a naga, like straight out of fantasy novels or a movie.

He was big, around fifteen feet from what you could see, with small, rounded black scales covering his tail and some scales scattered here and there blended nicely with his dark gray skin. There were some on his hands that reached up to his upper wrists, back, and shoulders that seemed like they might be useful for defense, but then there were others on his collarbone, cheeks, and under his eyes, that seemed… to enhance appearance. Perhaps it was a part of attracting a mate? Of course, you didn’t know for sure; after all, you weren’t a naga, and this was a whole new species! It was exactly what you were hoping for.

He tilted his head to the side as he looked at my Dutch oven over the put-out campfire curiously, which allowed me to see his scaled and pointed ears, which were previously hidden behind his medium-length honey-colored hair.

He shifts around the area of your campsite. Messing and looking at all the stuff that you left out. His jaw unhinged as he began lowering one of your overnight cameras into his mouth.

“Wait a minute, that's not food!” You said abandoning the safety of your tent and jumping out to stop him. His slitted pupils shifted over to you. Suddenly you were feeling a lot more nervous than before, You clutched your machete tighter, ready for anything to happen. Snakes only attack when feeling threatened or when hunting, based on the fact that he was about to eat your camera you guessed that he was a bit hungry, hopefully not for you.

“A human?” He said slithering towards you. He circled around you, inspecting you curiously and you turned with him. Rule number one of dealing with creatures in the wild is to never turn or back to them. However you didn’t notice that he now had you trapped in the circle of his tail.

“You’ve encountered humans before?” You asked for a hint of excitement in your voice and maybe a bit of fear.

“One. tried to kill me. I kill him. Then eat, not good.” He spoke, and his words caused A bit of shock in you, but you guessed it was in his nature.

You can only hope that his disinterested taste in humans would mean that you were safe on being a meal for the large snake beast. His bright eyes stare into what feels like your soul as he closes the circle, and his tail surrounds him. At the same speed, it takes you to blink, you are stuck in the grip of a large constrictor. You let out a groan as you try to pull away.

“Please don’t kill me!” you whined as you looked up at the naga in hopes that you could see into what he was thinking.

“I will not kill you,”

“So, can you let go of me?”

“No,”

“So you're not going to eat me, you’re not going to kill me… are you just curious?”

“Cu..ri..ous?”

“It means you want to know or learn about something.”

“Yes. I am curious,”

“Oh, that works out fine. I’m curious about you, too, so let's learn about each other.”

Over the next two days, you learned all about Naga and, like to say, you taught him about humans, You also learned his name, which was Ornanger. What you had been really dying to know, though, was what that naga-peen looked like. You had drawn diagrams of all his body except for his dick. And you had to know what it looked like, in the name of science of course. Oh, who were you kidding, Ornanger was too sexy for you not to hit that.

“Hey, Ornanger, I'm just gonna get right to the point I’d like to see your penis.”

“Penis?” He gives you a head tilt.

“Your reproductive organ?”

He looks down at his slit as he moves to get the so-called penis you desire to see. You watch him as he pushes his fingers into himself; he lets out a sigh. He moves slowly and gently as it is assumingly an It was certainly a sight to see, but when not one but two cocks pushed out of the slit.

The tips were a healthy shade of purple, like a grape or a plum. They had a sweet shine to them, but the purple faded out to his regular gray skin tone. The tips were slightly pointed and a bit slanted, while the shafts themselves were long and kind of slender.

You bite your lip at the sight of the two monster rods. You want it, want to get closer to it, and potentially even get a taste of it if you can.

“Can I feel it?”

They give a few strokes; you use both your hands to give them some needed attention in your hands; their smooth texture feels new to your senses. The precum spread over his shafts so easily. Oranajer let out a hiss as your hands slid down his cocks.

“What about you? Show me yours. Is it so different?” You were surprised by his request but you weren’t gonna argue and quickly discarded your pants and underwear.

Ornanger looked at your front in confusion before looking and sliding between your legs for what you supposed was a better view. He pulls you closer, giving your cunt a few sniffs, aka flicking his tongue. Testing out the new territory causes you to shiver a bit as you feel the air moving about you in such an area.

He moved closer to it until his tongue flicked up your folds. You let out a sigh at the feeling and wiggle back into his face. Pressing yourself against him, which he doesn't seem to mind.

He whimpers softly into your dripping folds, not quite sure what to do next. He tries to move his tongue around experimentally, tasting you for the first time. It tastes sweet and salty, so different from anything else he's ever tried before.

He switches from being face deep in your pussy to licking up your juices. To push his tongue deep into your entrance and thrust his tongue into you, causing hushed moans to escape your lips.

He moans back into your wet slit, savoring the sound and sensation of your pleasure. He laps up your juices greedily, letting his tongue swirl around your clit. His free hand reaches between your legs, spreading them open even wider and giving him better access to your dripping sex.

Your eyes were on the cocks, which were twitching your immediate attention. You lean down to grab them, feeling like you should pay him back with how good his mouth feels. You put one in your mouth and stroke the other. Your fingers squeezed and twisted one cock, traveling up and down the length, spreading precum all over as you hollowed out your cheeks and sucked on the other.

His precum didn’t exactly taste how you expected it to, but that wasn't exactly a bad thing. It was much more viscous in texture and had sort of a savory flavor.

You switched between the two cocks, swashing them in your mouth the best you could. He started rocking into her face as he was eating you out. You caress his scales; that's your switch between his thrusting cocks. You feel like if you let him continue this interaction, you're gonna cum, and not have any energy to continue, and you want more.

“Wait, wait, wait.” You tap his scales, and he pulls away so that he can listen to what you are going to say.

“I want to feel these inside of me.”

Ornanger lets go of your legs, and you move to bend down. Once you are in the right position, he grips your hips with one hand and starts to push his cock into you. You let out a wince as you feel one going into your ass while the other is in your pussy. You do your best not to tense up so he can move more easily.

He watches you fidget and writhe against him as his thick cocks pressed against your tight holes. Ornanger wrapped his strong arms around your waist, holding you close to his muscular body. He began thrusting rhythmically, the tip of his tail coiling possessively around your legs to prevent any escape. With each thrust, your bodies collided, creating wet slapping sounds that echoed through the jungle.

He basically purrs contentedly as he feels himself sinking deeper into you, his slick cocks pushing past your entrances until they are buried deep inside you. He could feel your body tremble a little beneath him as he did so, and he couldn't help but enjoy the sight. It seemed like you were enjoying this as much as he was. He felt like he was filling you up so intently from being in both holes, feeling like they were pressed right against each other in different canals.

Ornanger slowly rocked into you; the slickness of his cocks sliding into you was such a strange feeling. They were touching you so deeply. Snaking in and out. You couldn’t help but whimper at the dual stimulation. There wasn’t a single place he wasn’t touching inside you. The stretch was magnificent. With every thrust, Ornanjer was pressing against your sweet spots, and then as he dragged his cocks out, they left you with such a feeling of euphoria just for the actions to repeat over and over again.

Your stomach was winding itself up in a tight coil. You wrapped your legs around Ornanjer’s waist, pulling him closer to your body. Compared to your hot ass body, his body had a nice low warmth to it. You could feel the sweat rolling down your body. Luckily, this wasn’t the first time ornanger had seen you sweat, so it didn’t interrupt your sexy time.

He pulls back, and you're pulling forward at the last second, causing him to shoot his monster load onto your backside and over your folds. He lets out a hiss, and you shiver a bit in the aftermath.

“Must cum inside, mate,” He muttered, and you looked back to see he was still hard. Your eyes widened as you realized you triggered Ornanger’s need for procreation, with you being his target. Guess the only way out of this is to satisfy him. You could feel yourself getting close. Your legs were tensing up, and your back was arching off the ground.

“A-ah~ I’m gonna cum,” you cried out

Ornanjer groaned as he came inside you. Ropes of cum spurting into you. You moaned, feeling your holes were filled to the brim with that sweet, sticky fluid. At the same time, you also reached climax; your walls spasmed around Ornanjer, milking every last drop out of him.

“So, I don’t think I took in all the knowledge that I needed. Do you mind if we go again?”

#smut #kinktober #kinktober 2024 #naga #naga oc #naga x reader #naga smut #monster lover #tetrophilia #monster fucker #monster fucking #monster lover smut

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brodygold · 5 months ago

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A Costume Idea

Halloween had always been my favorite time of year, but this year felt different. There was an excitement in the air, something electric and unspoken, and I knew I wanted to do something big, something unexpected. My boyfriend Eric and I had always gone for the geekiest and nerdiest costumes we could think of—last year, we had dressed up as characters from our DND campaign as an example. But I wanted more this time. Something bold. Something that would turn heads at the party we were invited to.

It was a lazy afternoon in late October when I finally decided to float my idea by Eric. We were sprawled out in our small living room, surrounded by the usual chaos of comic books, snack wrappers, and game controllers. Eric was deeply engrossed in his laptop, playing a strategy game, while I fidgeted with my phone, trying to gather the courage to pitch my idea.

I cleared my throat, a little nervous. “Babe, I’ve got an idea for Halloween this year.”

Eric barely glanced up from his game, raising an eyebrow. “Oh yeah? What is it? Going as our druid and wizard pair again?”

I shook my head, grinning mischievously. “Not this time. I was thinking… football jocks.”

That got his attention. He paused his game, looking at me like I’d just suggested we shave our heads and join a cult. “Wait. Us? Football jocks?” He gave me a once-over, from my messy hair to my skinny frame. “Are you kidding?”

I laughed, knowing exactly why he was so skeptical. Neither of us were remotely athletic. We were both nerds to the core, preferring to spend our free time gaming, reading comics, or binge-watching sci-fi shows. The idea of us dressing up as sports jocks was so far outside our usual territory that it was almost absurd.

But that was exactly why I loved it.

“Hear me out,” I said, leaning in closer, my voice brimming with excitement. “Not just any football jocks. The Golden Army.”

Eric blinked, and I saw the recognition dawn on his face. The Golden Army was a famous team from a fantasy series we were obsessed with. They were the epitome of strength, loyalty, and camaraderie, their golden jerseys shining like armor in every battle on the pitch. They weren’t just players; they were legends.

Still, Eric looked uncertain. “I don’t know, Daniel… we’re not exactly… jock material. We wouldn’t even know where to start.”

“That’s the point!” I said, unable to keep the excitement out of my voice. “It’s totally out of character for us. No one will see it coming. Plus, it’s Halloween! Isn't the whole point to be someone you're not for one night? Let’s surprise everyone.” I pulled out my phone and showed him the golden uniforms I had found online. They were perfect, gleaming in the photo like they had been forged in a fantasy world.

Eric studied the picture for a moment, biting his lip. I could tell he was starting to come around, but he was still hesitant. “It feels… weird,” he said quietly, glancing at me with a half-smile. “I mean, we’re not exactly built for this.”

“We don’t have to be,” I said, nudging him playfully. “It’s just for one night. Come on, babe, we’ve done the nerd thing every year. Let’s try something new. Think about it—walking into that party, heads turning, everyone doing a double take. We’ll look like total badasses.”

Eric looked at me, his resistance softening. I could see the idea starting to take root. After a long pause, he finally sighed and smiled. “Fine, you win. Let’s do it. But if we end up looking ridiculous, I’m holding you personally responsible.”

I laughed and kissed him quickly on the cheek. “Deal.”

The next few days were a whirlwind of excitement as we waited for the uniforms to arrive. When the package finally came, I could barely contain my enthusiasm. I tore into the box and pulled them out. They were more beautiful than I had imagined. The gold practically shimmered in the light, and the detailing along the shoulders made them look like something straight out of a fantasy novel. I handed one to Eric, grinning like a kid on Christmas morning.

"Ready?" I asked, already pulling the jersey over my head.

"I guess so." Eric said, clearly more hesitant. He headed off to the bathroom to put his on.

As I continued putting the uniform on, my body developed a tingling sensation. My head started feeling fuzzy, and I could only barely focus on putting the rest of it on. When it was fully put on, I noticed some changes happening to my body.

My narrow shoulders pushed outward, widening as my chest expanded beneath the jersey. My arms, once skinny and lanky, swelled with muscle, biceps bulging. My legs, always lanky and weak, filled out, becoming thick and powerful like those of a seasoned athlete, filling out the pants nicely. My rear became a nice round bubble butt, perfect for attracting any guy I wanted. It was nice, but it terrified me. I wanted to stop it but no matter what I tried the changes kept happening.

"Babe? What's going on?" I yelled out. But Eric didn't hear me, likely on his way through his own transformation.

Next came the mental changes. My interests shifted entirely from nerd to jock. Memories of watching sci-fi movies became watching football games. Playing board games turned into playing all kinds of sports and working out to keep my body in shape. Meeting Eric on a dating app became meeting on the football team, hooking up soon after. My love for Eric became stronger than ever now that we were hot jock bros. After all, isn’t that what we always were? Both me and Eric are wide receivers, that’s right. I remember now. Eric says I’m getting dumber by the day.

Speaking of the broski, that’s when he came out of the bathroom in his uniform, the number 22 showing proudly on the front. “Ready to go to the party bro?”

I smirked at my hot boyfriend, putting the finishing touches on my face. “You know it bro!” I grabbed his ass, squeezing firmly Luke the good boyfriend I am.

“Let’s go show them how the Golden Army parties!”

#golden army #thegoldenteam #male transformation #jockification #male tf #jock tf #golden team #gay

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biteofcherry · 20 days ago

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You know, I have a thot to share after so long:

You read too many dark novels, loved them so much that you wanted to taste it once and then kiss it goodbye. It fulfills your most desired fantasy and you go can go back to your normal life, right?

You find a dangerous and sexy man in an expensive club you saved up to visit. You don't know what he does but he's bad considering the look of fear people have whenever he's around so you make your move and get to dance with him and fuck him and oh my! He's so fucking good at it, like he's straight out of those novels.

But now you can slip away, right? He won't care or remember you. It was just a one night stand, right?

You still grin to yourself, remembering that night and the thrill of it all, as you go on about your day. It will be a wild memory and a story to share in the future.

But when you walk out of your work building and see Nick leaning against the black car, your heart pauses. Then jumps to your throat.

You never gave him your last name. Never mentioned where you worked.

He opens the backdoor for you, but you stay frozen in place; your mind scrambling to decide how to act.

You take a second too long and Nick moves.

He walks over and gently traces your cheek with his finger. His voice remains soft, but the power of threat behind his words is unmistakable.

"Get in the fucking car, kitten. Now."

#ktficworld #reply #nick fowler x reader #nick fowler x you

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robinsno1lesbian · 9 months ago

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Can you do where reader is reading a smutty book and is ignoring robin while being to into the the book until robin takes the book and recreates the scene on reader or havens her read the book while she goes down on reader <33

𝐠𝐮𝐢𝐥𝐭𝐲 𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐞 ⋆.˚ ᡣ𐭩 .𖥔˚

- r.b. x reader

summary: everyone has their guilty pleasure. yours just happens to be a steamy sapphic romance novel. (2.6k)

warnings: SMUT!! (mdni), vaginal fingering (reader receiving), rough-ish sex, dirty talk, pet names (baby, love, good girl), slight praise kink?, established relationship, basically reader gets caught whilst horny over a sex scene in a book.

a/n: i found this in the depths of my drafts and figured it would be good enough to be posted to the summer fic collection. that being said i didn’t beta read. just made the header and called it a day. so. spelling errors are guaranteed here.

you love your girlfriend. of course you do. robin is everything you could've asked for: kind, generous and so caring with you.

everything is perfect with her: from the way the freckles on her nose look under every ray of sun that falls upon her face up to how her voice sounds when she talks. robin does a lot of talking but it would never occur to you to get annoyed by that; you love it. you could listen to her raspy voice for hours, no matter what she's actually talking about.

that's until now: for the very first time in your life you can't put all of your attention on robin buckley's voice. the sound that normally seems like music to your ears -low, husky even, and with these all too familiar cracks whenever she picks up her pace of speech- is something you can't quite focus on right now.

not because what she's talking about bores you, but because of the book you're holding up in front of your face.

you got it at a bookstore when you were out of town: you would've never been able to gather the courage to pick up such a book in the little store in hawkins. you doubt they even sell this type of book in the small town you live it.

either way, when you first saw it you knew you had to get it. you had paid for it in a rush then, all red in the face as you handed the woman behind the counter the money and quickly walked out of the shop.

now you're laying on your bed, your parents are out and the only person around is robin, who surely wouldn't judge you for reading a sapphic book.

obviously you want to make good use of this one chance you've got to read it. so, while robin was pacing back and forth through your room, you got it out from the spot where you kept it hidden under the pillows.

you're now about 25 pages into the book and, with what's currently described on the pages in front of you, it's getting harder and harder to keep a straight face.

you try to get yourself together, you really do, but you've never read anything like this before. never had the chance to, really, with the lack of representation in literature.

you almost drop the book on multiple occasions and there is a familiar heat pooling between your legs at the images your mind creates; fantasies of robin doing these exact things to you.

your current state doesn't go unnoticed by your girlfriend like you had hoped it would: "and then" she says when you turn another page. "i told him he can't just walk around yelling the word boobies like that but, you know steve, he's- hey"

you smirk at the book, not even aware that you've been called out.

"earth to y/n" robin steps a bit closer and pokes her index against the book cover. that's when you finally look up. "uhm- what? sorry i-" an amused expression flashes over robin's face when she sees the blush on your cheeks.

"were you even listening to half of what i just told you?" your blush deepens and you tilt your head. "something about...steve?" robin makes a face and flops herself onto your bed. your mattress bounces under the impact. "you sound a little too uncertain about that" she says teasingly and leans forward until her head is in your way of reading and she can scan the pages. "your book must be really interesting" you pull it away from her quickly and press it against your chest. "oh?" robin raises a brow with a grin plastered over her cheeks as if she knows exactly what's going on. "well now you'll have to show me"

you immediately shake your head eratically. you know robin wouldn't judge you, but still. she already knows the effect this has on you, so showing her means admitting that you're into what's happening: while you and robin have had sex before, it's never been like it is in the book: it's always been passionate and loving with robin, it was never so rough, so loud, so hot. your girlfriend, however, just rolls her eyes at you and chuckles. "pretty please y/n" she pleads "it can't be that bad now. and, besides, i'm your girlfriend. you know i won't judge you, right?" "i know" you tell her and hide your face behind your palms to cover your burning red cheeks. it gives her the perfect opportunity to snatch the book from where you've put it down. "robin!" you exclaim and reach out to take it from her again, but her eyes are already scanning the words on the page. "god" you groan when she smirks knowingly and throw your face into the pillows. "robin stop it!” robin puts a hand onto the back of your thigh and you turn to face her. her hand is still holding the book but something about her expression has changed. "it's not embarrassing at all" she finally whispers. her fingers reach out and she traces your jaw before they settle on your chin. "y/n" robin rasps "look at me"

when your gaze falls upon her face she gently pulls you towards her. the book has left you wanting for the past minutes and you gladly give in when she puts her mouth on yours.

“come here” she murmurs, closing the distance between the two of you. you part your lips immediately, kissing her with all the built up hunger.

“wow” she leans back just enough for the distance to settle heavy upon your heart. “so you liked it that much huh?” robin concludes.

you bite your lip. the evidence must be written all over your features so you don’t even bother to make up some lame excuse for your racing heart or the way you’re nearly panting under her gaze.

“is this” she taps the book. “what you want?”

once again, all you can do is nod at her, amazed by the sudden shift in robin’s energy when she leans in closer.

“yeah?” she rasps when she drags her lips over yours, just the brief, gentle ghost of a touch. “you want me to give it to you?”

all you can do is whimper. it’s enough.

robin is behind you. you’re on all fours for her, ass up and back arched. still, you can feel every inch of her exposed skin pressing against yours from behind. you can feel where her pebbled nipples are pressing against your shoulder blades, where her breath hits your earlobe in quick pants.

“you like this?” her voice whispers.

you can hardly hear it at all though. all you can hear are the wet noises two of her fingers are drawing from your soaked cunt.

she’s deep. deeper than she’s ever been, pressing two of her long, delicate fingers against your g-spot from behind.

usually, you’d be facing her whilst she makes love to you slowly. you’d spread your legs wider and she’d curl her finger inside you until you’re moaning her name.

usually, she’d whisper sweets words of praise to you until you’re shaking with the build up of your pleasure.

this isn’t what you usually do. this is different. it’s raw and rough. it’s oddly hot.

“yes” you whimper, your eyes rolling back so far in your head you can see the ceiling above.

“yes?” robin growls, while pushing her fingers even deeper.

“oh my god” you moan. this isn’t any of the usual love making. this is her fucking you. it’s her ruining you on your sheets, your moans and the sound of skin slapping against skin echoing through your room.

she presses her hips against you hard from behind, draws them back as she simultaneously pulls her fingers out from your slick folds, and then snaps them back immediately the moment she pushes back inside you. like she’s really fucking you.

it briefly occurs to you that you’ll have to invest in a strap-on, so she can really fill you up from behind and fuck you into oblivion, but any thought is cut short with another deliberate curl of her fingers against your g-spot.

“oh my god, robin -baby- yes!” you whine. the sound is so desperate and dirty you press your eyes shut in embarrassment.

robin, on the other hand, can’t seem to get enough of it. her free hand traces your spine as she whispers: “that’s it. that’s my girl. don’t hold in those pretty noises, baby, i wanna hear you”

as soon as a third finger slips into your tight pussy and she starts pumping them in and out, you can feel your arms starting to give out underneath your body. she’s never fucked you like this and your previous reading session had already left you wet and aching.

now, ever thrust of her fingers inside you feels like fucking heaven.

it’s not like you hadn’t hoped for this to happen; for the book to be an inspiration for what robin does to you bed. for it to be fuel to your fantasy when robin isn’t around to take such good care of you and all you have is the image of your girlfriend. and, still, this is better than anything you could’ve ever dreamed of.

and, yet, here you are: the relief of robin’s fingers deep inside your pussy. she’s pressing and curling and exploring your depths with three of her calloused finger pads.

your forearms tremble under the weight they’re currently holding up.

“robin robin robin” you chant, rocking back and forth with each of her thrusts. your head falls forward into the pillows, which do nothing to stifle the obscene sounds that you’re making.

“robin please”

“that’s my girl” robin hums proudly. “take it. let me make you cum. come on”

you can feel her kissing your sweat stained back, but it’s all white noise in comparison to how good she’s fucking you.

you borderline scream when her fingers start rubbing your clit, fast circles to match the brutal pace she’s set. robin herself is panting too, breathlessly rutting up against your ass. you wonder if she’s soaked through her panties by now. you know it’s easy to get your girl wet and with how she’s moaning, you wouldn’t be surprised if her arousal has left a visible, wet patch of her crotch.

in the end, it’s the sound of her voice that sends you over the edge, ragged and desperate as she asks you to cum for her.

“come on baby, cum. you can do it. be a good girl and cum for me”

everything else fades to back except for the burning hot pleasure that builds and builds in your core until the tension snaps and you come with a shout of her name.

robin is still thrusting deep into your convulsing pussy as you hold onto the duvet for dear life, clutching the soft fabric tightly into your fists.

you’re vaguely aware that you’re gushing for her, hot fluids soaking her wrist and the bed underneath you. robin has never managed to make you do that. she watches in amazement, even slows down the movement of her fingers inside you to let you recover from the intensity of your orgasm.

“holy shit” she whispers in awe. “holy shit holy shit holy shit baby”

“yeah” you nod breathlessly. “holy shit”

robin withdraws her fingers from your throbbing heat. immediately, you let your weight drop onto the mattress. immediately, robin is there to hold you.

“you did so good” she whispers. “so so good for me, my god, y/n”

you hum, happy to feel her arms as they wrap around your back.

“you’re gonna have to bring home those books more often” robin chuckles, gesturing to the long forgotten book.

you huff into the pillow. maybe she’s right. maybe you do have to bring home more romance books.

#robin buckley #robin buckley x reader #robin buckley x female reader #robin buckley x fem!reader #robin buckley x you #robin buckley x reader smut #robin buckley smut #robin buckley imagine #stranger things

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hbyrde36 · 7 months ago

Text

for the @steddiebang2024

It's Only Forever

Labyrinth AU | 45K | Mature

Posting October 2nd, 2024 out now, here on AO3

Author: @hbyrde36 • Hbyrde on AO3

Artists: @penny00dreadful & @SissayeRys on x

Betas: @penny00dreadful and @hitlikehammers

↳ Snippet below the cut!

A riot of dark, unruly curls fell around a pale, pretty face. His deep brown eyes were lined in charcoal, with a silver shimmer painted artfully above, accentuating their already otherworldly beauty. He wore a top of leather armor, like something straight out of medieval times, or one of Dustin’s fantasy novels, and skin tight pants that looked buttery soft, hugging the contours of his hips, calves, and thighs, as if they were painted on, drawing special attention to a certain rather prominent attribute that had Steve looking quickly away, his cheeks positively flaming. Slung over it all was a long cloak that glittered in the dim light. The color so dark blue that it was almost black, with a high fluted collar.

Steve swallowed hard, feeling suddenly lightheaded, like he was about to pass out.

“W-who are you?” He asked.

“You know who I am.” A deep, husky voice emanated from the stunning figure’s throat. “After all, you are the one who called for me.”

“The Goblin King?” Steve's mouth fell open, his own voice full of doubt and disbelief.

Not only for the fact that none of it was supposed to be real. It was just a stupid game, wasn’t it? But shocked too because goblins were meant to be small, grotesque, monstrous creatures, as far as he knew, and none of those were words he’d use to describe the walking wet dream who’d just broken in through his little brother’s window.

The Goblin King’s plush lips spread into a wide grin.

“Not what you were expecting?”

#steddie fanfic #steddiebang24 #steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #steddiebang24 teaser #steddie big bang #labyrinth au #eddie as jareth #steve as sarah #dustin as toby #steve harrington/eddie munson #steve x eddie

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cyborg-franky · 7 months ago

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PROMPT: Could I please get headcanons of how Thatch, Marco and Sasaki would react to getting an accidental boner around reader?

n.s.f.w - GN Reader

Repost of mine from libary of ohara

-It was Ace that pointed it out, of course, it was. - Marco had been sitting at his desk just working on a few things, letting his mind go on a journey when a certain piece of paperwork was so tedious his mind needed a little stimulation. - so when his mind starts to drift to subjects he enjoys far more than his note he can’t help but get a reaction. - Marco has a very vivid imagination after all. - Sat at his desk with a slight edge to his usual lopsided smirk as he thinks about all the things he wanted to do to you. - Ace walks in and see’s that expression, knowing Marco’s mind is in the gutter. - “Hey, Birdbrain, we have a situation on deck.” Ace narrows his eyes and watches as Marco simply gives him a few slow blinks and a heavy sigh as he’s pulled from his pleasant thoughts of spreading your legs and stuffing you full of his cock while you cry out his name. - “Uh, wanna deal with that first?” He nodded to Marco’s crotch while trying to stifle his laughter, watching Marco glance down at the tenting in his pants. - “Well done Ace, it’s just an erection, how old are you yoi?” He rolls his eyes and just adjusts before strolling out. - He leaves his office and steps out into the sun and looks around for what this situation was. - Marco then sees you sat on a crate, your pants rolled up and showing off most of your leg, there’s a big bruise forming and you give him a sheepish look. - “I kinda fell and I don’t think it’s broke but it hurts.” You comment. - Marco suddenly feels warm when he sees it’s you that needs his help, the same person he was just having dirty sordid little fantasies of, and he and his boner aren’t ready to deal with that. - “Ah I just need to get something from my office yoi.” He turns quickly and Ace has this smirk on his face. - “It’s just an erection, how old are you yoi?” Ace mimics back in his best attempt at Marco’s voice. - Marco grumbles and shoves Ace as he heads back into his office leaving you confused.

- Thatch would consider himself a pretty put together individual. - He’s seen and done many things in his time. - He has no idea why his body decided to betray him today. - Thatch read trashy romance novel after trashy romance novel and some had some very spicy scenes in the, so why was his body acting like he was a young man again? - Deep down, he knew the reason, you, and how he secretly felt about you. - it was an emotional as well as physical boner. - When headed to the showers this morning he didn’t expect you to be up as early as him, no one ever was, not unless it was Marco who hadn’t gone to bed yet. - So passing you in the hallway, seeing your wet hair, fresh face, a smile on your lips. - He remembered how he read one novel, in particular, the other night and replaced the lead’s love interest with you and pretended it was about the pair of you. - The things he pictured you both doing. - Lips trailing across every inch of your skin, hands running over your body, the moans and sounds he dreamed of pulling from you. - Your sweet voice uttering his name in hushed whispers, in dire need for him. - He was mortified that you wanted to stand in the hall and converse with him, he tried to tell you he was in a rush, turning and misjudging where the door to the communal showers was he ended up smacking straight into the wall. - Thatch let out a pained sound when his nose made contact with the wall. - He swore he had his shit together, honest. - But as he slumped against the wall, feeling his nose start to bleed a little, a hand over his crotch. - He had some doubts in himself. - “Are you okay? Want me to go get Marco?” you asked, worried, a hand on his back as he simply groaned. - “Gods no.”

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umi-adxhira · 28 days ago

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ᝰ.ᐟ SERENITY | 038

MANHWA: TWTPTFLOB

WARNINGS: Fear of falling

AUTHOR'S NOTES: IT'S DATE TIIIIIMMMMEEEEE

TAGLIST: @00hellohello00, @evaxmisu, @welpthisisboring, @hsrvl264, @flyingpansaurus

◄ PREVIOUS CHAPTER NEXT CHAPTER ►

The rhythmic clopping of hooves fills your ears, blending with the distant murmur of the world around you. Your fingers are curled tightly around the reins, knuckles white from the sheer force of your grip. Every jolt, every sway of the horse beneath you sends another jolt of nervous energy up your spine. I’m going to fall. I just know it.

A warm, firm presence behind you pulls you back slightly, grounding you before the anxiety can swallow you whole. Dion's hands rest over yours, fingers entwined, his touch both reassuring and steady. His grip tightens slightly as though silently telling you, he won’t let you fall.

“You’re too tense,” he murmurs, his breath warm against the shell of your ear. “You need to relax.”

You exhale sharply, trying to force your muscles to loosen, but the moment the horse takes another step, your body goes rigid once more. Dion smirks behind you, the deep sound vibrating against your back.

“This isn’t funny,” you grumble, shifting slightly in your seat, only for the horse to shift as well. You yelp, gripping the reins even harder. That was a mistake, that was a mistake!

Dion’s expression softens, his arms wrapping around your middle in a loose but protective hold. “You’re safe,” he assures you. “I promise.”

You swallow, nodding slightly. It’s hard to believe him when your heart is pounding so violently in your chest, but the way he speaks — with unwavering confidence — makes you want to believe him.

A few moments of silence pass, save for the sound of the town growing closer. You finally ask the question that’s been nagging at the back of your mind. “Where are we going?”

Dion hums, his fingers tracing absent circles over the backs of your hands. “You’ll see soon enough,” he says cryptically.

As you enter the town, the scenery unfolds before you like something plucked straight from a fantasy novel. The streets are alive with the chatter of merchants calling out to potential buyers, their colorful stalls brimming with goods from silken fabrics to ripe fruits glistening under the sun. Passersby move leisurely, their faces void of the stress and urgency that always seems to plague your own.

It’s beautiful.

Dion guides the horse toward an open space near a tavern, pulling the reins and slowing the creature to a gentle stop. He swings off effortlessly before turning back to you. His hands find your waist, steadying you before you even think about moving.

“Careful,” he warns, voice laced with amusement. “You don’t want to fall now, do you?”

No, but at this rate, I just might.

Before you can protest, he lifts you with ease, placing you gently on the ground. The moment your boots touch the cobblestone, you sigh in relief. Solid ground. Finally.

You glance up at him. “Thanks.”

Dion smirks. “Anytime.”

Without thinking, you take his hand, fingers curling around his instinctively. He doesn’t pull away — in fact, he squeezes lightly, guiding you toward the heart of the town.

“So,” you say, glancing at him curiously. “Do you actually have a plan, or are we just wandering aimlessly?”

His lips twitch, eyes twinkling with something unreadable. “A bit of both.”

You groan dramatically. “Dion—”

“Trust me,” he interrupts, pulling you forward. “You’ll love it.” Dion walks beside you, his grip on your hand firm yet gentle as he leads you through the bustling streets. "I've taken note of a few stores I think you'll like," he says casually, his tone light. "You can get anything you want. I'll pay for it."

Your steps falter slightly, and you glance up at him, uneasy. "Didi, I don't know... it doesn't feel right making you pay for my things."

He arches a brow, looking down at you with mild curiosity. "Didn't people in your home take care of you when you were young?"

You shake your head. "Not exactly. I'd get money every three months, but that stopped when I was ten. After that, I had to find jobs. It was hard since I was so young." You hesitate before adding, "There were nights I had to go to sleep hungry. Other times, I'd work long hours, but that just made everything harder. I was exhausted all the time."

Dion doesn’t speak immediately. His expression darkens just slightly before he pulls out a small pouch, pressing it into your hands. You feel the weight of it instantly, heavier than you expected. When you open it, your breath catches at the sight of the shimmering gold coins inside.

Gold. Only gold.

Your eyes flick up to him in confusion. "Didi—"

“What?”

"Take me to the first place," you say instead, deciding not to argue. Not now.

"Very well."

He leads you to a quaint store adorned with delicate trinkets and gleaming jewelry, the warm glow of lanterns casting reflections on silver and gold pieces alike. The store owner greets you both with a respectful nod before stepping aside to let you browse.

You move slowly, fingers grazing over intricate necklaces, sparkling rings, and finely crafted earrings. One piece catches your eye — a set of black earrings with subtle red accents, delicate yet bold. You pick them up and turn to the shopkeeper. "How much?"

"Twenty silver coins."

You freeze. Silver? But I only have gold. You look up at Dion with wide, questioning eyes, hoping he’ll translate this strange currency system.

He smirk at your expression. "Ten silver coins equal one gold coin," he explains smoothly. "You’ll need two gold."

Understanding dawns, and you quickly count out the right amount before handing it over. The store owner takes it with a bow before carefully placing the earrings in a small pouch. You turn to Dion, holding them out. "Put them on me?"

He obliges without hesitation, brushing a few strands of hair away as he carefully secures the earrings in place. His fingers linger slightly before he asks, "Why these?"

A small smile tugs at your lips. "They remind me of you."

He stills for a fraction of a second before resuming, fastening the last earring. His usual teasing expression softens just slightly before he straightens. "Is there anything else you want?"

"Yeah." You move toward the back, eyes scanning through the men’s jewelry. Eventually, you find it — a silver ring with ridges that match your hair color. Without hesitation, you pay for it, then reach for his right hand.

Dion watches as you slide it onto his middle finger, his expression unreadable. He flexes his fingers slightly, testing the fit. "Why did you get me something?"

You shrug, a small grin playing on your lips. "If I have something that reminds me of you, then you should have something that reminds you of me." You tilt your head slightly before adding, "Besides, the ring is flat, so it won’t get in the way when you uuuhhh, kill people."

His expression flickers — amusement, surprise, something else. He opens his mouth as if to say something but then closes it again. Instead, he simply exhales, shaking his head with a smirk before taking your hand and leading you out of the store.

"The next place is close by," he says, guiding you forward.

"Okay," you reply, but your voice trails off as something catches your attention. Your body goes rigid, your steps faltering.

Dion notices immediately, stopping with you. "What’s wrong?"

You don’t answer. Your gaze is locked to the right, your heart pounding in your chest.

Dion follows your line of sight — and his expression darkens. Standing just a few feet away is the man you’ve been trying to avoid.

Hyoga.

#the way to protect the female lead’s older brother #twtptflob #dion agriche #jeremy agriche #roxana agriche #the way to protect the female lead's older brother #lante agriche #cassis pedelian #yandere x reader #twtptflob x reader #dion agriche x reader #x female reader #yandere x you #female x reader #yandere #x reader

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agentmarvel · 1 year ago

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Pairing: John Price/Reader

AU - Professor!Price & TA!Reader

MDNI - 18+ (minors and ageless blogs will be blocked)

Part 1 of 2

Summary: in which professor john price is head-over-heels for his teaching assistant but cannot reconcile the risks until he's faced with the thought of losing you entirely

Read on ao3

♡

“Would you mind handing these back, please?” John asks softly, handing you the stack of essays due for return. You give him a sweet little smile and nod, taking them from his hands and brushing against his fingers in the process. His flesh is alight with want, and he can’t help but curl his hands into fists beneath the desk in an effort to stop himself from reaching out and touching you again.

“Yes, sir.”

This is wrong. This is so wrong, and John knows it.

He never meant for this to happen; the plot of his plight is typically reserved for bored housewife fantasies, a semi-interesting arc for a television series, or the shit romance novels that Kate reads and tries to hide (poorly, might he add) whenever someone walks into her office. It’s not something that happens in real life, and it’s not something that happens to men like him.

When it was suggested he take on a teaching assistant this semester, John was skeptical. He wasn’t quite so sure that his courses would benefit from having someone else pouring over every facet of his work, and frankly, he was a bit incensed by the notion that he’d even need help; but in casually surveying the department in passing conversation, he realized that he was the only educator in the English department without a TA.

Enter: you. Your application was impeccable, and you came to the department with such glowing endorsements from your undergraduate instructors. Pack that in with the essay you wrote and the accolades decorating your previous work study, it was a no-brainer. John tossed every other application he received without a second thought.

The two of you began to exchange emails shortly after he agreed to taking you on. He quickly found you to be whip-smart, wicked funny, and absolutely wonderful. Looking forward to your replies became a new hobby of his as he jumped to check his phone every time it buzzed. He looked forward to putting a face to the name every day until that day finally came. Then, he knew he was doomed.

You strolled into his office the day before classes began and introduced yourself with a scintillating smile, holding a hand out to shake his. He swallowed hard and accepted your greeting in kind, a bit taken aback by how goddamn gorgeous you are. The image his mind constructed through the internet didn’t hold a candle to what stood before him, what with your doe eyes and pretty smile and the shape of your hips and… wait, what’s that? The smell of your perfume made his brain stutter; something akin to cedar and coconut milk with a smokey vanilla note like a cherry on top. It still has the same effect on him, honestly.

Over the first few weeks of the new semester, he grew to adore you in your entirety, learning all the subtle nuances that previous exchanges didn’t convey properly. He digs every shade of your personality (especially when you’re being snarky and teasing him, even if you don’t know how much of that teasing goes straight to his dick). You engage him in conversation and listen intently to what he has to say, usually with that red pen of yours tucked between your teeth. Drives him crazy when you do that, but there’s something so inherently innocent about the way you look at him; boulders of shame pile on his chest until his ribs cave in with an airy exhale, and he’s crushed beneath the weight of the reality that you’re untouchable.

He’s the professor; you are the student. It’s far too risky, even if he didn’t already know you’d reject him on the spot.

Entranced, he watches from the corner of his eye as you lean over another student’s table, pointing out something on the graded tests you were handing back. The edge of your cute little skirt rides up your thighs just enough that he swears he can see the gentle curve of your ass beneath the hem. How he wishes he could bend you over further, pull those barely-there panties to the side, and fuck you to within an inch of your life.

But this certainly isn’t the most opportune time for him to think about that. No, not with a classroom full of students that could, at any moment, point out the flush creeping high across his cheeks or notice the massive tent he’s sporting in his slacks as he strategically moves to the podium to begin his lecture.

He isn’t sure how he makes it through, truthfully, not when he’s stealing glances at you in between parts of his notes. You’re sitting at your own table on the far side of the room, legs crossed demurely with your laptop open in front of you. Those pretty, manicured fingertips click and clack away at the keyboard, making detailed notes of your own, and he struggles to keep the image out of his mind of those same nails gripping his shoulders while he’s buried inside you.

It doesn’t help that you’re looking back at him every single time his eyes flit over to you, focused so raptly like you’re hanging on his every word. You seem so enthralled by the most minute details, watching him with that darling doe-eyed stare. Your eyelashes kiss your cheeks with every blink, and god, he just wants to know what it feels like to touch any part of you.

You’re the kind of woman Shakespeare wrote sonnets about; a beauty so overwhelming that it’s hard to decipher in ordinary thought. It requires prose, grandeur, and sophistication. Maybe that’s why it’s so hard for him to find an eloquent way to speak when he’s sharing space with you.

It’s embarrassing, the way he keeps almost losing his place and fumbling his words like an absolute moron. He can’t help it, though. Not when his heart skips a beat every time you catch his wistful gaze and give him that gentle, supportive smile that reassures him he’s doing well, even when you can hear as clearly as everyone else how much he’s fucking up. He swears he keeps hearing snickers sprinkled across the classroom, but maybe his mind is playing tricks. Not a single student presents anything other than a straight face, save for the brunette in the front row that’s always making eyes at him.

He wonders if you’d be the jealous type, if another girl looking at him would spur you into a fit of marking him up and reminding him who he belongs to, something that could take all night if he played his cards right. The thought of finding all the bruises and love bites and claw marks on his body (and the subsequent downward rush of blood again) further serves to remind him: you’re not his, but he is yours.

♡

John sighs as he digs a bottle of Tylenol out of his desk drawer. He takes three and chases them down with his cold tea, ignoring the bitter bite on his tongue.

Office hours can be absolute hell with the wrong students, and boy, did he pick a list of winners today (sarcasm, full sarcasm). After hours of students passing the buck and making excuses for missing work or seeking extra credit because of said buck passing, he finds himself corralled by Abigail Briarton, the bright but conniving brunette from 20th Century Lit. Another odd scenario, given the feedback he’s gotten from you on her work. You’ve told him more than once that she shows immense capability in her writing, and yet, she always seeks John out, presenting concerns that she doesn’t quite understand the material.

He’s not stupid; he knows why she schedules office hours. She has a little crush on him - daddy issues, no doubt. It’s clear in how she approaches him, wearing low cut tops, short skirts, subtle (and not so subtle) hints that she’s of legal age and unattached. Their interactions are strictly professional on his end, and after today, he’s remanded her to seeking further clarification on lectures from you.

“If you’re struggling to connect with my lectures or our discussions here, I think it would be best for you to start seeing my TA instead. She’s got a different way of explaining that may be more relatable to you.”

You’re going to hate him for saying that, but it’s a risk he’s willing to take if it keeps him from being unbearably uncomfortable in his own office twice a week.

Speaking of, he wonders how you’re faring until he hears an exaggerated sigh in the silence that befalls both rooms. That seems to be a sign that he should really check in on you, especially since Victor Denley was your last meeting. The kid can’t put his phone down long enough to pay attention in class, so he imagines the scheduled session don’t go much better.

He tugs open the door separating your offices, hinges squealing in protest. Leaning against the frame, he folds his arms across his chest and lets his ankles cross, balancing his weight between the frame and floor. A sympathetic frown tugs at his lips as his gaze falls on you.

The bridge of your nose is pinched between your fingers, and your eyes are squeezed shut. He’s pretty sure you’re using whatever willpower you have left to stave off one hell of a migraine.

“You look bloody miserable, love. Everything okay?”

One eye cracks open, and the grimace on your face tilts into an adorable little half smile.

“Yeah, I’m good,” you answer, moving your fingers to rub at an achy spot on your temple. He clicks his tongue, shaking his head.

“You’re not a good liar,” he laughs. “If you need anything for your head, I’ve got half a pharmacy in my desk.”

“Save it. You’ll need it more than I do.” He raises an eyebrow, imploring you silently to continue. “Mr. Denley is more focused on his phone than his grades, so I suggested he start scheduling his visits with you instead. Maybe you can get through to him.”

“Suppose it’s a fair exchange then.” John shoots you a haughty smirk, uncrossing his arms and shoving his hands in the pockets of his slack. You return his cocked eyebrow questioningly. “Oh, I’ve asked Ms. Abigail to start scheduling with you since she’s having so much difficulty grasping my explanations.”

“You’re violating my eighth amendment rights, Professor,” you groan.

“There’s nothing cruel or unusual about this, and you’re definitely not being punished.”

That’s only a half-truth. It is both cruel and unusual, given the fact that he’s awfully sweet on you and that girl is borderline insufferable, but it’s most definitely not meant to be any sort of punishment. You’ve done nothing to deserve that. He just knows that if he insists on her meeting with you instead, she simply won’t show up. Win win.

If you do want to be punished, though, he can think of dozens of more pleasurable ways to do that. Needn’t but ask, really.

“And for the last time,” he adds. “Please just call me John.”

“That just feels too informal.” You shrug. “You’re my boss.”

John scoffs playfully, rolling his eyes with a growing grin.

“We’re alone, right? No students?”

You nod. He abandons the doorway and places his palms against your desk. He leans forward, arms bearing his weight, and he’s less than a foot away when he says, “Then there’s no need to keep it so formal, is there, love?”

“I guess not.” He can almost feel the warmth creeping up your neck, and he’s relishing the fact that he’s practically witnessing you getting all hot under the collar before you cheekily add, “John.”

John ducks his head, moving just a little bit closer to you, saying, “See? Wasn’t so bad, was it?”

“Oh, it was awful,” you reply right away, pulling a facetious face of disgust. John chuckles, standing up straight. He scrubs a hand across his jaw, shaking his head at you.

“You’re impossible.”

“No, I’m professional.”

♡

“Professor Price?” You poke your head through the doorway to his office, voice sweeter than honey. He hears you, but he doesn’t acknowledge you. He won’t until you call him by his name.

His fingertips plod away at his keyboard, the rhythmic tapping counting out the seconds until you let out an exaggerated sigh.

“John?”

“Yes?” he hums, hands stalling as he looks up, heart leaping into his throat. Your outfit is simple, nothing that should be getting him worked up; and yet, it is.

You’ve got on those pants that he loves, a hunter green, high-waisted number with large buttons up the front and a built in pair of suspenders that curve around the swells of your breasts. It accentuates your waist in a way that makes his palms itch with the want to hold you there while wide, flowing pant legs give way for your shapely hips. When you turn away, it gives him a full view of the fabric that pulls tight around your pert ass. The fact that you wear heels with them every time is just a bonus, but he likes to consider what you’d look like in just those heels; patent black leather stilettos with a pointed toe that just barely peek out beneath the hem. Neatly tucked into the waist is a plain, white button down with a lightly frilled collar and a black ribbon tied into a bow beneath the lapels, the perfect knot balancing the loops as to keep from looking lopsided.

You have no right to look that fucking good.

“Can you help me really quick?�� He raises an eyebrow, not entirely sure if he’d even be able to stand with the way his knees are knocking together. “I’m having a little trouble deciphering this paragraph; it makes sense, but not in the context of the paper.”

“Yeah, bring it here, love.”

You move into his office, heels clicking against the hardwood floor as you approach him. Instead of sitting across from him in the vacant chair, you perch on the corner of his desk, crossing your legs as you set the stapled stack in front of him. Your finger finds the section in question, but John can’t focus with you sitting so close to him.

In his head, he reaches out and puts a hand on your thigh, slowly kneading its expanse from the curve of your hip to the outside of your knee and back, talking sweet to you about how pretty you are and how badly he wants to ruin you; in reality, your perfume is too overwhelming for him to make heads or tails of what he’s reading, so he passes it over three or four times before shrugging.

Looking back up at you proves to be a mistake. Your pillowy lower lip, coated in a neutral shade of lipstick, is trapped between your teeth as you eye him closely, anticipating a clearer explanation than what you could conjure yourself. It crosses his mind what it would feel like to have your lip between his teeth instead, the erotic noises you’d make when he tugs on it. He was halfway hard just looking up at you for once, but the thoughts have him at full mast. He scoots a little tighter to his desk, hoping to hide it.

“I see what you mean,” he finally says, eyes jetting back down to the essay before him. “Right thought, wrong context. Have you checked it in the system for plagiarism?”

You shake your head.

“No, but that’s a good idea. There’s another section - “ You lean down, moving closer to him as you flip ahead to the next page. It’s too much, and his resolve is crumbling by the second. “ - right here. It sounds very similar to a paper I graded this morning.”

You’d think he’d learn his lesson the first time, but not John. Never John. He glances back to you, and the two of you lock in a heated stare, faces only a few inches apart. Your eyes dart down to his mouth and back up. He wants to kiss you right now, so fucking bad, and it looks to him like you want to kiss him, too. Your head tilts just in the slightest; it seems like you’re leaning in…

A knock at his door yanks you away from him as you scramble off his desk, smoothing out the nonexistent wrinkles in your slacks before moving to open the door. He can’t see who’s on the other side just yet, but he doesn’t care. He can’t move, frozen in place with shock and dismay.

“Professor Riley,” you greet politely. “How are you?”

Simon gives you a wary once over, addressing you by name in a stern but polite tone, and that’s enough to start flagging John’s erection right away. It’s the saving grace he needed in that moment to stop him from acting on an impulse you’d surely both regret.

Still, he wonders what would’ve happened if Simon had waited just thirty seconds more.

♡

Being sick by itself is fucking miserable, but being sick, alone, and having to stay sequestered in the house all day? That’s pure torture.

John hates taking sick days. Sure, the students appreciate an extra day of not having to listen to him prattle on about John Wyndham this week; there’s only so much they can take of discussing the underlying themes in the Day of the Triffids before they’re ready to pull their hair out. But it throws a comically large wrench in all of John’s plans, both for the day and for slightly longer-term, especially when he forgets his laptop in his office.

It’s only with a slew of curses, grunts, and grumbles that he manages to convince himself to go get it, crawling out of bed begrudgingly to throw on a pair of sweats and an old t-shirt. There’s no way he’ll get through the weekend without his computer, so he knows he has no other choice but to drag his tired ass onto campus to get it. If he’s going to take an unintentional long weekend, the least he can do is finish grading the previous unit. He doesn’t want to in the slightest, but the consideration that he may run into you puts a little spark in his step.

He’d texted you when he awoke with a sore throat and a nasty sinus headache, asking you to put a sign on both his office and lecture hall doors to let students know class is canceled (a group email was sent from his phone around 7 this morning, but he knows a vast majority of his pupils don’t check their damn emails). You texted him back shortly after with a simple affirmation and a sweet get well soon message. There was a pause, and then you texted him again, asking if he needed anything. He was sorely tempted to take you up on it, just because he wanted to see you before the weekend, but there’s no need now if he has to come in anyways.

It’s a quick jaunt, since John lives less than five miles away. He parks in the staff lot and sneaks in the back door of the building, cautiously optimistic that no students will see him. How he’s dressed falls far from the guidelines of professionalism, and the fact that he’s sick wouldn’t bode well for any sort of interaction, lest he spread whatever foul virus has crawled into his body this time.

He’s surprised to see an ‘Out of the Office’ sign hanging on your door, too. He thought for sure that you’d still keep your office hours as scheduled, even without him being around. It occurs to him that maybe you don’t want to hang around the office without him, but that thought, while very sweet, is certainly just wishful thinking. You definitely don’t share his vested interest, even if it did seem like you were about to kiss him yesterday.

As he pushes his key into the lock on his office door, he picks up the faint thrumming of a heavy bassline. He’s surprised he didn’t notice it before, considering it seems to be coming from his office. The light is on, odd since he’s obviously been out all day. Curiosity forces his hand to move faster, and what he finds awaiting him is far better than he could’ve ever imagined.

You’re in his office, standing on a chair, deftly dusting the old birch bookshelf behind his desk. All his books and knick-knacks are stacked neatly on a lower shelf as you wipe the top one. The music he heard is twice as loud as he would have guessed, and you’re rocking to the beat, hips swaying in time. It’s equally as amusing as it is downright sexy. The way you move is tantalizing, and John has to take a moment to catch his breath, swallowing a harsh cough before he speaks.

“Really? This is what you listen to when I’m not around?” he laughs as he closes the door behind him. You don’t seem startled as you throw a hazardous glance over your shoulder, your movements never once faltering, even with the sudden audience. You’re not embarrassed about being caught, and that impresses him. Shameless thing, you are.

“Please, Professor, Backstreet’s a classic.”

“Didn’t take you for the boy band type,” he counters, barely suppressing another cough behind a cat-that-ate-the-canary grin. You set down the can of Pinesol and your rag and climb off the chair, leaning across his desk to turn the volume down on your phone.

“Good to know I can still surprise you then.”

“I was really hoping superior taste would prevail if you hung around me long enough.” The way your lips curve up at that feels like a match into gasoline. John isn’t certain if it’s you or the fever that’s starting to bead sweat along his hairline.

“You saying I have bad taste?” you laugh, arguably his favorite sound.

“I’m saying I thought you’d enjoy something a bit harder or faster than those bubblegum muppet boy types.”

“Faster doesn’t mean better, John.” The way you say his name (unprompted, might he add) sends a chill up his spine in the best way. Innuendo hangs on every syllable, and he considers how correct you are. He wouldn’t want to be fast with you, not in any sense of the word. He’d take his time, making damn sure that you’d remember every second for the rest of your life.

In conversation, however, he ignores the comment.

“What do you have against 90’s boy bands, sir?”

“Nothing, I just don’t quite get the fascination. Didn’t get it in the 90’s, either.“

“Can’t handle infectious melodies, huh?”

You’re so comfortable with him; he can tell. Much snarkier than usual in a less professional setting, dressed down, and he can’t help but think that this feels a bit more domestic. You’d act like this far more often in the privacy of his own home, wearing his t-shirt while you shuffle his things off the desk for a quick wipe down, calling for him when you can’t reach something. He loves the thought, honestly.

His pause is noticed and mistaken for hesitancy.

“Oh, I get it.” Your expression moves towards something of agreement as you nod, but it quickly falls right back into the same snarky little simper. “You can’t dance, can you?”

His mouth falls open in a silent objection, then closes, then opens again, like a fish out of water. He wants to argue that he’s a great dancer, but that wouldn’t be accurate. Sure, theoretically, he is, but he’s never really tried. He’s never really done more than a simple stand-and-sway at the odd wedding here and there. There’s nothing to it, though, right?

But that’s clearly the reaction you wanted, isn’t it?

You look at him so expectantly, rapt and ready.

He shrugs, “What, like it’s difficult? Of course, I can.”

“Right, because the hand jive totally counts,” you snicker, narrowing the chasm that separates you. “I almost forgot how old you are, Professor Price.”

Again, his mouth opens, this time in feigned offense.

“I’m not that old.”

“Oh, please! You’re practically geriatric! You’re, what, 58?”

“I’m 42,” he barks with a laugh. “We’re barely over a decade apart!”

“Then you’re still young enough to learn,” you answer with finality, putting your hands firmly on your hips. Your fingers dig into the soft cotton of your apparent cleaning day shorts as you pause, though he’s unsure if it’s due to nerves over what comes next or simply for dramatic effect. “Do you want to? You’ll be able to take it to the clubs.” Your voice gets sing-songy on the last sentence, and John can’t help but chuckle. As if you’d ever see him in a club, as if he’d ever be caught dead in a nightclub.

He contemplates it for a moment, the line between a professional and personal relationship blurring further with each passing second. It’s an interesting opportunity, one that he really should pass up, but he won’t. He gives you a noncommittal shrug with a fairly neutral expression, sighing, “If it’ll get you to stop listening to the bloody Backstreet Boys in my office, I’ll do whatever you want, love.”

You do this adorable little clap, showing off that sweet little smile he loves so much. It’s cute that you’d get so excited about something as simple as showing him some silly little dance he’ll have no need to remember (though he knows he’ll never forget the way your body moves; it’s already on a loop in his head that doesn’t end).

Grabbing your phone off the desk, you scroll a few times before your face lights up again. The volume is pushed to full as you hit play and set it down.

John is ashamed of the fact that he recognizes the song from its first line.

“If you want it to be good, girl, get yourself a bad boy.”

He stands stock-still, eyeing the way you’re already getting into it. You’re dancing your way over to him, and the air in his lungs freezes when you stop close enough for him to smell the remnants of the morning’s perfume spritz. His head spins when you reach out and grab his hands, encouraging him to feel the beat and just let loose. It’s a little step-touch-sway at first, but you spin yourself under his arm, turning your back to him as you maintain your hold over your shoulder. It forces him to take a step closer, and a primal part of him urges him to bury his face in your neck, smother it with kisses and love bites, mark you up and make you beg for him to give you more.

He ignores it. He ignores it very, very well… Until you bring his hands to your hips. The same place your palms once occupied are now covered by his, his fingers twitching against the barrier separating him from your soft skin. It’s taking every ounce of effort he possesses to stop himself from allowing his fingertips to dig into the fat around your hips hard enough to leave bruises, a small memento of how badly he wants you that will only ever exist in his mind.

“If you wanna make it last, gotta know just who to ask. Babe, it's gotta be the best, and that's me, my lady. If you want it to be good, girl, get yourself a bad boy.”

John has no trouble keeping with the music as your body’s sway guides him. The twist and swing of the hips beneath his splayed fingers dictate where to follow, and he does so mindlessly, focused entirely on keeping a gap between the curve of your perfect ass and his ever-hardening erection. He’s cursing himself profusely for opting to go commando under the sweats, but in his defense, he never would’ve imagined in his wildest dreams that this was something his day would hold.

“See? Not that hard,” you murmur, keeping your hands on top of his. Oh yes, it is, he thinks. You give him a gentle squeeze, and it catches him entirely off guard when you take a step back, pressing up against him. His brain starts screaming about how wrong this is, but when you tip your head back against his shoulder, everything goes silent. He can’t hear the music now, he can’t hear his thoughts, he can’t hear his own breathing anymore. It all slows down, feeling like delayed motion as you look up at him, still with that stunning smile painted across your mouth. You say something, but the words don’t reach his ears. His gaze locks on your mouth, and he’s itching to kiss you. That’s all he’s focused on until he sees the smile fade, and you gently pull away, turning in his hold.

“Price? Are you okay?”

He hums in question, narcostic. You repeat, and he processes it with a few blinks. His arms are still wrapped around you, and he can’t stop himself from meeting you in the middle. His forehead presses against yours, noses brushing. There are mere centimeters between his lips and yours, and he knows he can’t take much more of this. He needs to know if you want him as bad as he wants you.

“I need an answer,” you whisper, heated breaths washing over his skin. He nods almost imperceptibly, giving you a soft ‘yeah’. You close the gap just a little more, lower lip grazing his so lightly. It’s so tempting to chase after you, get what he’s so desperately been craving for the last three months, but the logical part of his brain finally catches up, redirecting him to the safest path; the one that protects you.

“You know we can’t do this, right?” he sighs, already regretting the words as they’ve formed. There’s a hope that you’ll tell him it’s okay, that you want this just as bad as he does and will keep this dirty little secret between the two of you. Reality, though, tips the scales, and John has to steel his resolve.

“Even if I really, really want to? Just once, and it’ll never happen again, I promise.” Your tone is pained, and he feels his heart clench. He doesn’t need to question how you feel about him anymore; he does, however, need to protect you.

“There’s no going back once we cross that line.” It fucking kills him to say that. He’s functionally just ripping out his own heart and throwing it on the tracks before an oncoming train, but it needs to be said.

You close your eyes as you let out a sigh matching his, and he feels your eyelashes crest across the apples of his cheeks. His grip on you tightens just briefly, fingertips digging in to show you he means it.

“John - “

He shakes his head. He can’t take that chance. If he kisses you, even just once, he’ll only want to keep doing it. That would be his undoing. It’s a gamble he can’t afford to take on your behalf.

“No, love. I’m not risking your education, your future, over one little kiss.”

You nod understandingly, creating a new space between the two of you. John can hear a shudder in your breathing as he lets his arms fall to his sides, and it leaves an ache in that hole in his chest, one that’s only furthered by the dejected look on your face. He wishes things were different so he could kiss that look away.

He briefly wonders if it’s too late to change his mind, but you make it clear for him when you grab your phone from his desk, shut off the music, and climb back up on the chair, intent on continuing to clean like nothing just happened.

“Just so you know, I am sorry,” he says in a hushed tone as he grabs his laptop off his desk.

You smile at him softly over your shoulder, but it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. He can still see that hint of hurt in your expression.

“There’s nothing to be sorry for, Professor Price.”

♡

He can’t focus. Try as John might, he can’t draw his brain away from you.

The cursor on his laptop blinks impatiently at him as the blank document on his screen awaits its transformation into the following unit’s lecture notes. A white blanket does no favors in occupying his mind with things that are of dire need. His section on 1960s literature begins tomorrow, he’s feeling far better physically than the days prior, and yet he’s still wrapped up in the feeling of his hands on your hips, your touch on his heated skin, the look in your eyes when you said, “even if I really, really want to?”.

It’s not a question anymore, if you want him as badly as he wants you. He knows you do. And there’s something about the fact that he can’t have you that just makes him crave you more.

He’s not sure what about you is making it so difficult for him to keep his head straight. Obviously, you’re stunning. It’s impossible not to see that - even half the students that come in for your office hours are just stopping by to try their hand at flirting with you (he can hear it from his office; drives him up the fucking walls). But he had a more intimate connection with you before he knew how goddamn gorgeous you are, which also somehow doesn’t seem to be the solidifier for his borderline obsession.

He pushes himself away from his kitchen table, deciding a shower and some food might push you out of his mind long enough to get his notes prepared. Anything that can provide some sort of distraction from feeling like such a colossal jackass, both for turning you down and for falling for you in the first place.

Stripping off his clothes, Price throws them in the hamper. He mindlessly guides himself into his en suite bathroom. The sunlight peeking through the window gives him more than enough light to abandon any consideration for the switch by the doorway. He cranks the handle on the faucet over, continually checking the temperature until it’s just right before pulling the lever and letting the showerhead spit to life.

Water just this side of scalding pelts his skin, and he feels his entire body relax, tension melting from his knotted shoulders. It feels good. It allows him to let go of everything in his brain and just feel. But that empty head doesn’t last.

John starts washing his hair, scrubbing at his scalp with the tip of his fingers, and a wave of warmth, warmer than the water, ghosts across his skin. He swears he can smell your perfume, and he imagines the hands in his hair are yours. He can practically hear your little giggle as he tilts his head back to rinse, whispering sweet nothings at a volume only perceptible to him.

It’s a constant struggle to block out the thought of you, even for just a few minutes. As he rakes a hand through his hair again, phantom hands follow behind. He imagines your fingers threading through, grabbing a fistful and giving it a rough tug. It’s enough to get him half hard, and he has to swallow the pleased noise in the back of his throat as he pictures those tugs while his face is buried between your thighs.

His hands map the contours of his body, lathering them up with the scent of leather, vanilla, and pine. He takes his time, picturing your hands running across his skin instead. His fingertips brushing across his hips sends a jolt through him, the image becoming far too vivid all at once. He can’t stop the harsh sigh he lets out, and he’s done pretending that he isn’t going to get off on this.

Not that he hasn’t been jacking it all weekend thinking about you. Honestly, if his math is correct, this puts him in double-digits since Friday night; it’s the third time today, even.

Wrapping a soapy fist around his cock, he allows himself a few short, quick strokes before squeezing around the base and slowing himself down. He’s going to savor this one because he is not going to be doing it again (that’s total bullshit, but let him believe it).

He imagines how pretty your mouth would look wrapped around him, those sweet doe eyes looking up at him as he nudges the back of your throat, making you gag on him.

“That’s it, pretty girl,” he sighs, picking up his pace a little. “Take it for me.”

His grip tightens around the tip as he twists his wrist, letting out a long, low moan. He likes to think you’d be making all sorts of saccharine little noises for him, sweet like your mouth is full of honey. There’s no way he’d finish like that, though. He’d reserve that for being so deep inside you, you could feel it in your stomach.

He throws his head back, wet hair falling away from his forehead, as he pictures having you bent over before him, bracing yourself on the edge of the tub as he runs his cock through your folds a few times. He’d relish how fucking soaked sucking him off would get you.

“Fuck, sweet little thing, is all that for me?” He thinks you’d nod, biting your lower lip as you look at him over your shoulder, wiggling that cute ass as if you’re asking for more. He’d give it to you. Fuck, he’d give you anything you want.

Again, his fist tightens around his dick. Even with as much as he’d work you up, Price still believes firmly that it’d be a decent stretch for you to take all of him (he’s not bragging; he just knows that he’s well above average). That pretty little pussy would be squeezing him so good, so he does his best to make his grip match.

“Your cunt feels so good, love,” he grunts, fucking his hand hard and fast. “Made for me, huh?”

You’d agree, wouldn’t you?

He licks his lips, adding, “Yeah, that’s my girl. Sweet little hole made just for me.”

He’d grab you by the throat, pulling you back against him for a sloppy, awkwardly-angled kiss while he fucks into you, on the verge of cumming purely due to the way you’re looking up at him. He’d be a gentleman, of course, offering to pull out, but he thinks you’d decline. He thinks you’d beg him to cum inside you. That’s what does him in.

“Want it inside me… Please, John… Inside… Fuck, don’t stop.”

With a stutter to his rhythm, Price feels the knot in his stomach burst, and he spills over his knuckles, hot, white streaks painting his fingers.

He doesn’t feel bad about it, touching himself, thinking of you; not when he knows without question that you want him just as bad.

♡

The changing of seasons comes far too soon, in more ways than one. As fall gives way to the bitter temperatures of the ever impatient winter, you, too, grow colder.

You don't call him by his name anymore. No longer do you inquire after his weekend or surprise him with his favorite tea in the mornings or recommend books you'd just finished. You don’t smile at him through lectures, nor do you greet him in the hall with your standard enthusiasm. You're still you with everyone else, but only the picture-perfect persona of professionalism with him, and that hurts.

It stings. Thousands of yellow jackets prick the inside of his chest at all hours of the day, driving their thorny needles in as deep as they'll go. He gets no reprieve, awake or asleep. Every icy interaction is another pang of regret, and how curious, he thinks, that those pesky wasps have managed to hold out so long with the changing weather.

As much as he'd like to, John can't blame anyone but himself. By all accounts, he did the right thing. If he would've kissed you, he wouldn't have been able to stop. It would become compulsive, habitual. Someone would find out sooner or later, and there's no doubt it would be cemented as part of your reputation. There's no telling what degree of damage that would do to your career. You've worked too damn hard to get this far; it wouldn't be right of him to take that all away for you over one moment of selfishness.

But is this not selfishness? The devil on his shoulder scolds him. It tells him it was never his place to make decisions for you, that you’re a grown woman capable of doing as you please, that you wouldn’t have practically begged him to kiss you if you didn’t want it just as badly as he did.

It isn’t until he overhears you talking with Johnny MacTavish, a TA from the science department, that he considers that little devil may have a valid point.

“I just feel so stupid, Johnny. One minute, I think he’s just about to kiss me, and the next, he’s turning me down. Did I do something wrong? Do you think I misread the situation? Or am I just gullible enough to think that someone like him would ever want me?”

“Oh, pish. I’ve seen the way that mook stares at you. Nothin’ wrong with you, bonnie; you’re the whole damn package. Seems to be him with the problem, aye?”

It breaks his heart that you’d think so lowly of him to diminish yourself in any way on his behalf. He has half a mind to intrude, to burst into your office and tell you the facts as they stand - that you’re the only thing he ever thinks about anymore, his only vice, that you are perfect to him, for him, that it is him who feels the need to address the issue at hand, that, as much as John may loathe to admit, MacTavish is spot-on (it’s nothing personal; he’s a good kid. Price just isn’t big on being called out for acting like a complete fool).

However, where Price hangs himself for this is the dichotomy of his apparent staring problem.

On one hand, he knows he chances a glance far too often for his own posterity. He catches himself looking in your direction time and time again during his lectures, hoping to catch you staring back, and has to remind himself how inappropriate that is under any circumstance. On the other, though, how is he supposed to just ignore the way you’ve been dressing as of late? It’s like you’re actively trying to kill him. His palms itch with a need to touch, fingers twitching with a want to squeeze, and he’d be lying if he said he didn’t feel like you were doing it intentionally. What better revenge than showing him what he’s missing out on?

It eats at him daily, knowing his own indecisiveness is the root of anguish for both of you.

Just this once, he tells himself he should've been selfish.

#john price x reader #john price x you #john price imagine #john price #john price cod #cod writer #cod x reader #cod x you #jj writes

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incomingalbatross · 4 months ago

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A funny thing about Harry Dresden is that his canon teen years would basically work perfectly as a YA fantasy novel/trilogy if you just told them straight.

Like. Orphaned kid in the foster system has discovered he has Mysterious Powers. A man comes to take him in and reveals that they're both wizards! He's going to raise and train him! And he goes with him and his new guardian is ALSO training a teenage girl and the two of them fall in love and everything is great...

Except the audience can see, much earlier than the teenagers, that this guy isn't just a Mysterious Wizard Mentor. He's both sinister and abusive. And the dramatic tension grows and grows until the day this teenager walks through the door to find his girlfriend being mind-controlled and their guardian planning to do the same to him for the furtherance of Evil Schemes.

Kid runs away. Shock. Betrayal. Horror. The guardian sends a demon after him. He fights it off, realizes there's no running from this, finds helped from a contact of his Unknown Mother, and goes back to face his evil guardian. There's a massive, physically and emotionally intense, climactic battle. Kid wins, but his girlfriend is killed along with his guardian and the house burns down. He runs away from the wreckage of his former life with only the bitter consolation that he still has his freedom (and the magical talking skull he saved from the fire on his way out).

And THEN the magic cops show up. (Because it turns out his evil guardian was lying about all sorts of things, not least that there was an entire magical society out there all along.) This orphan who has just escaped from the first "safe" place he'd known since he was six is now put on trial for trying to survive.

He gets put on razor-thin parole, given into the care of a new elderly wizard and taken to a farm. Tries to navigate this new place and expectations that are unsettlingly similar to the beginning of this story, but also keep being disconcertingly different.

The book ends with the first moment he really understands that he's actually safe there -- that his new mentor is what a good guardian looks like.

#do you see my vision #even his teen years were a whole fantasy coming-of-age arc #also #harry dresden 🤝 christopher chant #powerful kids who were not equipped to realize they were being exploited by the authority figures they latched onto #series: he died doing the right thing

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twistedheartsclub · 23 hours ago

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Yandere Boxer X Fem Reader PT 1

⚠️ Warnings: psychological manipulation • obsessive love • stalking • parental betrayal • gaslighting • grooming • non-consensual drug use • emotional abuse • toxic family dynamics • physical violence (mentioned) • slow burn dread • dark romance themes

PART TWO HERE

Y/N didn’t belong there.

Not in the crowd. Not under the blinding lights. Not in a seat that smelled like beer and popcorn.

But her mother had practically shoved her out the front door.

“You’re not going to rot in this house all summer, Y/N. You’re going. That’s final.”

And her father had grinned, tossing her a spare ticket. Her older brother hooted from the hallway, already wearing the boxer’s branded hoodie.

“You’re gonna love it! Silas Vega’s a beast.”

She didn’t know who Silas Vega was.

Her world was books. Soft blankets. A quiet room with a cracked window and a constant cup of tea. The only rings she knew were in fantasy novels.

And yet here she was—wedged between her brother and father in a packed stadium—her knees pulled together, hands clutching her canvas tote like it could shield her from the world.

The crowd was a living thing. Drums pounded. Fans screamed. Giant screens flickered with promo clips—slow-motion punches, blood-slick gloves, victories.

Y/N kept her head down.

Her wire-frame glasses slid down her nose again as she tried to quietly open her book—an old worn copy of Wuthering Heights. She didn’t care if it was dramatic or out of place. She needed something to hold onto.

“Seriously?” her brother hissed. “You’re gonna read at a fight?”

She didn’t answer.

She just pushed her glasses up again and stared hard at the words, trying not to jump every time the speaker blared.

Then the lights dimmed.

The bass throbbed.

And a voice roared through the stadium.

“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN—THE UNDEFEATED, THE UNTOUCHABLE—SILAS VEGA!”

The crowd erupted. A wave of bodies stood.

She looked up.

And the world slowed.

From the far end of the tunnel, a figure emerged beneath flickering lights. Shirtless. Skin glistening with oil. Muscles rippling with every step. Ink curled down his chest, across his stomach, his arms—a full sleeve on the right, fragmented designs on the left. His shorts bore his name in sharp, silver stitching.

He didn’t smile. He didn’t wave. He looked straight ahead—face calm, unreadable, focused. Like a storm brewing under skin.

Y/N had never seen someone like that in her life.

He climbed into the ring. Jumped once to loosen his limbs. Raised a single fist.

The crowd lost their minds.

She could barely breathe.

She told herself to look away. Told herself to read. But her fingers curled tighter around the pages instead, as if holding the book could tether her to who she was before this moment.

And that’s when it happened.

He looked at her.

Just for a second.

Among thousands of people. Thousands of screams.

His eyes—dark, heavy-lidded, intense—landed on hers.

Her breath caught. Her pulse stumbled.

He didn’t smile. Didn’t nod.

Just looked.

Like he recognized her.

And then the bell rang.

Fifteen minutes later

Silas Vega won, of course. The man barely broke a sweat. His opponent went down hard in the third round, and the crowd roared with adoration.

But Silas wasn’t listening.

He was staring at the third row.

The seat where the quiet girl had sat.

But she was gone.

Y/N

The fight was over.

Thank God.

Y/N pushed her glasses up for what felt like the hundredth time and ducked through the crowd, one hand gripping her tote bag, the other fiddling with her long, thick hair to keep it from getting caught in someone’s shoulder.

“Was that insane or what?” her brother shouted over the noise. “Third round knockout. Silas is a monster.”

Her dad laughed, clapping a stranger on the back. “Told you he’d win. He’s unstoppable.”

Y/N didn’t say anything. She just kept walking, stepping around discarded popcorn bags and sticky beer patches on the concrete. Her book was still in her bag, untouched. The lights had been too much. The noise. The heat of the crowd. She hated every second of it.

She hadn’t even meant to look at him.

Silas Vega. Whatever.

For a moment, she thought he looked at her. Dead in the eyes, like he knew her. But that was impossible. It was a fluke. Her seat was front and center. Maybe he was just scanning the rows.

She pulled her hair over one shoulder and rolled her eyes.

It didn’t matter. She didn’t care.

He was a fighter. A celebrity. Not her type. Not her world. Not someone she’d ever think about again.

“Y/N, did you see that hit?” her brother asked, jogging to catch up. “That combo? Guy dropped like a sack of bricks.”

“I wasn’t really watching,” she replied simply.

“You were there. How were you not watching?”

“I don’t like watching people get hurt,” she muttered. “It’s not entertaining to me.”

He blinked. “You’re weird.”

She shrugged. “You’ve known that since birth.”

Her mother was waiting by the car with bottled water and a smile. The ride home was full of chatter—her dad analyzing footwork, her brother pulling up replays on his phone, her mom humming along to old radio songs.

And Y/N just sat in the backseat, staring out the window. The world blurred past in soft yellow light.

She was already forgetting about the ring. The fighter. The noise.

She had a quiz on Monday. That was what mattered.

Back at the stadium…

Silas stood under the fluorescent lights of the locker room, taping up fresh bandages.

“She left,” he said to no one in particular.

“Who?” his brother asked.

“The girl.”

He didn’t smile. Didn’t blink.

He just kept wrapping, slower now, like he was thinking about the way her glasses slid down, the way she didn’t scream or smile or react.

“She didn’t even look impressed,” he murmured.

Then, quieter, darker:

“I like that.”

Y/N – Quiet Life

The weekend passed the way most did in Y/N’s house—slow and warm, like sunlight filtering through lace curtains.

Saturday morning was pancakes. Her mom’s recipe, perfectly golden with crispy edges, served with fresh strawberries. Her dad read the paper out loud between bites, occasionally pausing to explain the comics like it was still 2007.

Y/N sat at the table with her long hair in a loose braid over her shoulder, oversized sweatshirt falling off one arm. Her glasses slid again. She pushed them up without thinking, flipping the page of her novel.

“You’re gonna wear your eyes out,” her mom teased, sipping her tea.

“I’m nearsighted. It’s already too late.”

Her dad chuckled. “What are you reading now?”

“Historical fiction. Set in 1840s England. There’s a horse farm and emotional repression.”

“So, exactly your kind of thing.”

Her brother stumbled into the kitchen wearing a hoodie and mismatched socks. “Silas Vega looked at Y/N at the fight.”

Y/N froze.

Her mother raised a brow.

Her father snorted.

“What?”

“No, he didn’t,” she muttered.

“He totally did,” her brother insisted. “Dead-on. Like, full eye contact. Didn’t look at anyone else like that.”

“I wasn’t even looking at him,” she said. “He probably just scans the crowd like a showman. It’s his job.”

“Whatever. You could marry him and become a rich housewife.”

“I’d rather marry a librarian,” she said flatly.

Later That Day

Y/N met her two closest friends, Mara and Jules, at the little café near the bookstore. The bell chimed when she entered, and Jules waved her over with a grin.

“Hey, celebrity.”

Y/N groaned. “You too?”

Mara leaned forward, excited. “He definitely looked at you. My brother said he’s never seen Silas stare at anyone like that. You broke the internet.”

“I didn’t do anything.”

“Exactly,” Jules said. “That’s why it’s hot.”

Y/N sipped her tea. “I’m not interested. I don’t care about muscles and violence. He probably doesn’t even read.”

“You don’t know that,” Mara smirked. “Maybe he reads poetry between punches.”

Y/N laughed. “Yeah, sure. Blood-stained Shakespeare.”

She didn’t tell them about the way his eyes made her freeze. Or how her heart thumped in her ears. Because she didn’t want to think about it.

Meanwhile

Silas – After the Fight

Silas sat in the back of his town car, knuckles bruised, hoodie pulled low. His phone buzzed with notifications—sponsors, fan edits, interview requests. He ignored them all.

His eyes were on a grainy screenshot someone sent him.

A still from the broadcast.

Her.

Y/N, sitting in the third row, arms crossed over a book, glasses falling, a bored look on her face.

She looked soft. Untouched. Like the world hadn’t ruined her yet.

She didn’t cheer. Didn’t worship him like the rest.

And she was perfect.

“Find out who she is,” he said to his manager, already knowing he would.

“Why?”

“Because she belongs to me.”

The front door slams open like a storm. Y/N barely glances up from her book as her little brother barrels into the living room, waving his phone like he just won the lottery.

“Y/N! Oh my god—you’re not gonna believe this!”

She blinks behind her glasses, adjusting her blanket. “What?”

“I won. I actually freaking won.” His eyes are wide, face glowing. “Two backstage passes to meet Silas Vegas—after his next fight!”

She frowns. “Who?”

“Who? Y/N, he’s only the most undefeated fighter in the league. The guy’s a legend. A beast. A literal god. And I get to meet him. I get to stand in the same room as Silas Vegas—Silas freaking Vegas!”

She smiles a little, amused at his excitement. “That’s cool.”

“Cool?” he gasps. “No—this is fate. You’re coming with me.”

She shakes her head instantly. “No way. Loud arenas? Drunk crowds? Sweaty guys punching each other? That’s your thing, not mine.”

He groans dramatically. “C’mon, you have to! It’ll be fun. Just one night.”

She looks back at her book. “You’ll have a better time without me.”

Later that Night:

Her brother’s at the fight, surrounded by flashing lights, deafening cheers, and roaring energy. But he’s not watching the match—he’s watching for her. Hoping she changed her mind.

She didn’t.

Backstage, he stands in awe as the towering figure of Silas Vegas enters, blood on his knuckles, his chest rising slow and heavy. He looks around… and pauses.

The girl isn’t here.

His eyes flick down to the boy. Same nose. Same last name printed on the email invite.

“You her brother?” Silas asks, voice smooth but dark.

The kid blinks. “Huh? Wait—yeah! That’s my sister. She didn’t come. Not really her scene.”

Silas stares at him for a moment too long.

“Pity,” he murmurs. “She looked like she belonged to me.”

Then, with a friendly smile, he claps a heavy hand on the kid’s shoulder.

“You ever think about training?”

And just like that… he’s in.

Scene: Family Dinner – Thursday Night

The kitchen smells like garlic bread and roasted chicken, laughter echoing off the walls. Y/N sits between her mom and her brother’s best friend, trying to follow the conversation, but the boys are talking a mile a minute.

Her brother is practically vibrating in his seat.

“And then he came out, shirt off, towel around his neck—and I swear, he looked right at me.”

“Who?” their dad asks, loosening his tie as he sits down, tired but trying to catch up.

“Silas Vegas, Dad! You should’ve seen him. He said I had potential. Me! I’m going to his gym on Sunday—private training.”

Their dad smiles, proud but with a hint of regret.

“Wish I could’ve come. Damn job got in the way.”

“It was insane,” the brother says, turning to his best friend. “Even you would’ve freaked out.”

The best friend, a soccer kid through and through, grins.

“Dude, you know I don’t get the whole fight scene, but that’s still badass. Maybe you’ll get famous and I’ll switch sports.”

Y/N just blinks, pushing peas around her plate.

“What’s a southpaw?” she asks, dead serious.

Everyone laughs.

“It’s when a fighter leads with their right hand,” her brother explains, half proud, half exasperated. “C’mon, Y/N, I’ve told you that before!”

“I forgot,” she mutters, cheeks warm.

Their mom chuckles softly and nudges Y/N’s arm.

“Speaking of forgetting…” Her voice turns playful. “Somebody’s birthday is this Saturday. My baby girl’s turning eighteen.”

Y/N groans. “Can we not talk about that?”

“Why not?” her dad says with a warm smile. “Eighteen’s a big deal.”

“Exactly,” her mom adds, already pulling out her mental Pinterest board. “I was thinking a small dinner. Something sweet. Maybe you can wear that dress I bought—the blue one?”

Y/N shrinks a little in her seat, suddenly aware of how fast everything is moving.

“We don’t have to make it a thing…”

“Oh, we’re making it a thing,” her brother chimes in, mouth full. “Eighteen, Y/N. You can vote. You can finally drive after years of avoiding your learner’s permit—”

“Thanks,” she deadpans.

“We’ll keep it lowkey,” her mom says gently. “Just us and maybe a few friends.”

Across the table, her brother’s best friend gives a little wave.

“I better be invited,” he says.

Y/N smiles. “Of course.”

But beneath the table, her phone buzzes in her pocket. An unknown number. No message. No call.

She doesn’t check it.

Not yet.

Saturday Morning –

Sunlight filters through the curtains. The smell of pancakes and cinnamon floats up the stairs. Y/N blinks awake to the sound of soft knocking.

“Sweetheart?” her mom’s voice is gentle. “Can we come in?”

Before she can answer, the door creaks open and in come her parents—with her brother right behind them, holding a sad balloon he clearly bought last minute.

“Happy birthday!” they all say in unison.

Y/N sits up, sleepy but smiling. Her dad places a kiss on her forehead.

“Eighteen, huh? Our baby girl’s all grown up.”

Her mom hands her a tray with breakfast and a little wrapped box on the side.

“Your favorite. And something small to start the day.”

Her brother flops onto the foot of her bed. “I had to convince Mom not to put eighteen candles on your pancakes.”

“You’re so annoying,” Y/N mutters—but she’s still smiling.

He grins. “Wanna hear something wild though?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“Silas Vegas—yes, THE Silas Vegas—texted me this morning.”

Y/N freezes, fork halfway to her mouth.

“He wanted to hang out,” her brother continues, completely unaware. “Said he had some free time today and asked if I wanted to drop by the gym. Just chill.”

Her mom gives him a look. “Didn’t you tell him it’s your sister’s birthday?”

“Of course I did.” He shrugs. “Told him no way, it’s family time. He said it was cool. That we’d reschedule.”

Y/N lowers her fork. Her chest feels… strange.

“He has your number?” she asks softly.

Her brother laughs. “Yeah! Gave it to him after training last night. Thought he might wanna talk fight stuff.”

Their dad raises a brow. “Pretty generous of him.”

“I know, right? He’s actually super chill. Not like I expected.”

Y/N nods slowly, but something inside her is already twisting. She stares at her untouched pancake, suddenly not hungry.

Later That Day

A knock at the door. Her brother goes to open it, expecting a neighbor, maybe a delivery.

Instead: Silas Vegas, standing on their porch with a smirk that doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Hey,” he says smoothly. “Just thought I’d drop off a little birthday something—for your sister.”

The brother blinks. “How’d you—?”

“You mentioned it this morning,” Silas interrupts, handing him a soft white box tied in navy ribbon. “Don’t worry. Nothing crazy.”

But his eyes are already scanning the house behind him. Listening. Looking.

Waiting.

Saturday Evening –

The house is bustling as everyone gets ready. Her mom finishes curling Y/N’s hair while humming softly. Her father shaves, her brother’s trying to fix his tie in the hallway mirror. They’re planning to go to Bella Vita, the “fancy” place in town—white tablecloths, dim lighting, decent food.

Y/N stands in front of her mirror, slipping on nude heels. Her dress is simple but fitted—a soft champagne tone that makes her skin glow. Her glasses are off for once, replaced with contacts. Her hair falls in loose curls over her shoulders.

She feels… exposed.

From behind, her door creaks open.

“Hey, you almost ready?” her brother calls, but another voice answers.

Silas.

Low. Smooth. Intimate.

“She’s perfect.”

Y/N freezes.

He steps just inside the doorway, closing it behind him with a click. He’s in a sleek black button-down, dark slacks. The gold on his watch gleams. He doesn’t touch her—he doesn’t need to.

“Happy birthday, angel.”

His voice is like smoke, curling around her, sliding beneath her skin.

“You clean up nice. Contacts suit you… but I liked the glasses.” His eyes drop—just once, slow and deliberate—then rise again. “Everything else though? I already imagined it.”

She steps back instinctively, brushing against her dresser. Her heart thunders. She tries to speak, but—

Knock-knock. Her brother barges in, holding a box. “Oh, hey—Silas, you made it! Mom said we’re about ready to leave.”

He holds out the box to Y/N.

“Here. I know it’s kinda girly, but the lady at the store said it was classy. Figured you’d like it.”

Y/N opens it—and stills.

Inside is a delicate, thin gold necklace with a tiny charm… a lock.

Not a heart. Not a name. Not an initial. A lock.

It matches the tattoo on Silas’s neck.

Her eyes flick to Silas.

He’s already watching her. Expression unreadable, but the corner of his mouth lifts slightly.

“Put it on!” her brother says, grinning. “Let’s see it!”

Y/N hesitates. Her fingers tremble.

Silas steps forward, breaking the tension with a casual tone. “I can help, if you want.”

“No!” she says too fast, then softens. “I—I got it.”

She turns toward the mirror, clipping the necklace in place. Her fingers brush the charm, cold against her skin. Her brother grins.

“Looks good. Kinda fancy. You could be in a movie or something.”

Silas says nothing—but when their eyes meet in the mirror, it’s like he’s already claimed her.

As the family gathers by the door, ready to head to Bella Vita, Silas casually speaks up:

“Actually… I’ve made other arrangements.”

They all turn.

“A friend of mine owns a place in the city. Real five-star stuff. Private dining room. I thought I’d treat the birthday girl and her family.”

Her father hesitates. “That’s very generous, but you don’t have to—”

“I want to,” Silas says firmly. Then, softer: “She deserves it.”

Everyone murmurs thanks, impressed by the gesture.

Y/N stays quiet, her hand touching the little lock charm, the air in her lungs feeling heavier than it should.

The moment the front door opens, the difference is impossible to miss.

Not the family’s old, slightly dented minivan. No—the vehicle parked in front is long, sleek, and obsidian black, with chrome rims that shine even in the twilight. The engine hums like it’s alive.

“Whoa…” her brother whispers. “This your ride, Silas?”

Silas smiles. “One of them.”

The back doors open automatically. Y/N’s mom gasps softly. Her dad hesitates, running a hand through his hair like he’s underdressed. Y/N follows behind them slowly, her heels clicking lightly on the concrete.

She expects her brother to slide in beside Silas—but he takes the far back, dragging his best friend with him. Her mom and dad sit up front with the driver.

Which means Y/N is left… in the middle row. Next to him.

Trapped.

The leather seats are cool against her thighs. The smell inside is sharp, expensive—like dark spice and polished wood. Silas doesn’t speak right away, and neither does she.

Then her family starts in.

“So what do you eat to stay that fit?” her dad asks.

“What kind of training do you do?” her brother pipes up.

“Is it true you broke someone’s nose in six seconds?” his friend blurts out.

Silas laughs softly, smooth and controlled, answering each question like he’s been prepped for press his entire life. But while he talks…

His fingers move.

Slowly, he shifts closer. His knee brushes hers. His hand settles near her thigh—too near. Then it moves again, casually brushing the side of her leg.

Y/N presses closer to the door, trying to stay in the shadows, heart thudding. Her fingers grip her clutch like a lifeline.

Her family laughs at something he says—she doesn’t hear it. All she hears is the soft drag of his knuckles near the hem of her dress.

She squeezes her thighs together. The necklace feels heavy against her chest.

Don't react. Don't let them notice.

The car rolls to a stop in front of a place none of them have ever been.

The entrance is a tall arch of black glass and stone, glowing softly from within. No name. No flashing signs. Just a small gold plate by the door: Maison D’Or.

“Is this it?” her mom whispers. “It’s gorgeous…”

Inside, the air is cool, lightly perfumed with sandalwood and rose. The lighting is low and golden, casting everything in a soft glow. Rich velvet curtains, crystal glassware, white-gloved waitstaff.

A live string trio plays in the corner, the music delicate and rich like honey over silk.

At the table—already set and waiting—sits another gift box. A bouquet of dark red roses rests beside it, thorns clipped clean.

Silas gestures for Y/N to sit first. She hesitates.

“Go ahead, angel,” he says low, just for her. “It’s your night.”

She lowers herself slowly into the seat. Her brother rushes to grab the gift.

“Another one? Damn, you’re getting spoiled.”

He passes it to her, eyes gleaming. “C’mon, open it.”

Y/N glances at Silas, who smiles that slow, careful smile.

She lifts the lid—and finds a silk hair ribbon, deep wine-red. Simple. Soft. Expensive. Embroidered in tiny golden thread with her name.

Just her name.

No one comments on how intimate it is. No one notices the way she grips the table under her dress.

Silas leans close.

“For when you put your hair up,” he murmurs, brushing a finger behind her ear. “Next time I see you, I expect you to wear it.”

The server pours wine into crystal glasses. The family is buzzing, dazzled by the elegance. Y/N sits stiffly, her body turned ever so slightly away from Silas—even though he’s right next to her.

He doesn’t let her forget it.

“She’ll have the salmon,” Silas says smoothly, before Y/N can speak.

The server nods.

Y/N opens her mouth—she was going to order something else—but her mother interrupts, beaming.

“That sounds perfect. You’re always so picky, sweetheart. He’s a gentleman for deciding.”

Her stomach coils.

Silas leans in.

“Told you,” he murmurs near her ear, “I know what’s good for you.”

His hand brushes her bare thigh under the table.

At first, it’s light. A slow stroke with the back of his fingers. She shifts away. His hand returns, bolder. Fingertips sliding higher beneath the silky hem of her dress.

Her fork clinks against her plate as she stiffens.

Her dad doesn’t notice—he’s mid-laugh at one of Silas’s perfectly placed stories.

Y/N’s breathing starts to falter. She forces herself to smile. But the hand won’t stop. Now it’s pressing, gliding along the sensitive inside of her thigh.

Higher.

She jerks in her seat.

“Are you okay?” her brother asks.

“I—I need to use the bathroom,” she blurts, pushing her chair back.

Her napkin drops to the floor. Her legs wobble as she walks away, heels clicking too fast on marble. She bursts into the lavish bathroom, heart hammering, tears threatening.

Her hands clutch the edge of the sink. Her reflection looks wrong—flushed, shaking, helpless.

She thinks about telling her mom. About crying in her arms like when she was little. But—

Would she believe her? Would anyone?

A soft click interrupts her spiraling thoughts.

The bathroom door shuts behind her.

Locks.

Silas.

He’s already inside.

She spins, her back hitting the counter.

“W-What are you doing?” she whispers.

He steps forward slowly, every movement deliberate, wolfish. The music outside is still playing—something elegant, something light.

“You didn’t say thank you,” he says, eyes sweeping over her. “For the necklace. For the ribbon. For dinner.”

His voice is soft. Velvet wrapped around a knife.

“So I figured you needed reminding.”

He closes the space between them.

Y/N’s breath shudders. Her lips part to speak—but nothing comes out.

Y/N’s back presses against the cool marble countertop, her breath caught somewhere between a sob and a scream.

“Stop,” she says, voice trembling. “Get out—get the hell away from me.”

Silas tilts his head, mock-hurt in his eyes.

“That’s no way to speak to someone who gave you such a beautiful night.”

He steps closer. One hand rests beside her on the counter—blocking her in. The other reaches, slow and deliberate, brushing a strand of curled hair from her cheek. She jerks her head away.

“You’re insane,” she hisses. “You’re—fucking crazy.”

His smile doesn’t move. It only sharpens.

“You didn’t seem to mind earlier… letting me touch you at the table. Didn’t stop me.” His hand glides down again—this time, not stopping at her thigh. “You squeezed your legs together, baby. That wasn’t fear. That was need.”

“Stop it!” she chokes, twisting away—but he grabs her wrist and turns her toward the mirror.

Her reflection stares back—eyes wide, cheeks blotched with shame and panic.

“Look at yourself,” he whispers against her ear. “You’re mine already. You just don’t know it yet.”

She trembles. Tears well up. Her mouth parts again to scream—when—

Knock knock knock.

Her mother’s voice outside the door.

“Sweetheart? Are you okay? You’ve been in there a while.”

Y/N freezes.

Silas meets her eyes in the mirror, still holding her tight.

Then slowly, he lets her go.

His fingers brush her cheek, gentle now. He wipes the tear that escaped, smearing it away like it never happened. He leans in, lips grazing the shell of her ear.

“Go out there and smile,” he says softly. “Tell her everything’s fine. Or I’ll start with your little brother next.”

Her stomach lurches.

Then—smack.

His hand lands sharply on her backside.

“Go on, birthday girl.”

She flinches but obeys, body numb.

With trembling hands, she unlocks the door and steps out. Her mother stands there, concern fading into relief as she sees her.

“There you are! Are you okay?”

Y/N forces a smile.

“Y-Yeah. I’m okay. Just needed a minute.”

Her mom wraps an arm around her and leads her back toward the table.

Neither of them turns around. Neither sees Silas still inside—his reflection grinning in the mirror, dark eyes burning.

By the time Y/N returns to the table, Silas is already seated, laughing with her father like nothing happened.

“Your girl’s got quiet strength,” he’s saying. “Rare in someone so young.”

Her dad chuckles. “You’ve got no idea. She’s always been the stubborn one.”

Y/N’s legs feel like lead as she sits down again—but not in the seat next to Silas. She moves her chair a few inches away, pretending to adjust her dress.

He notices. Of course he does.

But he says nothing.

Instead, he lifts his wine glass in a silent toast, watching her over the rim with those cold, hungry eyes.

She forces a smile. Tries to eat. Tries to breathe.

Her mother and father keep chatting. Her brother is still raving about training. But it’s his best friend—seated across from her—who seems to notice something's off.

“Hey,” he says softly, leaning in a bit. “You okay? You’ve been kinda quiet tonight.”

Y/N blinks at him. For a second, the tension in her chest cracks.

“I’m fine,” she whispers. “Just overwhelmed, I guess.”

He grins. “Can’t blame you. This place is like a movie. Honestly, I keep expecting a celebrity to walk in and ask for your autograph.”

She laughs—actually laughs, just a small, quiet sound—but real. It slips out before she can stop it.

And Silas hears it.

He doesn’t react.

Not with words. Not with his face.

But his jaw tightens ever so slightly. His fingers curl around the stem of his glass.

Under the table, he moves his leg again—slowly pressing his knee against hers.

She flinches and shifts away, smile fading.

But the moment has already happened. She laughed. At someone else.

And he didn’t like that.

Not at all.

The lights dim, and the server brings out a small, elegant cake topped with gold dust and spun sugar. A single candle flickers on top.

“Make a wish, baby,” her mom says softly.

Y/N leans forward, her face glowing in the candlelight.

She looks around—at her parents, her brother, his goofy best friend. And then… at him.

Silas.

Watching her like she’s the prize at the center of the table.

She closes her eyes, blows out the candle, and wishes to be invisible.

For just a moment.

The family cheers. Her brother claps, teasing her about growing up. Her dad kisses her temple.

Y/N smiles—a real smile this time. For them. She pushes everything aside. For a few minutes, she eats cake and pretends she’s just a normal girl with a normal birthday.

But she doesn’t notice Silas texting under the table.

A message already sent. Something waiting at home. A gift he picked out just for her.

Home – After the Dinner

The drive home is quieter.

Her family chatters softly—still glowing from the fancy dinner, still singing Silas’s praises like he’s some golden god. Her dad goes on about how polite he was. Her mom’s already talking about inviting him over for Sunday dinner sometime.

Y/N says nothing.

She sits pressed against the car door again, her heels pinching, her shoulders aching. The necklace feels tighter now. Heavy. Like a chain instead of an accessory.

Her stomach churns every time she thinks of the bathroom.

You didn’t say thank you…

They pull into the driveway. Everyone stumbles out with full bellies and sleepy smiles. Her brother gives her a big side-hug, practically dragging his best friend inside to raid the fridge.

“Night, birthday girl!”

Y/N forces a smile, waves, and slips off her shoes the second she’s inside the door. Her toes ache. Her curls are falling. Her makeup feels heavy.

She just wants to crawl into bed, wash it all off, be alone.

But when she gets to her room, she stops cold.

It’s there.

Another box.

Smaller. Sleeker. Matte black with a blood-red ribbon tied in a bow.

No note.

No name.

But she knows.

He’s been here. Or someone has… for him.

Her breath catches. She shuts the door behind her and locks it, heart thudding.

Slowly, like it might bite her, she unties the ribbon.

Inside the box: a pair of black silk panties.

Delicate. Laced. Embroidered at the hip in gold thread:

“Mine.”

Y/N stares down at them, her throat tight, bile rising. Her chest heaves.

She drops the box like it burned her.

And under the tissue paper at the bottom, something else slides free—a polaroid.

It’s her.

Sitting at the restaurant. That moment she laughed with the best friend.

She didn’t even know a photo was taken.

On the back, in clean, all-caps letters:

“I LIKE YOUR SMILE. DON’T GIVE IT AWAY AGAIN.”

That Night

Y/N stares at the box, the panties, the photo. Her heart is pounding so hard it drowns out everything else.

“No. No. No,” she whispers.

She grabs the photo and box and storms out of her room, barefoot, still in her dress, her hair messy from the night.

Downstairs, her mom is in the kitchen finishing dishes. Humming softly.

“Mom—” Y/N’s voice cracks.

Her mother turns, startled. “Sweetheart, what is it?”

Y/N holds out the photo with shaking hands. “He—he was in my room. He left this. And these—” she can’t even say the word. “He’s crazy, Mom. He’s not okay.”

Her mom takes the photo, frowning. She flips it over, reads the message… and then chuckles.

“Y/N… you’re overthinking. It’s probably just a joke. A flirty little thing—men like that, they’re intense.”

Y/N’s breath stops. “What?”

“He’s clearly taken with you. Can you blame him?”

Her mother places the photo back in her hand.

“Don’t ruin a good opportunity because you’re scared of a little attention.”

Y/N’s lips part in horror.

“He followed me into a bathroom. He touched me. I didn’t want—”

Her mother’s smile tightens.

“You didn’t stop him.”

Silence.

Crushing silence.

“You’re tired,” her mom says, turning away to dry her hands. “Sleep on it. You’ll feel better tomorrow.”

Y/N doesn’t remember going back to her room. She curls up under the covers, heartbroken, terrified, and completely alone.

Scene: The Next Morning – Sunday

Sunlight slices through her blinds. The smell of breakfast is downstairs, but her stomach turns.

Then—

“Y/N! C’mon, we’re gonna be late!” Her brother barges into her room, full of energy. “We’re going to the gym to watch me train with Silas!”

Y/N sits up slowly. Her eyes are puffy. She barely slept.

“He asked if you were coming. He said—oh yeah—he mentioned something about… a white dress?”

Her blood goes cold.

“What?”

Her brother shrugs. “I don’t know. He just said, ‘Tell her to wear the white one.’ I figured he meant that flowy one you wore to Easter or something?”

Y/N stares at him.

“You coming or what? Mom said we’re leaving in twenty.”

He disappears down the hall, yelling about protein shakes and wrapping his hands.

Y/N doesn’t move.

Her gaze drifts to the closet… to the white dress.

Waiting.

Sunday Morning –

Y/N moves like a ghost.

She pulls the white dress from her closet with trembling hands. It's soft and delicate—flowy, with a lace-trimmed neckline and little flutter sleeves. It used to make her feel pretty.

Today, it feels like a uniform.

She puts it on in silence. No makeup. Bare-faced. She stares at her reflection with dead eyes.

"Tell her to wear the white one."

She grabs her flat sandals, hoping to feel just a little bit grounded. But as she steps into the kitchen, her mother looks up from packing fruit into a cooler and frowns.

“Sandals?” she says gently. “No, no, baby. Not with that dress.”

Y/N pauses, blinking.

“Go put on your nude heels—the ones we bought for Easter. You’ll look so much more polished.”

“I don’t really want—”

Her mother kisses her cheek, smoothing her hair.

“Trust me. You’ll look beautiful. He’ll love it.”

He already saw me break, Y/N wants to scream. He saw me cry. He touched me. He left underwear in my room.

But instead… she nods.

“Okay.”

She goes back upstairs, hands shaking as she straps on the heels. Her feet already ache in anticipation.

She’s not walking into a gym.

She’s walking into his hands.

The car ride is quieter than last night—no fancy car this time, just their regular van. Her brother and his best friend talk nonstop in the back. Her father drives. Her mother hums along to the radio, glancing over now and then with soft smiles.

“You look radiant, sweetheart,” she says, resting her hand over Y/N’s. “You’ll turn heads today.”

Y/N forces a tiny smile and looks out the window.

Every turn takes her closer.

The gym is loud with the rhythmic thud of gloves hitting bags, the clang of weights, and the distant sound of a jump rope whipping against the floor. But when Y/N steps inside, all of it dulls.

Her white dress flutters around her knees. Her heels click against concrete. She looks like a misplaced angel in a cage of wolves.

Her family enters behind her—chattering, laughing, comfortable. They’d already met Silas Vegas at dinner. They liked him.

They trust him.

And he’s already waiting.

Standing near the ring, wrapped hands resting on the ropes, sweat clinging to his chest, Silas’s eyes lock onto her like a predator recognizing its scent.

His manager, Rey, stands beside him, clipboard in hand. He glances up, sees the family, and smiles politely.

“There’s the birthday girl,” Rey says. “Back again already.”

He leans closer to Silas, keeping his voice low.

“That the dress you picked?”

Silas’s mouth curves—just slightly.

“Fits her better than I imagined.”

Rey chuckles under his breath, but then his eyes catch on her again. He’s been around long enough to know when something’s off.

“She’s pretty young, Silas.”

Silas doesn’t break his gaze from Y/N. His voice drops.

“She’s mine.” Then: “And I’m always good to what’s mine.”

Rey looks away.

He’s not going to interfere.

Y/N’s brother bounds toward Silas, throwing a few fake punches.

“You ready for me today or what?”

Silas chuckles, clapping him on the back. “Let’s find out.”

Her father thanks him again for the private lessons. Her mom smiles, complimenting the gym. It’s all smooth, easy, familiar now.

No one notices how Y/N doesn’t say a word.

No one sees how she inches subtly away, heels wobbling slightly on the gritty floor.

But Silas?

He notices everything.

He turns toward her slowly.

“You wore it,” he says softly, so only she hears. “Good girl.”

Her stomach knots.

She says nothing.

His hand brushes her lower back when he passes by—not too long, not too obvious. But just enough to make her flinch.

“Enjoy the show,” he adds with a smirk. “It’s all for you anyway.”

The training begins.

Her brother is glowing, already on the mat with gloves on, listening to Silas bark instructions with charm and power. Their parents sit in folding chairs by the ring, sipping complimentary water, chatting politely with Rey.

And Y/N?

She slips away.

The heat, the sound, his eyes—it’s too much. She pretends she needs the restroom, wanders past racks of towels, down a hallway with dim lighting and cold walls. There’s a storage room with a cracked door, and she slips inside.

A moment. That’s all she wants. Just one breath without Silas watching.

She leans against the shelf of gear, head bowed, the cold air a relief against her flushed skin. Her fingers toy with the little lock charm on her necklace.

I’m not safe. Even here… I’m not safe.

Then—

Click.

The door closes behind her.

Locks.

She spins around.

Silas stands just inside, chest heaving lightly from the workout, hands still taped. He doesn’t speak at first. He just stares.

“You ran,” he says quietly.

Her voice shakes. “I didn’t— I just needed—”

“You left the room.” His voice sharpens. “While I was performing for you.”

Y/N tries to take a step back, but the shelves are already behind her.

He stalks forward, slow and lethal. His taped fingers reach out and brush her wrist, trailing up her arm, wrapping around the base of her neck.

Not squeezing. Not yet.

“I don’t like chasing,” he murmurs. “But I will. Every time.”

Y/N’s breath hitches. “Silas, please—don’t do this. Not here.”

He leans down, lips nearly grazing hers.

“This is the perfect place, angel. You’re surrounded by men who’d kill to be near you—but they can’t. Because you’re already owned.”

He pulls something from his pocket and dangles it in front of her.

A small, gold padlock key on a delicate chain.

“This matches your necklace,” he says with a wicked grin. “But only I get to use it.”

He hooks the chain around her neck, layering it beneath the lock.

“Two pieces. One game.”

Then, softer, colder:

“If you take either off… I’ll come for someone else in your house.”

He pulls away, smooths her dress like nothing happened.

“Now smile. Fix your lipstick. And come watch me train your brother.”

Y/N walks back out.

Composed. Silent. Shaken.

No one notices the second chain around her neck. No one notices the bruise forming beneath her jaw where his thumb pressed too hard. But he sees it. And he smiles like he just won.

Her brother is practically glowing in the backseat, still sweaty from training but grinning like a kid on Christmas.

“He said I’m a natural!” he beams. “Did you hear that, Dad? He said I had power in my stance.”

Their dad chuckles, proud. “He’s not wrong, son.”

In the passenger seat, their mom is scrolling through photos she took of the session. "I got one of Silas showing you how to block—look how intense your face is!"

Y/N sits in the back, crushed against the door again. The necklace with the lock feels heavier now. The key chain underneath it rubs against her collarbone like a secret no one else can see.

Her thighs are pressed tight together. Her hands shake in her lap.

Silas, up front beside her father, turns slightly to glance back at her. His smile is calm. Polite. Too calm.

“You alright, sweetheart?” he asks smoothly, the word twisting in her stomach.

Her mother glances back too. “You’ve been so quiet all day.”

Y/N nods quickly. “Just tired.”

Her voice is flat, too soft.

Silas’s fingers rest on the center console—close enough for her to see them twitch.

Instead of going straight home, Silas insists on treating them to something small—frozen yogurt, of all things.

They go.

Because everyone trusts him now.

He pays for everyone. Even picks out her flavor without asking.

“Vanilla with raspberries,” he murmurs to the cashier. “It’s her favorite.”

Y/N doesn’t correct him. Her throat’s too tight.

Her brother and his friend sit outside, laughing over toppings. Their mom and dad share a bench, enjoying the quiet.

Silas stands beside Y/N as she stares into her melting cup.

“You don’t get to run from me,” he whispers, voice low enough no one else hears. “And you definitely don’t get to hide.”

The Next Day

The sun is warm. They sit on a picnic blanket in the park, iced drinks in hand. Her friends are talking about summer, boys, music.

Y/N hasn’t said much—until she finally breaks.

“He touched me in the bathroom. On my birthday. He followed me in. Locked the door.”

Her voice is quiet, but it shakes.

One of her friends blinks. “Silas? Silas Vegas? Are you serious?”

Y/N nods.

“He left underwear in my room. A photo of me. He… he put his hand on me yesterday. I didn’t want him to.”

Another girl bites her straw. “Okay, that’s… intense.”

“Creepy,” another mutters. “But like… are you sure? He seems kind of… protective.”

“I’m sure,” Y/N snaps, eyes wide, tears building. “He threatened me.”

A silence falls.

It’s awkward. Heavy. They don’t know what to say. No one gets up. No one rushes to hug her.

Finally, one of them shifts the subject.

“Hey,” says the one with the sunglasses, “you should come with us to the summer camp pits.”

Y/N blinks.

“Camp?”

“Yeah. The annual one. You know—two weeks of hiking, swimming, taking care of little kids. It’ll be a break. You’d be a counselor this time.”

“And Silas can’t follow you there,” one of them adds, more gently. “He won’t even know where you are.”

That thought nearly makes Y/N sob.

She nods, clinging to the idea like a raft in the storm.

“I want to go. I’ll go.”

That Night –

She stands in the kitchen with her hands folded, her voice practiced.

“There’s this camp. I’d be a counselor. Two weeks. Just girls and kids. No phones allowed.”

Her mother frowns. “Two weeks? Alone?”

“You won’t be alone,” her dad says gently. “But you just turned eighteen…”

“Which is why I want to do this,” Y/N says quickly. “I need some space. Some clarity.”

Her mom hesitates.

“It’s just—it feels sudden. You’ve been spending time with Silas. And now you’re rushing off?”

Y/N feels her heart drop into her stomach.

“He doesn’t need to know,” she whispers.

Her dad tilts his head. “Is something going on, Y/N?”

She almost says it.

Almost.

“No,” she lies. “I just want to be around people my own age.”

That Night –

Y/N stands quietly as her parents talk in the kitchen. She can hear the concern in her mom’s voice—but it’s her dad who finally ends it.

“She’s eighteen. And she’s been… off lately. Let her go.”

Her mother sighs. “I just… it feels sudden.”

Her father glances toward the hallway—where Y/N stands just out of sight—and softens.

“She needs time with people her age. With girls. Camp’ll be good for her.”

Her mother doesn’t argue again.

Y/N barely makes it to her room before her legs give out. She sinks onto her bed and stares at the ceiling.

For the first time in weeks… she feels a sliver of hope.

[Time Skip: One Week Later]

The days pass quietly, almost too quietly.

Y/N barely speaks to Silas. She avoids his texts. Ignores the necklace. She’s careful. Cautious. Every step closer to leaving feels like a stolen breath.

She’s packed her bag in secret. Folded clothes, tucked in sunscreen, worn-out sneakers. No white dresses. No heels.

Just comfort. And escape.

Her friends pull into the driveway in a beat-up car, all piled with duffels and sleeping bags. The windows are down. Music’s playing low.

Y/N walks out with her bag slung over her shoulder. Her father steps out onto the porch and gives her a hug.

“Be safe, kiddo.”

She nods. “Thank you, Dad. Really.”

Her mom lingers by the door, arms crossed but silent.

Her brother stumbles out, yawning. “Wait—where are you going?”

Y/N hesitates. “Camp. I’m going to be a counselor.”

“Since when?”

“Since now,” she says softly. “It’s just two weeks.”

He shrugs, not thinking much of it. “Okay, cool. Send pics.”

She climbs into the car.

As they drive off, the necklace with the lock bumps lightly against her chest. She tucks it deep into her hoodie.

Later That Day –

The gym is humid, alive with energy. Her brother is sweating through drills, gloves pounding against the pads.

Silas watches from across the mat, still and unreadable.

“Keep your chin down,” he says. “Don’t leave your right hand hanging.”

“Yeah, yeah,” her brother pants. “You’re really uptight today.”

Silas doesn’t answer. His mind is elsewhere.

That’s when the brother says it, totally casual.

“Y/N left for camp this morning, by the way.”

Silas’s world goes still.

“What?”

“Yeah. Like two weeks. All-girls camp. She’s a counselor or whatever. She packed last night and just dipped.”

Silas stares at him.

“She didn’t tell me.”

The boy blinks, confused. “Uh… she said it was kind of last-minute. Guess she didn’t think you’d care.”

Silas doesn’t speak.

He simply turns, walks toward the back office, and shuts the door behind him with a quiet, final click.

The door locks.

He paces. Breathing sharp. Controlled.

She ran.

Not far. But far enough to think he wouldn’t follow.

He opens his phone.

No texts. No updates. No location ping.

He closes his eyes.

Good girls don’t run. Good girls don’t hide.

He opens a drawer. Pulls out something small.

The second key. The matching padlock.

He runs his thumb along the gold edge.

“Two weeks,” he whispers. “She thinks that’s enough time to forget who she belongs to.”

#yandere #dark fantasy #fantasy #tw noncon #x reader #dark romance #power dynamics #sfw noncom #age g4p #boxer #fight club

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heythrrdelilah · 1 year ago

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Choose

Summary: New York City life gets a little lonely until you have too many choices

Pairings: timothee chalamet x F!reader, Austin Bütlér x F!reader

Warnings: honestly expect pure filth. Mmf but the males are straight and don't interact

Word count: 2,925

Authors note: it's been a while and this may or may not be loosely based on a random detailed dream I had the night before last also please know I'm not usually a smut writer and it's been ages so bare with me please

The dim lit bar was roaring with voices as the rush hour for bars came. You regretted letting your friend talk you into coming out. You would much rather be sitting on your couch with a fantasy novel and a cup of lavender tea, but your best friend and roommate was persistent. “See! Lavender vodka cocktails! I told you you could still get lavender tea!” She pulled you by your wrist to the bar. This was one of the many popular bars in New York so you had to squeeze between shoulders to even reach the counter. “You know it's not the same thing, right? It's important for me to know that you know that,” you questioned your friend with a brow raised, she threw her hair over one shoulder and rolled her eyes. Instead of responding she just ordered a lavender vodka lemonade for you and a planters punch for herself.

“Just don't leave me tonight. I didn't feel like coming but if you leave me alone this is the last time,” you sternly state as you wait for your drinks. After people had their orders in, the crowd around the bar became smaller and people were now gathered around tables and leather couches. The bar theme was modern chic. Crystal dim lighting, black leather couches around marble tables. You and your roommate definitely could not afford to drink here, especially on a regular basis, but she insisted that the only way to find a decent man was in high end bars. Not that you were looking.

“It will be fun! Go find a table, I'll wait for the drinks,” she instructed, clearly scouting the crowd. You pushed off of your elbows and looked around for an empty table. It was no surprise when every table and couch were full. You found an empty spot on a wall and leaned up against it.

“This should cheer you up, I got that guy to pay for our drinks,” meg, your roommate and best friend, handed you your glass and nodded towards a blonde man in an army green jacket who was staring in their direction. He had a nice smile and tilted his glass to Meg with a wink. It was painfully obvious that you were going to be left alone at some point tonight. “go for it,” you sighed. She shook her head, her red hair swaying with every turn, “he can wait for it. I need to let the anticipation build. For now, let's talk about your day, drink up and dance.” There wasn't much to dance to as today's rap hits played low level. “my day is never as interesting as yours. I just work at an unknown radio station. You're the celebrity photographer,” you say with a bit of laughter.

“You're just getting your start. Besides I'm just the photographer for BuzzFeed. it's my start too. But okay,” she began talking about the shoot she had just done for the cast of the Dune series. Meg was good about making the biggest celebrities sound like just a group of co-workers. The Dune cast had some of the biggest names in Hollywood but here she was talking about how Batista couldn't stay serious the entire shoot.

You moved on to her plans next week to shoot a rom com cast on Monday when a group walked into the bar and heads were turning from every direction. “meg, isn't thats the Dune cast,” you pointed out the obvious. You tried to keep your composure as Timothee chalamet was your biggest celebrity crush and he was walking in the doors. People brought out there phones and snapped a few pictures with it being a high class bar in New York City, it wasn't a huge deal.

Meg smiled wide and waved at the group. They spotted her and waved back as they began walking towards us. “what up?” Timothee shouted playfully as he hugged Meg. “If we had known you were coming to the same bar when you said you were going out later, we could have just left the office together!” Zendaya laughed giving Meg a one armed hug. Meg pointed to me, “this one needed a Friday night out so I had to stop home anyways.”

Florence smiled, “I needed to change anyways. That was probably one of the most fun shoots I've had for an interview though. Can we buy you girls drinks?” Florence looked to you and put her hand gently on your shoulder, “I'm so sorry, I'm Florence what's your name?” You told the group your name and Zendaya was laughing wrapping her arm around Florence, “yeah Flo she was standing herebthe whole time and we didn't even ask her name. No wonder people think celebrities are rude as hell. I'm Z this is Timothee and Austin.” You waved smiling, “it's nice to meet you all. I promise I'm not the loser I just sounded like I just prefer staying home.” They all nodded. Florence laughed, “I feel that heavily. Alright let's get some drinks at the bar and come back. the waiters here are too busy.”

While the cast walked off to get their drinks, a Waitress brought us two drinks we didn't order, the same ones we had as a first round. “they're from that gentlemen. Don't worry I prepared them and came right back this way,” she winked, obviously referring to how awful the world was. Meg blushed, her blue eyes wandering over to the blonde man from earlier. He was looking adoringly at her, blushing, he smiled and took a drink of his.

The group came back with their assortment of drinks in hand. After a few short minutes of sharing fun memories of the photoshoot earlier, Meg took a step back from your now formed circle, “you have no idea how much I want to stay and chat but I've been working on that,” she motioned to the blonde man, “for the past hour and I think it's time I stop his longing and say hi. You guys are amazing. Glad you're here to keep my bestie entertained, if you want of course okay bye!” She rambled, took a deep breath, and smoothly turned around with a look of curiosity.

“Shes good,” Florence complimented with a smile of approval and admiration. “so, where are you from?” Timothee immediately asked after taking a shit of his dark and smokey. His green eyes were fixed on yours, seemingly genuinely interested as one of his brows was up. You told him, and without hesitation asked another question, “what brings you to the city?” You didn't want to tell him the entire story about how you are a 24 year old divorcee so you just said work. “I wouldnt think someone who looks like you would be doing radio. A face like yours deserves to be seen,” Austin suddenly chimed in, saying the first words he's said all night. You blushed. Anyone would at those words spoken with his deep raspy voice.

You bit the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from showing your blushing. You took a sip of your drink. “Oh come on Austin you started off too strong,” Timothee chuckled. You didn't know what was happening. Zendaya and Florence burst out with laughter before wrapping one arm around each other, “too much testosterone. (Y/n) we will be over here people watching if you find this,” Zendaya used her hand to motion the guys, “disturbing.” Then they walked away. Both guys took a step forward, causing your to take a step back, placing your back against the wall. They were standing in front of you just a ruler length away.

You felt nervous. A tingling sensation overcame your stomach among other places. “do you guys have a bet or something?” You didn't want to fall for it if it was some joke. They were two of the biggest celebrities at this time and they were seemingly coming onto you. Both with girlfriends. “yeah, a bet of who could bring home the most beautiful woman in the room,” Austin stated, looking into your eyes intensely. The bar suddenly felt like a heater was turned up. You held your composure. “You both have girlfriends if the news sources are correct,” you retorted. They shook their heads, “PR” they said simultaneously. They could be lying. It was almost as if they read your mind, contracts between manages about it. Weird they just have it ready but they most likely had to do it often.

You played it cool and finished your drink without saying a word, or tasting it as you chugged it. “I'm going to grab another drink, go check on Meg and go home. You two can decide who is coming with me,” you would never have had the confidence to say the last part without liquid courage. Good thing you were at a bar. You walked between them as if they were saloon doors and tried your best not to look back. You saw Zendaya and Florence applauding and nodding with approval. Zendaya even pumped her fist mouthing “hell yeah.”

You leaned both of your elbows against the bar and flagged down the bartender. You ordered a long island iced tea with a lemon and a lavender garnish. You were going to need all the confidence you could muster up. However you could.

You told the bartender you would be back for it after freshening up. You walked swiftly to the bathroom and looked at yourself in the mirror. You regretted not going for a bit of a glam look but your “clean girl aesthetic” makeup would have to do. You looked to the other woman in the mirror who was fixing her mascara. Your expression must have been easy to read because she smiled big saying, “girl I got you!” The raven haired woman who looked at least 5 inches taller than you, reached into her clutch and pulled out a mini contour kit. “I saw you talking to the cast of Dune? Do you know them?” She questioned. You shook your head, “my best friend, practically sister does.” The woman brushed some highlight powder lightly across your cheeks,” Just enough to make some features pop, you don't want to change too much because it will look like you changed for them since they've already seen you.” she closed the kit, “good luck you are my hero.” She fixed my sweater so that it drapes over one shoulder, taking my academia look up a notch since my flowy long skirt couldn't be helped.

You weren't in the bathroom long because your drink was just being made when you got back to the counter. You took your drink and looked for Meg. Thankfully she was still there, giggling and caressing the mans bicep. She definitely wasn't coming home alone tonight. You walked over and dipped your drink, “I didn't want to interrupt but I'm headed home will you be okay?” You waited for the code word in case of danger, it never came. “I think we might stay out a bit. This is Taron. Taron this is, (y/n). Please stay out with us! You might meet someone!” She was glowing. Whatever this guy was saying to her was the cause of said glow. You smirked, shaking your head, “who said I'm going home alone?” Megs brows raised and she nodded, “okay go ahead.” She hugged you then whispered, “proud of you.” You took a breath and walked back to the guys. They were chuckling but stopped and went back to having swagger or as the kids would call it these days “rizz” which you learned meant charisma.

“Did you decide?” You lifted a brow, finishing your drink. They looked at each other and nodded as if they had some agreement. Austin took a step forward and leaned over to whisper in your ear, his low tone making a shiver to down your spine, “we actually couldn't decide.” Timothee stepped forward, Austin not moving, and leaned over to whisper in your other ear, “so let us both have you. Tonight. Then you will decide which one of us can take you to a dinner tomorrow night.” The last sentence was a demand and it sent your body into a frenzy but you kept your composure. You didn't say anything, you took a step back, put your glass on the counter and kept walking towards the door. You turned around before you got out of ear shot as they were both shrugging off disbelief they were rejected. But they weren't.

“Well? You boys coming or do I have to take care of myself after that?” They both perked up immediately and were practically tripping over their own feet as they said their goodbyes to Z and Flo.

You all stumbled out of the bar. Someone must have alerted the paparazzi and some fans, probably via deuxmoi, because there were cameras flashing outside the bar and you all stopped every few steps for them to take selfies with some fans. Austin finally said to the fans, “sorry guys, we are trying to catch up with an old friend tonight but we will be around tomorrow if we didn't manage to get to you.” we walked swiftly into the nearby metro station, “we are going to our hotel right?” Timmy asked as they managed to keep their heads down going down the steps. “no,” you shook your head, “you don't need to impress me with your 5 star hotels. It's already happening. My place is two blocks away.” They shrugged and followed you to your apartment, keeping their heads down as much as possible.

You reached your two bedroom small apartment quickly and kicked your boots off at the door. They followed suit. “your room, gorgeous?” Austin pointed to the door that had stickers of book titles all over the door. You nod once as he grabs your wrist and leads you slowly to your door timothee following you both and locking your bedroom door behind himself.

Timmy didn't hesitate to move your hair away from your neck and trail kisses down your neck and to your shoulder that was exposed on the one side. Austin gripped your face with his hand gently and kissed you passionately with just the right amount of tongue. Timmys hands went under your sweater, lifting it from your body, breaking your kiss with Austin briefly. When Austin's lips returned to yours his hand was gripping your hair now, you were getting weak in the knees.

Timothee used one ringed finger to trace the outline of your torso and gripped your breasts from under your bra before releasing them using his other hand. Timmy reached his head around you to place a breast in his mouth and push Austin away in one motion. He got down on his knees before you and slowly pulled your skirt and thong off in one go. “Bed. Now,” Austin demanded. He pulled his shirt off and Timmy followed suit. You lay on the bed, your ass aligned with the edge and Austin quickly found his way between them, trailing soft, ticklish kisses down your thighs in a teasing manner. Timmy began unbuttoning his own pants as Austin worked his tongue around your clit. You arched your back and moaned in pleasure with your hand gripping Austin's hair. Timothee got on the bed and kissed you passionately.

“Suck it for me?” Timmy smiled, his bedroom eyes arousing you. You nod and Austin grabs your hips, flips you around and has you in doggy style. He still works his tongue as you place Timothee into your mouth. Timothee groans and Austin inserts himself into you, slowly, teasingly for the first few thrusts. Then hard, causing you to scream in pleasure then slow again.

The two take turns on you, sometimes just watching you with the other but neither interacting with each other minus a few compliments and “damn bro she's loving this” comments. Two men so comfortable with their own sexuality made them even more attractive to you.

When you finished, you realized an hour and a half had passed. Austin lay on your bed staring at the ceiling repeating “wow” and “incredible” timothee pulling his boxers back on. Austin looked like he needed a breath so naturally, “timothee?” You beconed as you stood at your bathroom door naked, “shower with me?” he ripped his shorts off and joined you.

“Decided who you wanted to go to dinner with?” Timmy smirks the next morning, assuming he was the clear winner in his own head. You hadn't decided yet. They both slept on the floor. “leave your numbers on that notebook and I'll call one of you later,” you instructed. The both wrote their numbers down and you all walked out to your kitchen. Meg was sitting there drinking her coffee, which caused you to turn bright red. The guys were blushing too. “‘morning,” timothee blushed and waved to meg. She looked surprisingly well rested and didn't have the blonde with her.

“It was nice seeing you again,” Austin spoke to meg, his cheeks bright red as you moved towards the door. They put their shoes on and you let them out. “you'll actually call right?” Timothee asked with a nervous smile. “I guess you'll see,” you stated before closing the door and joining meg at the counter. “im seeing Taron for a proper date tonight but you…you have some explaining to do,” she stated while pouring your coffee.

#timmy tim #timothee chalamet fanfiction #timothee chalamet imagine #austin butler #austin butler one shot #timothee x y/n #timothee x reader #austin butler x reader #dune part two

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starsandink13 · 27 days ago

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Intro of the Isekai Parody

For years, many look to fantasy as a means of escape as others also look to romance to escape. And so do many look to going into a new world as a means of escape as well. We read stories of handsome knights and princes sweeping the fair damsels into the sunset; of This story is one of all three, albeit with something of a rather most unorthodox of twists.

And so, this tale all begins not with a grand, sweeping view of the landscape. Or with a thrilling fight scene. Nor with the unlucky heroine yearning for a better life. And neither with the heroine being rescued by her fated mate or being hit by an oncoming automobile for inexplicable reasons.

But instead, in an apartment that is the architectural equivalent to dollar store ramen.

---

"God Almighty, why are all of them so exact to the point where they're starting to become more inbred than the Hapsburgs?" You grumbled in your voice call with your friends between snippets of the latest romantasy novel that had been hastily released just two weeks after the last one had been announced. You couldn't be bothered to remember the name of it since they all bled into each other in a word vomit with the biggest chunks consisting of the words: rose, flame, light, shadow, kingdom, blood, court, prince, and so on to make it seem to be a grand epic full of magic and adventure instead of the poorly transcribed soap opera with a knock off Harlequin romance that it truly is.

"Because shit sells." Your friend, Harrybowls420, said on the other end in between mouthfuls of chips that they only have in prison that someway he managed to get.

"In that case, I may as well start publishing my toilet paper." You responded and let out a long-suffering sigh.

"It needs to be profitable shit." Gamer_Dictionary countered while she groaned at having skimming the next paragraph of the next chapter. "Oh fuck... this next part is gonna be painful."

"You saying my shit ain't profitable?" You snapped back.

"Yeah, it needs to be shit that the braindead and the bored can gush about and act like it's their fiftieth firstborn." She responded.

"Well, in that case I may as well keep some semblance of dignity." You said.

"You? Dignified?" Harry scoffed.

"Well, enough to not sink down to writing what is basically half-assed smut that you can easily get for free online instead of demanding people to cough up money for!" You shot back with a snort. "Give me some damn credit."

"That is like saying you're above beating up sickly child for his lunch money." Gamer said.

"Oh whatever. Anyways, I'm done for the day." You said. "We'll pick it up tomorrow same time."

"Yeah, I got a few chores I've been putting off. See you, dude."

"See you later bros."

"See ya." You answered back, closing out the window as the other two logged off.

Standing up, you stretched out your sore back and let out a pained grunt that sounded like you had been constipated for three days. "Damn! Fuck!" You moaned before standing straight up once more, scratching your ass.

Eyeing the overflowing pile of dirty laundry in the hamper, you groaned at the thought of having to do it just to shortly have the clothes return in it again. Oh damn it, I may as well do something a little productive. You deeply sighed, picking it up and shoveling it into the washing machine before looking towards the microwave clock. In bright, almost sickly green it read: 2:01 PM.

"That late already and I've spent it all inside?" You grunted, pressing your lips into a tight line.

Heading back into your room, you pulled out one of the few last clean clothes you could find. An oversized shirt that featured a cartoonish pinup body from the neck below you got a few summers back as a joke, a swamp-green hoodie that hadn't seen the inside of a washing machine in almost two weeks, an old and worn pair of jeans, and mismatched socks.

Tying up the laces of your canvas sneakers, you grabbed your messenger bag and started to walk, figuring that a bit of fresh air would be good.

Outside, the last patches of winter's snow was melting away and giving way to the early blooms of the coming spring. If you squinted your eyes, you could just barely make out the tiny buds protruding from the branches and earth, waiting for the final remnants of frost to melt. Though it was sunny, there was a slight chill which nipped at your cheeks although it wasn't particularly too cold; as evidenced by the other pedestrians walking up and down the streets only wearing lighter sweaters and jackets.

Maybe I could just window shop for a little bit. You sighed, stretching out your arms again while enjoying the feeling of the sunshine on your face. I got nothing better to do and some time to kill.

Despite living in a lousy apartment, you lived in a somewhat decent and downtownish part of town. So when you made it downhill, you arrived at a row of trendy shops and boutiques that lined the streets: from a stationery store with garishly colorful and patterned paper in the display windows; a bakery that looked to be a pink and crystalline parody of a Parisian apartment rife with watercolors of the Eiffel tower and impossibly skinny women strutting around with poodles; and even an organic grocery store with the cheapest items at least costing your pinky. All of these overpriced and pristine shops served as a further reminder that your current housing situation-- and by extension, you-- were a massive snot stain on an immaculate haute couture suit.

As you walked down the street, you passed by a bookshop and cafe-- abruptly stopping in your tracks. With a pout on your lower lip, you stared into the window while debating to even bother with stepping inside. Should I even bother?

After a moment or two, you let out a guttural sigh, and entered. The walls were painted with scenes from classic literature with sculptures of the corresponding characters made from aged pages perched on shelves. Below, the floorboards squeaked under your feet as the smell of paper and coffee lingered in the air.

However, this only served to make the display all the bigger an eyesore. Emblazoned in an overly cursive font and in a gauche shade of gold, was the following: 'ROMANTASY: FOR THOSE THAT LOVE SPICE AND SORCERY.'

Your jaw clamped in unease while you awkwardly shuffled towards the display to see if there was something-- anything-- that looked to be at least halfway decent. Anything, anything at all-- against any and all odds-- that didn't make you want to wince just looking at it. At this point, I'm asking for a popcorn read that's good enough on its own and doesn't insult my intelligence or time. You shivered, and took a hesitant step forward. Your heart pounded in your chest as you felt a cold sweat run down your back, taking smaller paces as you came closer to it. Until, finally...

And your hope immediately died like a cockroach being crushed under a boot.

As instead, the all too familiar covers consisting of the overly glossy symbols with an extremely tenuous-- at best-- connection to the actual story to give the appearance of something more substantial, coupled with the titles consisting of the much dreaded vomit of nouns, glowered back at you. Shivering while shaking your head, you hesitantly picked up a copy of one of them as though it had been sitting in a used toilet bowl.

The plasticky appearing snake and sword shined harshly in the fluorescent lights, giving it a somewhat sweaty appearance. Feeling every cell in your body wither with dread, you slowly flipped it over to the back for a synopsis, only to instead be given a list of quotes very shallowly praising and overly gushing over it that you were certain you've read on the thousands of other 'fantasy' books before it. Calling it a 'revolutionary masterpiece,' and 'an absolute thrilling and sexy tale of magic and adventure,' as well 'one of the best to come out of the genre.'

This already isn't a good sign. Your stomach further withered while slowly opening the cover in the thin hope of finding the damn synopsis. Sure enough, it was there and read exactly like how every other one was:

'Ravynne is an assassin born in blood and fire, always looking for her next target. After her last hit, she is abducted and taken into the dreaded Prince of the Moonshade Fae's castle and there, she must face her worst threat yet that threatens to destroy everything. She must kill the High Queen and break the curse that has held the Moonshade's for centuries. Along the way, she is torn by both her desire for the prince and to--'

At that point, you rolled your eyes and plopped the book down while giving a disgusted shake of your head. "At this point, it's not even good escapism." You grumbled while leaving. "Least they can do is give me some fun fight scenes with cool magic and swords instead of shit you'd hear in a high profile court case mixed with reality TV."

You continued to walk further away, past the street of shops and into a nearby park. A soft wind rustled the leaves, shaking them slightly while you kept on grumbling to yourself. "Can't believe I'd finally say this: but damn, do I miss when Twilight was considered the worst of the worst." You mumbled like the crotchety old man you were surely but slowly devolving into. "I'd take that over whatever regurgitated--"

Something white flashed.

Snapping your head in the direction of it, there was a rabbit as white as virgin snow. It stood some yards opposite from you; its body a stark contrast to the green grass and shrubbery surrounding it. Its ears twitched as it stood on its hind legs to get a better look at its environment and eventually landed its sights on you. You watched as it sniffed the air, waiting for your move.

Hell is it doing? You raised a brow. Aren't they supposed to be skittish, yet this one looks like it wants to start something.

"You want to fight me?" You smacked your chest, leaning forward as if starting a bar fight.

Instead, the rabbit remained in place; the only movement being its nose twitching.

You deflated, shaking your head. The fuck am I doing starting a fight with a rabbit of all things?

However, you still couldn't shake off the lingering curiosity. Something about that rabbit didn't seem quite right. Taking a long and low sigh, you approached it.

"What's up with this thing?" You mumbled, taking another step forward. "Why is it--"

You were sent plummeting before you even had time to scream.

#my writing #fem reader #reader insert #male yandere x female reader #yandere #male yandere #isekai parody #parody #isekai

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