#i should have left him on that street corner where he was standing but i didn’t

[the1bidding]

Trying to draw other characters and I’m so used to only drawing Damien that I can’t draw gregory. Fuck you Gregory this is your fault

[wintaerbaer]

bottle up old love (jjk) (m)

summary: Jungkook may have broken up with you a year ago, but that's not going to stop him from coming to your rescue when he sees you being cornered by a creep.

pairing: Jungkook x Reader

rating: 18+ (MINORS DNI)

genre: exes to lovers, the holy trinity of angst/smut/fluff

word count: 4.6k (this was supposed to be a drabble 💀)

prompt: JK + exes to lovers + "I'm sorry" + "I hate you" + "Don't fucking touch me" + "Leave" (for @btsborahaee <3)

warnings: language, a short harassment scene at the beginning (nothing too intense), explicit content including: unprotected sex (DO NOT), fingering, praise kink, biting, marking, spanking, cum eating (sort of?), big cawk soft dom jk, cowgirl (yeehaw), creampie, cockwarming, i think that's all but this also wasn't supposed to be too smutty so clearly idk what's going on lol

MASTERLIST

“Don’t fucking touch me!”

You spit the words at the man in front of you, pushing him back as he tries to make another grab at your arm.

“Why do you gotta be like that?” Seungcheol whines. “I thought we were having fun.”

“You and I have very different ideas of fun.” You take a step backwards towards your building. Somewhere down the sidewalk, footsteps clatter against the pavement.

“C’mon.” He matches your movement, reaches for you again. “Invite me up. You enjoyed the last time, didn’t you? I told you that was just a warm-up.”

The building’s brick wall is closer than you thought, and you bang your shoulder against it as you try to sidestep him. “Last time you didn’t follow me to a bar I didn’t even invite you to. How did you know where I was anyway?”

“Let me come up, and I’ll tell you,” he rumbles with a flicker of his eyebrows. He has you fully backed up against the wall now, and you press against the muscle of his chest to no avail.

“Stop!” you shout before he’s ripped away from you so suddenly that you’re left blinking in confusion, huddled against the brick.

There’s a thud–the sound of a fist hitting flesh��and a yelp before Seungcheol is reeling back with his hands clutching his nose. Blood seeps out from beneath his fingers, black even under the glow of the streetlamps.

“What the fuck?” he shrieks, and it’s only then that you take a proper look at your savior, looking every bit like he’s stepped straight out of the shadows with his dark hair, ebony clothes, and deep brown eyes.

And a lead weight drops into your stomach as you recognize him.

Jungkook sets himself between you and Seungcheol, looming over the latter as he continues to cover his face, whining. “I’m giving you ten seconds to get out of here.”

“Who the fuck are you?!”

“Ten,” Jungkook growls, taking a step in Seungcheol’s direction. “Nine.”

Seungcheol straightens–clearly a last-ditch attempt to look intimidating. Spitting blood onto the concrete, he peers at you over Jungkook’s shoulder. “This isn’t over, bitch.”

Then he spins and takes off running down the street.

Your hands grip your elbows. It may be a balmy summer night, but you’re shivering where you stand, unsure whether you’re more affected by Seungcheol’s behavior or the ghost who’s unexpectedly in front of you.

“Are you okay?” he quietly asks, gaze fixed on your face. You stare at your shoes and give him a brisk nod as a response before turning away, punching in your building code, and walking through the front door.

He follows closely, slipping in behind you and trailing a few feet. You let him for a little while, guiding him through the modest lobby and up the first flight of stairs. But when you’re halfway up the second stairwell–almost to your floor–you pause on the landing, spinning his way.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

His eyes are gentle, sincere. “Making sure you get in safely.”

“There’s no need for that,” you assert. “I’m already in my building. There’s a keypad. I’m good.”

“The keypad does almost nothing. I followed you in no problem.”

“So I should be worried about you then?”

He flushes, the tips of his ears going pink. “Please just let me see you inside.”

You want to argue back, want to shout at him and make a scene, but you know it’s no use. Know that he’s stubborn as a bull and will get what he wants one way or another.

It’s how he broke up with you after all.

You say nothing, only hustle up the last set of steps and down the dimly-lit hallway until you’re in front of your door, Jungkook tailing you the whole time with his hands in his pockets. You practically fumble your key in your haste to get it into the lock, letting out a satisfied sigh as the latch finally clicks open.

“There. I’m in,” you say as you step over the threshold, waving a dismissive hand at your unwanted companion. “Leave.”

But he hesitates just outside the doorway, teeth chewing at the corner of his lip. “What are you going to do if he comes back?”

“That’s my problem, isn’t it? I stopped being your concern when you dropped me out of nowhere a year ago.”

Your eyes sting at the memory, tears threatening to spill over. You don’t want him here. Don’t want to see him or have him anywhere in your vicinity. Not when it still hurts like this.

Though, truth be told, you don’t expect to ever be fully over him.

“We’re done, Jungkook,” you murmur. “You made sure of that.”

And you close the door in his face.

The distress subsides quickly once he’s out of sight–like he was never there to begin with–and you don’t linger, dropping your bag on the sofa and heading straight for the bathroom. This is how you’ve made it a year without him; it was weeks of crying before you realized that wallowing was doing you no good, only fueling your misery instead of providing any kind of catharsis. So you’ve done your best to simply push past it and cast away the anguish that bubbles up every time you think of him. Not allow it to linger like the shadows at the edges of the room.

You shed your clothes and turn the shower to a temperature that you’ll probably regret later. But for now, you savor the way the water sears your skin as you wash away the day with all of its unpleasant surprises. Taking your time, you scrub every inch of your body and carefully shampoo your hair (trying not to fall back into the fantasy that’s plagued you on occasion where it’s his hands and not yours spreading the bubbles over your form).

The self-care continues as you step out of the shower and leisurely work through your skin care routine, even taking the time to blow dry your hair. By the time you exit the bathroom, the fog on the mirror has dissipated, and you’ve once again successfully tamped down the memory of Jungkook and his hands and eyes and everything you ever felt for him.

Or so you think.

After popping into your bedroom to pull on some pajamas, you pad back into the living room for a glass of water, and your eyes are immediately drawn to the front door. Regret attempts to push its way into your consciousness against your better judgment. The man broke your heart, yes. But you do feel a little guilty slamming the door in his face after he just fought off a creep for you.

And speaking of Seungcheol, what if he does come back? You’re pretty sure he saw you punch in the building code the night you brought him home with you, and given his behavior, you wouldn’t be surprised if he filed it away in his head.

Anxiety winning out, you creep to the door and peer through the peephole. The hallway looks empty, drab beige walls taking up most of your field of view, but you jump as you spot a hulking shadow to the right. Your heartbeat races then slows, a closer look revealing hunched, unmoving shoulders wrapped in a familiar black t-shirt.

Jungkook swings his head to look at you as you open the door and glare down at him. His legs are pulled up, arms resting on his knees, and it might be endearing if not for the fact that he absolutely, positively should not be here.

“What are you doing?” you ask him for the second time tonight.

“He might come back.”

“And you’re going to what? Fight him?”

He shrugs. “If I have to.”

“Yeah?” You raise an eyebrow, challenging. “You’re going to sit out here all night?”

He shifts where he sits, wiggling his hips like he’s firmly planting his butt into his chosen spot. “Yes.”

You roll your eyes at him but don’t doubt that he would. Again, if there is anything you know this man to be, it’s stubborn. “You’re going to scare the neighbors.”

“Who, Mrs. Kwon?” A tiny smile plays on his lips as he glances in the direction of your elderly neighbor’s apartment. “I think she’d be delighted to see me.”

If you’re being honest, she probably would be. She’s always adored Jungkook and praised him as the “kind, handsome young man” who helped her put away groceries and fixed her leaky faucet one time. In the months following your breakup, she’d asked about him once or twice, patting your arm reassuringly when you awkwardly told her she wouldn’t be seeing him anymore.

“Don’t worry, dear,” she said. “He’ll come around.”

Well she’s turned out to be right in that he’s certainly back here again, still watching you from his spot on the floor. And you don’t know whether it’s his big doe eyes or the fact that he really would guard your apartment all night if you let him or the genuine fear that one of the other neighbors will make a fuss at his presence, but you feel yourself softening.

Turning abruptly, you stride into the kitchen for your glass of water, walking out of sight of the door, which is still wide open.

“You coming?” you call, pulling two glasses down from the cupboard.

There’s a rustle as Jungkook stands and shuffles into your apartment, closing the door behind him with a soft thud. For someone who was so determined to defend you tonight, he seems uncertain now that he’s actually inside. His hands are once again stuffed in his pockets, and his eyes flicker around like he hasn’t been here a thousand times. Hasn’t cooked you breakfast in this kitchen in nothing but his boxers. Hasn’t watched The Notebook with you on this TV and held you as you both cried.

Hasn’t made love to you on the couch.

You slide a water his way, and he murmurs his thanks, sipping at it lightly. It’s strange–seeing him here again–and you can’t help but think about the last time he stood in this room. It’d been a maelstrom of accusations and hurt feelings that culminated in him storming out, the slam of the door echoing in your ears.

“You never cleaned that?” He gestures at the rug that covers most of the sitting area in your living room, eyes on the dark purple stain roughly the size of your hand.

You gulp down your water and try not to follow his line of sight. Try not to remember how you’d knocked over a glass of wine in your haste to get his clothes off during another movie night less than a month before your breakup.

“I kind of forgot about it,” you say. “Stopped noticing it after a while.” 

It’s a lie. There was never a time when you didn’t notice it, the memory of him haunting you every time you sit down on the couch and stare at the garish stain. And still, you haven’t been able to bring yourself to try and erase it.

Silence worms its way between you again. With only the soft light from the tabletop lamp glowing next to the couch, Jungkook’s face is cloaked in shadow. And so you barely see his lips move when he speaks. Barely hear it with how quietly his whisper slips into the room.

“I’m sorry.”

Your glass almost drops from your fingers, droplets splashing across your knuckles as you catch it at the last moment and steady it on the countertop. Turning to face him, you find his gaze already on you, melancholy tinting his expression.

“What?”

He tongues his lip ring, shoulders dropping a fraction. “For how things ended. I’m sorry.”

You can see the sincerity in his posture, can see the sadness in his form. And yet, his words only fill you with a hot anger that bubbles out of you before you can swallow it down.

“I don’t know why you would be,” you challenge, “being that you didn’t even respect me enough to give me a proper reason.”

Jungkook huffs at that; you think he’s resisting the urge to roll his eyes. “Did it really matter?”

“Yes.”

He gnaws at his lip again, no longer looking at you, and his lack of an answer only riles you up further.

“Was there someone else?” you demand, causing him to flinch. It was the same thing you asked him when he told you he thought you should break up, standing in almost this exact same spot.

“No,” he murmurs after a moment. “There wasn’t anyone else.” He pushes a hand through his dark, silky hair. “There hasn’t been anyone else since either.”

This surprises you. Jungkook is, in your eyes, the handsomest man you have ever come face-to-face with, but even from an objective standpoint, he is exceedingly attractive. There is no doubt in your mind that he would easily be able to land a woman if he so desired.

“So then why?”

He sets his jaw, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows and fixes his stare out the window. And it’s this final refusal, this steadfast dedication to not explaining himself, that finally has tears tracking down your cheeks.

The sight of you crying has his attention snapping back your way, hands reaching out as if to hold you.

“Don’t touch me,” you gasp, recoiling until you’re out of reach. “I…I hate you.”

It almost seems as if your voice lands physically, and Jungkook staggers back like you’ve slapped him, remorse immediately wiggling its way between your ribs. You know you don’t mean the words even as they fall from your mouth, but it feels pointless to take them back now, the sentiment already thrown out there and hovering in the hollow space between you.

Jungkook muddles towards the couch–more of a defeated slump dragging his steps than anger–and you think he’s going to sit down before he whirls back towards you at the last second.

“The gala,” he mutters. “That’s when I decided.”

You know which one he’s talking about. Hosted by your medical school to celebrate the end of the academic year, it had been a night of food, dancing, and socializing. You had, of course, brought him as your date and introduced him to your friends and classmates, excited to finally allow him to put faces to names. As you comb through your memories of the night, you can’t pinpoint any warning signs, only remembering the way he’d smiled at you throughout. The way he’d pulled you close and danced you around the room.

“I don’t…I don’t understand.”

He rakes his fingers through his hair again, tossing strands of night over his forehead. A sad chuckle looses itself into the thick air of the room, and the final dregs of his resolve flicker away. “I realized that I didn’t deserve to stand next to you. That you could do much better than me.”

Whatever you thought his reason had been–whatever theories or thoughts had kept you up night after night for the past year–this is not even close to what you expected. And while you always thought finally receiving an answer would be freeing, would offer you some semblance of understanding, you’re surprised at the rage that boils in the pit of your stomach, bile rising in your throat.

“Are you fucking serious right now?” you growl, taking an angered step towards him. “You were feeling insecure, and you made the decision to break up with me without even thinking to, I don’t know, discuss it with me first?”

His hand goes to the back of his neck now, embarrassment showing its face as he peers at you from under his lashes. “I was stupid–”

“No, shit.”

“But can you blame me?” he presses. “There we were: you, about to be this incredible doctor with all of your doctor friends…” His voice falters, sorrow lacing his tone. “And I’m just a tattoo artist.”

The defeatist way he says it helps to dampen your ire some, even if a heap of frustration remains–the sad shape of his doe eyes softening your edges.

“Just a tattoo artist,” you repeat. “Jungkook, I have always been so, so proud of you. I was never anything but proud to have you as my partner. You must’ve known that.”

His teeth worry his lip, and though he nods, he doesn’t seem fully convinced.

So you continue on, closing the distance between you a fraction more. “You started your own business from nothing. And I saw how hard you worked: to get the building, to hire other artists, train your apprentices.” You shake your head–half in irritation, half in awe. “And look at you now! You’re thriving. The last I heard, if you want an appointment at Golden Tattoo, you need to book months in advance.”

His eyes are alight now, some hidden emotion glimmering under the surface, but he stays quiet as he soaks in your words.

“So how can you possibly act like you weren’t enough?” you push. “You are amazing, Jungkook. And I never gave a shit about any job comparisons people may have made.” One more step, and suddenly you’re almost chest-to-chest. As always, you’re unable to resist the pull of his gravity. Yanked right back into his orbit. “I only wanted you. I’ve only ever wanted y–”

He cuts you off with his mouth, strong hands snagging your hips to pull you against him, and your own fingers reflexively tangle in his black hoodie as your subconscious gives itself over to him. Like it’s been waiting for this.

“I’m not. Not thriving,” he mumbles against your lips. “Not without you. Been miserable without you.”

And in spite of your anger, in spite of the fact that you were ready to kick him out a mere hour ago, you find yourself kissing him back, relishing the slick glide of his tongue as he licks into your mouth.

You startle as the backs of your knees suddenly bump against the couch, and then Jungkook is spinning as he settles onto the plush seat, pulling you along to straddle him. He sucks at your neck until you can feel the blood blooming under your skin, painting you like the pretty ink on his arm.

Speaking of.

The fabric of his hoodie whispers as you pull it up and over his back and head, tossing it over his shoulder and into a corner. His arms now bare to you, you gloss over his tattoos with your eyes and fingers until you find the one you’d picked out for him; the lovely orange of the flower petals seem to glow even in the dim light of the room.

“Beautiful,” you whisper.

“Just like you.”

You look at him then, the twinkle of tiny galaxies in his eyes betraying his hope. And before you can go any further, you need confirmation.

“You left.”

“I did.” Fingertips press lightly against your waist like he’s afraid you might be the one to disappear now. “I’m sorry.”

“Jungkook, if…” You lick your lips. Can almost taste his regret. “If we do this and you leave again–”

“If we do this, I'm not going anywhere,” he insists, tugging your hips down to grind against him and ghosting a kiss at your jaw. “Just wanna be here with you. Just want you.”

And it’s all you need to hear.

You shed the cotton shirt you had thrown on after your shower and move to yank his own off, tossing it in the same corner as his hoodie. The muscles of his pecs and abs shift under your hands, burning hot where your fingers trace the contours of his torso. 

“God, I missed this,” he groans as he buries his face between your breasts, nipping at the skin there before laving the spot with his tongue.

You’d agree–echo the sentiment that your body has been aching for this–if not for the fact that you’re too busy trying to get the two of you naked, thumbs hooking into the waistband of your shorts.

But a tattooed hand covers yours, eases it away to take its place. “No,” he rumbles. “Let me.”

Wide palms and long fingers span your hips and thighs, grasping as much skin as possible even as he drags your shorts and panties down your legs and helps to steady you as you kick them off. They join the tangle of his own clothes

“Fucking gorgeous,” he growls at the sight of you finally naked in front of him. And with such speed that it almost seems like it’s involuntary, an impulse outside of his control, he’s immediately stroking at the apex of your thighs.

“Baby, this wet for me already?” A breathy sigh passes from his mouth to yours, almost laughing at the ease with which he glides through your folds. “Hell, I could just–”

A finger slips in and you gasp, Jungkook smiling wickedly at you as he quickly adds a second and curls them against your walls. You force your eyes closed as they roll back in your head, and you keel forward, babbling incoherently against the line of his collarbone.

“Use your words, love; you can do it.” He says it as if his fingers aren’t currently buried in you down to the knuckle. As if he’s not making you see stars behind your eyelids right now.

You choke down a breath, desperate for the oxygen. “Insane,” you pant. “I said you’re fucking insane.”

“Only for you,” he says before sliding his digits out of you and dipping them into his mouth. He moans at the taste, and even with his lips closed tightly, you can see the way he’s working his tongue around each finger, unwilling to waste a single drop of your essence.

Like you said. Insane.

He gives you a moment to catch your breath until you’re the one who’s getting impatient, hastily undoing his belt and tearing it from his pants with a hiss. But as you shift off of him so he can slither out of his pants and boxers–his length springing free to slap against his smooth stomach–you’re hit with an untimely realization.

“Jungkook, I don’t have condoms.”

He freezes, the color draining from his face (though admittedly, that may be because all of his blood has clearly gone south). The two of you stare at each other for a long second before he suddenly leans over, rummaging back through his pants pockets. He pulls out his wallet, rifles through it, then tosses it across the room in frustration, head tilting back against the couch as he groans at the ceiling.

“Fuck, me neither.”

You chew at your lip, a loaded quiet settling over the room as Jungkook wipes a hand over his face.

“I’m still on birth control,” you whisper, and Jungkook whips his head around, eyes wide and questioning like he’s not sure he heard you right. But you don’t repeat yourself, only hold his stare until he’s tentatively reaching out to graze his fingertips along your thigh.

“I told you. There’s been no one else.” His expression is earnest, eager. You trust that he’s telling the truth, and yet you also know that if you refused him, if you said you weren’t comfortable, he wouldn’t push.

So you swing a leg back over his lap, drag your wet folds against his cock. He moans, gripping your thighs hard, but he leans in to bite at your lower lip with a growl before pulling back to search your face.

“You?”

It hurts that he even feels the need to ask. Because how could you even want someone else? Who could possibly measure up?

You brush a reassuring, barely-there kiss against his already swollen lips. “No one else for me either.”

This seems to please him, but you still see hesitation behind his eyes as he asks, “What about the guy downstairs?”

A drunken mistake was what that was. All sloppy lips and fumbling hands that had left you feeling more empty than anything, and which resulted in you sending Cheol away before he had even gotten a peek at your bedroom.

“We made out once,” you admit, hating that you’re even having to think about another man when Jungkook is here in front of you. “But nothing else happened.”

“Good,” he grunts, but his fingers dig into your backside like he’s trying to reclaim you. And just a fraction of a second later, he’s devilishly tonguing his lip ring as he winds his palm back to bring it down harshly against the meat of your ass, the smack echoing between the walls almost endlessly.

“Ride me, baby.”

You’re quick to line him up–desperate, at this point, to have him inside of you–and begin to ease yourself down slowly, trying to give your body the space and time to adjust to the burning stretch of his girth. He’s always filled you to your absolute limit, tested the furthest boundaries of how much your body can take with his size.

“Yesss,” he hisses, nipping at your neck once again. “You’re doing great, love. Always take me so fucking well.”

You gasp as he bottoms out, struggling to catch your breath with the relentless push of him. If you were a betting woman, you’d put money on your intestines being somewhere in the area of your throat right now.

He wraps his inked arm around your waist, continuing to whisper his praises against the shell of your ear as he starts to guide your body up and down. Intoxicated by the smooth slide of his length, you soon find your pace, and your shared moans fill the room–the whole city probably able to hear you right now.

You move that way until the pressure building becomes too much and your legs start to tremble, quivering against Jungkook’s own muscled thighs.

“It’s okay; I’ve got you.” He bands his arms around you and presses you to his chest, holding you in place so he can thrust upwards.

Hard.

You’re practically screaming now, burying your teeth into his shoulder so as to muffle your sounds and not scare the neighbors. It’s all you can do to hold on for dear life as he rapidly pistons his cock inside of you, the slap of your hips like a metronome.

It builds and builds until it breaks and you’re falling apart in his arms, the spasms of your inner walls pulling him over the edge with you as he empties his seed deep inside.

The silence that follows in unlike the others you previously shared this evening–tension traded for serenity as you sit on the couch holding each other, you still contentedly stuffed full of him. He traces the ridges of your spine in a soothing pattern that has your eyelids drooping, your cheek resting against the warm skin of his neck.

“I missed this,” you whisper once your brain has finally remembered how to construct human speech.

“I missed you.”

You pull back so you can rest your forehead against his and gently run a finger over the lines of his face. “Where do we go from here?”

He hums. Tucks a stray hair behind your ear. “Take it day by day?” he suggests. “We don’t need to rush into anything if you don’t want to.”

“Mm, that does seem like a problem for tomorrow.”

A dark eyebrow quirks, teasing. “And what about right now?”

“Now?” you ask. “Do you remember the way to the bedroom? Or…” You shift your hips, already feeling him twitching inside of you.

“Or.” He jolts forward to capture your mouth in a hot kiss, and you smile into it, whole again. “Or sounds good.”

a/n: pls like, reblog, reply, and/or send an ask if you enjoyed! <3

[rememberwren]

Threshold

Simon asks you to take his virginity, just not in so many words. Or any words at all, really. 5.7 k

cw: virgin!Simon, PIV, oral sex f and m receiving, stop and start sex, lack of communication (typical Simon), poor writing, soft!Simon, hints at past trauma, contraception.

-

A Ghost shaped shadow falls over the table. Your eyes lift to find him standing there, the neck of his beer bottle held loosely in his hand. His mask is drawn down below his chin, revealing to you one of your favorite parts of him: his mouth. Simon has a pretty mouth, scarred though it is. Maybe you have such an affinity for it because it is so often hidden away from your sight, or maybe it’s what that mouth is capable of, being just as likely to crack a poor dad joke as it is to cut a grown man to the bone with just a few words. 

He takes the seat across from you, the screeching of the chair on the floor lost to the ambient sounds of the pub. The others are playing pool (Gaz is taking all of them to task), and the place is packed with bodies, a cacophony of voices and laughter. Feeling overstimulated, you had sequestered yourself away to this little corner hoping to catch your breath and tether yourself back to the earth instead of spending the rest of the night in a dissociated haze. 

The sight of Ghost is like a light slap to the cheek, rousing you from your stupor. Lights burn brighter. Sounds are sharper. If you wrack your brain you can count on one hand the number of times you’ve ever been singled out by Ghost, so you know whatever is about to happen is out of the ordinary. Leaning in, you lace your fingers together on the table top and nearly have to shout to be heard as you say: “What can I do for you, Ghost?” 

“We should hook up,” he says. Then he takes a long drink from his bottle, eyes sharp and dark where they are narrowed in on you over the top. A sniper’s eyes. 

“What?” you shout back, positive that you have misheard him. 

He shrugs. He won’t repeat himself. 

“Me—and you?”

He raises his brows, looking around the empty table as if to ask, Who else?

“Why?”

He takes another drink, and you see him mulling over his potential answers this time, sucking on his teeth as he thinks. What you wouldn’t give to be a fly on the wall in his head. He’s got you on tenterhooks, leaning forward onto your elbows, fingers absently (anxiously) playing with a condensation ring left by someone else’s drink earlier in the night. 

Finally, he says, “Why not?”

-

His hand rests low on your back as the two of you say goodbye to the others. You see the downright thunderstruck looks Gaz and Soap throw at each other at your announcement that Ghost is driving you home, but the deeper meaning hardly registers. Who cares if everyone knows that you’re taking Ghost home to fuck him? You’re both adults; you need no one’s permission. Still, as soon as you are outside, you press your palms to your heated cheeks, wondering how you will be able to face any of them in the future. 

“You driving?” you ask him. 

He lifts his hand, showing you the keys in his palm. He doesn’t open the car door for you—not that you had really expected him to. It isn’t as if this is a date. It’s just two adults hooking up.

Inside, he shifts the vents towards you and turns on the heat, soothing the goosebumps that had begun to bloom on your arms. He waits until you’ve buckled your seatbelt before backing out and onto the street. It’s only then that you remember what Soap says about Ghost’s driving. You wish you had a second seatbelt. 

“So what brought all this on?” you ask, feeling remarkably shy in the passenger seat. You’re beginning to sober up from your drinks at the pub, not that you had ever been that drunk to begin with. Maybe this was a mistake. You’re already suffering from nerves, and you haven’t even gotten back to your apartment yet. How were you supposed to fuck Ghost without looking like a fawn, your knees knocking together coltishly, nauseous from anxiety? 

“I’ve been thinking about it for a while,” he admits. 

Alright. Downright digestible news. Before tonight, you wouldn’t have even considered you and Ghost friends, necessarily. More like friend-adjacent, thanks to your mutual friendship with Johnny. It’s good to know that apparently you had caught his eye somehow, even if it was by being the only woman among a male-dominated group of friends. 

You can’t leave it alone. “But why?” 

“That’s what people do, isn’t it?” he asks, like he’s not a person, like he’s only ever heard about what it’s like to be one from a friend of a friend. “They think about fucking each other. Don’t you think about fucking me?” 

Your mouth goes dry. You do. You think about fucking Ghost a lot than one might expect for how few minimal interactions you’ve had. Being perfectly honest, tonight is sort of becoming a dream come true. You’d had an attraction for Ghost ever since you’d met him, even before he’d taken the mask off and you’d seen that he has such a pretty face underneath. 

You’d be willing to examine under a microscope your affection for aloof, seemingly unaffected men on a different day.

Ghost looks at you, trying to interpret your silence, the car swerving slowly into the other lane. You make a sound remarkably close to a screech and reach out to adjust the wheel, but he adjusts it before you do, batting your hand away softly. 

“We don’t have to do this,” he says, eyes firmly on the road now. “I’ll just drop you off.” 

“No, I want to,” you say. “It’s just—it’s been a while for me. I want to, though.” 

Ghost casts you a doubtful glance. He pulls into your apartment complex’s parking lot and the two of you head up together. True to form, you feel his eyes taking in all the new sights: the man behind the desk who doesn’t even look up as you both enter, the elevator that was last inspected two years ago, the proximity to the neighboring apartments.

After you unlock the door but before he crosses the threshold, he reaches up and runs his hand along the top of the doorframe—and easily pulls away your spare key. For a moment he holds it between you both, staring. He seems nearly as surprised as you are by his own actions. Reaching out, he sets it down on the end table just beyond the entry and says: “You couldn’t find a better hiding place for that?” 

“Goddamnit, Ghost,” you whine, slipping off your shoes. “You’re not here to assess my, my security measures. You’re here to fuck me. Will you get in?”

He comes in and makes a circle of the living space, his steps silent in a way you’ve never been able to replicate, not even here in your own living space. You cross your arms, wondering what he’s thinking. Does he think you a slob? A terrible interior designer? You told yourself that you didn’t care. The space was yours, and yours alone, and you liked it well enough. He could survive being in it for one night.

“What’s the verdict?” you ask after the silence stretches too thin. 

“It’s nice,” he says. Then he amends, or perhaps adds: “It’s you.” 

“I’m choosing to take that as a compliment. Do you…want a drink?”’ 

“No,” he says, taking off his jacket and resting it on the arm of the couch. “Want you to c’mere.” 

Your feet obey before your mind even thinks to question it, padding across the living room in your socks until you stand in front of where he has seated himself on your frayed, careworn loveseat. He looks up at you, eyes dark and all-seeing. His hands find your hips, testing the width of them, and he makes you feel like something small, something precious, something to be cradled in the palm of his hand like a gem or jewel.

“Sit down,” he says. So you sit beside him, close enough to breathe in his clean scent. 

“I’m going to kiss you,” he says, taking your chin between his thumb and forefinger. “As soon as you say you’ll let me.” 

“I’ll let you.” 

His lips are soft as they look, mouth warm and insistent as he coaxes you to part your lips and taste him—as if you need the incentive. He tastes like Price’s whiskey that he had sipped at the bar, like he would settle warm in your belly and everywhere else. His hand relaxes his hold on your chin, choosing instead to cup your jaw, suffusing warmth throughout your cheek. 

It turns into the longest makeout session you’ve had since you were a teenager. You kiss until your jaw aches, until your lips are raw, until you’re throbbing between your legs. Each time you try to move things along, Ghost gently deflects your advances, seeming content to kiss you for ages. If this is how he fucks, it will be an all night affair. 

“Ghost please,” you mutter against his mouth when you feel liable to burst, when he won’t even let you slip a hand beneath his t-shirt. 

“Here,” he mutters, hauling you onto his lap. That’s headed in the right direction. Your thighs spread obscenely wide to accommodate him, lowering yourself until you feel that hard line beneath his jeans. Instinct has you lining yourself up until you can rub off against him, a choked sound rising up in the back of your throat at the blissful friction. 

He sighs into your mouth, a trembling little exhale of air, his hands finding your hips and pinning you in place. Pulling back, he mutters: “None of that.” 

“Why not?” you pant. “Feels good.” 

“I’m trying not to embarrass myself. Work with me.”

The two of you move to the bedroom. You stand on legs that are already shaking, stripping clothes off along as you go: socks here, leggings there. The typical anxious thoughts have just started spiraling in your head—what underwear are you wearing? Have you shaved recently enough? Is the light flattering? When did you last change the sheets?—when Ghost catches you, looping his forearm around your waist and pulling you back against his firm chest. 

“I wanted to undress you,” he says against the nape of your neck. 

“I can put the clothes back on if you like.” 

“Think I’ll just do the rest myself, if it’s all the same to you.” 

His hands are remarkably gentle for his line of work as he helps you out of your shirt, your arms lifting obligingly to help him. The light from the lamp in the corner is actually quite flattering, casting shadows across you both in a way that is artful. His fingertips, calloused but careful, trace up the lengths of your arms and around to your back. 

He fumbles a little with the clasp of your bra. 

“I hate those things,” you breathe once he finally gets it figured out, coaxing the straps off your shoulders. 

“Me too,” he says in that dry, bland way that you’ve come to associate with his humor.

All that’s left are your panties. He presses you back onto the bedspread and hooks his fingers into the waistband of your underwear, peeling them off your thighs. Your legs try to close on instinct, but he is quick to wedge himself between them, thumbs finding the creases where your thighs meet your pelvis and stroking the sensitive skin until you don’t know whether to laugh from being tickled or cry from being teased. 

“Fuckin’ pretty, aren’t you?” he murmurs, eyes on your pussy. Maybe he’s talking to it and not to you. “Want to get my mouth on you. Can I?” 

God, how long has it been since you’ve gotten head? You nod, near frantic. Even if he’s no good, some effort will be better than nothing. Besides, a part of you has high hopes for Ghost as a lover; so far he has been thorough and careful, both points in his favor. He leans up and kisses you again, your nipples brushing against his t-shirt, reminding you that you are naked while he is still entirely dressed. He seems content, and as desperate as you are to see him naked, you’re even more desperate not to break this blissful little soap bubble you both have somehow managed to find yourselves in. 

Nudging your head up and to the side with the tip of his nose, he trails his mouth down your neck, tasting your skin and searching for your most sensitive spots. When he finds them, he drags his teeth against them softly until your heels are digging into the bed beneath you, hips up and searching for any kind of friction, even if you have to rub yourself against his jeans to find it. 

Ghost continues down over the plains of your chest, teasing first one nipple and then the other with his mouth and his hands, testing the heft of your breasts in his huge palms. He explores your body with an admirable single-mindedness, not the perfunctory, half-hearted way some of your past lovers had. His eyes are never far from your own, categorizing your reactions; for what purpose, you aren’t sure. 

After kissing a line right over your navel, he grips your thighs in his hands and spreads you wide. That close to your cunt, he must be able to smell how desperate you are, must be able to see the way it drips from you. He ghosts a thumb along your slit, turns it towards himself until your slick catches on the light. That thumb disappears into his mouth, and it takes all your breath and all your thoughts with it. His hum of approval vibrates against your calves which are pressed to either side of his chest. 

“Okay?” he asks. 

You nod, unable to trust your voice. 

He leans down and kisses your folds, chaste and sweet as he might have kissed your mouth. He uses the fingers of one hand to spread you open, and there is a rush of warmth as he lets the saliva pool on his tongue and then flood against your sex, leaning down to chase it with his mouth. 

He is all merciful tongue and lips, no hint of teeth as he licks and sucks at that hidden knot of flesh at the top of your sex. He barely pays your entrance any attention—which is fine by you, honestly, his tongue is direly needed elsewhere—but shifts an arm free to sling it over your pelvis, palm resting over your mons, thumb pulling back that hood that seeks to keep your most sensitive parts hidden from him. 

Your hands grip fistfuls of your bedspread, unsure if he’s willing to let you touch his hair. The noises—gasps and whines and choked groans—coming out of your mouth would have your soul leaving your body if only you could hear them over the sound of blood rushing through your ears. 

He’s strong, fighting against your natural urges to clamp your thighs shut around his head. Instead he presses you open wider, leaving no where for you to run to or hide as the pleasure in your pelvis blossoms, swells into some sweet fruit that bursts all over his tongue, your back arching into a neat bow. 

You find out then that Ghost eats pussy the same way he kisses. He seems content to lap you clean and continue sucking at your swollen flesh, and even though you don’t think you could cum again, it still feels good. You melt into the mattress, boneless. Against your better judgement, your hand finds his hair, tucking back the longest strands that just begin to tickle the tops of his ears.  

His mouth stutters against you at the touch, losing its easy rhythm. He pulls back until he is out of your reach. 

“Sorry,” you whisper, throat raw. Your hand falls to rest on your soft belly, feeling exhausted.

“You can touch. Just don’t pull. I don’t—“ he stops, like he is searching for the right words. “—I don’t want it to hurt.” 

“Not at all?” 

“No.” 

“Me neither. Would you kiss me again?” 

His only answer is to shift upwards so that he can meet your mouth. You taste yourself on his tongue. His cock, still confined in his jeans, brushes against your thighs. One of your hands wanders down his firm chest, down his belly, til you can map the shape of his erection with your fingers. His biceps tense around you where he braces himself on the bed to keep from putting his weight on you, head dropping til his forehead rests against the juncture between your neck and shoulder. 

“You should get undressed,” you remind him. 

He lets out a breath through his nose that sounds suspiciously like a sigh, leaning back onto his haunches to tug his shirt off over his head. You stare, awed. He’s so thick, all over: muscles hidden beneath a nice layer of soft padding, chest hair broken up by the odd scar here or there. You reach out toward his belt but he stops you. 

“I can do it,” he says. He stands and strips himself naked in one fell swoop, like ripping off a bandaid. He’s thick here too, just as you had suspected: thighs and cock included. Already you can feel the phantom stretch of him between your legs and in your jaw. It burns away the last bits of sleepiness your orgasm had given you. 

Throughout your perusal, he stands still, at attention, mouth turned downward in its most comfortable frown, meeting your eyes with an almost obstinate persistence. You kneel up and crawl to the edge of the bed, letting your legs dangle off of it. 

“Can I touch you?” 

“Alright,” he says. 

You start at his shoulders, tracing over the broad width of them. Everything about him displays his strength. Even his scars, which some might consider signs of failure, only showed his persistence for survival. You ran your hands across his pecs, pausing to toy with one pale, pink nipple, so soft beneath your fingers. With each breath he takes, his abs are thrown into sharp relief. 

“God, Ghost,” you mutter, tracing a line down to his cock. 

“I know,” he says dully, though what he knows, you’re unsure of. “Condom’s in my pants.”

“We don’t need one.”

“I don’t want any surprises.”

“You won’t get any. Here.” You take his hand and guide it to your upper arm where your implant sits just beneath the surface of your skin. He flinches, unsure what he is touching. “It’s my contraception.”

“That’s horrifying,” he mutters. 

“Do what I do—don’t think of it.” 

“Right.”

You shift backwards up into the bed, thighs falling open invitingly. Instead of filling the space between them, he lays next to you, rolling you til you both face each other. 

He runs his calloused palm up the length of your leg and grips your thigh, tugging it up and over his hip until you are spread open for him. There’s a question in his eyes, a slowness to his movement that gives you ample time to deny him this if you don’t want it—but you do. God you do. You ache for it—for him. 

He reaches down and slips two fingers into you, easy as anything in your wet, relaxed state. The fullness is divine, even more so when he decides you’re ready for that third finger, the one that stretches your entrance and makes you hiss a breath through your teeth. 

Ghost doesn’t even fuck you with them, just leaves you stuffed full of his fingers while he kisses you more. He waits until you’re the one shifting and thrusting against his touch before pulling out and wiping your wetness across your tender folds. 

He grips his cock, guides it to your entrance. Hesitates. 

“Please,” you mutter, face flushed with heat, hoping he doesn’t want you to beg. You’ll debase yourself, but it will be painful. 

Whether or not it was your word he was waiting for, he slips inside you, a near-unbearable fullness and pressure that has you burying your face in his chest. His own breaths are stuttered, shallow as he sinks as deep into you as your body will allow and no deeper. Once he’s inside you, he seems to relax, like some great race has been run, some threshold has been crossed and now he can rest. 

“Let me know when I can move,” he says, running his hand up and down the length of your back, down over the curve of your ass. 

“Not yet,” you beg. “Feels like you’re in my fucking throat. Jesus, Ghost.” 

His cock twitches. You both suck in a breath. 

“Don’t say that shit,” he mutters, breathless, fingers digging grooves into the soft flesh of your hips. “Lean back. I want to look at you.”

You uncurl yourself away from his chest, tilting your chin up towards him. The last twinges of pain in your cunt have receded until all that lasts is that ceaseless fullness. He moves at last, laying down his arm so you can rest your head on his bicep. Only then are you aware of how painfully intimate this position is. There is nowhere to turn away to, nowhere to hide. You’ve had sex with partners less intimate than this. 

“You can move,” you assure him, hoping for a distraction. 

He takes a breath so deep his chest brushes your own. The pace he sets is downright agonizingly slow, less thrusting and more of a solid grind against you that has you a shivering mess in his arms. There’s little chance you could cum at this pace, but it feels good, and all of it is strangely secondary to him. 

There’s a look in his eyes. You don’t understand it. Is it tenderness? Genuine affection? Gratitude? You’ve never had sex with this much eye contact before, never felt like breaking that gaze could take you out of the hazy headspace you’re in. Ghost finds your hand and grips it—doesn’t lace your fingers together but instead holds them like a tiny bundle of sticks in his giant hand.

He rests his forehead against your own. His eyes fall shut for just a moment, and it gives you the freedom to examine his features freely: the low brow, the curve of his nose, the pink scars tinged pale purple in the low light. You feel like you’re seeing him for the first time. You feel like you’re the first person to ever see him. 

That strange thought starts a domino effect in your mind, sets off a chain reaction, slides a dozen puzzle pieces into a Ghost shaped puzzle and all at once it hits you. 

“Ghost—stop.” 

He stills, eyes opening. Reverses, withdrawing from inside you. “What hurts?”

“Nothing,” you assure him. “But—I’m sorry. You’ve done this before, right?” 

He doesn’t respond. He’s meeting your eyes, but he has that obstinate, pained look again, like he’d rather be looking straight at the sun. 

Your voice pitches upward with a hint of panic. “Ghost??”

“Fucking hell,” he groans, rolling onto his back, cock slipping free and leaving you feeling bereft. The mattress dips, making you sway toward him. You shift away.  “What gave me away?”

“Oh my god. You’re kidding, right? Please tell me you’re joking.” 

“Bloody wish,” he mutters, arm thrown over his eyes. 

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“The fuck would I tell you for?” He sounds genuinely baffled. 

“So I could—I don’t know! So I could have known!” 

“Didn’t want you to fucking know,” he says, letting his arm down so that he can glare at you fiercely. At the sight of you huddled at the other side of the bed, naked, arms wrapped around yourself, the fury seems to melt out of him. His shoulders sag. He palms at his eyes briefly, like a headache is brewing.

“Fucked it,” he mutters to himself, going for his jeans and sitting on the edge of the bed to put them on. “Fucked it all.” 

“You didn’t,” you offer hastily, though it does feel a little fucked. Suddenly you realize that your chance to fuck Ghost is slipping through your fingers like so much sand. What had started as a dream come true was turning into a nightmare, and you couldn’t bear the thought of letting him leave. Not like this. 

At your words, he tosses you a look, and how a human can fit so much skepticism in a single expression is beyond your belief.

“Really. I just wish I’d known so I could have been better for you.” You don’t realize the truth of the statement until you say it. The last thing you wanted was for him to look back on this moment with disappointment. 

He shakes his head and mutters: “You’re mad.” 

“We could still—you know.” 

He stops, jeans halfway pulled up his thick thighs. “What, fuck?”

You find a loose thread on your bedspread and twist it around your finger, shrugging. Aiming for cool and missing by a mile. 

“You want to.” 

“Well, yeah.” You abandon the thread, feeling too exposed. Tucking your legs up toward your chest, you wrap your arms around yourself. “Like you said in the car. I’ve been thinking about it.”

“About fucking me.”

“Are these questions?” you ask, face warm. “Yes, I think about it. Thought about it. I have thoughts.” 

His lips twitch, a ghost of a smile, gone before you can imagine what a full-fledged grin would even begin to look like. “You’re serious.”

“Really serious,” you offer, sensing that he might be coming back around to the idea himself. Though you’re no vixen, you let your body unfold just to watch the way his eyes drop to look you over. You never knew eyes could be hungry. “Pants off? Please?”

He’s still and quiet for several long moments, but at length he shoves them back down his thighs, naked once more. He’s only half hard, but no less intimidating in this state. You eagerly shift to the edge of the bed and off, back down onto your knees in front of him, palms against his thighs. 

“Is this okay?” you ask, looking up at him from beneath your lashes, aware that this is one of your most flattering angles. 

“Go on,” he says. He sounds doubtful. You are too, unsure if you can find the same rhythm you both had going before. Unsure if you want to, now that you know him better. 

You take one of his hands and coax it into cupping your cheek, then slide it back and up into your hair. “Don’t pull. No pain, right?” 

Something hard in his expression softens marginally. His fingertips scratch gently at your scalp, a silent praise as he agrees: “No pain.”

Leaning forward, you nuzzle at his cock. It is velvety soft against your cheek. His scent here is more concentrated, masculine and warm. Above you, he sucks in a breath through his teeth. 

How much you enjoy giving head usually directly depends on your partner, and Ghost is brilliant to suck off. Some might find him stoic or unaffected, but his expressions are just understated. When you place an open mouthed kiss against his shaft, his fingers twitch in your hair. When you take the tip past your lips to rest heavily against your tongue, he lets out a shaky exhale. By the time he’s nudging the back of your throat while you work the excess inches of his cock in your fist, he is grunting in between in sharp breaths. You find yourself becoming hyper attuned to his reactions until each minuscule motion feels exaggerated to your brain. A twitch becomes a caress. A sigh a moan.  

“I’ll cum in your mouth if you don’t stop,” he grits out. 

You pull off, jaw aching, lips slick. “I’d rather you came inside me.” 

He pulls you to your feet and kisses you. All the kisses tonight, and this one has been the most honest, the most needful, the most raw. Had he never even kissed anyone before tonight? you wonder. It’s hard to believe that the answer might be yes. The way he kisses melts your brain, fizzles your thoughts. 

“Ghost,” you breathe when he gives you a moment to come up for air, his mouth dipping low to your collarbone where he sucks softly. 

“You know my name,” he says, mouth against your skin. “Use it.”

Simon. You have to say it in your mind first to get used to it. Simon. Simon. Then he finds one of those sensitive spots in the crook of your neck and you are whispering it, voice trembling more than you’d like: “Simon.” 

“I like the way you say it,” he admits. “You’ve got a pretty mouth.”

“So do you.” 

He snorts softly, shaking his head, like you have said something very silly. 

“Up.” He grips your waist and helps you up onto the bed. You scoot back, making room for him between your thighs, and he fills the space so fucking snugly. His cock nudges at your sex and reminds you of how you ache all anew. 

This time when he slips inside you, it punches a sound out of you that is remarkably close to a whine, your toes curling. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuckfuckfuck,” you gasp, hands scrabbling for purchase against his broad shoulders, careful not to scratch him. 

His head drops, forehead resting against your own, eyes shut. “Fuck’s right. Not a chance I’ll last after being in your mouth.”

“Wait for me,” you choke out, working one hand between you both until your fingers can find your clit. The angle isn’t the best, not with him so close, but it’s made up for by how blissfully full you are, by how Simon’s arms are trembling where he holds himself up above you. Briefly you let your fingers take a side trip, teasing his cock where he stretches you open, and Simon groans. Fuck, it goes right to your head. It makes you feel like you could walk on water. 

You find his mouth and kiss him, kiss him til your head is light with lack of air, kiss him til your thighs are shaking with how close you are from your own expert touch. 

“Fuck me, now, fuck me please,” you beg into his mouth.

He draws back until just the thick head sits inside you, giving your fingers room to work for a moment before he thrusts back in slow and smooth, pinning your fingers against your clit and that simple pressure—it’s enough. Your body bows against him, choked sounds lost against his mouth as he swallows them whole, fucking you so softly through the peak of your pleasure. 

Simon stiffens not a handful of moments later, cock twitching inside you. The burst of warmth is pleasant, making you shiver. He drops down til his chest presses against your own, careful not to crush you with his weight. 

“Don’t pull out yet.” 

His softening cock twitches inside you. All he says is: “Alright.” 

You hum, warm and sated. Sleepy. “You sleeping over?”

“Didn’t plan on it,” he murmurs, lips against your shoulder. 

“But the walk of shame is a valuable part of the experience.”

“‘M not ashamed of fucking you,” he says. 

You’re strangely touched. “Me neither.”

“Did you fake it?” he wonders.

“I’m no good at faking,” you admit. He leans up so his eyes can scan your face, looking for any hint of deception. Whatever he finds must satisfy his curiosity because he lowers his head back to rest against your shoulder. 

He rolls you both onto your sides, and his soft cock slips free with a rush of seed. You make an unhappy sound in the back of your throat. Afterward is always your least favorite part, when you feel so empty.

Simon hushes you as he slips from the bed. “Bathroom,” he tells you. 

“Through there.”

“Not for me, for you.”

“Why?” you whine, tired and petulant. 

“Because pissing afterward is a valuable part of the experience for you. Can you walk, or did I break you?” 

When you don’t answer, he grips one of your ankles and pulls you toward the end of the bed. You shriek, rolling onto your belly, but it’s no use. Looping his arm around your waist, he tosses you over his shoulder and carries you to the bathroom like you weigh nothing more than a sack of potatoes, which is patently untrue. 

“Are you going to watch me go, too?” you ask. 

“Kinky,” he says, already disappearing into the other room. 

By the time you clean yourself up and take care of any “valuable post-sex experiences”, Simon has dressed himself. His clothes are gone from the floor in your bedroom. You can’t help but feel disappointed; a part of you really had been hoping he’d stay.  Slipping on your panties and a clean shirt, you chase after him hoping he hasn’t left only to find him toying with your spare key at your door. 

The way he reaches for your hand and draws you to him soothes some of the ache of seeing out. He thumbs your pulse and says: “I have to be ready to leave for work at a moment’s notice or I’d stay.” 

“It’s fine.” 

“You’re lying,” he says, pressing his thumb more firmly against your wrist. “Don’t lie to me, or I’ll know. Do you want tonight to happen again?” 

“Are you seriously copping a feel of my pulse to see if I’m being truthful?”

“Evading the question,” he says, clicking his tongue in disapproval. “Thanks anyway, for tonight. I’ll see myself out.”

“Yes! Alright, yes. Of course I do.” 

His mouth quirks upwards, his grin a little crooked thanks to the scar, but no less precious. His thumb strokes softly. “I don’t need your pulse to tell when you’re lying. I just like to feel it racing when you look at me.”

You groan, burying your face in his chest. How embarrassing is that? 

“Next time, I’ll stay,” he promises. “Alright? Repeat it back to me.” 

“Next time you’ll stay.” 

“Next time,” he murmurs softly, turning away. He takes the stairs.  

[muwapsturniolo]

Brutus 2 🦇 Chris sturniolo

"O-one hun-hundred and fif-fifteen times...." PT 1

NSFW AHEAD!!! mentions of murder, stabbing, assault (not detailed!!!), alcohol, blowjobs/face fucking, facials, cum eating, rough sex, biting, cream pies, choking, switch! Chris, Matt is a perv

The police still couldn’t figure out what happened on the final night of Halloween horror nights. It’s been a month and the gruesome murders were still unsolved and left everyone scratching their head. The police took the right measures, they taped off the crime scene for weeks on end, rewatched the CCTV footage, and questioned the crew and attendees.

But they came up empty-handed.

They couldn’t figure out who committed the crime or why they did it.

But she knew.

When she was questioned, the police showing up at her door with her discarded tweed purse, she lied and said she didn’t see anything. Claimed she barely remembers that night due to the alcohol she consumed on the premises.

She knew it was wrong to lie to authority, to take away the possibility of a grieving family to finally have peace and to know the killer is behind bars. She knew if anyone found out what she did they would call her insane and probably throw her six feet under a jail - She didn’t want that.

She was lying to cover her own ass and the nameless killers, and she’d do it again in a heartbeat.

Especially if it meant they would continue watching her.

It was only a couple of days after that night when she felt as if she was being watched. She had just gotten out of the shower and walked into her bedroom to put on her pajamas when she noticed the clothes were on the floor.

That isn't where she left them.

She vividly remembered placing them neatly at the foot of her bed, folded and ready to throw on. Now they were thrown onto the floor in a mess, and her panties were missing.

Fear should have settled into her body, but instead, she proceeded to get dressed right in front of the open window.

With that being said, she went about her life as if nothing happened, as if she wasn't being stalked by two psychopaths.

Her routine never changed.

Weeks had gone by, minutes, hours - two months to be exact. She had given up the little bit of hope that those two would make an appearance. Honestly, she had forgotten about them until a Christmas party had gone wrong.

Her friends had forced her to attend, shoving her into a powder blue satin dress and a pair of silver heels to match. soon, she was at the party, standing in the corner with a frown on her face.

She wasn't having a good time. Her friends had ditched her as soon as they made it to the club, this guy who was completely wasted wouldn't leave her alone, and she was hot.

Deciding that she was over it and needed some air, she found her friends and told them she was leaving. She walked away, ignoring their drunken protests, and pulled out her phone, attempting to order an Uber.

It seemed like she didn't have any luck, the cellular device having no type of signal. With a huff she begins walking down the street, not noticing the two people following her.

"This is so stupid! This is the last time I let them drag me to a dumb party an-" A small scream escapes her mouth as she's pushed into an alley, her phone falling from her hands. Her body collides with a trash can, preventing her from falling into the muddy puddles of water from the melted snow.

She's soon shoved against the wall, the streetlamps casting a shadow over her attacker's face. She didn't need lights to know who the person was, the rancid smell of alcohol was enough.

It was the same man from the party, he had followed her out.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?! Get off of me!" She shouts in annoyance, trying to push him off. It was odd, the way she was completely sober and had better coordination should have given her the strength to push him away. But to no avail, he proceeded to force himself upon her, slurring his words in the process.

Just as his hand goes up her dress, he's yanked away and tackled to the ground, her savior immediately throwing punches.

She stays frozen against the wall, too shocked to even register what's happening.

A glimmer of light snaps her back into reality.

She watches as her savior raises his arm, a knife in hand.

She watches as the blade is plunged into her attacker's chest, his screams slowly drowning out as he chokes on his own blood. She watches her savior continuously bring the knife down, not stopping until he's satisfied.

His actions begin to slow, his breathing heavy as he slumps back, staring at the lifeless body underneath him.

She takes a hesitant step forward, freezing when her savior turns to her.

She already knew, but the mask adorning his face confirmed it.

Her savior was the same man from that night, the same masked man who was ready to kill her before being scared away by his partner in crime.

His wild and deranged eyes soften as they connect with hers, his breathing calming down.

They say nothing, the only sound being heard is the flurries of snow rushing past them.

She slowly approaches, holding her hand out before speaking softly, "Come on, let's go."

He looks down at her hand before standing up, towering over her. He points towards her discarded phone, his silence-speaking words. She nods and rushes over to her phone, bending down to grab it. She huffs seeing the cracked screen, cursing out the dead man in her head. Just as she begins to wipe the phone off, she hears a loud bang.

She whips around and sees both the masked savior and the dead body gone, her brows slowly creasing.

Where did they go? How did they disappear so quick?

Her thoughts are interrupted by a hand landing on her shoulder. She jumps in surprise and turns around to see the masked savior in front of her.

"Jesus Christ, " she covers her chest as her heart begins to beat quickly. She swears she heard him snicker softly, but before she could question him, he wrapped his hand around her arm and dragged her down the street.

In reality, she knows she should be scared and questioning him, but she stays silent, allowing him to guide her to wherever they are going. They soon arrive in front of a beat-up pickup truck, parts of the car rusting as snow sits in the bed.

He opens the passenger door and looks at her expectantly. She peers inside the truck, noticing the mess inside. The cans of Pepsi discarded on the floor, the wrappers from candy, the smell of cigarettes, and most importantly,

The small bloodstains on the seats.

She looks back at him, noticing the soft look in his eyes.

"You want me to get in?"

He nods, still refusing to speak.

"Are you taking me home?"

He nods once more.

"Do you know where I live?"

He tenses, the grip he has on her arm tightening. It's almost as if he's scared, scared of being caught for stalking. Scared she's going to scream, run away, reject him.

She snickers softly seeing the fear in his eyes, it's a bit ironic.

She says nothing, simply climbing into the truck and buckling herself in.

"Come on, I miss my bed."

With that, he closes the door and climbs into the car himself, quickly starting the engine and driving off. She watches silently as he drives down familiar streets, having driven down them herself whenever she's on her way home.

The car ride was filled with silence, it wasn't tense if anything, it was calming, the both of them relaxed.

They soon arrive and he kills the engine, staring straight ahead out the window. She turns to him, hoping to catch a glimpse of his face behind the mask.

"Thank you for helping me," she says softly. He gives a curt nod, his hands still placed on the wheel.

"Did you want to come in?" His head whips to her, his eyes holding confusion. She smirks, enjoying the hesitancy and confusion in his eyes.

" Come on, you've been inside anyway. Might as well come in with an invitation this time."

He huffs behind the mask but follows her actions in unbuckling the seat belt and climbing out of the car.

They walk inside the house, the girl kicking off the annoying heels and throwing her keys in the bowl on the stand. She walks to her bedroom, smiling to herself as she hears his sluggish footsteps behind her. She throws herself onto her bed, flipping onto her back and propping herself up with her elbows.

She looks him up and down curiously, attempting to familiarize herself with him again.

"How come you wear a mask?"

Like always, he says nothing, refusing to even glance in her direction. She pushes herself off the bed and approaches him, cornering him. No words are spoken between the two as she presses herself against him, his breathing speeding up. With a slow and steady hand, she trails it up his arm, her fingers soon fanning out against his chest.

She goes to touch the edge of the mask, but she's stopped by his hand firmly grasping her wrist.

He looks scared.

Despite the tight grip he has on her, she continues with her actions. Her fingers grip the edge of the mask, slowly pulling it off of his face.

He quickly turns his head, his hair falling in front of his face. She gently turns him back towards her, their eyes connecting as her fingers dance across the scar on his cheek.

"O-one hun-hundred and fif-fifteen times...."

A shocked expression makes its way onto her face. He spoke, he finally spoke, and the first thing he decided to say was a number.

"W-what?" She questions in confusion, raking her brain for what the number could mean.

"Th-the man....I sta-stabbed him one hun-dred and f-fifteen times."

She's shocked by the confession.

She didn't know a lot about murder, only having seen it and heard about it in movies and TV shows, but she knew it took a lot of energy and anger to stab someone that amount of times - He did it for her.

It was sick, it was twisted, and yet, it attracted her.

"Let me thank you," she mumbles, her hand leaving his face and trailing down his chest, soon finding its place over his crotch. She begins to palm him, watching his breathing grow harsh, their eyes still connected. A small whimper leaves his mouth, and she breaks out into a grin - his moans were so pretty, so soft,

Submissive.

She sinks to her knees, both of her hands working at his belt, soon throwing it to the floor. Her mouth waters as she pulls his pants down, his cock slapping his abdomen.

It was pretty, just like him.

It was long and thick, and had a bright red tip that matched his chapped lips. There was a vein running up the side that she knew would feel euphoric when sliding against her spongy walls.

He bucks his hips softly as she wraps her hand around his shaft, pulling it towards her mouth. She opens her mouth and allows a wad of spit to trickle out, landing directly on his tip. Her thumb swipes over the tip as she moves the spit around, starting to jerk him off.

His moans and whimpers are kitten-like, despite his horrific and brutal demeanor, he was like putty in her hands.

She enjoys the way his body relaxes against the door, his head thrown back and his mouth open as he pants softly. She kitten licks his tip before taking him fully in her mouth. His rough and calloused hands fly to her head, grabbing the strands of hair and forcing her to take him deeper.

She gags around him, tears forming in her eyes as she opens her mouth wider, but she keeps going. She bobs her head up and down, making sure to hum and fondle his balls in the process.

His moans and groans grow louder, and his actions become more dominant. It was like a switch was flipped in his head, his hips starting to slam against her face.

He shows no mercy as he fucks her face, his dick reaching so far down her throat and giving her no chance to breathe. Her actions of gratitude had quickly become sloppy, the mixture of spit and precum coating her chin and falling down to her chest.

There were even bubbles of the mixture forming, popping every time her nose hit his happy trail.

She manages to look up at him, her mascara tears and glossy eyes making her look so damaged yet innocent - It drives him over the edge.

He quickly pulls out of her mouth and releases all over her face, enjoying the way she gasps in shock.

It's like his body is on autopilot, nothing but excitement and adrenaline controlling his actions. His hand wraps around her throat, lifting her to her feet with ease. Their lips instantly mesh together, swapping spit as they hastily make out. She moans into the kiss as he tightens his grip on her throat, the wetness in her panties only growing. She could feel the sticky fluid in between her folds every time she clenched her thighs - She was aching for him to touch her.

He suddenly pulls away from the kiss and begins to lick his own semen off of her face, his eyes rolling back. She moaned at his erotic actions, the way his soft and spongy muscle glided over her cheek. She could smell the faint mixture of cigarettes on his breath, but she found herself not caring.

Suddenly, she's pushed away from him, her body colliding with the mattress. It all happens so quick, the way her powder blue dress is ripped into pieces, her soaked panties following.

He was like a rabid, feral dog, ready to take what he wanted and she was just as excited.

Her jaw drops and her back arches as he shoves his length inside of her, reaching to the deepest hilt. Much like his partner in crime, he stretched her out perfectly, her aching walls sucking him in and not letting him go. The bedframe bangs against the wall with each ferocious thrust, items falling off her nightstand due to the shaking.

He shoves his face into the crevice of her neck, his teeth sinking into the soft skin. He proceeds with his actions, the marking of his teeth covering her whole chest along with her breasts - Blood is drawn in certain areas.

It's an overwhelming amount of pleasure, so overwhelming that she can't even keep her eyes open nor hold him. Her arms lay flat by her head, her eyes clenched shut as her mouth remains open.

Her eyes fly open when her head whips to the side, the same hand that slapped her wrapping around her throat, squeezing tightly.

He's heaving like a dog, his pants mixed with groans, making him sound like a beast.

She weakly grabbed at his wrist, trying to ease the pressure on her throat, but it was no use. She had become lightheaded from the pleasure and lack of air.

She was close to passing out, but she was also close to reaching her orgasm, it was just a matter of which one she would experience first.

"You're going to kill her, ease up on the choking."

Her blurry eyes dart to the bedroom door, a choked gurgle escaping her mouth when she sees him.

He was here, the one with the painted face. Except, his face wasn't painted, and he was watching her be fucked by his partner.

She gasped for air when he released her throat, her eyes still trained on the other one. She watches as he takes a seat at her vanity, leaning back on the chair and manspreading.

"Don't look at me, look at him. He's the one fucking you."

She does as told, her eyes connecting with the man on top of her. He had the same look in his eyes from that night when he chased after the girl trying to run away.

"Tell him how good he's making you feel, he loves the praise,"

"S-so good- Nghh. Fuck- " She could barely speak a full sentence, her speech slurred.

"That's all you can do? Come on dollface, he killed someone for you! Show him how grateful you are! He finally gets to feel you after watching me fuck you, give him the experience he deserves."

Her mind is reeling, incoherent babbles of praise falling from her lips. The more she praises him, the harder his thrust become, her sobs of pleasure getting louder.

It's not long before she felt that familiar coil in her stomach forming, ready to burst at any second - and all it took was one final thrust from the man on top of her to push her over the edge.

Her whole body shakes violently, her eyes rolling back as she feels the static rush through her body. Her ears were ringing, her vision blurry as she came down from her high.

She lays there shaking, her fingers twitching as she pants harshly. She was worn out, fucked, and tired.

Suddenly, he stands up from the vanity and slams his hand down on Chris's back, "Look at her....and I thought I wore her out." They both look down at her, trying to figure out what to do next.

Matt suddenly bends down and moves her hair out of her face, grabbing her chin softly.

"Wake up doll, your night has just started."

[rileyslibrary]

The elderly lady who owns the convenience store in Simon’s neighbourhood needs help with a faulty fridge. You tag along with Simon and discover more about him than you ever expected.

A/N: Fluff. Cosy read.

———————————————————————

“It’s right there,” Simon says, pointing down the street. “Just need to take care of something quickly.”

You follow his outstretched arm to a convenience store nestled on the corner. Furrowing your brows, you glance back at the street you had just walked down, spotting Simon’s house. It’s very close, you think to yourself. Maybe a three-minute walk away.

That’s weird. You’ve taken that same road to and from Simon’s house many times, yet this is the first time you’ve noticed the store.

Turning your attention back, you look closer at your destination. No wonder you never paid much attention to it. The store seems old and rather inconspicuous, blending into its surroundings seamlessly. Everything is understated, from the building to its decor—if you could even call it that. To the left of the entrance, there’s a stand of old magazines, and on the right, a table with two chairs catches your eye. You glance up at the sign above the entrance.

“Mary Mart,” you read aloud.

“That’s right,” Simon confirms, opening the door and triggering a bell to jingle. “Mary should be inside.”

He holds the door open for you, yet his gaze remains fixed on something inside the store. You step in and follow his line of sight to a lady holding a newspaper up to her face. That must be Mary, you presume.

“You alright, Mary?” Simon asks softly.

Yup, that’s definitely her. The newspaper covers most of Mary’s petite frame as she sits behind the counter. She seems so absorbed by her reading that she didn’t hear you come in.

Simon sighs and shakes his head. He gently taps the back of the newspaper to get her attention. Mary lowers the paper to her nose, and her face lights up immediately at the sight of Simon.

“Didn’t see you there!” Mary shouts, lowering the newspaper to the counter. “You alright, my dear?”

“Yes, Mary,” he murmurs, “neither did you see nor hear us.”

“What?” Mary asks, letting go of the newspaper and cupping her ear.

Simon taps his own ear, indicating that Mary needs to adjust her earpiece. Mary’s eyes widen, and she quickly follows Simon’s lead, turning her earpiece on. She gives him a nod.

“Better now?” Simon asks.

“Much, much better,” Mary confirms, then turns to you with a broader smile. “And who do we have here?”

You politely nod, introducing yourself to Mary, but Simon interjects before you say much.

“So tell me, Mary,” He says, glancing towards the back of the store where the fridges are, “which one’s acting up?”

“Oh, I can’t remember, dear, but it’s hard to miss it,” Mary replies, sighing. “It’s the one with the towels underneath. Keeps dripping water.”

Simon nods, his gaze still focused on the fridges. He begins heading towards the back of the store, and you instinctively follow behind him.

“How lovely of you, Simon,” Mary’s voice sounds from behind you. “Bringing me some company while you take care of that fridge.”

You stop in your tracks, and Simon does, too. Point taken, Mary. You glance towards Simon, and he gives you a nod.

“She’s harmless,” he whispers, brushing your hair back. “And a pretty nice lady.”

“Don’t be long.” You whisper back. “We still need to go get some breakfast.”

Simon nods and continues to the back of the store. With a sigh, you return to the counter where Mary is and settle into a nearby chair.

“Anything newsworthy?” You ask.

“Nothing much, dear,” Mary replies, adjusting her newspaper. “The weather’s terrible, the economy’s getting worse, and people won’t stop killing each other.”

“Oh...” you murmur, “yeah, that’s bad.”

“Well, at least Boots has 20% off on all moisturizers,” she announces, slightly more enthusiastically than one might expect for moisturizers. She picks a pair of scissors from under the counter and starts snipping the voucher.

With Mary on a mission to get that 20% off of that newspaper, you take the opportunity to peek at Simon. He’s kneeling in front of the fridge at the back of the store, focused on the appliance. Occasionally, his brow slightly furrows as he inspects the faulty machine. Then he pauses, nods, and grabs tools or shifts his position to get a better look at it. You, on the other hand, have no idea what he’s doing, nor do you care. You are hungry and caffeine-deprived. You’re pretty sure Simon feels the same way.

Meanwhile, Mary has finished cutting through the voucher and returned to her reading. She often flips through the pages and snaps the newspaper to straighten it and remove wrinkles. Sometimes, she hums, acknowledging her current read. Other times, she clicks her tongue disapprovingly at whatever news she comes across.

And you? Well, you’re bored out of your mind, so you begin scanning the shelves and displays, taking in the assortment of merchandise neatly arranged throughout the store. Your eyes briefly pause on various items—a stack of magazines, a display of snacks, a row of household essentials—before finally settling on an old photograph hanging behind Mary.

In the photograph, a young man wearing a military uniform stands confidently. He appears to be in his late twenties and sports a well-kept moustache. Rather than looking straight ahead, his gaze seems to be directed right behind you. He looks confident. Strong. He feels present, even if he’s not here.

“Handsome, huh?” Mary asks, peering over her glasses before turning towards the picture behind her. “That’s my Walter right there.”

You clear your throat and nod. “Very handsome indeed,” you confirm. “Is he your husband?”

“Was,” Mary corrects with a wistful smile, her eyes drifting back to you. “My very first and last one.”

“Which war?” you ask, gesturing towards his uniform.

“You mean which war he served in or which war he died in?”

“Both,” you shrug.

“Served in too many,” she says proudly, lowering her gaze to her newspaper. “But the war my Walter lost had no guns or weapons.”

“I’m sorry,” you whisper.

Mary looks up from her newspaper, meeting your eyes with a tilt of her head and a warm smile.

“Coffee?” she offers but doesn’t let you respond. She has already turned her back to you, brewing a fresh pot.

“No, thank you,” you reply. “We intend to grab some on our way to breakf-”

“I don’t think Simon will finish anytime soon, dear,” she interjects.

“Then yes, please,” you reply, then mouth a silent ‘shit’ to yourself so that Mary doesn’t hear you. You peek once more at the back of the store where Simon is.

“He’s handsome as well, isn’t he?” Mary states, with her back still turned towards you.

You blush at Mary’s observation and look down at the gum assortment in front of the counter. “Yes,” you agree, nodding with a smile. “Yes, he is.”

“Met at the base?” She asks, pouring you a cup of coffee.

“You know where we work?” you ask, raising an eyebrow.

“It takes one to know one, dear,” she says, turning towards you and handing you a cup of coffee. “Milk? Sugar?”

“No, thanks,” you reply. “So you also served in the military?”

Mary’s expression shifts, her face lighting up as she lifts her index finger.

“Serve!” she exclaims, “Silly me; I forgot to serve the biscuits!”

She retrieves a plate covered with tin foil from below the counter and uncovers it, pushing the platter towards you. You politely decline, thanking her for the offer. But Mary insists.

“I made them myself,” she tells you warmly.

“And I’m sure they taste lovely, but-”

“Take the biscuit,” Mary commands sternly, yet still smiling.

You look up at her, and without looking back at the plate, you take a biscuit. You don’t know which one you picked, what flavour it is, or if there are any allergens in it. Mary’s assertiveness is enough to make you pop it right into your mouth.

Her smile widens. “Good?” she asks.

The biscuit is indeed good. Very good. But even if it weren’t, you wouldn’t dare say otherwise—not only out of respect for Mary’s age but also because something tells you she might have more experience than the convenience store owner she portrays herself to be.

“They are amazing, Mary,” you reply and swallow.

“Simon likes those too,” she states proudly. “I often bring some over when I bake them.”

“So you live nearby?” You ask, swallowing another bite of the biscuit.

“I’m his landlord,” Mary reveals, nudging the plate of biscuits closer to you, “help yourself to another.”

You oblige and take another biscuit, and Mary continues once you take a bite.

“So,” she begins, blowing the steam off her coffee, “I’ve seen you plenty of times in my neighbourhood.”

“I, um,” you lift one shoulder and idly pick up a pack of chewing gum from the assortment in front of you. “I do come by often.”

“I know,” she replies, sipping her coffee. “You’ve been passing by my store a lot lately.”

You subtly turn your head towards Simon’s direction, letting your hair fall to the side of your face to conceal your blushing cheeks from Mary’s view. Yet she doesn’t seem to let go.

“He’s a good lad,” Mary states. Always there when neighbours need him, ready to lend a hand.”

“Indeed, he’s very good with his hands.” You reply.

“You know best, my dear,” Mary remarks, smirking.

“I meant with fixing things!” You say, widening your eyes. “He’s good with his hands when it comes to fixing things!”

Mary chuckles knowingly. “He’s also quite popular with the ladies—both the single and the taken ones,” she continues.

“Oh, is he now?” You respond in a high-pitched voice, narrowing your eyes. You turn your body towards Mary, placing the chewing gum package back in its original position.

“Yes,” she confirms, leaning over the counter. “Simon never rejects the attention, being such a good-looking lad, but at the same time, he never reciprocates.”

“How do you know he doesn’t reciprocate?”

“Oh, you’d be impressed what people say in front of an old lady who, allegedly, forgets to switch her earpiece on.” She says, winking at you.

“So, women flirt with him, huh?”

Mary throws her head back and chuckles, flicking her wrist at you. “Oh please, my dear,” she says in between chuckles, “I would have practically done the same if I was fifty years younger and Walter wasn’t around.”

“And he doesn’t flirt back?” You ask.

“No, not really, but he used to be friendly with them.” She explains, tilting her head toward you. “And then something changed.”

You shift in your seat and lean forward. “What?” You ask, intrigued. “What changed?”

Mary leans closer, sliding the biscuit platter toward you.

“Mary, I should probably lay off the biscuits,” you say. “We’re supposed to be heading out for breakfast, remember?”

“Make it a brunch, dear, or whatever you young people call it nowadays,” she replies. “Simon won’t be fixing the fridge anytime soon.”

“How do you know?” you ask. “You just said he’s great at fixing things.”

“Not when there’s nothing wrong with the fridge in the first place.”

“What do you mean?” You ask, furrowing your brows.

“I detached the defrost drain to simulate water leakage,” she explains. “It’s an easy fix, but you can oversee it quite easily, especially when the fridge is as old as I am.”

“You tinkered with the fridge on purpose?” you ask, eyes wide with surprise. “Why?”

“Oh please,” she sighs, rolling her eyes, “I had to bring you both here somehow.”

You glance at the cookie platter. Understanding that you won’t get any more information from Mary unless you indulge, you grab another cookie and pop it into your mouth. Mary, the ‘insert-biscuit-here-to-continue’ lady, takes the cue and continues.

“And then, as I was saying, you began to visit more often,” she explains, glancing over at Simon. “And his reaction to all the attention shifted.”

“You need to elaborate a little bit more, Mary,” you press. “How exactly did it change?”

“Girlfriend!” she exclaims in a hushed tone, widening her eyes at you. “He says he has a girlfriend!”

You widen your eyes, just like her, and point at yourself. She nods and points back at you.

“And then there’s the toothbrush,” she continues. “He bought two! A green one and a pink one.”

“He gave me a pink toothbrush when I stayed over for the first time!” you whisper. “Said he’d bought it ages ago and forgotten about it!”

“He bought a pink toothbrush as a spare for himself?” She asks, and her eyes narrow. “Nonsense! It wasn’t too long ago, and I have the receipts.”

“You keep receipts for these things, Mary?”

“No, silly,” she shakes her head. “It’s for tax purposes.”

“Right, so, I’m the girlfriend apparently,” you murmur, massaging your temples. “But why are you telling me all this?”

“Simon isn’t much of a talker, dear,” Mary explains, her tone softening. “Not to mention the horrors he’s been through. Sometimes, you might even misunderstand him because of it. But I’ve known him for a long time. He’s like family to me. Sometimes, when words fail him, I feel the need to speak on his behalf.”

“So you’re looking out for him,” you conclude, slowly nodding.

“Like the child I never had,” Mary confirms with a warm smile, pouring another cup of coffee. “And I can see how much he cares about you. But he’s not always good at expressing it. That’s why I thought I’d give you a little hint.”

“Thank you, Mary,” you say. “I appreciate you looking out for us.”

“It’s my pleasure,” she says, handing you the extra coffee. “Now, how about you go over there and tell Simon to take a break? You can use the chairs outside while I go and reattach the defrost drain to the fridge.”

“Sure thing,” you reply and grab the coffee. “I just have one more question.”

“Go ahead,” she says.

“If Simon asks me what we’ve been talking about, what should I tell him?”

“Tell him I was rambling about the weather, the economy, and the 20% voucher from Boots,” she suggests, winking. “You’re a smart girl; that’s why he picked you. I’m sure you’ll figure something out.”

———————————————————————

[genyawritesshizz]

Promotion - Sentinel Prime X Reader

Spending your days endlessly mining energon you yearned to one day be promoted. To finally free yourself from the frame aching work of the mines. Yet when you catch the optics of the Sentinel Prime, that promotion may come at a terrible cost, maybe you should have read the fine print.

Tbh it’s very little plot mostly just smut.

18+ ONLY

IVE NEVER WRITTEN FOR TRANSFORMERS NOR HAVE I READ MUCH FIC OF IT BUT I TRIED TO GET THE TERMS RIGHT BUT YA KNOW, ITS A LOT.

Possible part 2, we’ll see how this does.

WARNING: Dubious consent, emotional manipulation, Power Imbalance, (TBH Sentinel is a walking red flag), Sexual Coercion, Size kink, SMUT, Cybertronian reader,

This is essentially just robot porn I'm sorry to all my anime followers :(

The first time Sentinel Prime had set his optics on you he knew, much to his initial disgust, he wanted you. 

A miner. 

Of all the femme’s at his disposal the one that at last managed to catch his gaze was a cogless, bottom level, miner. 

“That thing?” With a snarled lip and multiple sets of trailing skeptical eyes, Airachnid's own revulsion was evident. Far down below the balcony on which they stood, walking the bustling city streets you at last returned to his hungry gaze. 

“Unfortunately so.”

Primus, what an honor it was to be within the presence of Cybertrons protector, the bot who single handedly protected all Cybertronians from the Quintessons; Sentinel Prime. 

After being approached by Arachnid and ordered to follow her you had initially feared you had broken an unknown protocol, resulting in a demotion. Yet much to your shock within the gold columned building you had been led to he was there.

The look of pure admiration within your optics as you stared up to him in awe coupled with the now quiet whir of your internal fans as your spark raced within his mere presence fed his already raging primal desire.

Such blind naivety.

"Walk with me. I’d like to discuss something important." His tone was warm but carried a weight of authority. One you could not help but blindly follow. 

The two of you stroll through the empty corridors, arachnid standing guard just outside of its entrance.

“Tell me, have you always felt bound to the mines? Or have you ever imagined something greater for yourself?" You shift, pace faltering a smidge, taken aback by his directness. You're proud of your work as a miner but can’t deny that you’ve thought about rising above this level.

"The mines are… Well, they’re home. I have my friends down there. But I’ve always wanted to do more…to make a real difference for Cybertron." 

Sentinel nods, his optics narrowing slightly. Searing blue scanned from the top of your dull paint chipped helm to your transfixed gaze, (noting how you subconsciously averted it away from him when noticing his search), down to your chin.

A smirk tugged at the corners of his lips, signaling his satisfaction in finding whatever he had hunted for. 

Vulnerability suited you well.

"I could see that. You carry yourself with a strength that is rare, even among the most seasoned warriors." 

His confident stride deviates him closer to you and he lowers his voice just a touch. 

"Cybertron needs warriors with your spirit. And not just in the mines. In places where real change can be forged." 

His words spark something in you. Your gaze sharpened, instantly locking with his, the once thick humility gives way to a flicker of pride. 

‘Is he going to promote me?’ You hopefully thought. You had been working your frame down to the wire for the last few rotations in hopes of this.

Sentinel picks up the change in demeanor immediately. Before continuing his sweet talk, he comes to a complete stop and turns towards you.

His frame is significantly larger than yours, as to be expected when comparing a cogless to a Prime.

Though, the way he truly towered over you left you feeling far weaker than usual as he had to bend down significantly to reach optic level with you.

"Too often, talents like yours go overlooked down there. Others might not see it, but I do. Imagine if you were to rise up, to stand among those who shape Cybertron’s future. Those who ensure our planet’s place as the greatest in the galaxy." With each passing word he had leaned closer, faceplate now mere centimeters from yours.

Your spark fluttered. 

His venting flowed deliciously warm against your intake.

Proximity feedback signals fired on high and energon lines pumped furiously fast. 

Yet despite your system's shock at his actions, you could not look nor move away.

“You really think… I could be that?”

A set of servos planted themself around your lower chassis, their span long enough to completely wrap around you. 

Your servers struggled to process exactly what was happening, focusing solely on the swirling lights of blue that threatened to swallow you whole.

“I know you can.”

The digits ensnaring your waist tightened, pulling you flush against his wide frame. 

His helm delved lower, denta lightly nipping at the sensitive wires between the spaces of your minimal plating. 

The second you beeped in surprise then melted into his embrace, helm craning to the side allowing him further access, he knew once again. 

You were not going anywhere. 

But then again, why would you want to?

When your protector was so kind enough to show you, a nobody, such special affection. 

Never had you anticipated that you would ever find yourself within a Primes personal suite yet here you were. Sprawled out atop a luxurious berth, hidden away from the rest of Iacon city, with desires you had never even thought to dream of coming true.

Your gracious leader's frame was reduced to a hunched, yet still ever imposing, form as he kneels between your legs. Your modesty paneling had long since been retracted, revealing your array to his hungry gaze, and allowing you to relish in all the new sensations your Prime was bestowing upon you.

No, in all your cycles you had never found the desire to fragbond with someone. Yet now as Sentinel Prime’s silver glossa ravenously glides through the throbbing mesh of your valve and mouthpiece occasionally latching onto your external node you cannot believe your hesitancy for such pleasures. 

To think you had gone for so long without.

Not to worry, never again shall you ever have to suffer such a fate.

It is extremely out of character for Sentinel to give his partner's pleasure this way or in any way/to care about it. 

Normally he wastes no time in pleasuring others, he was a busy man after all. Instead focusing solely on his own release within others bodies then disposing of them.

But something about having you pinned beneath one of his arms, the other easily reaching over your head to hold your wrists down, the way you cried out for him, your Prime, and to be completely at his mercy…It has his spike twitching beneath his own paneling.

Savagely he feasts upon your now swollen valve, thick glossa entering your spasming opening, nose buried atop your external node.

“M-my, oh Primus! - My Prime I-” You were completely unfamiliar with the feeling boiling inside you, it felt as though a coil was winding. Each intrusion of his glossa only pulled it tighter.

“That’s right, say my name.” A smug smirk tugged itself into the corners of his faceplate before he delved back where you so desperately wanted him. 

You looked and sounded both pathetic and desperate.

He loved it.

“Sentinel!”

Overloading into the mouth of said mech was absolutely euphoric.

Though despite your high, he was left utterly displeased to hear you leave off the Prime in your cry.

He had earned that title.

It was his name.

You would learn the error of your mistake soon.

He did not ask permission to continue. 

Standing up from his crouched position, the grip that once held you down now flipped you onto your chest plate and dragged you towards the edge of his berth, allowing your legs to dangle off the edge.

Even on the tips your pedes you would still not touch the golden floor beneath.

Positioning your aft up into an arch he at last retracted his paneling, allowing his spike to spring free. 

Central processor still short circuiting under the throws of overloading, you did not even notice the shift in position.

Once your intake had returned to normal your mind followed suit, catching up to the reality of what was happening.

Yet it was too late to protest as something sickeningly thick prodded at your valve's still quivering entrance.

It felt like far too much.

Trying to squirm away from it you're met with a dark chuckle and thick digits atop your shoulder, easily pulling you back down into position.

“Where do you think you're going? We're just getting started sweetspark”

The moment the head of his spike entered, you felt an immediate sense of dread wash over and a cold shiver through your struts. 

“Too big...” Your vocalizer had barely returned, causing the whine to sound utterly pitiful, drowned in static and served only to feed Sentinel's ego.

“Hm? What's that?” Leaning over your form, faceplate centimeters away from your audio receptors, steam rolled with his words; fogging over the heaving metal of your shoulder plates.

“Frag…You-You’re too big.”

“Oh, do you want me to stop?” His tone was high in pitch and laced with manipulation. “You wouldn’t want to disappoint your Prime now would you?” 

A strangled whimper and a shake of your head ‘no’ gave little confirmation to his taunt in ‘permitting’ him to keep going, not that he cared whichever direction your response led. 

Even if you wanted to stop, you had no power to break away from him.

A deep, dominating, chuckle bubbled within his chest plate. “I thought not. You’re serving me, a great honor really.”

It felt like being pried open, the way his spike speared into your clamping valve was utterly painful. 

Despite your cries you attempted to stay still as the gold winged Prime behind you continued to push further. 

Each half centimeter only served to strengthen the burn.

Halfway in you had closed your optics, denta plates gritted tightly shut. 

“Take it all, I know you can.”

The same four words that once filled you with hope now filled you with burning heat.

You will take what he is so graciously giving you. 

Finally, after what felt like eternity, his entire spike was successfully sheathed inside. 

Though this was just the beginning.

“So tight,” Your body was clamped around the intruder in a vise grip. Desperately begging for it to be removed. “So small.”

His pace was brutally fast. The servos on your shoulder and hip kept you from escaping or sliding too far away from his attack. 

Surprisingly, after a few klicks, the tight inner calipers of your valve slowly loosened. His spike, now slathered in a combination of fluids, began sliding without much resistance. 

At last, a few surges of pleasure coursed through your system. 

Soon both of you were grunting, occasionally moaning. Though your sounds far outnumbered his. 

Your servos clenched into the smooth bedding atop his berth, surely tearing the fabric though in this moment neither of you cared. However it was something he would be sure to punish you for later. 

“You're mine, little miner.” His hips pistoned faster, slamming against your aft, surely to leave you sore. “All Mine.”

In response all you could do was hold on tighter, moaning louder with each intense slam.

“I’ll. never. let. you. go.” Each word sent another wicked surge into your swollen valve.

Blind sighted by the throes of pleasure bordering on overstimulation his words simply did not translate in your faltering audio receptors.

Though he meant every bit of it.

Helm falling back and a loud moan echoing throughout the gold-plated room, his overload blazed hot through his system. Filling your already stuffed valve to the brim with his transfluid.

Fans whirling on high, neither of you moved from your conjoined position for a few klicks.

After he's regained his senses fully, he removes himself from your valve, being sure to marvel at his work of completely ruining your once virgin body with a devilish smirk. Admiring the way his bright blue transfluid seeped from your still clenching valve.

Though this will be far from the last time he sees you like this.

With wobbling arms, you attempted to rise, though as you began to lift yourself up a large servos pushed you back down.

"We're not done."

True to his word, you had earned a promotion.

Fitted with only the finest armor paneling and a fresh coat of paint you had earned yourself the pristine position of his pet.  

A position you held with utmost dignity, after all you were serving your Prime.

[shurisneakers]

unsolved (vi)

Summary: Bucky doesn't even believe in the paranormal. So who the hell thought it was a good idea to stick him in a series about everything haunted for the internet's amusement? With his loose-canon of a teammate who has no concept of subtlety or shits left to give, to make things even worse. (Buzzfeed unsolved AU)

Warnings: swearing, frustrated bucky, obnoxious reader, mentions of hauntings and the paranormal.

A/N: i need to start editing beforehand this series honestly takes to long to edit omg this was supposed to come out 2 hours ago. also thanks so much to @ginevranights for the one tweet in here, and @thebisexual-disaster for calling bucky babygirl because it was incredibly funny to me

Previous part || Series masterlist

Everyone is besotted with the cat.

It makes sense– everyone hates Bucky and will dance with glee upon his downfall. This is all his opinion, of course. The truth is that it is a cat and exists and everyone is thrilled. 

Sensing his awful vibes towards her and the constant suspicion he thinks of her with, she decides she likes sitting outside his room at the early hours of the morning and screaming for him to open up.

Once he does, she strolls in leisurely, takes a look around and then strolls back out. Everyday. On the clock. An alarm clock that will cough up a hairball in front of his door should he not open it to her. 

Also turns out she doesn’t have brown spots, the cat was just dirty. She’s pure white and you’ve taken to calling her something to do with snow or blizzards or something. 

She is his mortal enemy. Bucky doesn’t stop to think that his biggest problem being a feud with a cat is possibly an indication that his life has gotten significantly better. 

As with every week, you bang on his door on Friday morning.

Bucky, who's just fallen asleep after the stupid cat ceremoniously woke him up that morning, does not find this ritual as entertaining as you do, but his opinion has rarely held weightage in matters such as his sanity or his sleep schedule. 

He does considr for a whole day that you and the cat are in cahoots to ensure he is as miserable as possible. It wasn’t outside the realm of possibility– Sam talked to birds or and Clint talked to lizards or whatever.

You yell something incomprehensible to him. Bucky yells something back. The world keeps spinning, nothing changes.

Other than the sinking feeling on his chest, that was a bit more pronounced than usual, to the point where it’s a bit hard to breathe.

He pries open one eye, ready to name five things he sees, four things he hears, three things he touches.

The stupid cat smacks him in the face. 

He shoves her off his torso, and along with her, the sinking feeling also reduces. 

After a very useful day of staying in bed no less than three attempts to get back to sleep, Bucky sneaks out of the tower when dusk begins to fall to hopefully get some rest on the park’s grass.  

It’s a nice evening out, the sky was painted a burnt orange, and the air wasn’t too chilly. He could even stop for a burger on the way back to top off a lovely nap. 

But even a gorgeous sunset is not enough to distract him from his heightene awareness going off.

From the corner of his eye, he sees a black van trailing slowly behind him.

He picks up the pace, jogging past a street food vendor and a newspaper stand, and the van only speeds up to keep up.

Soon enough, Bucky breaks into a sprint, ducking into an alleyway and waiting until the van drives past him before stalking back out, eyes vigilant.

Whatever. Stalker be damned, he was going to go to the fucking park. And get a burger. 

But the second he makes a turn on the street corner, the same black van pulls right up to him, not leavning even two feet of space between it and him.

Bucky, annoyed and with 80 years worth of boredom with this schtick, scowls as he yanks open the damn door, ready to just punch and move on with his day.

“Get in loser, we’re going out,” you call from the driver’s seat.

He growls, letting the handle go. “What the actual fuck is wrong with you?”

“What’s wrong with me? I literally told you in the afternoon that I’m picking you up and you starting running from me, you baboon,” you exclaim. “Is that what you’re wearing in this video? Did you not do your laundry?”

Alright, so maybe it was on him to figure out what you actually yelled at him through the door earlier in the day. That doesn’t stop him.

Nostrils flaring, he continues to ignore you. “Who the fuck does this? Why do you have a van?”

“Style,” you insist. “We’re gonna be late, now come on. We’re leaving.”

Sensing that this conversation had reached a standstill, Bucky employs his next best technique.

“Where?” he demands.

“You’ll find out when we get there. Now get in,” you pat the spot next to you before pulling up your phone. “We’ll get there in about an hour–”

“No.”

Your neck cranes slowly to look at him incredulously. “The fuck you mean ‘no’?”

“You could be kidnapping me.” He stands with his arms crossed, tone defiant. 

“Right,” you snort. “You seen yourself? Food laws say I need a cooling truck to transport that much beef around.”

Bucky feels his mouth opening and shutting almost immediately, a strange feeling creeping into the tips of his ears.   

He clears his throat. “I’m not getting in the car unless you tell me where we’re going.”

“I’m not fuckin’ kidnapping you Bucky,” you say, loudly. “And even if I wanted to do it– which I don’t, because you can be so annoying sometimes– you’d never see it coming.” 

“How would I know?” He’s offended that you only think he’s annoying sometimes when he’s been working very hard to make sure it’s a constant feature of his. “Who’s to say there’s not some guy in there with a gun–”

“A gun wouldn’t do shit when you’re so thick in the head–”

“And then SHIELD’s gonna have to shell out the ransom–”

“SHIELD would pay them to keep you.” 

“Oh, so you are kidn–”

“Get in the car,” you say loudly before sitting upright, and turning your attention to the windshield again. “Or don’t. I don’t give a shit.”

He narrows his eyes at you grabbing the steering wheel, while your telekinesis moves to close the door on him.  

Bucky sticks his metal hand between the door and the car, and pries it back open before climbing in. 

“Now what,” he mumbles, arms still crossed over his chest like he’s throwing a tantrum. He even refuses to put the seatbelt. Rebellion. 

You don’t answer, and the car doesn’t move.

When he looks over at you, you have a triumphant, smug smile on your face.  

“What,” he bites. 

You tsk. “Reverse psychology. Always works with children.”

Bucky immediately grabs at the handle, but the locks immediately click into place and you step on the pedal and send the van flying down the road before he has a chance to throw himself out. 

The car pulls up to a mansion. 

All the windows are closed and covered in newspaper, giving him no indication as to what was inside. The lawn was mostly brown, with weeds taking up more space than grass and dead flowers lining the fence. 

“There’s gotta be like 5 bedrooms in that thing,” you note, as you both make your way towards it. “How many ghosts do you think are in there?”

“Zero,” Bucky states plainly. 

You continue to talk like he doesn’t exist. “A house that big, there’s gotta be a ghost butler in there. Maybe a ghost maid.”

“None.”

“Five ghost maids, one for every room, and maybe a cook–”

Bucky starts speed walking, leaving you behind to admire the structure looming over the both of you, only illuminated by the streetlights outside.  

Bucky knocks hard on the door, annoyed that it was getting colder and that he was stuck in his stupid running shorts in a house that definitely had no heating for the evening. 

Eventually, you end up beside him, talking as he keeps his sight fixed right ahead. 

Checking your phone to confirm the address, you mumble absentmindedly to him, “This kid tweeted us like fifteen times in the last week, this is gonna be a sick surprise. I love meeting my fa–”

“A surprise?” Bucky jerks his head towards you. “You didn’t tell him we’re coming?”

“Well no,” you lower your phone, “because that would give the ghosts some warning and we–”

His eyes nearly bug out of his head. “We can’t just go into some random kid’s house and film–”

“He’s hardly random, he’s been bombarding our inbox–”

Your defence is cut off when the door creaks open painfully, slowly, like it was letting out its last dying breath.

“Woah,” you whisper, eyes wide. “Ghost door.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Bucky mumbles.

“Hello?” you call out.

When no one replies immediately, Bucky shoves his hands into his pockets, ready to leave. 

Instead, you shove him to the side, taking his pace in front of the house. He offers no resistance, only a growl in annoyance. 

You clear your throat, before calling loudly, “Hewwo–”

A dark hooded figure springs out at breakneck speed from behind the door, arms raised high, legs wide. 

You don’t look fazed at all, staying entirely still, only with one eyebrow raised.

“Right,” you say. “You must be Jason.”   

“Yuh,” he answers.  

“Where are your parents?” Bucky demands immediately, choosing to ignore the full body cringe his own words give him. 

“Indianna or something, man. I dunno?” The door trembles open a bit more, giving you a clearer look at the guy. “Do you guys wanna come in? It’s cold.”

You take a step inside the huge foyer, almost steretoypically complete with a cascading staircase and big paintings of people on horses and stuff.

 Jason eventually peels the hoodie away from his face, shoving his arms inside the sleeves and spinning it around so he was wearing it the right way. 

“This is Bucky, by the way,” you introduce before beckoning to the man who had refused to move all this while. “Come on, babygirl.”

Bucky does not look wowed with the theatrics as he stands there, arms folded tight across his magnificent chest. 

Jason looks at you. “Is babygirl coming?”

Bucky inhales sharply while you stifle a laugh. “Do not call me that.”

“Oh, he loves it when people call him that, he’s just super pissy because he didn’t get enough attention today,” you coo. “Get in here Bucky.” 

He glares at you with enough intensity to set the house on fire.   

The kid looks like he’s in his early twenties, with shaggy brown hair that hides sleepy eyes, bad posture and a clean shaven face.. His hoodie is paired with grey sweatpants and yellow flip flops that were about one size too small for him. 

“Why’d you tweet at us?” Bucky questions, wondering what he had to do with anything.  

Jason juts his chin up contemplatively. “What do you guys do again?”

You stare at him to avoid how Bucky was staring at you. 

“We hunt ghosts and help old ladies cross the street.” You flash him a smile. 

“Cool.” Jason nods appreciatively. “I don’t have an old lady here.” 

Your eyebrow twitches. Bucky would have taken great joy in your awkwardness had he not felt entirely exasperated by the whole exchange. 

“Well, Jason, you DM’d us about the ghost in the house,” you communicate even slower. “The one that was being rude?”

“Oh, right,” he drags out. “You’re the people from YouTube. Avengers. I didn't think y’all were real, lol.”

“What the fuck.” Bucky mumbles to himself, because there was no way this guy said ‘LOL’ out loud.  “Did you just invite us inside your house without knowing who we are–”  

“Yes, we’re those people,” you interrupt, pulling out a card from your fucking sleeve. “The Graveyard Shift crew, ready and at your service.”

“Since when do we have business cards?” Bucky presses.

“Ignore him, he’s an intern.” You drop the card onto Jason’s hand. “Anyway, we’re the best rated ghost hunters within a twenty yard radius. Maybe even thirty, but I don't wanna get too ahead of myself.”

“Radical.” He flips the card back and forth without actually reading anything. Bucky wonders if he was looking for pictures. “Aren’t you supposed to have like, tech and people and stuff?”

“Some of us have performance anxiety–” you give Bucky a side eye and he rightfully looks absolutely incensed. “So, I’ve got a camera following us at all times and I’ve got all the tech we need.”

Bucky suddenly feels very aware of something hovering behind him, and it takes an incredible amount of self-restraint to not instinctually slap it out of existence.

He whips around to find a camera floating mid air, aimed directly at him almost like it is waiting for a reaction. While weird, it was still better than the stupid GoPro on his head that elongated his forehead to a sixhead.

“And I’ve got a REM Pod, a spirit box to pick up sounds when they talk to us, a water gun full of assorted waters from different beliefs for one gigantic spirit burning milkshake–” you list rapidly and Bucky cannot even tell where the fuck you’re pulling these things out from. “So, we should be good to go.”

Jason doesn’t look bothered at all, as he drags out, “Cool, lol.”

Bucky almost feels offended on your behalf by the little twerp. 

“Hold this,” you instruct, pressing the spirit box into Bucky's chest without giving him a choice. “Ready whenever you are, but before we start I just wanted to ask– why’d you come to us for help? I’m sure you have plenty of options.”

“Oh,” the guy says, wiping his hands down the side of his sweatpants. “You guys are Avengers and stuff…”

He doesn’t add anything else, watching you both like it was obvious. 

When neither of you offer an answer, he continues “I mean, no one else seemed to like, know kickboxing and shi–”

“I’m sorry– kickboxing?”

“Or like, karate.” He lifted his shoulder in a half shrug. “Whatever you guys are into, I don’t really care what style of combat it is.”

When it finally clicks, Bucky snorts. “You want us to fuckin’ fight your ghost?”

“Yeah, like a punch or something, I guess.” Jason looks too serious. “He’s being a real bitch dick.”

You exhale steadily. “First of all, how do you know it’s a ‘he’?”

Jason shakes his head, and his hair falls directly into his one eye, leaving you to only look at the other. “I’m pretty sure it’s my uncle.”

“Your uncle?” 

“Well yeah,” the guy responds, “this is his house. He built it and decorated it and shit.” 

You stare at him in disbelief. “You didn’t mention that in the brief.”

Bucky looks at you. “You got a brief?”

“Uh, yeah, it’s my uncle’s house, I guess,” Jason continues when you wave Bucky off. “He, like, kicked the bucket a few years ago. Like, totally died off.”

Bucky’s eyebrows knit together. 

“We weren’t, like, close or anything but I guess he didn’t have any other relatives which figures, because he’s a pain in the ass, but I’m the next male heir or whatever, so I got it.”

“Male heir,” Bucky repeats slowly, wondering which fucking TV show he’s walked into.

“A 6BHK in this economy is a fuckin’ castle,” you shush him, turning to Jason again. “Didn’t you bother renovating or anything?”

“Clearly not,” Bucky mumbles, because he may have only known Jason for a grand total of a few minutes, but he really doubts that it was he who picked out redwood furniture and gold trimmings. 

“Nah, I don’t care. I usually spend all day doing gigs at my friend’s house but he told me I can’t keep throwing ragers there every night so I wanna do that here but he’s just being a big baby about it,” he explains all in one breath.

“What gigs?” Bucky asks curiously.

“I’m a DJ who specialises in acoustic EDM,” he says, chest puffing in pride. 

“Of course.” Bucky nods in return. 

Jason turns to you. “Didn’t think you guys were coming, not gonna lie.”

“You just do that whole door opening show to everyone?” you ask, amused.

“Uh, no, I just heard you guys arguing outside and thought it’d be funny,” he says. “I got you guys good, lol.” 

“Well, not me,” you counter, “but Bucky, for sure, pissed his pants a litt–”

“Anyway, here’s the keys. I’m out,” Jason cuts in. “It’s my last three performances at Rick’s house.” 

He tosses the key at babygirl’s Bucky’s chest, who instinctively catches it with ease.  

“You’re just giving us the house for the night?” Bucky stares at him incredulously. 

“Yuh. There’s, like, beer in the fridge if you want. No one delivers here ‘cause someone snitched that this place is haunted, which was kinda fucked. So there’s ramen in the fridge too if you’re hungry.”

“Why is there ramen in–”

“See y’all later, lol,” he takes off without another word. 

Bucky’s left staring after the guy who just strolls down the garden and out the gate without a second look.

“I think I want to adopt him.” Your gaze trails after him, before you crack your knuckles. “Alright. Let’s get this guy’s bitch dick uncle.”

The longer Bucky spends in the house, he can tell with absolute certainty that someone loved this place deeply. It is styled and decorated with the flair of a passion project, even though it currently looked like it dreamed of being a landfill when it grew up. There were cobwebs everywhere and several dust bunnies in every corner, and also many crushed cans of beer all around the floor. 

The previous owner had taste for sure. Bucky’s not sure if he’d appreciate Jason turning it into the newest hotspot for his ragers. Whatever that meant. 

“How long are we going to be here?” he asks, swiping a finger across the table. 

“Why, you got something to do?” you pause before adding, “Or someone to do?”

He sends you a jaded glance. “None of your business.”

“You literally called me the love of your life.” You scoff from your corner of the room. 

“You called yourself that,” Bucky reminds monotonously. 

“And you have never denied it.”

“I’m denying it right no-”

“Bzzt, too late. Anyway,” you announce. “Your hot date will have to be postponed, I fear. We are not leaving until we get some sort of proof.”

“Two hours.” Bucky holds up two dust coated fingers.

“I’ll buy you a pretzel.”

“Three hours.” His middle finger goes up in solidarity. 

You grin. “More than enough. We’re gonna make you a believer, babygirl.”

True, and surprisingly enough, an hour later, his whole life changes. 

“Holy shit,” Bucky can’t quite believe his eyes either, stomach turning. 

“What?” You’re somewhere behind, stupid machine held up as you spin around like a ballerina waiting for something to do something and make a noise or some shit. He doesn’t know. 

Bucky has tucked the spirit box behind his ear like a pencil, arms gripping the doors.

“What the hell,” he trails off slowly, eyes glued to the sight in front of him, hypnotising.

“Did you find something?” you whisper-yell, and the camera whizzes past you into his line of sight.

Bucky swallows the bile in his throat. 

“When he said ramen’s in the fridge, I didn’t think he meant he boiled a fuckin’ bucket full of noodles and just left it in there. What the fuck.” He grabs the aforementioned bucket and lifts it into the air. “Who does this? What the fuck?”

You let out a huff, lightly stomping yor foot. “Be so serious right now.”

“Are you crazy? Look at this.” Bucky spins it around to look at it from every angle. “It’s got ‘Jason’s ramen’ written on it. Who the fuck else’s would this be?”

“You’re supposed to be looking for ghosts,” you insist. “That is demonic behaviour. It’s not the same.”

“I’m lookin’ for snacks,” Bucky puts the damn bucket back and ignores it to look through the rest of the fridge. “There’s nothing here. What does that kid eat?”

“If you’re looking for snacks, you gotta look in the mirror,” you hum hopefully. 

“Hilarious.” Bucky’s voice comes back muddled from the several bottles of beer in the fridge. 

“I’m sorry, you’re right. It’s not useful.” you correct, “You said you’re looking for snacks, not a whole meal.”

He stops briefly. Bucky’s not sure what to do with all this strange attention you give him. It makes him feel all sorts of ways and he doesn’t like it one bit. 

“Whatever,” he mutters, continuing to scavenge. 

“Woah, calm down there, Prince Charming.” You snicker. “Give a person a warning before pulling out all your best lines on me like that.”

“You’re supposed to be working, not flirting,” Bucky responds, feeling the same burn at the tip of his ears from that evening. 

“When I was in the events business, multitasking was considered a valuable and necessary skill.”

Bucky stands up so fast he nearly hits his head on the fridge.

“What’s with all these random jobs you keep saying you’ve done?” he questions. “They told me you went on the run a long time ago and that’s where you met Nat.”

Your face changes, features becoming more solemn. He doesn’t know what’s going on, because he’s never seen you this serious before, not even when you guys were hanging out in the library. 

“Bucky,” your voice drops a few octaves, straight and steady. “Answer me this honestly.”

He feels a bit defensive because it almost feels like he’s fucked up somehow.

“What?” he questions. 

You watch him for another second before taking a step toward him, observing him closely.

“Did you really ask people about me?” 

He straightens up ever so slightly. “Why?”

You look at him gravely. “I got one more question.”

You take another step, reducing the space btween you to almost a ciminally low amount. Bucky’s sure he can hear your heartbeat. 

You watch his eyes look into yours intently, a flciker or doubt there.

You open your mouth, voice low and strong, “When will you admit to yourself you’re obsessed with me?”

It takes a second for it to register, and almost instantly he shoves you away, only to have you break into a laugh. 

“You’re so fucking annoying.”

“You have a crush on me,” you sing, “why else are you going around asking your friends about me? Do you want them to put in a good word? You gonna ask them to deliver your handwritten note to me?”

“Fuck right off, and then fuck off some more,” he barks, grabbing a beer from the front of the line. 

“Don’t worry, Buck, I think you’re the cutest guy in our whole grade, no competition,” you drawl, grinning at the pissed expression on his face. 

Bucky swerves around you to beeline to the kitchen island to drink his stupid beer in peace. He thinks that his retirement age is actually nearing. 

A house like this, with a room for Steve and another guest room for whoever wanted to visit. Possibly a dog. There wasn’t musch left in life to do, so he may as well spend the rest of it out in the suburbs in quiet. 

A few seconds later, you break the silence with, “But to answer your question: I did go on the run. I just did all those jobs while I was running.”

He turns to you, noting that while your face was light, it seemed like there was sincerity and truth in what you were saying. 

“Why?” he asks, voice gruff.

You shrug, half a smile on your face. “Why not? I met Nat when she broke down the door of my accountancy office on one of her missions. I threw some staplers and hit a guy with a printer, and from then on, whenever I needed help or she needed my freaky little powers, we’d reach out. Years later, she asked if I wanted to come join, I was bored and now here we are. I’m a nepo baby, if you kinda think about it.” 

Bucky looks at you, but says nothing. 

“Anyway, brief history aside, I’m going upstairs. There’s nothing here other than your bitchy aura and bucket ramen.” The camera spins around to follow you.

Bucky simply ignores you as he swipes all the garbage off the counter and onto the ground so he can lean against it, alone with his beer and new information to process.

However, a loud creek, unmistakable and intense, comes from the floor above. 

You look at Bucky. He doesn’t look the least bit bothered, instead using his metal hand to pop open a beer he fished out of the damn fridge. 

“Can you shut up,” you hiss when he drinks a little too loud for your liking. 

“What,” he asks through a mouthful of beer as he drops the bottle cap onto the counter.

Another creek reverberates loudly through the house.

You make a face at him, somewhere in a mix between excitement and anticipation. 

“Is that supposed to mean something?” he inquires.

“Two creeks in the last minute,” you insist, like he’s stupid. 

He scoffs. “So? It’s an old house, if you breathe too hard the floor’s gonna fall off.”

“It is literally not that old. And second, it’s too much of a coincidence.” You make way towards the stairs, beckoning for him to follow. “And take the spirit box out of your hair, we need to catch if it’s saying something.”

“You're not gonna catch anything because it’s not going to speak because ghosts are not real.” He takes a large swig. 

You ignore him, leaving in search of the sound.

Bucky takes a second before following you anyway, bored out of his mind and with nothing really to do.

“You comin’ in?” he asks from inside the spacious room, beer in hand. 

“I didn’t even buy you dinner yet and you’re already inviting me into your bedroom.”

“Jesus Christ. Stay outside then.”

The room has a strange, musty smell. Bucky, sick and tired of the ebay this kid has been living, drags open the window to let some fresh air in, going so far as to tear a large hole through the newspaper to let the moonlight into the room. 

“Someone keeps moving the furniture back and forth, there’s scratches all over the floor,” you observe, pointing to the ground near the table and the bed. 

“Uh huh,” he says, tossing the spirit box onto the table before taking another swig, ducking out of the way of the camera. 

You scan every corner with the machine in your hand. Bucky wanders around aimlessly for a second before usefully sitting on the bed, leaning against the pillows. 

“You gonna take your shirt off next?” you question. 

Bucky rolls his eyes, taking another sip from his bottle. “Pay attention. Your demons are trying to talk t-.” 

The bed immediately lurches from underneath him, scraping loudly against the wood. 

“What the fuck–” he exclaims, getting right back up, heart in his throat for a damn second. 

You stifle a laugh.

“I’ve had enough of you today.” He puts the damn bottle down on the nightstand. “I’m leaving.” 

“We didn’t even light the candles yet, you can’t–”

The bed scrapes back into place again, but this time Bucky is prepared and done. 

“Stop doing that,” he snaps, “you’re ruining the flo–”

“I didn’t do that,” you tell him, eyebrows and hands raised, “That definitely wasn’t me.”

“Hardy har har. You didn’t push the bed, you didn’t climb the tree in the cemetery, you didn’t conjure up hallucinations of my–” He stops himself abruptly.

It’s too late, though. You very much caught it. 

The look you give him is peculiar. “Hallucinations of your what?” 

“Nothing,” he utters. “Got my wires crossed. Nothing to do with you.”

“Okay,” you drag out, giving him one more uncanny look before turning your attention to the bedpost. “Anyway, I promise you the second one was definitely not me. There’s something else going on here.”

Bucky is starkly sent back to fifteen minutes ago and his thoughts of retirement as he watches you crouch by the floor.

He was too old for this. He was not right for this. The three second glance at his dead sister and his entire life had gone lopsided. Honestly, he could probably handle like two or three more episodes of this nonsense before tapping out completely. 

“I can sense something,” you announce.

“I can sense something too,” he murmurs absentmindedly to himself. “It’s called bullshi–”

“Be quiet, I want to see if we can talk to the guy in the room.” You hold your hand up. “Hey Jason’s uncle. You here?”

He watches, unamused, as nothing changes. No machine beeps, nothing creeks.

“Bucky, you scared him away.” You turn to him, hands on your hips. “You used your big bitch face and you scared away th–”

He launches a pillow at you. It lowers to the ground without ever touching you. 

“Go eat some bucket ramen and maybe you’ll be less bitchy.” Your face lights up, and he can tell you’ve gotten another stupid idea. “Jason’s uncle, are you hungry? Do you want something to eat? Human blood? Metal arm?”

Silence.

“No pretzels for you,” you tsk, but let go of the idea anyway. 

“Maybe your ghost boyfriend likes them, why don’t you ask him?” He pulls out his phone to book himself an Uber. “And since he literally doesn’t talk and you don’t shut up, it’d be a great ma–”

The same pillow he launched at you gets thrown back at him. He simply ducks out of the way, and it hits the nightstand, toppling the bottle over.

“Now look at what you did,” you accuse, pointing at the bottle with the camera following suit. 

“The fuck? I didn't do shit–” Bucky stops speaking when something nudges his leg. 

The bottle that initially had clattered to the ground quite a feet away from him was now by his foot.

“Interesting,” you muse.

“What?” he questions immediately. “That a bottle rolled? It’s a bottle. They do that.”

“Uh huh. Come stand here then.” You jut your thumb out to a few paces away. 

He rolls his eyes but takes a large stride towards you.  

Annoyingly, the bottle rolls right along with him and lands up at his feet.

“Ghost,” you nod along certainly. 

“Why isn't it doing that then?” he argues on instinct, and then his mind catches up, forcing him to take a step back and wonder why the fuck he was still in the house. 

Once again, he genuinely believes that this should be enough. Ghost hunted for a few episodes, read a few stories. He thinks his numbers should be up and that would be convincing enough for Maya to let him get away from the series, especially if he played his 80-years-of-imprisonment card right.  

“You're right.” You peer at him before turning your head up to the ceiling. “Please, ghost man. Please, I’m begging you, hit this man. Plea–”

Bucky feels something smack lightly against the back of his head before falling to the ground.

A second later you erupt into cheers and he turns around to look at the culprit.

A crumpled up piece of paper.  He bends down to pick it up, finding nothing special about it other than some random scribbles. Probably some more of Jason's junk. 

“Ghosts are real and they hate Bucky Barnes, baby!,” you cheer. “Ohh, I’m gonna make so much money. Babygirl, you are a poltergeist magnet. ”

“It’s a piece of paper and the window is open,” he groans, tossing it back onto the ground, where it dances around, proving his point. “The wind carried it over and it touched my head.”

“Right. The wind.” You roll your eyes. “You’re like, fifteen feet tall, only God can see the top of your head.”

“That doesn’t mean any–”

“Hush, I’m thinking. Quiet, human Burj Khalifa.” You hold your hand up. “Let’s see. The ghost knocks on furniture when we were downstairs. It shoves the bed and rolls a bottle around on the ground when we’re arguing and right when you’re leaving, it throws a piece of paper at you. What could it all mean?”

“I got it.” BUccky straightens up. “Holy shit, I think I know what it means.”

“What?” you ask, wonder and mystery. “What does it mean?”

“It means that my Uber’s here,” Bucky replies in the same tone and mystery. “You’re insane. I’m leaving. Bye.”

“Ugh, you’re such a loser. If I turn up dead, you’ll have been the last person to see me alive.”

“I’ll see you at home.” He shoves his hands into the pocket of his shorts before turning on his heel. 

“I do not have a home.” you say, reaching to grab the piece of paper he discarded and shoving it into your bag; 

“Okay, see you on the news, then.” He kicks the damn bottle out of the way before heading out the door. “I’ll make sure they use a real nice picture of you.”

“Bitch–” you begin, when something catches your attention

The bed creeks loudly, reflexes instantly sending him into fight or flight. 

Bucky turns to you to cuss you out again for the nth time that evening, but you’ve also got a look of confusion painted all over you. 

“Hold on,” you say strangely, voice thick with theorising, “I think I actually figured it out.”

When Jason finally makes his way back to the house two hours later, his hair is littered with stray bits of confetti and his eyes are smudged with eyeliner. He’s got a smoothie cup full of glittery red liquid and a straw, and what looks like little bits of fruit floating around in there. 

“Looks like the gig was a rager,” you comment. 

“Nah this wasn’t from the gig. I got lost,” he dismisses, and then refuses to expand further. “Anyway, you kicked his ass, right?”

You look at Bucky, who is standing with his arms crossed over his chest, bitch face on full blast as he looks pissed in the corner.

“Your uncle– he decorated this house himself, right?” you prompt. 

“Yeah.” Jason says, taking a sip from his unidentified liquid. “He got a bunch of shit custom made.” 

“Right.” You nod. “And when you came in here, did you shift the furniture around?”

“Yeah, lol, it was mad ugly,” Jason divulges, taking one large last sip before dropping his cup onto the ground. “Mine’s way better.” 

“Have you considered that maybe… your uncle doesn’t like that?” you try gently, eyes following the cup as it clatters gracefully onto the ground. 

Bucky talks to himself under his breath, the same as when you told him that the only time spooky shit had happened was when he dropped bottle caps, shifted beds out of their original places, left behind bottles and other paper. But he doesn’t contradict you. 

“I see,” Jason says. “What’s wrong with moving furniture again?”

Bucky wonders how the guy made it to this age. “Maybe he just doesn’t like you moving his shit around. Not that there’s a ghost at all.” 

“Hmm,” he says, following along. “So I stop moving the bed and other stuff, and he’ll stop being such a bitch?”

“And maybe he doesn’t like you leaving trash around the place?” you eye the cup, completely understanding where the uncle was coming from. 

“Okay,” Jason says again. 

“So you’ll stop?” you proposition slowly.

He shrugs. “Nah, I like it better this way.”

“Jesus Christ,” Bucky exhales.

You hold back an audible groan. 

“You could, like, punch him to get him off my back. Like, all the way off my back,” the guy suggests instead. “Like, sucks for him that he’s dead, I guess, but it’s like, my house now.”

You stay quiet and wait. 

Sure enough, the cup from earlier bumps into his leg in silent fury.

He stares down at it, giving it a kick. It rolls away before rolling right back with malice. Bucky narrows his eyes at it, too tired at this point to even complain. 

“This house is weird, man,” Jason declares after fifteen rounds of kicking it and watching it roll back. 

“Look–” you sigh. “You could just stop littering, and he’ll stop messing with your layout.”

“And take out the trash more than once a month,” Bucky adds from under his breath. 

“Life’s all about compromises. You get his house for free and he gets a clean house to spend his afterlife in.”

“No such thing,” Bucky adds.

You send a glare his way.

“I see,” Jason contemplates, as if it’s the toughest decision on earth to pick up his crushed soda cans. “Yeah, okay.”

A second later, the cup finally stops trying to assault his now pink flip flops. and comes to a standstill. 

The both of you peer at him.

“What?” he asks. 

Your gaze drifts down.

It takes a very long second for it to click.

“Oh ‘Kay,” he says, bending over to pick it up and place it back on his table, looking at you for confirmation, to which you nod. 

It stays in its place. 

“Radical,” he says. 

No one says anything further. The bed doesn’t make a noise either. The air is almost dropping with awkwardness. 

You clear your throat. “Well, that concludes it then. Pleasure meeting ya.”

“You too.” Jason gives you a thumbs up, following it with a peace sign. 

“Bye,” Bucky says curtly, turning to walk out the room.

“Oh! Here’s our business card, in case you or anyone else you–”

Bucky spins you around by your shoulders and drags you out of the room with him. 

On the way back, you sort through all the footage from the evening while Bucky drives the van back. 

Thankfully, it has been relatively quiet the entire time, except for the soft sounds of the radio and the buzz of the heater. Bucky tunes out for most of the ride, one hand on the wheel and the other propping up his head.  

“Huh,” you comment out of the blue. “That’s fun.”

“What?” he asks inattentively . 

“I guess his uncle really was hungry,” you consider. 

Bucky simply keeps quiet and waits for you to go on if you choose to.

“Piece of paper that he threw at you–”

“Piece of paper that the wind picked up,” even his entertaining of you has a limit, but he isn’t paying much attention. 

“It’s got letters on it,” you shove the sheet in front of his eyes, forcing him to swerve on the road in an instant. 

“I’m driving,” he hisses, shoving it aside swiftly. “Do you want us to die?” 

“Yeah, yeah, but look at it,” you insist, only to hold it close to his face again. “Does this mean anything to you? It did hit you across the head.”

He refuses to believe you at first, but the second he glances at it, it’s unmistakable.

‘PB&J’ written messily across the page, small letters, lines jagged like someone was struggling to write with their non-dominant hand.

“That’s nothing,” he dismisses quietly, “He’s a college kid. They live on that shit.” 

“Or maybe someone in the afterworld really misses their PB&J,” you hum. 

Bucky doesn't answer, because the alternative is worse. The alternative means something is going very, very wrong. 

 But you don't seem to pay him any heed, going right back to sorting through footage. 

It’s probably why you don’t notice that his one handed grip on the steering wheel gets tighter, and his face quietly drains of colour. 

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Next part

[fangirlwriting-stories]

What's Almost Familiar

Summary: “It’s not quite that simple,” Ford says, turning to look back at his drink. “If the portal is turned back on, it could give Bill a path through to whatever world it’s turned on in. It’s not as easy as turning it on and you get to go home. It’s the needs of the many versus the needs of the few. He has to keep the world safe from Bill. I can understand why he has to leave you here.”

He winces a little as soon as he says the last part, and braces himself. He expects a glare, or for Stan to snap at him, or anything similar. Something that shows he doesn’t understand the sacrifice part of all this. But instead, Stan laughs, a strange mix of fond and sad, and takes another swig of his beer.

“God, Poindexter,” he says. “You’ve been out here almost thirty years and you still haven’t learned a damn thing, have you?”

Author's Note: No of course I didn't read the Book of Bill lately like everyone else what are you talking about

I also blame this post with all the amazing inspiring art btw

...

In retrospect, Ford probably shouldn’t have run when the fashion police from the last dimension had started chasing him.  But while he doesn’t know anything about how to look fashionable, he does know that based on the suits and dresses of that dimension, he wouldn’t stand a chance in court.  He hadn’t even known someone could wear that much glitter.

He hadn’t even meant to go to the stupid dimension in the first place.  He’d been aiming for the one over, but his dimension-hopping gun had been buggy for weeks now, and the parts still aren’t ready to fix it.  The dimension he was aiming for was supposed to give him an opportunity for a short rest, somewhere he could stay just long enough until the jerry-rigged screen on his gun would go off and tell him the parts are ready.

But surprise surprise, the malfunctioning gun still has a tendency to malfunction, and he’d wound up in a dimension that took his proclivity for comfort personally.

He hadn’t really had a dimension in mind when he fired up the gun again, just somewhere he could hide for a bit, but unfortunately the fashion police followed him right through the portal, meaning Ford is still running, with them hot on his heels and shouting about the tears in his coat.

Okay, okay, he can do this.  He’s been on the run enough times to figure this out.  He needs to lose them, find a place to hide, and get his dimension gun working long enough to find a place they can’t follow him.

Ford looks ahead and sees a corner to his left, and dives around it.  What meets him is a straightway of crumbling abandoned buildings.  Well, he’s hidden in worse places.  But as he starts running down the street, aiming for another alleyway to duck down in a hope of losing the officers behind him, someone sprints out of an alley on his other side, and runs headfirst into him, knocking them both to the ground.

“Hey, watch where you’re going you knucklehead!” Ford snaps, but when he turns to glare at the person as he tries to pull himself to his feet, he’s met with… himself?

No, that’s impossible.  If this was an alternate version of himself, both of them and the entire dimension would now be starting to fade from existence.  But it sure looks like him, which only leaves the option of—

Ford’s eyes widen.  “Stanley?”

Stanley stares back at him, looking equally as stunned as Ford feels, but before either of them can say anything, from behind Stan comes “You won’t get away with it this time!” and Stan whirls back to look towards it.

“Uh, we should probably get out of here,” he says.  He stands and pulls Ford to his feet, and starts pushing them both back the way Ford came.

“Uh, no,” Ford says, pushing back.  “Bad idea.”

Before Stan can ask why, the fashion police run around the corner, and Stan looks at them.  His expression turns baffled, which is fair, Ford hasn’t encountered cops who wear that much perfume before tonight either.

“Get back here, you filthy criminal!” one of them yells.  “The detective themed party was last week!”

“O-kay, we’re running now,” Stan says.  He grabs Ford’s hand and pulls them both down the street, away from both sets of cops.

“Buy me some time,” Ford says, yanking out his dimension gun.  “If I can get this damn thing to work I can get us out of here!”

Stan turns over his shoulder, and there’s the sound of a gun of some kind going off, which is strange, because he hadn’t thought Stan had one.  But judging by the pained cry and the “No, not blood on my suit!”, Stan definitely hit the fashion police with something.  Another cry comes from behind them, and Ford manages to get the gun settled on one dimension.

He hits the button on his gun, and a portal opens in front of them both.  He grabs Stanley’s arm and pulls them both through it, then points the gun over his shoulder and zaps the portal closed.

They’re in a dimension that’s clearly experienced an apocalypse recently, just a flat, gray, dead expanse of land.  And while whatever happened is bound to be depressing if they take the time to figure it out, for now the both of them just use it as an excuse to stop and catch their breath.  Ford leans forward and puts his hands on his knees, and lets out a large sigh of relief.

After a moment of heavy breathing, Stanley laughs.  “Well, that’s the last time I ever bring that much fake money into a casino,” he says.

“I’m not even going to ask,” Ford mutters.

Then realization strikes him, and he stands back up.  “Wait, Stanley,” he says.  “What are you doing here?”

“What am I doing here?” Stan asks incredulously.  “You weren’t supposed to jump in after me, Poindexter.  What the hell were you thinking?”

“After you?” Ford asks, baffled.  “You mean you…” he pauses as the obvious option occurs to him.  It seems to occur to Stan at the same time.

“We’re… not from the same place, are we?” Stan asks, his face falling ever so slightly, despite the way he was just yelling at Ford about coming in after him.

“It seems not,” Ford says, giving a sympathetic smile.  “But hey, thanks for the save back there.  How did you do that, anyway?”

Stan shrugs, and hoists up his right arm.  Now that they’re not running from the cops, it’s easier to see that the arm looks suspiciously metal, which is confirmed a second later, when Stan points it firmly away from both of them and turns all of the fingers into what look like miniature guns.

For a second, all Ford can do is stare at it.

“Lost the real one a decade and a half ago,” Stan says.  “Figured if I was gonna get an upgrade it might as be an upgrade, y’know?”

Ford swallows, still looking at his arm.  “Six fingers?” he asks quietly.

Stan’s eyes widen slightly and he immediately hides the arm behind his back.  “Yeah well uh, you know, the guy who made it doesn’t get too many humans and wasn’t super sure what he was doing.  Plus uh, more bullets.”

Ford raises an eyebrow.  “Why not get seven fingers, then?”

Stan sighs, and drops his arm back to his side, then rubs the back of his neck with his other one.  “Don’t make a thing of it.”

“Never,” Ford says, smiling a little despite himself.  And despite the fact that he really can’t afford to waste time finding parts for his quantum destabilizer, he can’t help the next thing that comes out of his mouth.

“Hey,” he says.  “I know a good human bar a couple dimensions over.  I can probably get this thing working long enough to get us there,” he says, lifting up his dimension gun.  “Do you want to get a drink?”

Stan grins.

…

This version of Stan who got sucked into the portal is everything Ford would have thought to expect from a version of Stan who got sucked into the portal.  He’s loud and brash and boastful, with plenty of tricks he can pull off with his prosthetic arm and plenty of stories about space heists he’s pulled off.  Ford is fairly certain they’re not all true, but he wants to hear every one anyway.

He hadn’t realized how much he missed Stanley.  His feelings about his actual brother from his own dimension are so tangled up with betrayal and anger and a million other things that it’s hard to even know what he’d do if he saw him.  But in talking to a version of Stanley that carries none of the emotional baggage, Ford almost feels like he’s eighteen again, before everything went so horribly wrong between them.

“Listen, I’m telling you, that one was the law’s fault,” Stan says, setting his mug of beer down.  “Laws shouldn’t be stupid if they don’t want to be broken.”

“I don’t think that’s quite how that works,” Ford says, though the large smile on his face is definitely giving away how little he’s bothered by it.

“Hey, I wasn’t the only one running from the cops tonight,” Stan points out with a bright grin.  “Guess I’m not the only criminal in the family anymore.”

“Laws broken in the name of science and survival don’t count,” Ford says, picking up his own beer and taking a drink.

“Great, so that means I can write off everything I did in the ten years after dad kicked me out, good to know,” Stan asks, sounding amused.

Ford startles a little, surprised at the casual way that Stan says that.  He doesn’t often think about what life was like for Stan during those ten years, but if he’s talking about writing off broken laws, Ford really doubts he means it in the name of science.

Either way, Stan seems totally content to move on, instead grinning back at Ford.  “And what was tonight, survival or science?” he asks.

Ford wrinkles his nose.  “Fashion.”

Stan laughs, loud and delighted in the way Ford hasn’t heard in decades.

“I’m sorry, didn’t you say something about bringing fake money into a casino?” Ford says, shoving Stan in the shoulder rather than acknowledging the ache in his chest.

“Yeah, but you expect that of me.  Next time you want to break the law, put some actual malice behind it.  It’s way more fun.”

Ford just rolls his eyes and takes another drink of his beer.  “Please, I bet I could outshine you with multiverse law-breaking stories.”

“I’m sorry, have you been listening to all my space heists?”

“And how many run-ins have you had with monsters and dream demons?  Have you ever even met Bill Cipher?”

“Bill Cipher?  What is he, like a secret code nerd you lost a boxing match to?”

“Oh, now I know that wasn’t a dig at my boxing skills.”

“Well, if the glove fits.”

“I’ve been traveling the multiverse and fighting monsters for almost thirty years, my boxing skills are a little better than they were in high school.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it.”

Ford glares over at Stan.  “Are you trying to get me to start a brawl in the middle of a bar?”

Stan just takes another drink of his beer, though Ford can see the smile behind it.  He can’t help but smile back a little as he shakes his head and takes a drink from his own mug.

Stan sets his drink down after another second, and turns to face Ford again.  And while Ford is expecting another joke or the start to a story to try and one-up all of Ford’s options, instead Stan surprises him.

“So uh, your portal incident,” he says.  Ford turns and faces him.  He wasn’t expecting Stan to go there.  But then Stan says, “where’d you end up after going through?  Because like, if we didn’t run into each other until now, but everything else seems mostly the same, does that mean we started in different places?”

Ford gives an “ah” of understanding.

“Well, I ended up in the nightmare realm with Bill,” Ford says.  “Had to run for my life pretty fast, but I made it out.  I mean, obviously.  Where were you?”

“A giant empty void of some kind,” Stan says.  He rubs the back of his neck and gives a sour smile.  “Thought Ford was mocking me.”

Ford narrows his eyes in confusion.  “Huh?”

“Oh, my Ford, obviously,” Stan says with a wave of his hand, as if that clears it up.  “Not you.”

“No, I— what do you mean, you thought he was mocking you?”

“Well, after he shoved me in,” Stan says, and something about the way he says it makes Ford’s chest go cold.

“But… why would that mean he was mocking you?” he asks, hoping he’s misunderstanding.  “It was an accident, wasn’t it?”

Stan turns and gives him a confused look.  “What?  No.  What are you talking about?”

“Well, I wouldn’t— you’re not saying he shoved you in on purpose, are you?”

“Hey,” Stan holds up his hands.  “Different worlds, different Fords.  It doesn’t say anything about you.”

Ford tries not to let his obvious discomfort show.  “I suppose,” he says.  But still, he can’t imagine any scenario where he’d shove Stanley into the portal on purpose.  He might have been angry at Stan, but he never wanted him in danger.  And shoving him through the portal would have guaranteed that.  He shut it down because it was dangerous, and he didn’t want anything like what happened to Fiddleford to happen to anyone else.

“You’re really bothered by that, huh,” Stan says after a second, because he’s far too similar to the brother Ford knows, which means he can read him like an open book.

“I just don’t understand,” Ford admits, shaking his head.  “I mean, you are so similar to how I remember my version of Stanley.  Why would I be so different?”

“Well, if it makes you feel any better, he was actin’ different too,” Stan says.  “My brother, I mean.  Real weird.”

Ford looks curiously back at Stan.  “Weird how?”

“Like, real giggly and manic.  At one point I kicked him hard into the wall and he just started laughing.  He said something about how hilarious it was.  Honestly, I think he was on something.”

Ford can’t breathe.  His mind is starting to paint him a horrifying picture.

“He— Stanley,” he says.  “Did he fall unconscious at any point that you were down there?”

Stan looks at him in confusion.  “How’d you know that?”

Ford runs a hand through his hair.  “That— god.  Stanley, that wasn’t your brother.”

“What are you talking about?”

“That— remember when I mentioned Bill Cipher?”

“The secret code nerd?” Stan asks, smirking.

“He’s not a secret code nerd, he’s a demon,” Ford says, turning to face Stan directly, trying to get across the importance of what he’s saying, because if Stanley meant it when he said he never met Bill, that means he’s spent the whole time here thinking his brother pushed him through the portal on purpose, and Ford can’t let that go on.

“Stanley, he’s a demon that I met, and that your brother must have met too.  I suppose I can’t say that things went exactly the same, but from what you said…” he takes a breath and folds his hands together.  He doesn’t make a habit of telling people his history with Bill, but this is important.

“I met him when I was young and idealistic and stupid,” he says plainly.  “And before I realized how malicious and dangerous he was, I made a deal with him, and let him possess me whenever he wanted.  He can’t anymore,” Ford knocks on the metal plate in his head.  “But back then, he could anytime that I fell asleep.  And that whole thing, about pain being hilarious?  He said that all the time.  He probably thought that you were too dangerous to him, or that you’d get in the way, so when your brother fell unconscious, he… well.  I can’t imagine why he’d lead with the fact that it wasn’t your brother in control anymore.”

Stan looks at him for a long moment after he finishes, and to Ford’s surprise, he can’t read his face.  Finally, Stan just says, “Huh.”  He turns and takes a drink of his beer.

Ford blinks at him.  “Huh?” he repeats.

Stan looks back at him.  “Do you want me to say something else?”

“Something— do you believe me?” Ford asks, a little incredulous.

“I mean, I’ve seen enough crazy shit out here that it can’t exactly be off the table,” Stan says.  “You also have no reason to lie to me, so… yeah, sure.”  He shrugs.

Ford looks at him for another minute.  “I’ll admit, I was expecting a bigger reaction,” he says.

“I mean, it doesn’t change that much,” Stan says.  “I’m still here, aren’t I?  Come on, we both know how smart you are.  If my brother wanted me back he’s had thirty years to do something about it.  Even if he wasn’t responsible for the first part, it’s on him now.  It’s fine.  I made my peace with it a long time ago.”

Oh.  Ford gets it now.  Stan wants something he can’t have.

“It’s not quite that simple,” Ford says, turning to look back at his drink.  “If the portal is turned back on, it could give Bill a path through to whatever world it’s turned on in.  It’s not as easy as turning it on and you get to go home.  It’s the needs of the many versus the needs of the few.  He has to keep the world safe from Bill.  I can understand why he has to leave you here.”

He winces a little as soon as he says the last part, and braces himself.  He expects a glare, or for Stan to snap at him, or anything similar.  Something that shows he doesn’t understand the sacrifice part of all this.  But instead, Stan laughs, a strange mix of fond and sad, and takes another swig of his beer.

“God, Poindexter,” he says.  “You’ve been out here almost thirty years and you still haven’t learned a damn thing, have you?”

“I— what?  I’ve learned plenty,” Ford says, feeling a little offended.  “I’ve learned so much about the multiverse, and about Bill, and—”

“About yourself, knucklehead,” Stan says, smirking at him.  “Have you just been passing through from one place to another for thirty years?”

“I— there aren’t a ton of other options,” Ford says.  “I can’t stay in a parallel Earth, I could run into a version of myself.  There’s too many dimensions that can’t sustain a life form like me, and I still have Bill to worry about.  It’s not like I can just leave him to do whatever he wants.”

“Sure you can,” Stan says.  “Someone else will take care of him.”

“Someone else will what?  Stanley—”

“It’s not all on you, Ford,” Stan says, looking back at him.  “If there’s a version of me here, there have to be other versions of you.  Let one of them take that risk.”

“I can’t just count on that!  What if that’s what we all think?”

Stan snorts, like that’s somehow funny.

“Stanley—”

“And then what?” Stan cuts him off, turning and raising an eyebrow at him.  “After you defeat Bill.  What do you do then?”

“I— there’s bound to be something else that—”

“What stuff do you do because you want to, Ford?  What out here makes you happy?”

“Well— discovering new dimensions and how they work,” Ford says.  “Their laws of physics, their food and cultures, their—”

“You got any friends?”

“What does that matter?”

“How much of the stuff you learned was pure observation?  Did you go up and talk to anyone, ask them questions about how things work?”

“Right, because everyone in every dimension speaks English.”

Stan raises an eyebrow.  “You’re telling me you’ve been here almost thirty years and you’ve never gotten your hands on a dimensional translator?”

“I— I have, but that’s not—”

“Ford, listen.  We have to live here, right?  I’m never going home, and it doesn’t sound like you think you are either.”

“I’m not,” Ford says.  “What’s your point?”

“So this is all we got,” Stan says.  “You’re never going home, so you have to do something else.”

“Obviously, what are you getting at?”

Stan grins at him.  “You want to come check out my place?”

Ford stares at him.  “You have a house?”

“Of sorts.”  Stan pulls out a small box that looks vaguely like a treasure chest.  “I’ve got a dimensional lock on her.”

“I…” Ford says, and trails off, not quite sure what to say.

Stan smiles at him, and then waves over at the bartender.  “Thanks for the drinks!” he calls.  He slams a couple bills down on the counter and turns back to Ford.

“Are those bills real?”

“Shh.  Let’s go.”  Stan hits a button on his dimensional lock, and the world bends and twists around them, pulling them back to whatever Stan’s put the other lock on.  When they stop, Ford looks around, and—

“Why am I not surprised?” he asks, rolling his eyes.

“Yeah, she’s a beauty, ain’t she?” Stan says, grinning at him.  “Welcome to the Stan-O-War II.”

They’re standing on a houseboat in what looks like a fairly typical human ocean, if you ignore the fact that a stretch of it rises into the air and twists upside down into the sky not too far up ahead.

They’re sailing right towards the lift into the air, but Stan seems completely unphased by this.  He walks up a set of stairs to a steering wheel, and pulls a lever on the side.  The entire boat starts glowing gold, and as they reach the shift in gravity, the boat turns into it with no issue, and Ford doesn’t feel his own center of gravity shift at all.

“You would not believe how much I had to steal to get that part working,” Stan says.

“Stanley—”

“Alright, I lied.  I worked odd jobs until I could afford it.  Easier that way.  There’s so many police checks on these kinds of dohickeys, it’s ridiculous.”

The boat sails with the curve until they’re upside down, and Ford can look around him to see stars and planets around them, though not any that he recognizes.

“Remarkable,” he breathes, because he can’t help but be a little blown away by it.

Stanley walks back down the steps and over to stand next to Ford, smiling at the stars around them too.

“I picked this dimension as a home base,” Stan says.  “I think you can guess why.”

Ford just nods.

Stan walks forward and leans over the side of the boat to look down at the water.  After a second, Ford joins him.  From the— sea? sky?— below, fish leap up and eat the stars out of the air.  As soon as they land back in the water, one of the stars still in the air splits in half, and the number of stars in the sky remains unchanged.

“Some of the planets,” Stan says, pointing at one with his finger and following it as the bot sails past it.  “Can support life.  So when the fish eat the stars, the stars split so nothing on the planet dies.  The brief moments of darkness are the planet’s solar eclipses.”

“Planet-wide solar eclipses?” Ford asks, amazed.  “Is the star gone for too short of a time to make a difference in the temperature?”

“Nah.  The folks on the planet just evolved to get used to it.”

“How do you know?” Ford asks, looking back at him.

“I shrunk myself down and went to ask ‘em.  Had to time it right, though.  I’m sure not evolved to survive an eldritch fish eating the sun.”

“Stanley, that’s… incredibly dangerous,” Ford says.  But for a moment, he can’t help but feel impossibly jealous.

“Worth it though.  I’m apparently well known to everyone on pretty much every planet.  They kind of view me as a god.  Hell of an ego boost that was.”

“Oh lord,” Ford mutters.  “I don’t want to think about that.”

Stan laughs.  He turns and leans back against the side of the boat, then gazes up at the sea, back on the… well, Earth, of sorts, now above them.

“When I said I made my peace with it,” Stan says, without looking at Ford, “I meant it.  I know my brother.  I know how his head works.  I know he’s probably doin’ alright without me, and I’m okay with that.  Way I see it, my two options were either let everything fester and grow into an angry, bitter old man, or let it go.”  Stan spreads his hands.  “I like where the second option has let me end up.”

Ford looks at Stan, and finds he doesn’t know what to say.  It’s an unusual feeling.  He’s not sure he likes it.

It looks like they’ll be sailing along the sky for a while, judging by what’s ahead of them, so Ford leans back next to Stan and looks at the sky below them and the sea above them.

“But…” Ford says finally, because he has to say something.  “What’s your goal, here?  What are you trying to do?”

Stan turns to him, raises an eyebrow.  “Goal?”

“What do you want to do, with your life?” Ford asks.  “It— it can’t just be— this.”

Stan smiles, just a little.  “And why not?”

“Well— because…” Ford trails off, lost.

Neither of them say much for a while.

Finally, Ford’s dimension gun beeps at him.  He glances down at the screen and lets out a sigh of relief.

“My parts to fix my gun are ready,” he says to Stan.  “I’ve gotta get going.  But… thanks, I guess.  It was nice to meet you, and have a drink, and…” he looks around, and his words are stolen for another moment.  Eventually, he just finishes “…this.”

Stan gives him a long look, then just nods.

Ford moves the gun’s settings carefully, and when he fires it, it shows him the right dimension.

It’s just as he’s about to step through that Stan speaks again.

“You could come with me, you know,” he says.  “We could hunt for treasure and adventure, like we always said we would.  Even if we’re not technically the ones we said it to.”

This, Ford has been expecting, and he responds instantly and with ease.  “I can’t,” he says, turning to give Stan one last look.  “I have to try and defeat Bill.  I have to save the world.”

But rather than get angry, or sad, or doing anything that makes sense, Stan just sighs.  “Yeah,” he says.  “You always do, huh.”  He turns and starts back up the stairs towards the wheel, and Ford watches him go.  Stan gives no argument, doesn’t keep trying to convince Ford to come.

Ford doesn’t know what to say.  It’s the third time it’s happened, and that’s enough that he’s decided, he’s not a fan.  He would say it’s foolish to expect to know how a Stan from an alternate dimension would act, but so much about this version of his brother has been familiar enough to make Ford’s chest ache.  And yet, when it comes to the big things, the set-in-stone things, like the Stan-O-War, and Bill, and getting shoved into the multiverse for thirty years by someone Stan freely admits he thought put him here on purpose; when it comes to the conversations that Ford should absolutely know the path of, Stan reacts in the complete opposite way he expects, and it leaves Ford feeling lost and unsteady.

“I…” he says, reaching for something normal.  He fails.  “I don’t understand.”

Stan turns to face him.  There is so much sudden warmth and love in his gaze that it takes Ford’s breath away.

“That’s okay, Sixer,” Stan says.  “Just go try and save the world.  Come find me if you fail, okay?  I’ll still be here.”

Ford doesn’t know what to say to that either.  After a second, he just turns and walks through to the other dimension, to get the parts he needs.

He turns one last time and watches Stan as the portal between them closes.  Stan smiles as it does, and then he’s gone.  He leaves Ford with a lump in his throat, an ache in his chest, and the feeling that he’s missed something important.

[alien-magnolia]

Tainted Love

Fic description: This is a dark fic. 18+ MINORS DNI. Dom!-coded Billy Loomis + hyperfeminine, sub-coded afab reader: they are married, committing crimes together <3 and having a wonderful domestic life <3 besides all the blood and murder. Smut/horror genre: kinks include service!, blood!, knifeplay!, ropes!, choking!, spanking!, free-use!, SERVICE, d/s mental dynamics, majorrrr daddy!kink, exhibitionism

If you like this post, pls engage, comment, reblog! It means so much to me, Ty <3 WC 2.7k

October 10, 1996.

The dark red, yellow, with tinges of brown leaves tumbled down the secluded suburban street. A tan cottage stood at the end of a cul-de-sac, yard neatly trimmed, wind chimes ringing on the porch where they hung. A dim light inside. A black van pulls into the driveway, scaring away a few neighboring birds. The door shuts — a young man enters the house.

——

You were just about finished with tonight’s dinner when your partner came back from college. You loved Billy dearly, and so you did almost everything for him. It was your dynamic — and he loved it as well. You served him, your Billy, your daddy.

How exactly did you get involved with a serial killer? Involved far enough to be an equal partner in his crimes? Involved enough to be so cautious and excellent at keeping first-degree murder a secret? Involved enough to live with him?

—-

It began last fall. A chilly November morning, fog rolling in on the campus. You walked in your pretty pink outfit, donning lace and frills, kitten heels, and butterfly hair clips. You were only nineteen. Young. Innocent. You were looking for your ‘Introduction to Early Modern Literature’ class, yet happened to wander over on the other, more secluded side of campus. You stumble over a rock on the sidewalk. You fall, beautiful rosy cheek now stained with a gash of bright, red blood.

Your hands, your knees, cut up from the bumpy pavement. You start crying. This was just too embarrassing!! With your social anxiety and shyness, you really hoped nobody had seen this. You did not like to be perceived by people — that is just how you were. You look around — not a soul to be seen.

Except for a man — lean, sitting on a brick bench, cigarette in hand. You couldn’t make out how he looked, yet fear overtook you as he started making his way over. You start to scramble up, hoping to run away from him, yet your bruises were just too intense for you to do so.

His deep voice asks you, “Hey, sweetheart, you okay? You nod. “Yeah jus’ a few scratches. Can’t see too well in the fog,” you sheepishly explain. “Hey, no worries. Here, I’ll help you up, yeah?” You oblige, taking his big calloused hands in yours as he helps you stand. You finally get a good look at him. God — he was handsome. More than handsome. Extremely, extremely, attractive. You got wet just by looking at his deep brown eyes and crooked smile looking down at you.

“Hey. Don’t be too shy, hun. Come. Want me to help you fix those bruises? There’s a bathroom right around the corner, he suggests. You nod silently, agreeing, following him to a door on the left.

He begins wiping your bruises with a wet towel, trying to stop the bleeding. His tongue pokes out of his mouth as he focuses. You see more of him now. He wears all black. Smells like cigarettes and a dusty old basement. “So what brings you to this part of campus?,” he asks, brown eyes focused on your bruises.

“Just got lost. Needed to find one class but couldn’t. Maybe I’ll skip today anyway…,” you trail off. “Aw. Today’s your first day huh?,” he coos at you, with a smile you just couldn’t figure out. “Um. Yes. I don’t really know the campus, so…,” you quietly answer him, afraid to look into his eyes. His voice, his face, it all made you thirst for him even more.

“I could tell. Hey. Maybe you should skip. Been looking for someone to hang out with,” he suggests, finishing up cleaning your bruises, putting a few bandaids on you. “I’m Billy, by the way.” You introduce yourself to him, a little smile forming on your face. You ended up skipping class that day, spending time with him in that secluded courtyard, smoking cigarettes, listening to The Smiths. You ended up fucking in the bathroom a few hours later. You knew that you were indubitably attracted — glued to him and everything that he was. Something did feel a little off about how he treated others — you did not care.

So it was.

——

~Present day ~

You hear the keys jingle in the doorway, heavy boots make their way towards the kitchen, where you were. You currently donned a short little black dress, fishnets, with nothing underneath. You were waiting for him.

“Hey, sweets. Looking good today,” he compliments you, as he takes your small hand in his, moving you closer to him, wrapping a hand around your waist. You giggle as he peppers your cheek with kisses. “Sweetie. Want’a ask you something,” he insists, quietly, yet confidently. Your big eyelashes blink as you wait for his question.

“Wanna play with me tonight?,” a sinister smile adorns his face, his brown eyes filled with a hint of malice, excitement. Your eyes match his. You loved playing with him, your sessions, where you gave over complete control of yourself, to him. You trusted him completely. He led, you followed.

You were his. His prey, his little girl, his accomplice. You were his, devoted completely, mind and body. The two of you even had matching tattoos: a forever symbol of your unique relationship.

“Yes, daddy. What first?” He chuckles lowly. “Glad you asked, princess. We’re going to the van.” You smile back at him, as he gives you a kiss, pulling you closer to him by your neck. You knew what to do, sticking your hands out, as he takes a rope from the nearby drawer.

The rope felt nice around your wrists, you liked to watch him tie it. You didn’t want your freedom when you played with him. “Daddy’s girl, all tied up, huh? Come sweets. Let’s go to the van,” he sneers at you in the best possible way, as he leads you outside. Still, he manages to grab a coat for you, alongside some knives. You suspected that both of you will be using those later.

“Before we leave our house, thought we might have a bit of fun in the van, what’dya say? I think it’ll be nice for my little girl, yeah?,” he croons at you, caressing your cheek, before gripping it harshly, brown eyes boring into yours.

You’re on your knees for him in his dingy van. His waffle knit white t-shirt feels nice on your bound hands, as you see him start to unbuckle his belt, dropping his jeans to the floor of the van. “Give daddy’s cock some love, hun,” you hear, and his strong arms work to push you down to the floor. You look up at him from your back, you see him towering over you, cock in his calloused hand, slowly rubbing it. He lowers his cock and balls onto your face, you love the feeling of his heavy ball sack on your chin. His cock was wide, not too long, yet wide, weeping, with three beautiful veins and a beauty mark <3

It was all red and ready for your wet throat. You took him eagerly, sucking so much pressure, you felt his silky smooth voice moan out in ecstasy. You keep sucking, swirling your tongue around the mushroom tip of his cockhead. He pulls a knife to the side of your cheek. You stop.

“Look what daddy’s got here hun. You don’t like this little toy, do you?,” he taunts. With that, he lowers the knife to your chest, where he makes a gentle cut on it. He liked to cut you with his knife. Another way to possess you, to mark you as HIS.

“Get up, sweets. Daddy’s gonna cum if you keep this shit up.” He chuckles, and helps you up, wiping that little cut he made with a towel. That same towel now goes in your mouth as a makeshift gag.

His hands tightly grip your hips, pushing you down onto the floor of the van again. Hips spread, gagged, hands still tied, you felt his finger swipe across your clit, down your labia, trailing over your wet, wet, pussy. Your hole was clenching around nothing!! He was going to fix that.

“Aww. Look at you , sweetie. Cheeks all rosy, ass up for me, ready to be bred,” he taunts. You only moan in response. “Does daddy’s little girl want to be bred, hmm? Like a little cow?” You moan in response, he tuts, and lifts your neck up gently. “What was that?,” voice low. Shit. You fucked up.

“Yes, daddy,” your voice is muffled through the gag. He smiles again, that dark smile of his. Sinister. Evil. Exactly what you wanted to see. Without warning, you feel him push into you. Wide, throbbing, filling that sweet spot exactly how you wanted. He went slow for just a little, relishing how good his little girl, his breeding cow, dumpster, was for him. Then he went fast. Too fast. You loved hearing the sound of his cock and balls slap against your ass, your squelching pussy <3

You feel so full of him, you saw stars as his wife cock drilled deeper and deeper into you. You felt him twitch inside, your favorite part!! “Take my cum, baby. Fuckin’ take it,” you hear him grunt, as his hands press your body down into a mating press, his stomach now on top of your back. He had you caged in, tied, gagged, absolutely abusing you on his wide cock. You were in heaven. You were his now, in this moment. The both of you came, and of course, he did not let you squeeze his cum out of you.

“Keep it in, hmm? Want our visitors to know that you’re daddy’s girl.” You nod and smile, making grabby hands at him once he unties your wrists, and takes the towel out of your mouth. He lifts you up into his lap, peppering your face with kisses, smiling up at you as you giggle.

He helps you get dressed, gently cooing at you as you show him the carpet burn you got from being on your knees for so long. He kisses it to make it better <3 and even puts on your white frilly socks for you, helping you with your little black kitten heels and your dress.

“Where to next, daddy?,” you giddily await his answer. “Now, we drive. To meet our special guests for tonight,” he replies, your smile now matching his level of sinister. The both of you were about to go have some fun, with some unconventional guests as well.

——-/

It was now almost midnight. After your play session in the van, you couldn’t wait to play in front of your guests!! The both of you listen to heavy metal as Billy speeds down an abandoned road, the rotting leaves blowing towards the sides from the van passing by on the road. He pulls his van up a few meters close to the woods, and parks.

“Coat, baby.” You nod, and he puts your black puffer on. He leads you to the backseat, where a black trunk with a lock is placed. He opens it. His mask. Ghostface. He puts it on his hip, putting on black clothes over his nice ones. He gives you gloves, and a knife. One for himself as well. Binoculars.

“Come, hun. This way.” You follow him up into a tree, where the both of you take turns with your binoculars. He takes out his block of a phone. How you loved the 90’s. He dials the number, telling you to watch their reaction in the windows. “Hi. What’s your favorite scary movie,” Billy's voice drawls out to his unsuspecting victims in the mansion that you were currently hiding outside of.

Billy continued to harass them on the phone, beckoning you down the tree quietly, and closer and closer to the person’s backyard. Billy stays on the phone, pointing at you to stay put, and opens the window on the first floor. You wait outside, as he slips on in.

You knew what to do. You’d wait for his signal, then follow him in. Then, came your favorite part: where Billy shows you off to his victims <3

You see his hand signal through the window. You step on inside, and see the couple tied to each other, this time with metal chains. Billy is wearing his mask. “Just in time for the show, sweetheart. Kneel.”

You do as said, loving the absolutely sadistic smile on his face right now. He puts on your leash ( only for when in front of un-consenting others) and has to crawl to sit at his knees. “You see here, my two pretties, you two are going to watch me fuck my little princess here. After that, I’ll decide if you get to live,” he chuckles in absolute glee.

“By the way, if you two decide to make a sound, or go at my little girl here, I’ll stab ya. Sounds good? My, my, what a perfect, scary movie,” he narrates to himself, to you, to the two victims, who looked like they were about to mentally lose it. <3

He skips with the foreplay, the blowjob, the fingering. He gets right to it. He wants his victims to see his pretty girl, on his own terms. He roughly pushes you down onto the floor, strong hands positioning your hips in place, giving your ass a few harsh spanks <3 you hear the belt buckle slip, and soon enough, you can feel the warmth of his already hard cock near your puffy pussy.

Your eyes are drawn to the couple. You loved being shown off, being watched. They did not want to watch you. But that is okay. Billy is going to make them. :)

They watch in horror as he starts rutting into you like a beast, bloody knife that he used on one of the victims nearing your neck, staying there. The knife soon drops, he gives it to you to hold as he starts losing control. You were too, feeling so full of him, getting an extra serving of his cum :) was your favorite thing to do.

You smiled as the couple looked on in horror. Billy pulled out just the last second before, and came all over your face. “Look so pretty with my cum all over your face, sweet girl. Clean it up f’me, yeah?” You nod.

After you wipe it off, Billy steps back in front of the two victims. “See how nicely I treat my girl? I’m her daddy, after all. Just wanted to show her to you. She’s mine, forever will be. What a nice show the two of you got,” he chuckles, before stabbing one of them, the screams could be heard from down the block.

Billy finished off the other one, not before giving her a good slap and punch. <3 The pool of blood covers the entire kitchen tiling, making it seem red everywhere. It’s on your shoes, on Billy’s. He takes his mask off, and picks you up in his arms.

“Did so good f’me today, sweet girl. So proud of you,” he praises you. “You did good too, Billy. I love how rough you are with them.” He smiles again, giving you a tender kiss. “Let’s leave, huh? Go back home, watch a scary movie?,” he asks. You nod, staying still in his arms as he carries you over the blood, and back out to the woods.

The two of you make it back to the van. They won’t catch you. As long as you’re together, everything was just fine.

[oddinary4bts]

Sweet | ksj

☆request:

Congratulations on the milestone ! Can we get a Drabble of idol Jin coming back from the military and trying to sort out his situationship with the girl he left behind when he went into the military?

☆pairings: idol!Seokjin x female!reader

☆rating: 18+ (minors DNI)

☆genre: idol!au, a bit of angst, fluff and smut

☆warnings: unedited, cursing, explicit content: oral sex (female receiving), fingering, jerking off, protected sex (with mentions of unprotected sex), big dick!Jin

☆word count: 3.5k

☆a/n: i did not expect to write smut in this but here we are haha i hope you guys like this one! i had a lot of fun writing it <3

☆☆☆☆☆

It's so sweet, knowing that you love me Though we don't need to say it to each other, sweet Knowing that I love you, and running my fingers through your hair It's so sweet

Sweet - Cigarettes After Sex

☆☆☆☆☆

Seokjin hasn’t seen you in ages, his military service whisking him away from…

From whatever his relationship with you was. Not quite a relationship, but more than friendship, Seokjin thinks he was too immature a year and a half ago to understand you. But when you sent him a message two days ago to congratulate him for finishing his service, he figured he should see you.

If only so that he can give you the closure he never gave you. Because he practically ghosted you when he started his service, not replying to your messages after his obligatory training where he couldn’t touch his phone anyway.

He felt bad. Horrible even, but the distance seemed necessary after the words you last exchanged.

After you all but confessed your love for him. 

It was too much too soon, or maybe he truly was just immature then. Because today, as his car is eating the miles to your apartment, he thinks maybe he was wrong. The heaviness in his chest makes it feel so, as does the rain battering his windshield.

Seokjin parks outside on the street in front of your building, glancing up to see the lights are on in your apartment. His hands turn clammy, and he rubs them on his jeans in a failed attempt to dry them.

It doesn’t work, because the second you’re buzzing him in, they become clammy again and he’s too anxious to even think about drying them again. The anxiety only keeps increasing as he climbs the stairs to the second floor, worrying at some skin on his bottom lip, and it reaches a never-seen-before high as he stops in front of your door.

He takes a deep breath to ease his nerves, thinking about the many times he was here before. That night after your first date - a blind date his friend set up for him - when you told him to come home with him.

He should have known then that it was setting your story in a way that wouldn’t end well for you, to go home with you that night.

Seokjin raises his fist, and he thinks his hand is shaking. He ignores it, pretends he’s as confident as always, and he knocks three times, lowering his hand as he waits for you to open. It doesn’t take you long - he wouldn’t be surprised if you were waiting on the other side of the door.

You’re… beautiful. You were back then, but the months apart have done you good, and Seokjin’s throat dries as he just looks at you, his lips parting on a silent vowel. You just stand there, shining like an angel as a small, shy smile lights your features, your eyes crinkling at the corners. 

Seokjin doesn’t believe in love at first sight. Has never believed it, and though today may not be his first sight of you, it surely renders him speechless, his brain emptying until there’s just you.

“Hey,” you greet him, your voice like a melody conjured from a dream.

“Y/n,” he answers, and your name feels right, righter than anything before.

Your smile widens, and you step aside to let him in. He walks in, fully aware of how close your bodies are as you shut the door, but then you move back and he immediately misses your proximity.

What is wrong with him?

“How have you been?” you ask.

“Good,” he replies, swallowing. “Better now.”

He means the words. He means them more than he’s ever meant anything in his life, and he thinks you catch the meaning behind his sentence. Because blush creeps on your cheeks, and your gaze drops to the floor.

“What about you?” he quickly adds, not wanting you to feel embarrassed.

“I’m… good,” you answer, and you let out a small chuckle. “I didn’t think I would ever see you again.”

You’re direct. It’s something he’s always thought was admirable about you, but the revelation hurts, sending a pang through his chest.

“Y/n…” he trails off.

“But you’re here now,” you say, and your smile turns pained, sad.

How many sleepless nights has he caused you?

“I am,” he says, voice small. “I’m sorry.”

“I get it.” You shrug your shoulders. “You were busy with your service, it’s not like it was easy to maintain a…” You never finish the sentence, even though Seokjin waits patiently for you to say it.

For you to acknowledge that it was just a situationship, that maybe you both just played each other.

“I really am sorry, though,” Seokjin insists, looking down at his shoes. “You did not deserve that.”

You nod once, your gaze trailing to the side. “Then, can I ask… Why did you want to see me?”

His heart stops in his chest. He’s still struck by the sight of you, barely unable to form coherent sentences, but you deserve an explanation.

You deserve closure, if that’s what you want.

“I thought…” he trails off, wets his lips before continuing, “I thought you deserved closure.”

You take a deep breath. “I don’t think it’s necessary.”

He thinks you’re dismissing him. It feels like you are, like you’re telling him to leave, but he just stands there, drinking your features in.

Choking on the hurt he knows he’s caused.

“I really apologize, Y/n,” he adds, voice barely above a whisper. “You did not deserve the radio silence. I… I kind of thought it would be better for you, that you deserved better than being stuck with someone that was going to be gone for months.”

“You could have just said so…” you point out.

Seokjin sighs, his gaze dropping to the ground in shame. “I know. I was stupid, and I was immature too. Which is bad considering I’m in my thirties now but… yeah. I’m really sorry.”

You don’t say anything for a time, the silence getting heavier with every second passed. Seokjin meets your gaze, and he wonders if you can tell how guilty he’s been feeling. He thinks you might, because you wet your lips, glancing to the side, and then you say, “You came all the way here to say this?”

He nods. “You deserved better than a text message. When you texted me two days ago, it reminded me of all the good times we’ve spent together.” The truth comes to the surface, and Seokjin whispers it, afraid he’s going to scare you away. “I’ve missed you, Y/n.”

The world must have stopped turning. Time must have stopped, because you just stand there unblinkingly. He’s not sure you’re even breathing. But then slowly, like the first sun rays in the morning, a smile spreads on your lips. 

You’re beautiful, too beautiful, and Seokjin can’t believe he got scared last year. He doesn’t think there’s anything scary about the woman standing in front of him.

“And you think I’ll just forgive you like this?” you ask even though you’re smiling.

It’s like a stab to the chest. His heart aches, and Seokjin doesn’t know what to reply. He’s aware he doesn’t deserve your forgiveness, but he wanted to give you his truth.

“I don’t think I deserve it, honestly,” he says. He gulps around a sudden lump in his throat, glancing around your apartment if only so that he can commit it to memory. “But I have missed you. I’ve felt guilty about it for months, but didn’t know how to approach you. Didn’t think you’d want me texting you out of the blue. I just… When you reached out, I just couldn’t let you go without at least having apologized.”

You nod, leaning against the wall as if your legs can’t support you anymore. “Thank you for apologizing.”

He reckons he’s losing you. Not that he really had you to begin with, but Seokjin thinks he’s losing you, and it hurts more than he ever thought it would.

“Of course.”

There’s another silence of lingering heaviness, and then you nod your head. Push up from the wall and walk in your apartment, sitting down on the couch. You offer him a small smile, patting the spot next to you.

“Come in,” you tell him. “Let’s catch up.”

He widens his gaze, not really believing what you just said. But then again, he knows you’re a forgiving person - he’ll make sure you don’t regret your decision.

And he doesn’t think you do. No, you spend the rest of the afternoon chatting, with you telling him all about your work and that annoying coworker that used to get on your nerves last year too. It’s easy, filled with smiles and laughs and reminiscing, and when you invite him for dinner, Seokjin decides to cook for you.

He doesn’t want you to lift a single finger for him, not when he wants to make it up to you. And he thinks he does, to a certain extent. You’re beaming by the time you’ve finished eating, telling him that you missed his food the most, and Seokjin complains that you only like him for his food. You just laugh it off, and then tell him that he’ll have to cook a thousand more meals for you.

Call him crazy, but he knows he will. He’ll cook every meal for you if that means he gets a chance with you again. One that he promises to himself that he won’t fuck up. Maybe that’s why he doesn’t make a move tonight - he tries to respect you, to respect the fact that you might need a bit of distance from him before you want to be with him like that again.

He thinks it was the right decision. He thinks it was worth the weeks of waiting before you kissed him for the first time again, in a different setting this time. At his own apartment, after you’ve had his Jajjangmyeon. You kiss softly, by the door, and Seokjin wonders if you can hear the wild beats of his heart in his chest.

You have to. Because you lay a hand on his chest right above his heart as you pull away from the kiss. You’re smiling, your cheeks slightly flushed as you look between his two eyes. And then you say, “I want you tonight.”

Seokjin doesn’t need to hear more. He cups your cheeks, stealing a languid kiss on your lips as you wrap your arms around his neck. Your fingers brush the strands of hair at the back of his head, and then you tug on them a little.

He grunts, pushing you back towards the door. He lifts you up, and you wrap your legs around his waist, bringing your heat dangerously close to his dick. He’s already getting hard, blood shooting down from his heart to his cock, and he grinds into you, swallowing the soft moan you let out.

A second later, you tease his bottom lip with your tongue, and Seokjin lets you in, getting drunk to the taste of you. He’s so high with the taste of you that his mind is elsewhere - he doesn’t know how you make it to his bed. All he knows is that, ten minutes later, you’re splayed out on his bed like his own personal feast, and the sight of your glistening pussy makes him go feral.

He kneels between your thighs, hooks your legs on his shoulders before leaning closer, lapping your juices up. You make a breathy sound he remembers from every night he couldn’t sleep during his military service, instead thinking about how much he missed you.

You taste good. You taste sweet and salty, a perfect mix to his senses that makes him forget everything else but you. He circles your clit with his tongue, teases the bundle of nerves before he goes back to your entrance, pushing his tongue in once. You moan, one hand finding his hair to tug at the strands, and you instinctively grind in his face. Seokjin flattens his tongue to let you do it, to let you seek friction on the wet muscle, and then he unleashes himself, eats you out like you’re his last meal on this Earth.

You’re panting already, alternating between mewls and moans by the time he pushes a finger inside of you, fighting against your already tightening walls. They relax when he sucks on your clit, and he takes it as an opportunity to push another finger in, curling his digits to hit the right spot inside of you.

After all, he knows he needs to stretch you out before he’ll be able to fuck you. You’re on the smaller side, and he’s… bigger than a lot of guys, so you do need the stretching. And he’s pleased to oblige, circling your clit, flicking it until your walls start spasming on his fingers. Not even a heartbeat later, you’re coming, his name on your lips in a sinful cry as he rides you through the orgasm, going feral with the sounds you make, and mostly with the taste of you.

His chin is covered with your juices by the time he sits back on his heels. He licks his fingers clean as you watch him through half-lidded eyes, and then he grabs his discarded shirt from the side - he barely remembers getting naked - to wipe his face dry.

You’re naked too. A literal goddess sent from above to grace him with your presence. You’re everything he could have ever wished for, and he still can’t understand how stupid he was last year.

To think he could have had you during the rare breaks from his service… 

He was stupid. Stupid, foolish and everything in between, but at least he’s here with you now.

“Wow,” you let out, a small chuckle falling from your lips. You’re visibly fucked out, yet you still manage to rock his world as you reach for his dick, giving him a squeeze. “I want you.”

Shit.

“Are you sure?” he asks, his eyes rolling to the back of his head as you start stroking him.

“So big…” He grunts at your crude words. “Yes, I’m sure. I’ve been thinking about sex with you for weeks, Jin.”

He looks around, searching for his pants. They’re over by the door, a lot farther away than he imagined they would be. It feels far, too far, considering he’s already nestled between your legs.

“What?” you let out, and you grip him tighter.

He feels it in his balls. He hasn’t had sex in forever - you being the last one before his service - so obviously he knows he won’t last. He’s so horny he thinks he’d be able to come all over your stomach if you keep jerking him off. But he stops you, gently wrapping his hand around yours to restrain your motions.

“Baby,” he breathes out. “Shit, let me grab a condom.”

“You don’t want to fuck me raw?” you tease, biting at your lower lip. “I haven’t had sex with anyone since you.”

The words please him far more than he thought they would. It feels like, maybe, you were his all this time too.

He says your name like a warning, but you only smirk mischievously.

“Afraid I’ll get pregnant?” you add. “Don’t you think we’d make pretty babies?”

You would. He knows damn well you would and it wouldn’t even be because of him. It’d be all you - your beauty is incomparable. 

“As much as I want to get you pregnant one day,” Seokjin replies, moving away from you. He misses your hand on him the second you let go, but it’s for the best. “I don’t think we are there yet,” he continues. “But I promise I’ll fuck babies into you one day.”

You close your thighs instinctively at his words as if you’re still searching for friction.

As if you didn’t come on his tongue just a minute ago.

It doesn’t take Seokjin a long time before he’s put a condom on, discarding the package in the trash can next to your bed. You’ve just been watching him, and he kneels back between your legs, his balls already tightening in anticipation.

He rubs his tip on your folds, collecting the glistening juice. Your mouth falls open on a silent moan, especially as he moves to your clit. One of your legs twitches from oversensitivity, or at least he assumes it’s because of that, and he aligns himself with your entrance.

“Let me know if it hurts,” he tells you.

“Don’t you remember how well I could-”

Your words are cut short as Seokjin pushes in, your walls sucking him in slowly and surely until he bottoms out, some of his dick still sticking out of you. You just look at him, eyebrows furrowed in pleasure, and Seokjin licks his lips, saying, “You were saying?”

“I’ve missed this.”

Your words ring in his mind, on and on, erasing everything that he is to build him anew, to build him in a way that finally allows him to be with you. His heart fills with warmth, exploding like fireworks, and he bends down to capture your lips in a kiss that means more than words ever could. 

He doesn’t move for a while, warming his cock in you while he just keeps on kissing you, not even stopping for breathing. It’s like he doesn’t need it - hell, he thinks all he needs is you. And you kiss him back with so much passion he thinks this is it, he’s reached nirvana.

The feeling perseveres as he slowly pulls his hips back, before pushing forward again, the motion making his entire body tingle with pleasure. He swallows your soft moan, grunts in your mouth as your pussy clenches on him. Your hands are on his back, in his hair, and the second you pull on the strands again, he lifts his head, meeting your gaze.

“You feel so good,” you praise, eyes sparkling.

He smiles softly, pecking your forehead, and then he kneels back to take in the sight of you as he slowly fucks into you, spearing you open. The sight of your pussy swallowing his dick is indecent in the best way, and he progressively increases the rhythm, making sure not to hurt you.

He wouldn’t forgive himself if he did. So he fucks you gently, faster and faster but never hard, not until your hands find his thighs, your nails digging into his skin. He grunts then, swearing underneath his breath, and then says, “I really don’t want to hurt you.”

“Jin, it’s okay,” you let out. You smile, wetting your lips. “Just fuck me.”

He lets out what could be considered as a whine, and then his motions grow rougher. He stops himself after a few thrusts, and you meet his gaze, looking slightly annoyed that he stopped.

“You have to tell me if it hurts, okay?” he says as he cups your cheek. 

You smile softly, nodding once. “I will, I promise.”

Once the reassurance is finally uttered, Seokjin finally lets himself go, fucking you like his life depends on it. You’re soon moaning loudly, and he has half a thought that his neighbours might hear. But then again it turns him on even more to know he’s the one making you scream like that, and he’s soon moaning with you, praising you as he slowly feels his climax nearing.

But he wants you closer when he comes. Wants to feel you in his arms, to feel his skin on yours. So he leans forward again, caging you between his arms as he keeps fucking you into the mattress. Your nails soon scratch at his back, leaving marks he knows he’ll have to hide but can’t bring himself to care about.

“Fuck, Jin,” you moan, and his head drops in the crook of your neck.

“I’m going to come,” he says, and you wrap your arms around his neck, holding him close as the high finally hits him, and he releases loads and loads of cum in the condom. 

He thinks he’s floating. He’s just a leaf floating away on a small lake, unbothered by the world. His whole body feels so light, and the only thing tethering him to the present is your arms around his neck.

He’s never come this hard before. 

“You okay?” you ask as you rub his back.

He grunts, trying to lift his head but failing. “Holy shit.”

You laugh lightly, and the crystalline sound is what finally brings him back down to Earth, what has to be minutes later.

“Wow.” He chuckles, pecks your lips. “That was amazing.”

You smile, your fingers drawing idle shapes on his back. “It was.”

Seokjin meets your gaze, taking a moment to observe the feelings swirling behind your irises, deep in the depths of your eyes. The emotions are like northern lights, swishing and shining and more beautiful than anything he’s ever seen before.

This time, Seokjin doesn’t get scared. This time, he takes the emotions in, knowing that they are reflected in his own gaze. And though you haven’t told it to each other, he knows that you love him.

And more than that, he knows that he loves you, too.

☆☆☆☆☆

hope you guys liked it:) let me know what you think about this one shot! love y'all <3

All rights reserved to @/oddinary4bts, 2024. Do not copy, repost or translate.

[gluion]

familiarity (it’s all sticky) — myung jaehyun

peter parker!jaehyun x spiderman!reader

wc — 4k genre & warnings — exes (to sort of lovers?), angst, touch of fluff, ghost-spider au, hurt/comfort (both physical and emotional), discussions of wounds and depictions of blood, reader’s hair is long enough to be tucked behind their ear, mentions of non-sexual stripping and showering playlist — nonviolent communication by metro boomin, james blake, a$ap rocky, & 21 savage // hummingbird by metro boomin & james blake notes — spidermyung save me... (sunwoo & dk vers) thank u again to cat for betareading the og ver like always <3 posting this because i have another spidermyung fic in the works anyway <3 if you enjoyed reading, please do reblog & leave feedback! request to be part of the taglist! masterlist

synopsis — you’re not sure why you decide to show up at your ex’s place all wounded up from tonight’s battle.

new york city never falls silent. the bustle of every new yorker can be heard through their footsteps,  the wheels that glide against the train tracks along with the beeps of taxis sound throughout the city. the metropolis stays alive in every street, every alleyway, every corner. no matter what hour it may be, each pavement is wide awake.

but the lights seem hazy tonight; the luminescence pours out of every building, the led boards are only blurs of silhouettes and illegible words. normally, you would warn against going out if someone could barely make sense of what these signs say, but you never seem to follow your own advice.

as you swing through the city, web clinging onto every building, blood continues to seep through the white spandex that covers you from head to toe. your body feels heavy, the pain in your lower abdomen continuing to spike with every movement—every swing—you make.

you bite on your lip, holding back the whimpers. your eyes dart through every street sign you pass. with every swing, you realize you’re nowhere close to where you should be. instead… 

you don’t allow yourself to think it over. maybe the loss of blood has you moving out of impulse, but for now, you can only think of getting rid of the pain.

you swing around the corner before landing down at the familiar fire escape, paint-chipped and rusted just like you remember. a hiss leaves your mouth as your hand reaches out to the spot where the blood continues to seep through, holding it down to keep pressure on the wound.

you’re face-to-face with the window; the reflection of you all suited up in some persona is a sight you’re accustomed to—but not on the glass of his window. you’re not sure why you came back here, injured in an identity he only knew of through word of mouth.

but the throbbing in your abdomen doesn’t give you enough time to think more about it. pushing the window up, you throw one leg over the edge into the apartment. your eyes quickly scan through the familiar space—a room you once treated as yours.

pillows scattered and bedsheets wrinkled, the walls are littered with the same posters of comics he swears to be the best of all time, along with his desk, littered with trinkets you haven’t seen since the day you left him—ones that he talked about to you back then with so much joy.

as you attempt to get your other leg over the edge of the window, you yelp at the sharp pain that strikes. “fuck,” you whimper, gasping out a breath. another groan rips out from your throat as you force your leg over, head resting on the frame with closed eyes, bracing yourself through the wave of pain that follows.

as pants continue to leave your mouth, your senses tingle as your ears catch the sound of footsteps on the other side of the room. you attempt to stand up only for another groan to leave your lips, and you realize it’s too late—the door creaks open, revealing the man you haven’t been face-to-face with since you said your farewell months ago.

dressed in an oversized white tee and a pair of black shorts, jaehyun stands with a bag of chips in his hand and disheveled hair, eyes wide and gaping. you can only assume he was fresh from bed.  

“s-spiderman?!” he looks around, noticing the mess that you’re being exposed to. before you can register it, he rushes in, dropping the bag of chips somewhere near the doorway, and tries to tidy his bed. “w-what are you doing here? i think you might’ve entered the wrong room,” he stutters as he attempts to fix his pillows and bedsheets (poorly, if you may say). 

somehow, the sight of jaehyun all frazzled makes you smile behind your mask. the idea of your—no, you mean, this guy all worried about you seeing how untidy he lives makes you chuckle.

but as you laugh, pain shoots through your lower abdomen once more. you cough out before hissing, pressing onto the wound. it takes everything in you to keep your body upright until you feel a pair of hands rest on your shoulders. you look up only to be met with his worried expression.

and you spot the way his eyes trail down to where your hand rests. you’re thankful that the mask could hide the heat that rises to your cheeks.

“oh god, you need that treated,” jaehyun’s eyes snap back up to you, and your breath hitches. even after all these months, he still holds stars in his eyes.

it’s been a while since you last saw him up close. the bags on his under eyes have turned a few shades darker, and you notice an eyelash that rests on his cheek. you don’t think about what you do next, your free hand reaching out to his face, and his breath hitches. once you pick it out, you flick the strand off of your fingers, and that’s when you realize the mistake you committed.

“s-sorry,” you choke out. although you try to keep your voice as low and gruntled as possible, he frowns. he bites the inside of his cheek as his eyes flicker between your masked face and the wound.

“i-i don’t know how to help. i can call for an ambulan—”

you grab onto his arm before he can leave. as you shake your head, he gulps. “i can’t really help you,” he says, but your grip doesn’t falter. with that, he lets out a sigh before kneeling in front of you. his hands find themselves on the ledge, his arms now caging your frail figure. “do you have someone in mind who can help you?”

jaehyun’s question is innocent. you’re sure the last thing he meant was to mock your situation—showing up in a “stranger’s” room unannounced—but it strikes a chord in you.

you haven’t spoken to him since you broke up a few months back. when you’re outside of your suit, you avoid him like the plague. in the hallways of campus, you take any possible route to not cross his. but when you’re covered in your second skin, you find yourself on top of buildings watching him from far away. with the distance, you allow yourself to learn about what he’s been up to since you two last spoke. 

so you don’t know why you sit in front of him all injured and dressed up in white, black, and pink spandex, because you haven’t spoken to him since that day. shame bubbles within you all while reality slowly slips from your fingertips. and the way your body gets heavier with every second that passes has him mumbling profanities.

his hands hold onto you as he makes you lean your weight on the frame of the window. “wait,” he says as he stands up and walks into his bathroom. before you know it, he comes out with a box.

jaehyun finds his spot back in front of you and he opens what he retrieved. as he looks through the supplies of bandages, alcohol, gauze, and more, he says as his eyes flicker up towards you, “i don’t know how much this will help but it’ll do for now.”

and you should be thankful that someone is willing to bandage you up after the rough night you’ve had, but it feels like a lie to have jaehyun be the one to do it, especially when you haven’t told him the truth.

so when he grabs onto the supplies he needs to treat your wound, your free hand reaches for the underside of your mask. his eyes follow where it rests, and he freezes in his tracks. your fingertips curl on the fabric as you take a deep breath.

“you don’t—”

you shake your head, cutting him off, and you close your eyes before pulling off the mask.

you’re afraid to look at the boy kneeling in front of you, for you can only imagine the annoyance—the disgust—that will paint his features. it’s not like you had a choice to show up at his fire escape this one night, but it was your choice to reveal who spiderman really is behind the mask.

a beat passes.

you’re not sure what to do at this moment. what are you supposed to do after a vigilante reveals who they are?

but when you open your eyes, jaehyun looks back at you with an emotion you can’t pinpoint. he averts his eyes, trailing down to your wound. “let me see it,” he whispers.

you gulp, an attempt to clear your throat and thoughts, before letting your hand move away from the puncture. your hand grips the hem of the top of your suit, peeling it upwards to reveal a bloody wound. from the sight, it looks like you were stabbed, but it’s only a deep cut.

he pulls out a piece of cloth, reaching out and pressing it to your wound. you yelp, eyes squeezing shut at the contact.  “i’m sorry, but we need to stop the bleeding a bit more.” it takes everything in you to open your eyes. you’re met with the sight of jaehyun whose face holds a thousand emotions—you can’t identify any of them.

“can you keep pressure on it?” you only nod before you remove your gloves, afraid to touch the wound with fabric covered in grime. you dump your mask and gloves on the space beside you before letting your hand reach to where the cloth is held against. your hand brushes against his for a split second—you retract your hand immediately at the contact with his skin.

at the sudden motion, the cloth against your stomach drops with nothing left to hold it. jaehyun curses in a panic, hand shooting out in an attempt to save it, but you react faster. snatching it mid-fall, you grasp it tightly, placing the cloth back onto your wound. his eyes dart between where your hand rests and your face, a twinge of worry cast on his features, but he doesn’t give you an opportunity to say anything as he stands up quickly and walks back to his bathroom.

you hear the water run for a moment. the noises of the street fill your ears. the lights from outside cascade the floor, hues of yellow and purple filling the room. and then thunder rumbles; it shakes the floorboards. the sounds of raindrops follow, and you feel your back start to get wet from the storm that has entered new york city.

you try to push yourself off the ledge, a groan ripping out of your throat once more. and you’re finally on your feet. but at any moment, it feels like you may collapse.

“wait, wait! what are you doing?” jaehyun exclaims as he rushes out of the bathroom. he quickly grabs hold of you in an attempt to keep you steady. “don’t stand up or that wound might get worse.”

“i-it’s just the rain. i don’t want to leave the window open.” as you turn your torso, another spike strikes where your wound is. the yelp that leaves your mouth has jaehyun grip onto your arm tighter.

“no, just sit. i’ll take care of it,” he says as he brings you to his chair, his hand never leaves your arm. you let out a hiss until your bottom meets the cushion. as soon as your back rests on the chair, you close your eyes for a moment from the pain.

his hand leaves you. you hear the window shut; the car horns and barks from stray animals are now muffled.

when your eyes flutter open, jaehyun crouches in front of you with a wet towel in his hand. “i need to clean it.” you only nod before removing the cloth on your wound. he grabs it from you and places it on his lap.

as he raises the wet towel to your wound, you flinch at the contact. he quickly retracts it and asks, “does it hurt?”

“no, it’s just cold,” you mumble back. he only nods before attempting to clean the area around your wound. while he keeps his eyes on the puncture, your eyes remain on his face; hues of yellow cast upon him.

his skin glows under the city lights—did anyone know about the stars you once carved on it?

“is this why we broke up?” his eyes snap toward yours as he asks that question.

you cannot help but bite the inside of your cheek. “y-yeah,” you choke out.

he hums before his eyes go back down to your injury. “i’m guessing this is why you were distant then, right?”

you don’t bother to speak, letting the silence speak for itself.

he removes the wet towel; the white cloth is covered in patches of red. as he crumples it into a ball, you spot that his white shirt holds splotches of blood as well.

jaehyun stands up to drop the pieces of fabric on the table behind you. “your dad obviously doesn’t know,” he mutters to himself.

it’s a rhetorical question. of course, your father has no clue of your late-night rendezvous. you’re sure he could never look at you the same if he found out because to him, he would never understand what you do. he would see you only as a low-life criminal in the same way the nypd does. 

jaehyun then dabs a cotton ball soaked in betadine on your abdomen. you bite on your lip as a hiss leaves your mouth. “fuck,” you curse, and he only continues to clean up your wound.

jaehyun takes over you two. as he bandages you up, you allow yourself to close your eyes. you were thankful to find rest in these small moments. but you don’t miss the warmth of his fingertips on your skin; they feel just like last time.

“why did you come here?” his question has your eyes snapping open, and you are met with a frown resting on his face.

you bite the inside of your cheek. “i-i don’t know.” it’s a lie—one you both know. you had every chance to change the route you were taking. instead, you chose to go to his place—even if it may be on the other side of where you live.

he lets out a sigh. it’s clear that he’s disappointed by your words, but all he says is “okay,” as he gets up. “you can stay here for the night.” he stands in front of you in a shirt covered in patches of blood—it’s proof that his heart still holds a spot for you.

despite the venom that was laced in your words the night you cut ties with him, he leaves you a space for you to fill. it’s another choice you can make, but one you’re not sure if you should take.

jaehyun walks to the desk behind you and flips the lamp on. you swivel the chair so that you’re face-to-face with his slouched figure. you would’ve scolded him, but you’re not in the place to do so—not after what you two had.

but a part of you wishes to chide those words—hey, keep slouching and your back will get worse—for old time’s sake. it takes everything in you to hold back from saying the reminder, but it takes nothing to let your hand grip the back of his shirt. his movements halt.

as you sit up, you let your face bury into the arch of his back. the scent of his laundry detergent (it’s still the same smell of lavender) fills your nose, and you let your hands trail around his torso until they find their home on his waist. even after all these months, your hands knew where to rest—your spidey senses knew who to go to.

you feel his hands rest on your arms, his thumb drawing circles on your forearm. you breathe at the same pace as him. whenever his shoulders move up, yours follow. and you allow yourself to cherish just this once the familiar warmth of jaehyun. you let your soul mesh with his once more.

with closed eyes, you whisper, “i still look for you.” his thumb stops moving, and a shaky breath leaves your mouth. “i’m here because all i know is you.”

it’s half of a lie, but still a lie nevertheless. you shake your head against his shirt. “no,” you rescind. “i know i shouldn’t be here, and i had every chance to go back home, but,” you take a deep breath. “would you let me, just this once, be honest with you?”

your question hangs in the air—it’s not for him but for you. all the choices you took led to this moment, from embracing the persona you were handed through a single spider bite all the way to removing the mask in front of him.

jaehyun spins to face you. he stands in front of you with the remnants of you covering him, his shirt coated in hues of red and your blood dried up on his hands. the light behind him causes a shadow to paint his face.

but when he kneels once more in front of you, you get a good look at his features. he still looks like the same boy you first met—the same one you fell in love with—but you wonder if he was still the one you knew?

that is until his hand reaches toward your face. you hold your breath as it finds its spot on your cheek. but as his thumb grazes your cheekbone, a trembling breath leaves you. you gulp everything down—your fears and anxieties—so that you can finally be honest with jaehyun.

“i wanted to tell you who i really am.” a flicker of confusion flashes through his eyes. “and i know i’m not doing it in the best state,” a chuckle leaves your mouth. “but with every day that passes, and every injury i need to endure, i didn’t know when i would be able to tell you what went wrong with us.” a beat passes. “what went wrong with me.”

he shakes his head. “nothing’s wrong with you. what are you talking about?” a frown takes over his face. “i mean, you’re spiderman, for god’s sake.” you weren’t able to hold back the giggle that slipped from your lips.

but it wouldn’t be fair to just accept his words as is, not after the damage you’ve caused.

you let a hand rest on his, the one that rests on your cheek, and you curl your fingers so that you hold it. “i’m sorry that this is me.” the whisper is loud enough to fill the silence of his room. “i’m sorry that i crashed here all injured and left you to deal with the mess,” your eyes flicker to his bed. “especially on a night when you were resting.”

as soon as your eyes go back to jaehyun, you notice that he’s biting the inside of his cheek. “why are you telling me this?” it’s an honest question, one he couldn’t figure out the answer to. “we haven’t seen each other since you broke up with me.”

and he has every right to be confused with your sudden appearance. after all the months spent avoiding him in the halls while still seeking him on top of buildings, jaehyun was left with no clue as to why you come to him first in such a dire situation. why is it that you chose to reveal such an intimate part of yourself months after you two have drifted?

“do i have to say it?” you ask.

and he looks back into your eyes before saying, “it’s the least you can do.”

so you grab onto his hand, moving it so that it rests in yours. the sight of his fingers and palms covered in splotches of you fills your heart with warmth. it’s proof of the time he spent to patch you up. no matter who you may be—spiderman or not—you will forever be at his mercy.

“we can’t be together. it will only be another cycle of pain.” for both of you. as your eyes land back on his face, you spot sorrow coating his features.

“but i still do.” it’s an unfinished thought on his end. despite the frown you show, all he does is flash you a bitter smile. “i always have and always will.”

and it clicks.

“n-no, jaehyun,” you shake your head. “you can’t.”

he brings your hand close to his lips, letting it linger for a moment. “but you do,” he whispers into your fingertips. “right?”

even after revealing who spiderman truly is behind the mask, you expect jaehyun to rethink everything he knows. the months spent away from you should be enough reason to reconsider how much he knows of you now. but even if you two were to spend years apart, he would still read you as well as he does now. 

“i can’t,” you choke out. “i can only offer so much, and you deserve so much more.”

he smiles at you—the same one you used to see every day, no matter what time of the day it may be—as his free hand reaches for your hair, tucking it behind your ear.

“i couldn’t care any less.”

you shake your head. it’s clear he doesn’t understand the gravity of it all; to be with you means to remain in constant danger. “no, jaehyun. you don’t understand. i broke up with you because i’m batshit scared of what will happen to you.”

because it seems to always occur—anyone you come close to becomes another target for your enemies. it’s already hard enough to handle the responsibility of being a masked hero, but you don’t think you could handle a possibility where jaehyun’s death would be on your hands.

but all he does is shake his head and says, “i don’t care. i still love you.”

you haven’t heard him say that to you in months. such a simple phrase causes warmth to fill your limbs and heat to rise to your cheeks. he still has the same effect on you after so long.

there are consequences that this conversation bears. you should have stood up and left as soon as he patched you up. it should’ve been obvious that the longer you stayed, the more you would pour out sentiments that you tried to keep under wraps—under the mask—and it seemed that jaehyun knew how to undo them even better than he did then.

and hearing jaehyun say those words has you falling into a perpetual cycle of torment, one that makes every day intolerable for you can only watch him from afar. but aren’t you already living it the more you deny what’s in front of you two?

so you only nod, and bring his hand close so you can feel his fingertips on your lips. with closed eyes, you whisper, “okay.”

it’s a testament to everything—one to his offer to let you sleep in this very room you once treated as yours, one to his confession that tilted your world’s axis, one to the very situation you’re in—and you’re sure he knows it, too.

he smiles as soon as your eyes flutter open. “let’s go to sleep.”

you know that sleep meant to be wrapped in his arms all while he would leave kisses on your temple. you don’t remember the last time you got enough rest, but you remember that the last time you slept in jaehyun’s arms was the last one you were able to fall into slumber at ease.

so you nod, allowing him to help you out of the chair. and he helps you through it all—shedding the suit off of you, cleaning you of all the grime from tonight’s adventure, and getting dressed in fresh clothes—until you two find your place on his bed.

nothing is said for the rest of the night. for once, you drift into slumber without any secrets stashed away.

networks: @kflixnet @k-labels @blankjournal @onedoornet @kstrucknet

boynextdoor permanent tag list: @bndokidoki @0310s @whyilovewhales-pdf

[tired-truffle]

Even the Gods Cry For Us

A Viktorxfem!reader fic

Chapter Word Count: 4.6k

Part 1/17 (Complete!)

"So please, I beg you - he is all that I have, and you have so many heroes and the world has so many more. Let him be soft, and let him be mine." - J.P.

Summary: Sequel to Můj Miláček - You'd survived, brought Viktor back from the brink of death, but at what cost? You were sure to find out.

Warnings (these will apply for the remainder of the fic, even if not explicitly mentioned in each chapter): Depictions of extensive injuries, blood, and hallucinations.

Masterlist

It seemed that no matter how hard you tried, no matter how much you clawed your way towards your goals with hands raw and blistered, it always felt like you were falling short. Not even for the ones you cherished above all else. You were doomed to fail, a broken marionette - strings dripping with Shimmer - who couldn’t play her part, who couldn’t do the one thing she had set out all those years ago to do. 

Save Sky, and save Viktor. It should have been simple. You had seen the future, and you had your magic, unpredictable and stubborn, as it may be, and still, you'd failed. Perhaps that was just another flaw on your part - to be unable to use the tools given to you to any degree of effectiveness - another weakness that prevented you from protecting those you loved. If you’d tried harder, done better, maybe you could have saved them. But Sky had crumbled into dust, and Viktor…

It had only taken two steps out of that dark and dingy cave before he’d stumbled, coughing until blood seeped from the corners of his lips. 

Despite your best efforts to heal him, the illness had only been temporarily delayed. It was like trying to cover a gaping wound with a small bandage; it would take much more than that to ensure proper healing. And yet, there you were, still struggling with your own body's ailments, too weak to do anything more than hobble beside him.

The Shimmer that had bound itself to your veins, to your magic - your very core - managed to patch you up enough to prevent imminent death, to close your wounds into barely healed scars, but the pain was relentless. Like flames licking across your skin, your limbs coursing with white-hot fire. It was a miracle that you could even stand, and as the adrenaline faded and concern for Viktor grew, you were relatively certain the only thing keeping you going was the sheer amount of power you had absorbed - that you had made your own. 

Thick, acrid smog slithered into your lungs as Viktor led you toward the outskirts of the Undercity. Surrounded by decaying buildings and alleyways reeking of decay and filth, it was safest to keep a low profile. While the cloaks you’d borrowed - stolen - from Singed’s lab provided some degree of coverage, it was best to remain hidden while you were both recovering - while Viktor continued to deteriorate. 

“I need to stop for a moment.” You leaned against a cool cement wall, hot pink graffiti tags and chips taken out from years of wear and tear lining the building. The abandoned streets stretched out in front of you, devoid of any signs of life. You had no idea where you were, you’d yet to see anyone else, and from the thickness of the smog, you could understand why. 

From the start, it was clear that neither of you could fully support the other physically. Viktor still relied on his crutch for stability, and your burns made even the thought of someone grazing your left side unbearable. Not to mention the runes from the Hexcore that had carved themselves into your flesh. Even the wall against your shoulders was enough to make your face contort into a pained grimace, until you angled yourself so only your right side touched the surface. 

“It’s only a little further.” Viktor extended his hand, the metallic surface glinting in the dim light. The once-vibrant blue bolts of light that had danced between his fingers had faded and now only faintly flickered at the edges. “I promise, it will be worth it.” 

Too tired for words, you gave a grunt of affirmation, pushing yourself off the wall and accepting his hand. With the renewed determination offered by his touch, you continued towards your destination. 

As promised, it didn't take long for the crumbling facades of abandoned row houses to come into view. Their once vibrant colours were now faded and peeling, like old paint on a weathered canvas. The broken windows gave off a vacant stare, as if the buildings themselves were longing for life to return. You followed Viktor through the narrow alleyways, the stench of decay growing stronger with each step. Viktor led you to a decrepit door, its hinges rusted and creaking from years of neglect. As he pushed it open, the sound echoed throughout the desolate streets, a haunting reminder of what once was.

Inside, a musty scent hung heavy, the kind that clings to the lungs and coats the tongue with a metallic tang. Cobwebs draped corners, thick and undisturbed. Dust danced in the slants of light that pierced the boarded windows, casting eerie shadows that seemed to shift and contort with each breath.

As you stepped further inside, a strange sense of familiarity washed over you. The bare walls, stripped of any hint of life, echoed with each step you took on the squeaking floorboards. The air was stale as if it had been trapped inside for well over a decade. It all stirred something deep within, a memory just beyond your grasp. You ran your fingers along the exposed brick, tracing the worn grooves and indentations as if they might reveal some long-buried secret. Following the path your fingers had set, you walked past what used to be a tiny kitchen, barely recognizable now with its empty shelves and rusted appliances. Heading past the stairs leading to the upper level, you continued into what once must have been a living room. It was empty, save a rotted couch in the far corner, light green wallpaper peeling in strips to expose the crumbling drywall underneath.

As much as you wanted to explore further and unravel the threads of your memory, your body protested every movement, and you no longer had the will to resist. The floor was as comfy a place to rest as any. While your couch back at the Academy had been particularly springy, the couch that occupied the barren living room was entirely springs and a rotted wooden frame. 

But with rest, with your body no longer able to occupy itself with propelling you forward one step at a time, your mind scattered. 

You hadn’t noticed the blood splattering the wall opposite you when you’d first arrived, but as you sank onto the worn floorboards, careful to rest only your uninjured side against the dusty wall, out of the corner of your eye you caught sight of the crimson liquid. 

Drip, drip, drip, it echoed through the room, each drop splattering against the floor with a quiet plink. Raining down from a crack in the ceiling, angry lines running out from a fissure, the blood pooled in a grotesque puddle, seeping into the floorboards. Your body froze as you pressed yourself against the wall, your fingers clawing for any kind of grip as you tried to distance yourself from the nightmarish scene. Whose blood was that? It was fresh, the metallic tang of iron and death filled your nostrils, making you gag. It could have filled a large bathtub with the amount that rained down from above, the drip becoming a steady stream before the reality of your situation set in.

Viktor, where was Viktor? Your head whipped around, a whimper ripping itself from your throat as your skin protested the movement with a sharp rake of pain. But you didn’t care, Viktor wasn’t within sight, and the creaking of the ceiling above indicated that someone was slowly walking across it.

Was it Viktor, or had you failed to protect him in your moment of weakness?

Scrambling up and stumbling against the door frame, you found the rickety stairs leading to the second floor. If Viktor had gone up there, how had you not heard him? And yet, unless he’d left the house, there was nowhere but the living room or kitchen for him to go. 

The sound of your ragged breathing curled around your ears like smoke, your hand leaving bloody prints along the railing as you made your way up the stairs. A pounding began at the base of your skull. Had you touched the blood? You couldn’t recall. 

“Viktor.” His name was pulled from your dry mouth in a hoarse gasp as you crested the top of the stairs, your chest heaving with the effort. The landing split off into two small rooms, their doors thrown open invitingly. From your position, you strained to catch a glimpse inside, but the angle made it impossible for you to see beyond the threshold.

Viktor did not respond, and the noxious gas of fear rose in your chest. Stumbling forward on uncoordinated legs, you aimed yourself toward the room where the blood was coming from. Your vision swam as your strength waned, but still, you pushed on, determined and terrified.

Upon making it into the room, you nearly collapsed with relief when you saw Viktor standing at the window, peering out at the streets below. The room itself was bare, the floor clean except for the thick coat of dust that lined every other inch of the house. But as he turned to face you, any consolation you felt evaporated. Viktor, his cloak wrapped around his shoulders, his metallic chest gleaming in the low moonlight, was not as unharmed as he had first appeared to be. Blood dripped from his nose, his eyes, his ears, the sides of his mouth, staining his pale skin with streaks of dark red. With a cry of horror, you tripped over your feet in your haste to get to his side. 

His eyes widened at the speed of your approach, of the panic that lay in the tight lines of your face. Your hands outstretched were caught in his, deftly, though he still leaned on his crutch. His mouth moved, but you heard no sound over the rushing white noise in your ears. How was he so calm? Did he not realize he was dying again? Trembling, you released your magic, pale blue light flowing over him and encompassing him in its aura. 

But it did nothing to heal him. 

It never did. 

His lips moved once more, but their words were lost in the deluge of tears that streamed down your face. Your vision blurred as you tried to read his lips, your breathing rapid and broken by hiccups and sobs. The sound of his voice was muffled, like it was coming from underwater, and you strained to make out any meaning behind the garbled sounds.

No! You wanted to scream. I only just lost him, I cannot do it again!

Pushing against his grasp, you felt him soften his hold and allow you to reach for him, to feel the smoothness of his cheek beneath your touch, to wipe your thumb beneath his nose, excepting to find the slickness of blood, only to find…nothing but the soft feel of his skin. 

Blinking hard, you pulled your other hand back to wipe away your tears, salt stinging at your wounds. Your heart throbbed, aching with every beat as you tried to hold back your sobs. 

“Miláček,” his voice was pitched low and gentle, “tell me what’s wrong.”

Your bottom lip quivered, vision blurring as your magic surged out of you and into Viktor. The deafening white noise in your ears slowly faded, and the thick, metallic scent of blood that had filled the air disappeared, as if it had never been there to begin with.

Squeezing your eyes shut, you closed the remaining distance between you. His hands found your uninjured cheek, holding you with a tenderness that could make even the toughest of hearts melt away. “I-I don’t…” A shaky exhale. “I thought you were hurt.”

With a soft sigh that eased the tension from your shoulders - for only a man at peace could make such a sound - he said, “Then it’s a good thing I remain unharmed.” You leaned into his touch, his hand warm against your skin, his pulse beating a steady rhythm. “We should rest; the events of the day have taken a toll on our minds and bodies."

That was an understatement. The last few hours felt like an eternity, as if time had stretched and twisted into a never-ending spiral. In that short span, you’d learned so much, yet not enough.

The carnage had only just begun. 

As you slowly emerged from the depths of sleep, you found yourself cocooned in Viktor's warm embrace. Though your legs were numb and your back ached from the hard floor beneath you, your body burning anew as the throb of your injuries surged to the forefront of your consciousness, the rise and fall of Viktor’s chest beneath your palm had you biting back your pained cry. 

As your eyes fluttered open, the soft light of your magic filled your vision, casting an otherworldly glow around you. Through the haze of your aches and exhaustion, you concluded that the reason you were not screaming and thrashing was the numbing effects of your magic as it rolled over you both, dulling the sharp edges of agony pulsating through you.

Slowly, you raised your head from the hardness of his shoulder, feeling a twinge in your ear from being squished against it all night. But in the grand scheme of things, it was a minor discomfort that hardly registered. In the dim light of the cloudy morning, sunlight filtering through the grimy window, you studied him. His face, tranquil in sleep, looked years younger without the burden of worry creasing into his forehead. His lips parted slightly as he breathed evenly, his hair mused, curling at his nape. Your fingers traced over his chest, shirt torn from where you’d ripped it, feeling the cool metal that had been infused with your own magic to save his life, sparks of energy crackling beneath your touch. Did it hurt him, you wondered. Had you hurt him? 

The Hexcore, pulsating with dark energy, still resided within you. Soraka's powerful magic had sealed it away, but its presence was unmistakable. It sat like a stone lodged in your throat, no amount of swallowing hard could remove it. It clawed and thrashed within its confines, eager to be unleashed and wield its power over others. It had done so to Viktor, hadn’t it? Transformed him into something a little less flesh and blood, a little more mechanical. Or rather, you had done that to him in your frantic attempt to save his life. And already you could feel it fading, feel your work run out of power. You hadn’t known what you were doing, you still didn’t. You possessed innate magical abilities, but Viktor did not - his body relied on the fuel provided by the Hexcore, leaving him vulnerable, and you had locked away the only thing that could give it to him.

Not to mention the six Gemstones worth of power that you had already absorbed, awakening your latent magic and leaving it pulsing through your body, ready to be harnessed and wielded. But even as the potential for greatness coursed through you, so too did the overwhelming burn of magic, like a slippery acid, seeping into every pore and nerve ending. Your body, unable to withstand the intense pressure, had taken upon itself the task of releasing your magic while you slept, desperate to ease the constant urge for more.

“That tickles, Miláček.” Viktor's thumb and forefinger traced the outline of your chin, gently turning your face to meet his gaze. His eyes were hazy with sleep, but a lazy smile still graced his lips. You lingered on the sharp lines of his jaw and the curve of his jaw, before finally registering what he had said, and the light shake of his chest as he held back laughter. 

Electric blue sparks crackled and danced across your skin, leaving a trail of tingling sensation in their wake. They playfully jumped onto Viktor, skittering across his chest before disappearing into the crevasses of metal that adorned his body.

“Oh!” You jumped and a fresh wave of sparks burst from you and cascaded over Viktor, eliciting a light and unexpected giggle. You’d never heard such a sound from him before, and while the circumstances were less than ideal, you tucked the memory of it safely away. “I’m so sorry!” 

Inhaling deeply, you willed the sparks to stop, to cease their teasing dance and leave you alone. But they seemed to have a will of their own, and your efforts to control them only seemed to ignite them further. With a renewed energy, they flitted and flickered around you, emitting soft, tinkling laughter that sounded like mischievous pixies at play. Their movements were graceful yet erratic, like a troupe of ballet dancers performing an impromptu routine.  

Viktor laughed, loud and startled, no longer able to hold it back as the tickling increased. It bubbled up from deep within him, spreading through his body like a wildfire, until he couldn't hold it in any longer. His whole frame shook with mirth, and tears streamed down his cheeks.

“I don’t know how to stop it!” Panic laced your voice, and while you were thankful that it wasn’t hurting him, you were well aware of how quickly your magic could change. 

Trying to speak was a futile endeavour when one was being tickled by hundreds of little sparks, and Viktor made a valiant effort, but it did little in the face of the…magical ticklers? The whole situation was absurd; here you were, running away from Piltover, losing control over your magic, the Hexcore a constant threat, and Viktor…well, you weren’t sure what was happening with him, he was alive, but without the Hexcore, you didn’t how long that would last. Yet, amidst all of that, Viktor was lost in a laughing fit, at the mercy of your magic as it tickled him. 

With great effort, you heaved yourself upright and scooted away from him, your muscles aching and protesting with every movement. It was your only option, to create some space between you. The sparks leaped across the floor, continuing to barrage Viktor with their giggles and tickles. However, as you made it halfway across the room, even the exuberant sparks seemed to have their limits, groaning with high-pitched dismay as they strained to reach Viktor.

“Stop that,” you hissed, swiping your hand through their path. They shrieked as they dispersed, their target no longer in reach, their joy cut off. 

Sitting up, Viktor pressed a hand to his chest, catching his breath and wiping away the remnants of his tears. You grimaced, swatting away the remaining sparks as they bickered their irritation, until all that remained was the silent flow of your pain relief. 

“That was certainly unexpected,” Viktor said when he’d regained his composure, his lips tilted in an amused grin. He didn’t seem to be in pain, despite not having your magic - stuck at a distance as you were - to soothe any aches. 

“I…don’t know what that was.” You pursed your lips, gaze averted. “I’m so sorry.” 

Viktor shook his head, patting down the tuft of hair that stuck up at the back like a ducktail. “There’s no need to apologize. I’m capable of withstanding some tickling.”

“It’s not just that,” you argued, “I couldn’t stop it, couldn’t control my own magic. This time I didn’t hurt you, but what if next time I do?”

With a sigh, Viktor pushed himself up to stand, and began making his way towards you. Scrambling to get away, you scooted yourself farther back. “No, no, no, wait! They could come back!”

“Eh,” Viktor shrugged, making no move to heed your warning. “Then I will be at their mercy again.”

Your back hit the wall, and you had nowhere else to go. Before you could find an exit, he was kneeling in front of you, his left knee clanking against the ground.

“May I?” His skin and bone hand hovered just over your cheek. His face was so open in its vulnerability, in his concern, as he leaned

in close to you; knees pulled tight against your chest.

“I don’t want to hurt you.” Your voice came out in a hoarse whisper, thick and lodged in your throat, swallowing around the Hexcore. 

“You will not.” He said it with such unwavering certainty, such conviction, you could find no room to argue. 

You took a shaky breath, and slowly, like you were taking a tentative step into an overheated bathtub, you leaned your cheek against his awaiting palm. 

And your magic stayed put, it didn’t lash out, didn’t roll through his body like it did yours. You didn’t hurt him. 

The tension in your legs eased, allowing them to fall loosely around his body as he drew nearer. His sturdy knees nestled comfortably beneath your thighs, bringing you closer together.

“See,” his thumb brushed across your skin and you sighed your content, “I was correct.”

Your hand overlapped his as you nuzzled your face into his palm. “No need to gloat,” you said with no real irritation. 

He chuckled, but said nothing, simply giving you time to breathe, to calm the fractured plains of your mind as his thumb continued to swipe across your cheek. 

“Where are we?” you asked after a minute. You’d meant to ask last night, but your exhaustion and terror had gotten the better of you. The kitchen had seemed strangely familiar, but try as you might you couldn’t place it. 

Viktor looked around the room, tenderness in the upward tilt of his brow. “My childhood home. I moved to the Academy shortly after my parents passed, but even by that time, the neighbourhood was already thinning. The Grey was worse here than in other places, the ventilation system never worked as well on the outskirts. I didn’t think I would ever be back here.” 

You were at a loss for how to respond. Your mind raced with questions - should you offer your condolences for his parents? He had never explicitly mentioned their deaths, but it had been clear from his demeanour on the rare occasion that they were brought up, that they were no longer alive. Or perhaps you should validate his decision to leave, to escape The Grey that had most likely been the cause of his declining health. Maybe both actions were necessary, or maybe neither would suffice. Should you simply pat him on the shoulder like you were an emotionally stunted adult trying to console a child?

“You don’t have to say anything.” Had you said that all aloud or had he simply guessed where your thoughts had headed? “I don’t want to be troubled by the past, not when I have you here right now.” 

Such a simple statement had such a profound effect on your battered heart. Like the leech you were, you leaned forward, wrapping your arms around his waist and tugging him close. The sharp sting of your burns was nothing compared to the warmth spreading from his touch. His hand slipped from your cheek to the back of your neck, sighing into your hair as you tucked your face against his shoulder, inhaling his scent - a mix of pine and the metallic tang of steel. It was slightly different than how he used to smell, just like the hardness of his partially metal body, but it didn't change anything about how you felt. You loved him, had loved him for years - permeating through your soul like it had always belonged there. 

Your hands tightened their grip on his back. “How are you feeling?” Your voice was muffled against him, but loud enough to be heard. 

“I should be asking you the same.” 

A dismissal, an attempt to divert your attention from what he knew would upset you. But even though you were exhausted in both body and spirit, you were not so easily distracted from his health. 

You pinched his metal chest harmlessly, like squeezing the corner of a table between your fingers. “I asked you first.” 

You felt him smile against the top of your head. “I see your stubbornness has not been affected.” 

“Nor yours,” you shot back, earning you a hum of agreement. 

“I am…” he began, his hand coming up to tangle in your hair, his fingers scraping along your scalp. “Alive. Though I feel my strength waning, it is too soon to tell if this is simply a result of the power you poured into my body stabilizing, or something worse.”

You bit your lip, the tangy taste of blood rising to your tongue. It wasn’t too soon for you, your magic screamed at you that this decline would continue, that without the Hexcore he would only become weaker and weaker until—

“Milá, you have provided me with more time than I ever would have had without you.” He couldn’t possibly know that for certain, without you maybe he would have found a cure, would have been able to use the Hexcore properly to cure his illness. “And most importantly, I have more time with you.” 

You lifted your face towards his, meeting his gaze as he looked down at you, lovingly, like you were worth all the pain and trouble. You weren’t entirely so sure, but you melted into him all the same, powerless to resist. His hand returned to your cheek, his eyes trailing over your injuries, a crease forming between his brows. 

“Your wounds are healing, but as I avoided your inquiry, you have avoided mine.” 

You huffed, licking the blood off your lips as subtly as possible, though his gaze flickered to the movement of your tongue and you doubted he had missed it. “I don’t really know how to answer. I feel…like I’m hanging on by a thread, like one strong gust will blow me over and my magic will take my place and control me. I’m afraid, but also, I’m beyond grateful that I am here with you, that I…get to love you for longer.”

You hadn’t talked about anything that had happened between you in that cave. You hadn’t addressed the confessions or the way you’d melded together and kissed him with desperation. Nervousness churned in your gut as you spoke your love for him aloud in the dim light of day, wondering if he could still feel the same way despite how your magic had already displayed defiance, how you looked without the shadows to hide your burned skin. You met his gaze, and that doubt faded away like a distant memory.

He leaned his forehead against yours, your eyes fluttering shut as his breath ghosted across your lips. “As am I, Miláček.” 

Viktor leaned in closer, his nose brushing against yours in a feather-light caress. You tilted your chin up in silent invitation, inviting him closer. His gaze dropped to your parted lips and he let out a soft, shuddering exhale.

And finally, his lips pressed against yours with a tender urgency that stole the breath from your lungs. The warmth of his mouth was a gentle flame, spreading through your body and melting you from the inside out. Your fingers instinctively tangled in his soft hair, the strands silken between your fingertips. As he deepened the kiss, Viktor's metal hand slid around to cradle the back of your head while the other firmly gripped your waist.

You melted into his solid frame, feeling every inch of him pressed against you. Your hands slid up his chest until your fingers curled around the back of his neck. The thrumming pulse of his changed body resonated through you, a steady drumbeat in time with your wildly racing heart.

You lost yourself in the languid dance. All the fear, the pain, the uncertainty faded into the background until there was only this – only him and the reverent way his mouth worshipped yours.

Despite the unknowns of what the future held and the daunting task of finding a solution to Viktor's decline, you knew that you were not alone. You would figure it out together. 

Next Chapter

A/N: YAYYY!!! So excited to be back writing these two, I've missed them so much :') I hope you enjoyed some silly Viktor, he was sorely missing in this season, but don't worry, there is plenty more where that came from! I'd also written this scene before they came out with his new league skin that gets tickled by his robot arm - I love that I am on the same page as his writers lol.

Let me know what you think and any predictions for how you think its gonna go! I'd be super interested to hear them :) And as always, thank you for reading!!

I'll be posting another chapter hopefully later this week/weekend so stay tuned!

If I’m missing any warnings, please let me know!

Join us on Discord here

[hysteria-things]

COULD U POSSIBLY MAKE A MATT FIC BASED OFF OF THIS TIKTOK OR SONG (YOU CAN DECIDE IF U WANT IT TO BE SMUT OR NOT IF U DO MAKE ONE) https://www.tiktok.com/t/ZT8wp5H2t/

🔗

MY OH MY

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: dom!matt x reader

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: you get into a pickle when you get poured on, but don’t worry… somebody comes to save you.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: SMUTTY, swearing, making out, p in v, ass grabbing, faux sympathy, cum eating (🙈)

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 1,400

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: meant to post earlier but tumblr decided to close the draft without saving as i was proofreading/editing🤣

hope you enjoy @sluttyformatt :)

rain trickles down your hair to your shoes; workout clothes soaked.

you wanted to go on a late-night walk, then suddenly it started pouring out of nowhere. currently, you’re standing under a roof edge, arms crossed while you wait for your ride.

your brother isn’t around to pick you up, so your last resort was his best friend. he’s your brother’s age, who’s two years older than you. he’s known him ever since high school, yet your mother always said matt was a bad influence.

although, you do see where she’s coming from. matt was the type to always get in trouble in school, and overall he’s just a big grump. he’s only been nice to you, your brother, and of course his siblings.

headlights glow down the street, getting closer until the minivan stops in front of you. you quickly head over to it, open the door, and get in on the passenger’s side. “hi matty!” you beam. “thank you so much for picking me up. i didn’t know it was going to rain.”

he looks at you, wearing the leather jacket he’s had for as long as you can remember.

he truly doesn’t understand how you can be so happy no matter what, even if you are drenched in water. “you should’ve checked the weather before you left.” he mumbles, putting the car in drive.

“well, it was sunny all day. i didn’t expect rain. it’s okay, though. it’s like a surprise shower.” you smile, fastening the seatbelt.

“uh oh,” you say, looking through your fanny pack that you have strapped to your stomach.

he sighs, still focusing on the road. “what is it now?”

“i may or may not have left my keys home and locked myself out. nobody’s home.” you lick your teeth. “can i come to your place until my brother picks me up? pretty please, matty?”

“fine.” he inhales sharply. “and stop calling me matty.”

it’s silent as you two sit on the couch. your brother texted you saying he’ll let you know when he’s on his way, but god knows how long that’ll be. (despite it being almost midnight)

matt notices a shiver, taking his eyes off of his phone to look. your hands rub up and down your arms trying to warm up, but the chattering of your teeth indicates that it isn’t helping. “go to my room and grab one of my hoodies and pajama pants. they should be in my dresser.” he says coolly.

you smile. “it’s okay, i can wait. i’m fine.”

“put them on.” he demands. “you’re soaking wet and freezing.”

staring at him, he keeps staring back because of your silence. “go.”

you sigh like a child, getting up from the couch and walking down the hallway into his bedroom.

matt’s clothes are far too big on you, but you do feel warmer and more comfortable. his pants hang low just past your waistline. the hoodie on the other hand is long, causing the sleeves to give you sweater paws.

you sit on the chair he has in the corner, scrolling on your phone. matt can’t help but stand at the doorway, watching you.

not in a creepy way, but the fact you’re wearing his clothes has his dick reacting from the view. the way it’s too big for your body turns him to fuck on.

he cannot feel this way toward you. your his best friend’s sister, for god’s sake. but he can’t help it.

“feel better?”

you get startled by his voice. “yes, thank you.”

“told you so,” he grumbles.

rolling your eyes playfully, you stand up. “i didn’t mean to linger in here. i got distracted.”

as you start to walk by him, he grabs onto your shoulders to stop you. your breath hitches at the feeling of his rings; the way they drag down your arm makes you subconsciously clench your thighs together.

his cologne floods your nostrils, and the way he’s looking at you is different now.

he’s always been a grumpy kid and had a resting bitch face, but now he’s looking at you seductively and with need.

the hand that was on your arm now cups the front of your neck. there’s no pressure, but the fingers with no rings go over your bottom lip.

he sighs sympathetically. “it sucks that you’re off limits. i would so fuck you right now.”

your eyebrows raise high from the sudden courage he had to just blurt that out. however, you smirk.

“if you kiss me.” you shrug. “i might let it happen.”

he groans, leaning down to smash his lips on yours.

still intact, you grab his jacket and pull him in closer, your bodies moving at the same rhythm.

he starts to push you back to where the chair is, turning you 180° so he’s the one sitting in it while you straddle his lap.

your hips grind, rubbing just the right spot on not only you but him also. you smile into the kiss when you feel him hardening beneath you.

tugging at the pants you're wearing, he pulls away. “take these off.”

you shimmy them down your legs as he unbuckles his belt and pulls his bottoms down below his thighs. he grabs your hips to hover you over him, but stops and teases the tip.

you wiggle to get some friction as he smirks. “manners.”

“please.” you whine. “please let me ride your cock. i’m so fucking wet for you.”

matt sinks you slowly onto him, your walls immediately stretching to his size. “i didn’t know you had such a dirty mouth.”

you mumble something into his chest, bouncing uncontrollably on his dick. your sweater paws ball up on his biceps. your ass slaps repeatedly on his skin, the sound echoing off the walls.

he tuts, grabbing your ass and giving it a firm squeeze. “why so quiet?”

“stop.” you mewl, nuzzling your face even deeper into his body. your face is hot from embarrassment.

“is somebody embarrassed to be fucking her brother’s best friend? it looks like ms. goody-two-shoes is a little naughty.” he says lowly into your ear, causing you to start whimpering and going even faster.

it doesn’t take long for his tip to brush against the right spot “oh, fuck.” you moan, legs shaking at his sides.

“better not get this chair dirty, otherwise i’ll make you clean it,” he warns, knowing that you can’t control your orgasm.

pouting, you clench hard. of course, your release runs down his thighs and onto the seat. your eyes are glassed over while you look at him, who’s shaking his head. “you’re making a mess.”

somehow so quickly, he lifts you off of him and onto the floor. now, he’s behind you, and your cheek leans against the chair.

he again nudges at your entrance, this time you buck your hips back but he grips them tight. “clean up your mess first.”

he doesn’t ask. he orders while pushing your head down further into the cushion.

obeying, you flick your tongue onto your arousal. normally, you’d find this gross, but you’re so wet and turned on that you’ll listen to whatever he says. his presence feels like you are under a spell.

a sweet and salty taste fall on your tongue, following his instructions to a t.

a hum of approval is heard behind you. he spreads your legs wider, slamming into you with no warning.

you moan loudly, arching as much as you can in this position. “m-matt! shit, matt!” you yelp.

he grunts, taking in how well your pussy feels engulfing him.

tears threaten to spill from your eyes once they roll back, moaning loud and clear when your g-spot gets abused already.

strings of curses leave your lips, the way he’s balls deep inside of you right now have you quiver a lot. “you feel—” you pause, licking your lips and shutting your eyes tight. “so good. like… holy fucking god.”

he chuckles, placing his hand on your shoulder to drill into you harder. before you even know that it’s happening, you cum for the second time, shaking uncontrollably from the pleasure.

a deep breath later, matt makes sure to pull out and paint your back white.

“you can keep the clothes.” he says, jiggling your ass to play with it. “so you can wear them the next time i fuck you.”

𝐭𝐚𝐠 𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭!

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[joshslater]

Emergency Model

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"Excuse me, what's your shoe size?"

Bewildered I looked around to find the man who asked the random question, like out of that old episode of Monty Python. Off to the side, almost behind me, was a thirty-ish man in polo shirt, jeans, and glasses with plastic rims that looked purposefully selected to make him look like a film director or architect. He looked unsure or stressed. "Eight, eight and a half. Who's asking?"

Immediately he brightened up. "Hello. I'm Ben Atkinson, " he said and extended his hand. "We're making a photo shoot of the supplemental collection of sporting clothes," he continued without waiting for me to shake it. "It's all for the online shop, so simple stuff. White background, a few poses." Tentatively I shook his hand. "Pretty fast rotation of models. Unfortunately one of them has called in sick. You have the right look, but more importantly the right build and size."

"Uhum," I answered, sensing where this was going. It was a Saturday morning, and I was on my way to meet up with some friends at Wayland's Deli.

"This is quite sudden, but we are on a tight deadline. If you're willing to model for us I'll give you twice the normal rate."

"Ok," I said, not waiting to hear what the normal rate was. I'm sure Stuart would not stop giving me grief about it for the rest of the year, but I would technically be a photo model which wouldn't be a negative in Sarah's eyes. Turned out that it would also be double my monthly earnings as well, so maybe I could shut Stuart up as well.

We entered the building, which apparently was an office space that had been taken over for the day for the shoot. There were racks of clothes everywhere, lots of people with iPads tracking what item was where, who should wear it, and in what conference room they should shoot it. It was bustling with activity. After some exchange of information with Ben, and signing papers, I was handed over to a conference room turned makeup and styling studio. Most of the furniture was stacked in one corner and the floor was covered by transparent plastic that had been rolled out. To one side was a table with lots of makeup tools and bottles and stuff I wouldn't know how to use, except maybe the hand mirror and the scissors, and even that I'm not confident with. A pair of strong LED lamps on stands lit a chair placed at the center of the plastic. 

"I'm Julia, pleased to meet you. So you are the last one," said the stylist, carefully surveying me and in particular my face and hair. "We're short on time, so we have to work quickly. Are you ok with a buzz cut and tight fade?" Not what I would have chosen, but it's starting to get warm outside and it's only hair. I'd be back to my current length after the summer. "Sure."

She seated me in the chair and began the work with a corded trimmer, and soon a flurry of detail work with smaller trimmers and some of her tools from the table. Probably took her about ten minutes for the haircut. Then some time with a straight razor blade and a tweezer to pluck and shave all over my face and then arms. I told her that this was all new to me, having literally just been picked from the street. She reassured me that there wasn't much to it. Just be no-nonsense about it. Take whatever the stylist decides, change clothes quickly, do the poses the photographer asks for, and repeat.

"All done," she said and handed me the hand mirror as if I had any say in this. I looked so different than just moments before. The hair was shorter than I've ever had it, with a razor sharp fringe line. The fade on the sides was basically just an inch tall from the head and down the temple, then skin tight down, and presumably the same around the back of the head as well. The total amount of hair I was left with could fit a shot glass. "If you go down the corridor to the break room there is a shower in the bathroom there. Ask Andy outside to let you in. Take a quick rinse to get rid of stray hairs, change into these, put your stuff in one of the plastic boxes there, and come back to me for a final touch-up." She handed me a pair of white briefs and white socks. I hesitated a bit, and she was quick to jump ahead of my thoughts. "Everyone around here are used to see gorgeous bodies without clothes. Act as if it is normal, because to us it is. You can't be self-conscious. Oh, and Andy is the only one with a key, so your valuables are safe." Another boy showed up at the door saying he needed a new application. I told Julia thanks and went to look for Andy.

Andy unlocked the door to the office lunch room for me and I did as Julia had told me. I stripped naked and put everyting, clothes, wallet, phone, keys, shoes, into one of the plastic boxes, wrote my name on it with a whiteboard marker and placed it next to all the other boxes. Eight boxes in total. I went into the bathroom, took a 90 seconds shower, and dried myself off with one of the towels from the pile. I put on the briefs and socks, had Julia apply her things to me, and within ten minutes I was dressed in Nike shoes, joggers, and a fleece hoodie, being ordered by a photographer who didn't have time to introduce himself to look left, turn around, put my hands in my pockets, pull up the hood, sit down on the floor, and on and on. Then out change, and back with the next item.

It was going non-stop since they were behind on my stuff, so I had barely time to talk to anyone. There wasn't any proper lunch break either, just a protein bar together with two of the other models, Mark and Andrew. At first they thought it was funny that I had just been snatched off the street for the shoot, but when I told them how much more money I got they were like "fuck you, go back to work". Well the break was over anyway, so I don't know how serious they were.

It continued with item after item, until I realized I was the only model left. The others had taken off without saying goodbye, not that we had any relation. People were moving things out of the office, and when I asked about the hurry they said there was a firm deadline when they had to be out so the cleaning crew could put everything back to a working office again. I could feel the pressure as it was my item changes that held up everyone. I swapped into a pair of MRKNTN underwear that probably was like half a size too small but decided to just power through with the shoot. As soon as the last photo had been taken, they started to dismantle the light rigs. As I walked back to the lunch room I could see that most of the clothes racks were gone. The makeup room was back to looking like a conference room. I couldn't find Andy anywhere though, and the lunch room with my stuff was still locked. I wanted my stuff for sure, but more importantly I wanted to get out of the underwear that kept squeezing and chafing. I couldn't go more than 30 seconds without having my hands down the joggers to adjust them.

Ben wasn't anywhere to be seen either. I asked one of the remaining people and he said they had all left, working on getting all the stuff back and preparing the "delivery pipeline" for the photos. Probably Andy had checked off everyone from his list, and it was printed before I was recruited. "Just keep the clothes you have on and you can come back here Monday and pick up your stuff," he said.

Fuck.

No point in hanging around any longer. Everyone wanted to leave as soon as possible, so I just left and headed towards the bus stop. It was getting late and with no phone on me I couldn't call home and say what was going on.

Fuck.

I didn't have anything to pay the bus fare with. I could perhaps go back to the office building and see if I could catch anyone exiting, use their phone, and call for someone to pick me up. But there was no telling if and when I would get hold of anyone. Just walking back there would make me miss the next bus, so that would set me back at least an hour. I could just as well ask someone else to use their phone. Or perhaps ask them to cover the bus fare.

That's when I saw them, a little bit further down the street, past the bus stop. Six boys huddled at the corner, talking and messing around as if no one else was around. One had a bike. All of them dressed in the kind of clothes I had spent all day modeling in, track suits, hoodies, trainers. All of them were smoking. I figured I'd have as good a chance with them as with anyone else now, looking the way I looked.

As I was getting closer one of them alerted the others and they had some kind of conversation about me. "Hello, excuse me. Could I borrow money for the bus fare from any of you?" There was a second of silence before a mixed snicker erupted, and one of them answered "No, bruv. I don't think so."

I don't know why, but for some reason I was mortified by how I had been dismissed. I could feel my face turning red, so I quickly turned away from them to make my way back to the bus stop, without any plan of what to do next.

"Oi, bruv!" I heard from behind me. Looking back at them I could see three boys had gotten up and were heading my way. "Callum's grafting down at the barber's for some extra quid and need someone to practice on. What if he can do some practice while we cover the fare and take you home safely? Fair, innit?"

"I barely have any hair," I said and let my hand touch my fresh skin fade, almost shocking myself with how radically different it felt.

"Won't be much of a nick then, bruv."

He was right. There wasn't much he could ruin. I had only a few millimeters of hair so in the worst case scenario I could shave completely and it would be back within the week.

"Good lad. A deal innit."

"Yes," I said, unsure if it was expected. The guy who had spoken and Callum flanked me while the third lad walked behind me, enveloping me with the scent of smoke and body spray. After a silent moment the guy spoke again, introducing himself as Iwan and the third guy as Rob, and asked where I lived. I gave him the bus stop, Hillside Garden North, about 18 minutes ride. Would have been busy during the week, but at weekends there wouldn't be many on the bus.

We didn't have to wait long for the bus to arrive, but instead of entering by the driver they all bunched up again with me in the middle and entered through the exit doors as a single unit. Then they quickly moved to the back of the bus and pushed me into a seat next to Callum, facing Iwan and Rob in the furthest back seat. I half expected the driver to say something over the speakers, but there was barely a delay, if any, before the bus was moving as if nothing was out of the ordinary. I looked at Iwan with perhaps a bit of surprise and he just shrugged as if to say "what did you expect? That the driver would confront us?"

Then he nodded at Callum next to me, backpack in his lap, who answered "Aye" and got up. He placed the bag on the seat and positioned himself right in front of me, one leg on either side of mine, his knees hitting the edge of the seat, and his left hand grabbing the rail behind me. It felt both imposing and intimate. He opened the backpack and rummaged around with his right hand until he found a small trimmer in a zip-lock bag.

He opened it with both hands and threw the plastic bag into the backpack. Then he looked out and waited for the bus to drive on straight and even road before he turned the trimmer on. Then slowly he moved it in an arched line from my temple and along the side of my head until he reached the neck. Then he studied for a few seconds before he made a few additional buzzes along the same line.

"Not bad, innit?" he said while shifting his body so Iwan and Rob could see. "Fucking mint, mate," Iwan answered.

Then he turned on the trimmer again and unexpectedly extended the line by buzzing my eyebrow for a few seconds. I hadn't even considered my eyebrows. Callum reached into his backpack again to put the trimmer in the zip-lock, but without moving his feet so his body pressed even closer to me. While I couldn't see much, I could certainly feel his body spray filling my nostrils while I felt my eyebrows with my fingers. I guess there would be a lot to explain to mother anyway, so this would just be yet another detail.

I could just see it for a fraction of a second. It looked like a small glue gun in off-white plastic. Then before I could realize what it was it was pressed against my ear, it made a snapping sound, and I felt a sharp pain. "What the!" I said, more in surprise than pain.

"18G piercing. Hurts more, heals slower, but much better," Callum offered, as if it was the type of piercing that was in question, not that he had done it at all. He reloaded the piercing gun and I struggled with what to do. Just take it like the first one? Why should I? But then one piercing was the real threshold. Once you pass that, two is if anything better than one. This would soon be over anyway.

He was just as quick with the second one as the first one. "These need to stay in 30 days, you hear me?" he said, still standing essentially on top of me. "Yes, I understand," I said with a sinking feeling of all the implications. He put the gun back into the bag and went searching for something again. Finally he pulled out some sort of pliers, then held my earlobe with one hand while doing something with the pliers with the other. "Making sure they don't fall off," he explained before sitting down again on his seat. I could see Iwan and Rob again, and booth looked pleased. Iwan looked absolutely chuffed. "Fucking proper, innit" he said and pat me hard on the shoulder. "Fucking proper."

After than Iwan opened up and started to ask me all kinds of questions, starting with my name, which I realized I hadn't given him when he presented everyone. I was soon giving the highlights of the day as a photo model until we arrived my stop. To my surprise everyone got off with me. "Said we would take you home safe." We continued to chat all the way home and it turned out me Iwan and Rob had the same taste in electronic music while Callum was more of a rock guy.

"Ok, this is my stop," I said once we reached my house. "Meet us Monday, same time and place," Iwan said. "What?" "You owe us £2 for the bus, bruv." "But..." "You going back on our deal?" "No, I'll come by." "And wear the same clothes. Underwear too." "No! I have classes." "You'll figure it out, bruv." Callum opened his backpack again and tossed something to Iwan. "And use this," he said and handed over a can of Lynx Jungle body spray. "What if I don't? What if I don't do any of that?" "Where you live isn't a secret, innit? See you Monday, bruv."

[nina-ya]

Happy Birthday - Law Edition

A/N: this is single-handedly the most self indulgent fic Ive done in a while so uh yeah anyways bye Pairing: Law x Reader CW: None WC: 2k

“Happy Birthday!” 

The joyful shout rang through the room, jolting you awake from your mid-day nap. Your eyes fluttered open to the smiling faces of your crewmates who gathered around your figure with infectious grins. 

You blinked, trying to make sense of the scene before you. Streamers in vibrant shades of various colors draped from the ceiling, balloons bobbed merrily in the corners, and confetti showered down on you, all combining to paint the room in a riot of colors.

“What–?” you began, your voice thick with sleep, but your words were swallowed by the laughter and sound of a party horn. The atmosphere was alive and filled with excitement, the joy emanating a celebration that was crafted only with love and care.

Bepo, with his furry face beaming, bounced on his toes, eyes sparkling as he spoke, “We couldn’t wait for you to wake up on your own,” he said, voice filled with eagerness. “We’ve been planning this for weeks!” 

Ikkaku handed you a steaming cup of coffee as she said, with a grin stretching across her face, “We just wanted to make sure you felt celebrated.”

“And it looks like Law is waiting for you with your first gift,” Shachi said, excitement evident in his tone.

The mention of Law piqued your curiosity, and you quickly set down the mug, eyes darting around the room for him. “Law? Where is he?”

Penguin sat on your bed beside you, nudging your leg playfully. “He’s been waiting for you to get ready. He should be somewhere on the deck.”

Surprised flitted across your face, and you scrambled out of bed, dashing to the small bathroom of the Polar Tang to quickly toss yourself together. A few hurried adjustments later, you made your way to the deck, spotting Law standing near the railing. He turned as you approached, a shadow of a smirk playing on his lips as he watched your excited figure approach.

“Hey,” he greeted, voice as steady as ever. “I wasn’t sure what to get you, so I thought it would be best if you picked something out yourself. How about we spend the day shopping?”

You blinked, momentarily taken aback by the idea, “Really? You didn’t have to do that, but I would love to!”

Law nodded, a smile tugging at his lips. “I figured it would be more enjoyable if you chose something you really like. Plus, I thought it would be nice to spend some time together.”

With a nod, you fell into a step beside him as you left the Polar Tang, and made your way into the inner city of the island. The marketplace of the island was alive, filled with stalls that offered various trinkets and items. You meandered through the endless rows of vendors, each presenting their products with enthusiasm. Street performers drew crowds to their lively performances, the smell of the street food wafted through the air making you salivate with an eagerness to try everything. As you explored, you found yourself drawn to a smaller shop brimming with trinkets and Law watched as you admired all the handcrafted figurines and jewelry. 

The hours passed, the sun already inching across the sky by the time you both made your way back to the Polar Tang. The day had been nothing short but delightful. You carried a small bag filled with a few selected gifts, all paid for by Law, of course. 

You inched closer to the ship and you noticed the crew’s unusually quiet demeanor. You were curious, but brushed it off as nothing more than fatigue from the day’s tasks. Law walked beside you, his expression unreadable, though there was something in his eyes that suggested he knew something more than he was letting on. 

Upon entering the ship, you were greeted by darkness, and as you descended deeper into it, the lights suddenly flickered on, and a chorus of voices erupted in unison yelling, “Surprise!”

The crew transformed the Polar Tang into a vibrant celebration space, adorned with those same streamers and balloons that you had woken up to, along with a large banner stretching across the ceiling, reading “Happy Birthday!” in bold letters. You spotted a table filled with nothing short of a feast, and music began to play as the festive atmosphere was cranked up to a maximum. 

The party got underway and laughter and conversation filled the air. You were swept up in the festivities, moving on from one group to the next. At one point, you found yourself pulled into a less-than-graceful dance with Bepo. The two of you twirled and spun around the submarine, your laughter ringing out over the music as your fellow crewmates clapped along. It was a moment of pure unfiltered joy.

Everywhere you turned, there were reminders of the thoughtfulness that had gone into the celebration. The party soon moved to the deck of the ship, now laughing and enjoying the festivities under the moonlight.

As the night wore on, you felt a gentle tug on your arm. You turned to find Law standing there, his expression softened by your unbridled happiness. ”Mind if I steal you away for a moment?” he asked, voice raised to carry over the lively chatter. 

You nodded, and Law gently tugged you away from the buzz of the birthday festivities, leading you to a quieter and more secluded corner of the ship. The lanterns that hung off the side of the Polar Tang enveloped the two of you in a warm, ambient light as the laughter and chatter of the party grew distant.

You glanced around, every nerve in your body alight with happiness. “This has been the best birthday I’ve ever had, without a doubt,” you began your voice becoming thick with emotion as you spoke. “I’ve never had anything like this before. It feels… It feels like a dream. I never knew how much I needed this, how much I needed all of this.” 

You took a deep breath, trying to steady your emotions as you continued, “It’s overwhelming. I don’t even know how to put it into words. This whole day, everything… It’s been perfect.” Your voice had cracked slightly, and you wiped at the corners of your eyes, trying to keep those tears at bay. “It’s as if I was drowning, and being with everyone, with you, is just like coming up for a breath of fresh air. I-I don’t even need anything more. This has been just a perfect day.”

Law watched you, a soft, almost wistful smile on your lips. The sight of you so vulnerable and so emotional just pulled on his heartstrings. You were absolutely precious to him and he couldn’t help but want to protect this version of you. To keep you this happy forever. “I wanted to give you something,” he said, his voice quieter as he seemed to dive into something more personal.

You looked up at him, curiosity panging at you alongside the rest of the overwhelming mix of emotions that were about to spill over. “Wait, wait, I thought the shopping spree was your gift to me.” 

“Did you really think I wouldn’t get you a proper gift?” he asked, chuckling.

“I- You… you didn’t have to get me anything,” you whispered, your voice breaking. 

Law reached into his pocket and pulled out a small box wrapped in a red wrapping paper with your name inscribed right in the center. As he handed it to you, your fingers brushed slightly against each other, the contact sending goosebumps up your arms. The sight of the gift caused the tears to start falling, the dam of emotions finally bursting. 

“Hey hey,” he said softly, a chuckle escaping his lips as he watched you with mild concern. “You haven’t even seen the gift yet, and you’re already crying. Am I really that bad at this?”

You laughed through your tears, embarrassment evident in your response. “It’s not you. It’s just… everything. It’s too much”

Law’s grin widened, and he shook his head, urging you to unwrap the gift. “Well, I’m glad I could make you cry, I guess. Here-- open it before you become a total mess.”

You looked down at the box and your tear droplets had stained the wrapping paper a deep maroon. Carefully, you began unwrapping the gift at the seams, revealing a small, black box. You opened the box to reveal a bracelet, its delicate silver chain catching the soft light and shimmering against the velvet interior. 

Law took the bracelet from the box with careful fingers, and you extended your wrist towards him. He gently wrapped the bracelet around your wrist, the cool metal contrasting the warmth of his fingers as he fastened the clasp, the charms tinkling softly as they settled into place. “Everyone got to help pick out some charms,” Law said, holding up your wrist and gently rotating it to show off the bracelet. You looked closely and saw the array of charms, each one a gift from your found family. There was a polar bear, a whale, a penguin - each representing some of the members of the crew - and others that you realized reflected your personal interests.

“These I picked myself,” Law continued, pointing to three charms that lay by each other. He grew a bit shy as he started to explain their significance. “The national flower of the island where I first met you,” he said, pointing at a floral charm. “A firework, for the night at that festival where I took you because you begged for days on end,” he added with a small smile, pointing to the second charm. Finally, he gestured to the last one, a tiny depiction of a moon. “The phase of the moon when we first kissed.”

You looked up at him, sniffling as confusion overtook your teary features. “First kiss? What? I’m confused.”

Law glanced up at the sky, prompting you to follow his gaze. There, hanging in the night sky, was the moon in its waxing gibbous phase, mirroring the smaller charm on your bracelet. The pieces started to click in your head as you looked back at him, realization dawning.

He spoke up, his voice soft yet steady. “Tonight. If you’ll let me.”

You blinked, caught between disbelief and the rising emotions that made your heart race in your chest. The realization of what he meant – what he was offering – washed over you and it was as if the universe had aligned for this one moment. 

His eyes met yours and there was a vulnerability present, the unanswered question hanging between the two of you. You found yourself nodding, and without breaking eye contact, Law took a small step closer, the space narrowing until you could feel the heat radiating off his body and the scent of him overcoming your senses. His hand reached up to cup your cheek, thumb brushing lightly against your tear-dampened skin. 

Law leaned in slowly, giving you time to close the gap if you wished, but you eagerly met him halfway, your lips lightly brushing against his in a gentle touch that sent shivers down your spine.

The kiss was soft at first, a hesitant exploration of each other. But, as you leaned into him, your hand having found its way to the nape of his neck to tangle in his hair, it deepened, the initial hesitancy giving way to something more fervent.

The gift box in his hand dropped to the ground with a thud, and he circled his arm around your waist, pulling you close. The world seemed to tilt on its axis, time standing still, as the kiss unfolded. His lips were soft against yours, moving with a gentle insistence that left you breathless and demanding more, the taste of him intoxicating, making your head spin.

When you finally broke apart, the need for air becoming unignorable, you both lingered for a moment, foreheads resting against each other as you caught your breath. The night was alive around you, the sounds of the party fading back into awareness, but for that one moment, there was only you two.

“Happy birthday,” he murmured, a soft smile playing on his lips as he leaned in once again, capturing your lips in another kiss that was more heated than the last. 

This certainly was the best birthday ever. 

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Crash and Burn 3

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: Tony Stark

Summary: a powerful man comes crashing into your life. Literally.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

Another thankless day of serving cold cuts and cheese to the general public as you ready to tear your hair out. You don’t see how anyone could make such a fuss about a trip to the deli but the locals have a way of exacerbating any simplicity. You’re just happy to be free. 

The bus is late. You stand at the curb and bounce on your heels. You just want to lay down. The lack of sleep is starting to split your skull. 

You yawn and watch a truck blow by. It’s a sleepy old town, nestled between farmland and stretches of dirty roads. The sort of backwoods you don’t drive through after dark. It’s so dull you could fall asleep on your feet. 

A sudden gust of air rips through the sky and the unusual whirlwind circles you. You look up through slitted eyes as dirty speckles across your face. You furrow your brow as lights and flames glow as a red figure lands in front of you.

The electric blue haze goes out and your faced with the suit of crimson and gold. You grip your purse strap and gulp. You haven’t checked your phone yet. You couldn’t have predicted this. 

“Shit.” You mutter. 

His helmet snaps back and he smirks. The silver streaks in his dark hair puff out and he smooths them down. He puts his hand on his hip and scoffs, “name’s Tony Stark, thanks.” 

You cringe and cross your arms. “We met.” 

“Yeah, I remember you. Nearly forgot before everything blew up. You know, this thing...” he pauses to take his phone out. “Hasn’t shut up all fucking day. I got lawyers down my throat--” 

“Your phone is blowing up? My house blew up.” You sneer. 

“Okay, relax. It was a trailer. I said I’d replace it--” 

“Then do it.” 

“Ooh, spicy. I didn’t guess you to be the type but after seeing your little online storytelling, I shoulda guessed.” 

“It’s the truth. That’s it.” You turn to watch for the bus. You’re aware of the few people slowing to stare at the man in his techno-suit. 

“I mean, a little gratitude here, honey. I’m more than happy to slap a new box in the lot but you don’t gotta be this way about it.” He derides. You look at him from the corner of your eyes and scowl. “At least a smile. Bet you’re gorgeous when you smile.” 

He winks and you flinch. Really? 

“Fine. Once we have a new trailer, I’ll delete the post. Sounds pretty fair to me.” 

“Now. Take it down now and then we can go shopping for a new train car,” he chirps. 

You frown and face him. “It’s just a post.” 

“I got a reputation, sweetheart. I’m important that way. I know you might not be able to fathom that but one busted up hellhole is nothing compared to what I do for this planet. Didn’t you see me on the TV, handing out lollipops to hurricane survivors? What are you doing besides whine on the internet?” He stares you down, his expression turning sinister as his grin fades. 

“If it’s not a big deal, then it shouldn’t take much, should it?” You challenge. 

“Wow, you sure are mouthy, aren’t you?” 

“I’m tired.” You peer down the street again. “I worked a full shift and my feet hurt. You wouldn’t know about that, would you? With your penthouse and your dad’s money.” 

“I earned my company.” He snarls. “You watch where you’re stepping, sweetheart. I’m being nice. I flew all the way back to this ditch, so let’s not play dirty.” 

Your heart races. You don’t know why you’ve said so much. Maybe because you’ve worn a customer service smile all day and you’re all out of fucks to give?

And what do you have left to lose? A family that treats you like a gnat flying around their heads and a musty old futon. Your life wasn’t great before but damn if he didn’t make it a whole lot worse. 

“You do whatever. You’re Tony Stark. Iron Man.” Your tone is deflated and monotone. “I can’t do anything about it, can I? Just whine on the internet?” 

You step further down the sidewalk and stare at the approaching headlights. The bus is finally there. Even if he really means to replace the dusty old shithole, you don’t need his self-aggrandized kindness. Not if this is how it’s delivered. 

You pull out your bus fare as you sway beneath the sign. A sharp noise tweaks your ear and you’re seized in a metal vice. Your arms are trapped against your sides as Tony zooms up into the sky, the air whipping around your face as you holler in horror. 

“What-- are—you—doing?” You shriek as you wriggle, kicking into the empty void around you. 

“Sweetheart,” his voice rises from behind his helmet. “You’re gonna wanna be still. If I drop you, you’re gonna hit the ground like a bug on a windshield.” 

“What the fuck?” You exclaim and squeeze your eyes shut. 

“Just givin’ you a lift home. Like a nice guy would do.” He chuckles. “Now don’t breathe too heavy up here. At this altitude... well...” 

You put your head down, shielding it against the shoulder plate of his suit, and you bend your arms to cling to him. You have no other choice but to hold on for dear life.

You get his point. Tony Stark is more than money. He can do whatever the hell he wants.