#in that weird space where i want to be out of my own head but i'm terrified of (something else) taking over for me.
Explore tagged Tumblr posts
domm1etae · 13 hours ago
Text
Are u trying to kiss me?
Tumblr media
yunho x mingi
oneshot | mdni
1.1k
Where Yunho and Mingi’s casual hangout goes from tipsy laughs to full-on "holy crap, are we doing this"
nsfw tags under
m/m, bottom mingi, top yunho, dryhumping, friends to ?, alcohol, drinking, makeout, kissing, horny drunks xd, blushing, subtle touching, grinding, blow job mentioned, and idk what more lol
Tumblr media
Yunho and Mingi had been best friends forever—practically glued to each other since middle school. They’d been through all the cringe-worthy phases together: the awkward growth spurts that left them tripping over their own feet, the regrettable haircuts they’d both agreed were “cool” at the time, and crushes so embarrassing they swore to take them to their graves. Late-night ramen runs and arguing over the last piece of kimchi? That was their love language.
But tonight was… weird. Different.
Yunho had gotten it into his head to try out some new alcohol recipe he found online, proudly declaring it was a “genius masterpiece” that would change their lives. Naturally, Mingi volunteered to be the guinea pig. Free booze? Say less.
Now, a couple of bottles deep, the kitchen looked like a war zone—half-empty glasses scattered across the counter, sticky spills everywhere, and Mingi’s obnoxiously loud laughter echoing off the walls. He was leaning against the kitchen island, cheeks flushed red, head tilted back as he lost it over something Yunho said… except Yunho couldn’t even remember what was so funny.
All Yunho could focus on was Mingi. The way his eyes crinkled when he laughed, the way his lips curled into that stupidly endearing grin, the way he looked so ridiculously carefree right now. Yunho found himself staring, his heart doing this weird little flutter thing in his chest.
“Dude, you’re, like, bright red,” Yunho teased, reaching out to poke Mingi’s cheek.
Mingi swatted his hand away, still grinning. “Shut up, I’m not red. You’re red.”
“Oh wow, killer comeback,” Yunho snorted, rolling his eyes.
Mingi just laughed harder, leaning into Yunho’s space without a care in the world. His shoulder brushed Yunho’s arm, and for some reason, Yunho froze. It wasn’t like Mingi wasn’t touchy—he was always in Yunho’s space, throwing an arm around him, hanging off him like a human koala. But tonight, it felt… different.
“You talk too much,” Mingi mumbled, his grin softening as his gaze locked on Yunho’s face.
“What?” Yunho blinked, his voice quieter than he intended.
“I said, you talk too much.” Mingi’s hand landed on Yunho’s shoulder, sliding down his arm like it was the most natural thing in the world. “I like touching you,” he added, completely nonchalant, like he wasn’t flipping Yunho’s entire world upside down.
Yunho blinked again. “What does that even mean?”
“It means you’re soft,” Mingi said with a teasing grin, giving Yunho’s bicep a squeeze. “Weirdly soft for a guy your size.”
“Oh my god, you’re so dumb,” Yunho groaned, shoving him lightly.
“Yeah, but I’m your dumbass,” Mingi shot back without missing a beat.
Yunho froze. That wasn’t new—Mingi said that kind of stuff all the time. But tonight, it felt different. Heavier. Loaded with something Yunho didn’t quite understand but couldn’t ignore. And when Mingi leaned in, his face suddenly way too close, that something became impossible to avoid.
“Mingi,” Yunho said, his voice barely above a whisper. “What are you doing?”
Mingi tilted his head, lips twitching into a lazy smirk. “Thinking about kissing you.”
“What?” Yunho’s voice cracked so hard he might as well have hit puberty again.
“I mean, unless you don’t want me to,” Mingi said, his smirk faltering a little.
“I—uh—are you serious right now?” Yunho stammered, his brain short-circuiting.
Mingi shrugged. “Kinda.”
“Kinda?” Yunho echoed, eyes wide.
“Fine, yes, I’m serious.”
Yunho opened his mouth to respond but couldn’t get the words out. His eyes darted to Mingi’s lips, then back to his eyes, and before he could second-guess himself, he leaned in.
The kiss started soft—almost hesitant, like neither of them could believe it was actually happening. But then Mingi made this quiet little noise, something between a sigh and a whimper, and Yunho was a goner.
Mingi kissed like he did everything else—with his whole heart. His hands slid up Yunho’s back, pulling him closer, while Yunho’s hands instinctively found Mingi’s hips. They pressed together, their bodies fitting like they were meant to, and Yunho couldn’t stop himself from deepening the kiss.
Their hands wandered, exploring each other's bodies with increasing urgency as their kisses deepened. It was more intoxicating than the alcohol they'd consumed, and neither of them could get enough.
Mingi whimpered again, his hips moving instinctively against Yunho’s. The sound shot through Yunho’s system like a live wire, it was the hottest thing Yunho has ever heard and wanted to hear it again, he couldn’t help but grind back.
Mingi's hips were unstoppable, moving faster and faster, he’d never felt this overwhelmed, this hot and bothered, not like this before.
Yunho must've noticed how frantic Mingi had become, and without missing a beat, he matched his rhythm. He slid his tongue along Mingi's neck, nipping at his jaw and biting at his ear, his voice low and teasing. "You wanna come, baby?"
Mingi's spine tingled at the sound of Yunho's voice—damn, he sounded so fucking hot talking to him like that.
“Yunho,” Mingi gasped, his head falling against Yunho’s shoulder. His whole body trembled, his nails digging into Yunho’s arms as a broken moan escaped his lips. He stilled after a second, shuddering in Yunho’s arms as he caught his breath.
Yunho held him close, one hand rubbing soothing circles on Mingi’s back. His own heart was racing, his head spinning, but all he cared about was Mingi.
“You good?” Yunho asked softly, pulling back just enough to see Mingi’s face.
Mingi let out a shaky laugh, his cheeks flushed and his grin lopsided. “Good? I’m amazing,” he said, his voice still breathless. Then his eyes flicked down to Yunho’s lap, and his grin faded. “But, uh… you didn’t…”
Yunho shook his head quickly. “It’s fine. I’m fine. Seriously.”
Mingi’s hand shot out, grabbing Yunho’s wrist before he could move away. “No,” he said firmly, his tone more serious than Yunho had ever heard. “Let me take care of you.”
Before Yunho could protest, Mingi was sinking to his knees, his hands already working at Yunho’s belt. The alcohol haze was gone now, leaving nothing but raw, unfiltered emotion between them.
As Mingi looked up at him, his dark eyes filled with something Yunho could only describe as pure want, Yunho knew one thing for sure: this was, without a doubt, the best experiment he’d ever attempted.
23 notes · View notes
isa-ah · 4 months ago
Text
for people who have anxiety but live alone anyway: how do u deal with the panic? I live with 2 other people and still have bubble burst moments of random fear that only gets soothed by putting myself in someone else's eyeline. what do you do when the catastrophising starts???
9 notes · View notes
lovelyrotter · 7 months ago
Text
o(-<
0 notes
phagodyke · 9 months ago
Text
one unfortunate thing abt watching bloody violent up-close-and-personal movies is that it makes me even more crazy touchstarved than usual after.. I need to wrestle someone NOW
#i need to BITE. or lie in someones lap and let them stroke my hair#also now my family have left i probably wont even get a hug for a longass time......... its dire out here#ik my flatmate said a while ago she wouldnt mind if i wanted more physical contact or whatever but ik thats not true#bc she always seems so physically uncomfortable near me or moves so distinctly far out of my space like i get the message man#and its just difficult for me for so many complicated reasons. sigh#im just tired of feeling so lonely always all the time. and so ostracised or alienated in every community and relationship in my life#and i know thats my own fucking fault bc im stupidly incapable of allowing myself to trust and believe other people abt anything#and partly also bc im disabled and autistic as shit etcetc and so will always come across weird and Other and i have no control over that#but mostly its my fault. and i dont even know where to begin trying to fix that man. if its even fixable in this lifetime i dont even know#but it sucks ass im so tired of being sad and close to tears 90% of the time i cry on the fucking daily even on good days#dont get me wrong im doing pretty okay at the moment like i dont even really have any Real problems its all just in my fucking head#but unfortunately thats the head i live in. and will live in the rest of my life so i guess im always gonna feel like this on some level#so i need to just accept it and be grateful for the shit i have bc it could be so so much worse#and yet i cant just do that so here we are!!!!!!!!! oh well.#maybe a part of me likes being miserable. or feels like i deserve it. bc im really fucking good at it lmao#anyway i should go to bed soon before this gets worse. at least i dont have work tmr so i can do smth nice or chill all day#and there have been lots of nice things today too.. ah i just need to sleep#sorry for rambling my ass off with my mentally ill monologues again 🙃 well not that sorry bc youll see me do it again lol#.vent#.diaries
0 notes
giveamadeuschohisownmovie · 2 months ago
Text
Ways I can think of that “DanDaDan” differs from other shonen series:
* Female MC is as important as male MC
* Canon romance gets consistent development through the series. I think that’s part of the reason why the MC ships with the rivals (Aira, Jiji) aren’t as popular with the fandom for once. The main ship is actually getting good development, so the fanbase doesn’t have to make up headcanons to fill in the space.
* Flips the found family trope on its head by having the main group despise new people whenever they show up and they even actively try to kick them out. The new people only end up staying because they keep lingering around to the point that the main group just gives up and lets them stay.
* The rivals aren’t emo or angst-ridden. Aira is a delusional tryhard popular girl while Jiji is a himbo drama queen. I’d even go as far to say that the MCs are the ones who are emo and angst-ridden.
* Supporting cast is more than just important, they become integral to the story. I’d say that the further you read into DanDaDan, the more it becomes an ensemble cast where everyone is a protagonist in their own right.
* World-building is all over the place, but in a good way. Most other shonen are pretty consistent with what kind of world their characters live in. MHA is superhero-based, Naruto is ninjas and magic, Bleach is spirits, and so on. DanDaDan feels like the author just throws whatever cool shit they can think of into the story. That’s actually the reason why I wrote in a different post that DanDaDan reminds me more of Marvel/DC than any other shonen series, it manages to capture the catch-all insanity of those comics.
* Doesn’t rely on hidden power-ups. The main characters either have to outsmart the villains or they have to train to get better with the powers they already have.
* The pervert comic relief guy is actually endearing for once. Not because of his pervert tendencies, but because he’s so oblivious to how socially inept he is that it’s kind of funny. This is gonna sound strange, but he sorta reminds me of Thor in Thor Ragnarok. Full of himself and oblivious to how dumb he can be. He’s Thor without the good looks lol.
* Flips the “nerdy outcast loser somehow gets a harem” trope. Instead of making Okarun cooler than how he actually is, the story emphasizes that the women who fall for Okarun are as weird as him. Momo is a weird outcast, Aira has main character syndrome, Vamola doesn’t understand how to human because she’s literally not one, Rin thought Okarun was a vampire (and wanted him to be).
* Flips the “elderly figure in charge of the teenagers” trope. I don’t really get motherly figure vibes from Seiko Ayase, I get more “cool wine aunt who is stuck with her niece” vibes. In fact, there was the arc where Okarun showed up to her in spirit mode to get her help with fighting off the alien invasion and Seiko’s response was, “Well, I’m not in the area and I have other shit to do, so you kids figure it out.”
* The series takes the piss out of the trope of mystical/magical items that the group acquired to get their powers. I mean…the main mystical MacGuffin in the series are Okarun’s balls.
* Okarun was about to go into an “I’m weak / I wish I was stronger / I want to get stronger for my friends” breakdown, but Turbo Granny told him to shut up and keep fighting.
* Not afraid to put the “cool girl” in as many funny situations as possible. Off the top of my head, the series built up Momo as this cool, tough girl who doesn’t take shit from anyone…then several chapters later, Okarun found out she got a job at a maid cafe.
(Feel free to add to the list!)
4K notes · View notes
neverendingford · 1 year ago
Text
.
#why the fuck did I ever start tagging text posts#I made the choice somewhere that I reblogged solely visual art and then started reblogging other things and felt the need to categorize them#just in case someone was as weird about it as I was. but none of you are. at least not the I can tell.#I've been curating in hopes of finding someone similar to me. a stupid wish and a hopeless cause#I went to sleep at 1am and woke up at 4am and I want to get run over by a steamroller everything hurts and I hate it#why the fuck did I start tagging tag rambles either. deal with it#idk. I've been a lot more annoyed and straight up mad. I've been blocking old mutuals who try and talk to me too much#we aren't friends we aren't friends we aren't friends we aren't friends I am just some fucked up creature you watch at the zoo#if we were friends we would talk if we were friends I would know who you were if we were friends I would block you at 2am in a fit of anger#this isn't implying I'm friends with any mutuals on here. I'm friends with some followers but tumblr is not the place I make friends#tumblr is the place I watch people and wish I could put a metal spike through their head.#tumblr is the place where I watch people and wish I could put a metal spike through my own head#I get bored too quickly. I don't allow myself to get bored quickly enough. I am too angry but I don't allow myself to be angry enough#I had a million dreams but none of them were good. a million dreams and all of them cold and shivering#I slept on the floor last night because the bed is too painful. I almost slept outside on the property's stone wall#brick under my head and stars over my eyes.#I think I've talked about how sleeping fucking sucks when going to bed is just intense fear time.#hands under the covers. eyes over the railing. soft footsteps on the carpet. raged breaths through my nostrils.#I should clear out a space under my bed again for curling up and sleeping there when things get like this#remember kids. you're never too old to hide under your bed in fear from the brain monsters#I say that as if 25 is old. idk. for people like us it is old. anything past high school is old. anything past college is ancient.#and anything past thirty is just overstaying the welcome inside your own mind. get your plans together already.#idkkkkk. it's just moving stress is just moving stress is just moving stress it's just#I keep reminding myself but knowing why I feel this way doesn't stop me from feeling this way.#it just makes me frustrated that I can't fix it already. I made a phone call but they never called me back so I have to call AGAIN now#ughhhh everything is hard and I know I'm not a failure but growing up being taught that people like me are failures.... guess how that ended
0 notes
rinachains · 3 months ago
Text
sukuna x gn!reader; fluff; established relationship; no-curses!au
“Why are you so pretty?”  
Sukuna turns his head to your figure that is sprawled lazily on your couch, your own head hanging upside down on the headrest, blinking at him owlishly. His gaze, which had just been focused on the cutting board in front of him - where he was preparing the late-night snack you requested - is now focused on you, interrupted by your unexpected words.
“Are you mad?”
“Yes.” A dopey smile stretches across your face, high on whatever feelings are rushing through your body at that moment. “Madly in love with you.”
Sukuna glances at you, a deadpan look, though your eyes catch the flush that colors his cheeks, barely noticeable, soft and oh so pretty. Betraying his nonchalant exterior.
“Go to sleep.”
“Aww, c’mon, I can see you blushing!”
“Tch, don’t be weird,” he grumbles, face turned to the side, before abandoning his task and making his way to the couch, putting you in a headlock, ignoring your shoves and squeals.
Sukuna finally releases you after you try to bite his arm, your teeth almost leaving a mark (not that he'd actually mind). As you sit up, disheveled and catching your breath, his large hand wanders to the back of your head, a careful grip, and he stares down at you with half-lidded eyes.
To an outsider, your boyfriend would probably appear unaffected, perhaps even threatening. But as his partner, someone who knows him too well, you can quickly recognize the softened edges around his eyes, the glint in the maroon of his irises. It never fails to spread warmth throughout your entire body, and you have to stop yourself from burying your face in his broad chest.
“You’ve been trying to tease me a lot lately, you brat,” he drawls, scratching his nails along your nape.
You hum, tipping your head back into his pleasant touch and giving him a short, firm nod. "I am. It's because of your reactions, they're really cute."
Sukuna immediately grimaces at your words and stops scratching, his eyebrows drawn together as his lips fall into something awfully resembling a pout. Like an angry cat, you think to yourself.
“Don’t use that word with me.” 
You roll your eyes and bring a finger up to his face to smooth the wrinkled space between his furrowed brows.
“Oh, get over it. What do you want me to say? Hardcore?”
He pretends to bite your finger, sharp canines lightly scraping the skin while another unhinged giggle escapes your lips at the playful gesture.
“I’d prefer if you didn’t say anything at all.”
A snort leaves you as you wave a hand dismissively at him.
“Yeah, yeah, if that were the case then you wouldn’t be with me in the first place.”  
Suddenly, his other hand reaches up and squeezes your cheeks, causing your lips to form an 'o'. He shakes your head from side to side, gently, eyes never leaving your face.
"You run your mouth way too much."
"M'only matching your energy," you manage to mumble and he lets go of your face.
A click of his tongue, “You wanna die?”
“Uhh, I’m so scared,” you taunt him, the corners of your mouth lifting up, knowing that his threats are just empty words. His own way of showing love, one could say.
His hand, the same one that just squeezed your cheeks, then travels down to wrap around your waist and your lips part immediately at the sensation. But instead of giving it a light squeeze like he usually does, he pinches your side, making you yelp and slap his hand away.  
“Stop!”
"You asked for it," he shrugs, and you can see him trying to fight off a smile that threatens to spread across his face. You're tempted to tease and coo at him again, but you're afraid of what he might do to you, unsure if you'd survive.  
You let out a loud sigh, "All this just because I called you pretty. How sensitive of you."
His brows rise and this time he doesn't hold back a smile, threatening and promising nothing good.
“Oh, I’ll show you sensitive."
a/n: wrote this bc i'm lowkey procrastinating my toji fic whoopsie hehe
1K notes · View notes
yeyinde · 7 months ago
Note
touch starved reader with an oral fixation x kidnapper!Simon who’s all punishment and no physical affection? Please Simon just a little kiss? with tongues? :( (i just wanna make out with this man while my heart aches for him)
by Allah, you people are dogs. i will write the filth as usual.
DEAD DOVE, 18+ | dubcon. kidnapping. mean!Simon. dom!Simon. masking corporal punishment as affection. kissing. size kink, size difference. some thigh riding. degradation + humiliation (verbal). non-con pet play. marking (heavyyyyyy mentions of Simon biting you like a chew toy). choking. daddy kink (but in the awful, demeaning way). manipulation. forced affection. coersion. forced/manufactured dependency. brief mention of Simon stepping on your back to hold you down so he can whip you w a cat o nine tails. yanno. the usual Friday night.
idk. there's something so hot about you, completely naked, riding Simon's clothed thigh as he holds you up by your neck. tongue out, desperate for a kiss while he just mocks you the whole time.
It's survival. 
At first.  
A means of masking the innate horror of being stripped of your agency, your autonomy, by a man you barely even know. One you met once before (fate sealed), and now—outside of your apartment complex where he was idling by the foothold, smoking a cigarette as he leaned against the brick wall, head turned. Gaze narrowed as you approached. 
Waiting for someone, you assumed, thinking nothing else about the matter. 
Nothing else, except—
He looked familiar. You think you saw him before. He was staring at you. Hadn't stopped. Hasn't said a word, either. The silence was oppressive. Heavy. Your hands fumbled with the keys. Shaking. Trembling. 
He's pretty, you thought, suddenly. In the way car wrecks can sometimes be. Jarring and awful and hideous, but—
Mesmerising. 
Macabre. And that's what he is. Everything from the mask on his face (skulls, go figure), to the absurdity in his size, his width. The way space itself seemed to move around him, bending and distorting just to let him pass. His own gravitational pull. Magnetic. You feel it tugging on you as he pulls another lungful of smoke. Another. Another.  
(like an hourglass, a timebomb, almost. you wonder what will happen when it runs out—)
He gives you the creeps. Suddenly. Unexpectedly. A visceral sense of unease curdling in the pit of your belly as he keeps staring, staring. Eyes—crystalline under the broken headlamp, washout into crushed topaz—drilling into your back, sharp enough to flay skin. Everything inside of you says to run, but your key won't fit inside the lock. Won't—
Ever. 
And hindsight has always been a bitter thing, hasn't it? Cruel in her mockery. Had you known, then, that he wasn't a workman loitering by the complex, waiting for a friend; or a low-level drug dealer casting webs into the plum hewn aether, it might have saved you. Might have. 
Maybe. Because he was there, waiting for you, all along. 
Life has a funny way of paying back good deeds. All it took for your life to crumble down around you, rubble falling off of a shaking mountain, was kindness. Was seeing a large man in the pouring rain, already drenched. Black clothing sticking to the granite contours of his body, and offering sanctum in the shape of a rusting umbrella you found at a thrift store for three dollars. 
(“here,” you said, chipper. All smiles. “i live just down the street, and you look like you need it more than i do. do you want it?”
and he—
he simply stared. stared. his eyes liquid, molten, as they carelessly dropped, roaming down the length of your body at his own leisure. leering. assessing. it was odd. weird, but—
he huffed, then. seemingly satisfied by whatever you measured up to in his head. his neck lulled back, and he gazed at you from down the crooked length of his nose, tucked neatly away under the thick band of a facial mask. skulls. how could you be so stupid? 
slowly, like he was trying not to startle a mare, his gloved hand reached out, curling thick fingers around the hilt of it. he tugged once. in your stupor, you forgot to let go. embarrassment flooded in. he huffed again, quietly amused, as you untangled your numbed fingers from the umbrella. 
in your distraction, he moved closer. smelled of ash, of mildew. sweat and stale cigarettes. there was something predatory in the way he slipped through space. a preternatural quiet. an eerie stillness. 
you hadn't realised he was there, looming, until he rasped out, “more ‘n you could ever realise, pet.”
and you're sure why you do it. did it. but your hand slips into your shopping bag, eyes widen. heart thundering in your chest. 
“are you hungry? i, uh, i just bought some apples, um—”
his eyes are lavascapes. shackles. chains. “i could eat.”)
And now—
Forced to play this strange cat and mouse of his where he treats you like soot on the bottom of his shoe, and you pretend that it's affection. Love. How godless.  
Protection, he calls it. 
("mine," he whispers, orison soft, into your ear. "ain't go' nowhere else to go, do you, pet? world's big. would eat a small thing like you up. safer here. wit' me. only me.") 
You wonder what he'd do if you told him the biggest danger here was the madness nestled inside your head, the one that sometimes made you look at him like he was your salvation instead of the warden holding the end of your leash in a firm hand. Unyielding—like everything he does. Is. 
Withholding, too. Everything must be earned. Nothing given. Nothing handed out. And you know that this is a ploy, a tactic. Subterfuge meant to chisel into your sense of self, dehumanise you. Turn you into a simpering, obedient little doll for him to play with as he wishes. You know this, and yet—
It's survival, you promise yourself as he tugs on the hook latched to your collar, testing it for weakness. Survival, when his hands—bare, bare; warmed skin against skin, you could just weep—brush over your throat, nails skimming goosebumped flesh as he wedges one, then two inside, hirsute knuckles tickling your pulse. It tightens the collar to near choking. Intentional, you know. He likes it when you beg—for air, for food, water, him. 
Vile man. Awful. 
(You want to roll on your belly at his feet.)
This cold, cruel touch lights a fire under your skin. It's been months since he's last done so. Always wearing gloves when he has to. Using paddles, belts, when you misbehave. Never his bare hand. Not anymore. 
(“m’hand is for good girls,” he slurred, words merging, meshing together, painted with exertion. He wedged his boot against the small of your back, holding you down, and cracked the end of a cat over your bare ass, thighs. Unbothered by your howls, your screams, as the whip bit into your skin. You've never so much as been hit as a child for misbehaving, and now, as an adult, you have a madman standing over you, introducing you to something called a cat o’nine tails—a favourite in the army, lovie. “bad girls,” his boot pressed down harder, heel digging into your spine. “Bad girls get the whip—”)
Bad. Bad. Because you tried to run, to leave him. He dressed you up, called you Mrs Riley, and you—
Ducked out the back door when he turned away for a second. 
Stupid. It was poor timing. A test. He set you up, measuring your loyalty to him, your commitment, and you failed. Failed. 
(“this is what ‘appens when spoiled little cunts get their way too much. they act out, don't they? bitin’ the ‘and that feeds. you'll learn soon enough, though—”)
Ghost—sir, sir (master, maker, god; you'll call him anything he wants if he touches you again)—pulls his fingers away, depriving you of his touch once more. And it's all so stupid. So fundamentally wrong, deplorable, but you follow. Needy. Whining for it in the back of your throat. 
It's been months. Months without touch. Without sensation outside of leather lashing across your thighs, your ass; harsh, gloved fingers digging into your jaw, braced against the back of your head, as you swallow down his cock in an effort to prove to him you've been good. So good. Can be good. His good girl. 
You need to touch him. Need his touch. Ache for it, for something outside of this nook he placed you inside of, denied the privilege of living upstairs with him after you tried to escape. 
You want to. Badly. Your fingers twitch. Ghost sees it. Hums. 
“Need somethin', pet?” 
Your mouth is dry. You swallow. It burns. It hurts. “Yes—”
“Yes, what?”
“Sir—”
Behind the mask he's yet to take off for you fully, only ever hitching it under his chin to devour your cunt whenever you've been good, his jaw tightens, the fabric bunching up. 
You reel back from the look of sheer displeasure etching harsh lines into the hollow gaps of his eyes. Heart thundering. Stomach churning. 
“Mas—” he cuts you off with a soft sigh. Marked with his irritation. “D—dad—”
Dad. A new one. Daddy. He didn't seem like the sort to be into this type of play, not with his sardonic, deadpan eyes. His mockery. His dessicated humour, awful and biting. You'd have sooner expected him to laugh at you—in that slow, deep hum he gives; a little chuff, full of condescension and jeer—than to get off on it. On you, kneeling between his legs with your chin braced against his palm, mouth open, tongue out, as he fucks into the tight clench of his fist, groaning as you beg daddy to give you a taste. 
It's gross. Disgusting. 
It's not done for anything else other than to humiliate you. To crush you under the heel of his boot—little bug—so that you will always know where your place is in this scenario. His little wife. Mother, mum—
He pulls on the leash, jerking you forward. Purrs, “good girl,” and then steps back, moving away from you. Cruel. Dismissive. You hate him, hate him—
(Need him so deeply. With every fibre of your being—)
You watch him as he goes, mourning the loss of his presence already, as he paces around your space, your cage. Broad shoulders barely fitting inside. Head ducking to avoid hitting his crown on the popcorn ceiling. It's strange seeing him here like this. Prowling. He usually comes when he wants you, when he needs to enact more merciless punishment on you for whatever perceived evils you committed (not greeting him with a kiss when he walked in, not letting him suffocate himself in your cunt when he had you sit on his face, not making him cum all over your face quick enough when you knew he had other engagements to get to—), or when he ruts, heavily, between your thighs, cold and detached. Seeking pleasure from your icy flesh, and giving nothing in return but white hot agony. 
Him here, idling in your presence, is revolutionary. 
“S–sir—?”
He hums, quiet. Sits in the chair as you gather the fragments of yourself littered on the ground. His mood is malleable, it seems. 
You push, fingertips sinking into the putty of his agreeable temperament. “Can I—”
You waver when his sharp eyes raze over your bare body—clothes are for good girls, after all—pupils sloshing over the edges, bleeding into midnight blue. 
Your body is a battlefield. Every inch of skin branded with his mark—pretty, thrawn rings of teeth tattooed in silver, haloed in black and red, desecrate your flesh: neck, collarbones, breasts, belly, thighs (a particular favourite of his), ass, mons; all bitten through, chewed up. It weeps when you move, has blood trickling down your skin. The cracking scabs make him coo, poor thing, all bloody fer me? and he licks at them, sucks, until only a pinkish wound in the mimesis of canines remains. 
Uprooted, turned into something new—
His chest expands when he settles his gaze on the sliver of space between your spread thighs. Concealed in tenebrous, hidden from his leering, lecherous view. He cocks his head, considers something unknown to you. His thoughts, his mind, worlds away. Untouchable. 
(only to bad girls, he’d snarled out when you asked why—)
“Testin’ my patience still?” He doesn't rip his gaze away from your cunt, speaks to it sometimes more than he speaks to you. “Thought this alone time might’a cleared your ‘ead.”
You flush. Embarrassment roiling through you. His displeasure is a palpable thing. Heavy. You hate the weight of it. 
“I need—I need you.”
Another toneless hum. “‘Course you do. Ain't got anyone else.”
He's awful. Hideous. You want to rip his tongue out of his mouth. “I—I want you. Please.”
Ghost doesn't answer. You stopped expecting him to a long time ago, his moods odd measures of ebbs and flows; passive and mild, cracking terrible, awful jokes as he strokes your back, hands riveted to your skin, and then biting and caustic the next. Pushing and pushing until you lash out, snap, so he has a reason to push you down, punished and smothered under his bulk, as he ruts into you like a beast, a man starved. Tells you it's for your own good. That you need him. Would be lost without him. 
Bludgeoning a hole into you wide enough for him to crawl inside of. Poisoning you from the inside out with the same nocuous rot that flows in his veins. 
Maybe that's been his agenda all along. Maybe. To make you want him as badly as he wanted you. Desperate, obsessive. Going so far as to follow you home, lost little mutt waiting in the shadows outside of your door until you threw him another bone. And when that didn't work, when the food stopped being enough—
He took you. Held you captive in his house deep in the wilderness. A place so endlessly green that you sometimes stare out at it—unfathomable sea of phalthos and jasper—and feel dizzy. You'll get lost out there—
just like he says. 
As he turns your obsecration over in his head, you wait, supplicant to this man as you rest on your knees. Pretty pet with a golden collar adorned in gems. 
Fitting, you find. With his head cradled against his thick knuckles, you can't help but shiver at the way he looks shrouded in the gloaming embers of a fading twilight. Leonine. A king perfectly at ease in this thick, caliginous atmosphere.
His eyes burn, magmatic, in the low light. Vats of endless ink. Black holes that will swallow you whole if you get too close. But he's poised. Contemplative. Assessing. 
And then grips the end of the leash tight in his other hand. Tugs.  
You obey the wordless command, crawling on your hands and knees to where he's spread out on the recliner. Laxed, dripping with a careless indifference as you wander to him, resting your chin on the spread of his knee. 
Looking up, up, at him, waiting. Wanting. 
There's so much of him—a fact that has been the catalyst to your downfall the moment you saw him standing under the awning; this massive creature. Thighs wider than the width of your body. Burly forearms. Broad shoulders. He's big. Indomitable. Thick, endlessly so. But there's a give to his body. Valleys of softness hiding corded muscle. Firm, but—
Your fingers sink into the soft give of his belly when you reach out, bracing against stomach. Pulling yourself further into the bracket of his spread thighs, inching closer to him. 
He meets your reverent stare, eyes liquid along his lower lash line.
“Thought you were gonna keep me waitin’ all night,” he muses, giving another pull on the leash. It destabilises you. Your nose bumps into his sternum, and you moan at the sting. 
There's a dissonance in the back of your head. A hairline fracture in the line that keeps a degree of separation between pleasure and pain. They meet against the crack in the divide, merging into a abysmal polyphony conducted by his hand. 
He watches, amused, as you whimper, sniffing harshly against the burn. It's not bleeding, and not broken—small mercies, you suppose—and you let it simmer into a dull ache as you slowly clamber into his lap.
Ghost leans back as you settle, greedily taking in the sight of your thighs stretched wide over his leg, cunt pressed, tight, against the rough scrape of his jeans. The touch burns. He hasn't touched your pussy in weeks—
“C’mon,” he urges, hand spanning the width of your lower back. Coaxing. “Show me ‘ow good you can be.”
It's all the permission you need. Slowly, slowly, your hips start to gyrate, dragging your slit over the coarse material. The friction is agony. You need more—
He draws his other hand up, curls it around your neck, forcing your head back, back. You gasp, staring at him, dizzy, from down the slope of your nose. The clasp of the collar digs into your skin. It hurts. It's too much. 
you don't want him to stop. 
His hand is huge. It spans the entire length of your neck, thumb to your pulse, pinky grazing the hollow of your throat. It forces you to lift your chin higher just to let him fit.
He likes it, too, you know. His eyes darken as he takes in the sight of his bare hand, scarred and thick; dusted with a cropping of fine hairs along his scabbed knuckles, sitting against the whole of your throat. Swallowing you up. Can feel how much he enjoys the sheer depth between your sizes when his cock twitches, stiffening more
The look on his face is appraising, anatomising. There's a cold measure of distance in his gaze. A barren polynya. You want to cross it. Chart these untamed lands until they're deeply ingrained within your being. Cimmerian effigy burning to keep you warm. 
It's survival, you think, and arch into the palm of his hand. 
He holds you like a doll. One hand on your lower back, pressing your cunt to thigh. The other tightening around your throat. Bare skin against bare skin, and oh, you could just cry—
But this is not what you need. What you want. And he knows. He always does. Knows the inside of you like it's written down—inked on paper. Thumbs through the makeup of you, chapter by chapter, until no mystery remains. 
“Tell me what you need, pet. Beg for it.” 
“Let me—” his hands tighten, choking the air from your throat. Crushing your collar against your neck. “Lemme—kiss you, please, please—”
Tighter. Tighter. The world around you swims under a thin ocean. Phosphenes swim, untethered, in your periphery, ghosting along the curve of his shoulders. He might kill you yet. Keeping going, going, until those brittle, bird-like bones in your neck snap—
You'd let him, you think, muscles falling lax. Submissive. Just the way he says he likes even though you know he fucks you harder, touches you more, more, when you act out. Misbehave. 
“Kiss me?” He taunts, words abrasive. Strident. Scrubbing hard against your skin. “Ain't that jus’ the sweetest thing I ever ‘eard.” 
You burn, blister. “Please—”
“Reckon I ought to. Kissed your pretty cunt ‘fore I even kissed your lips, huh, pet?” 
Your chest folds over itself. Stomach knotting. Balling tight. Unease is a razor blade scraping your nerves. 
“Simon—”
“Ah, ah—” his hand tightens. Vicious. Chiding. “You ‘aven’t earned the privilege of sayin’ my name, ‘ave you? Cheeky thing. Might ‘ave to take a cane to you next.” 
“No, no, no—! I'm—”
“Sorry?” He mocks, cocking his head. Condescension drips from the corners of his eyes. 
“Please, sir—”
“Dad is gettin’ tired of this attitude of yours, pet—” his fingers dig into your skin, hard. Biting. A warning, you know. The blunt press of a blade to your jugular. But it thrums along the suture line to your desire, a wellspool of murk coiling low in your guts. You throb, cunt clenching down around nothing. Achingly empty. “Thought we got rid of it this time ‘round. Learned our lesson.”
The words are frank, prosaic. Had you any sense of self still malingering in the back of your head, you might have struck him for the blatant disrespect. But as you struggle to reach for it, pawing around in the vacuous abyss for any fragment of who you were before this, before him, you know—without any doubt—that none exists. Nothing. He’s too ingrained in your marrow, hewn into your skin. Copper sutures holding his filament within you. Cradled between your thighs, nestled in the rotting vacancy of your heart. 
He knows you. Every part—
“We did—we did, da—daddy, please—” 
It’s shallow. Muffled, like he’s trying to swallow it down, but you feel it rumble through his broad chest. A guttural sound. A groan. Drenched in pleasure, in want. So thick, you could almost taste it. 
He hides his need under a layer of derision. 
“Such a needy thing, ain't you? Desperate little slag like you wouldn't last out there, would you?” 
His hand digs into your hip, pushing you off of his thigh. Eyes skewering into the wet stain on his trousers. A huff spills out—the sound a near perfect mimicry of crushing charcoal in your hand. 
“No. You'd be eaten alive. Torn to pieces. World's too big for somethin' like you.”
Mindless, dazed, you nod. Arching into him. The leather leash snaps against your chest. “Yes, yes—”
His cock presses into your thigh, hard, fat. Your mouth waters. Drool dribbles down your chin. 
He smells of tinder when he leans in close, blood drenched words biting into your skin. “messy today, aren't you? Be lost without me. Tha’s why you wear a collar, isn't it?”
Pitifully, you nod. Eyes full of tears. Each word is a bludgeon into your resolve. Into your sense of self. 
But it earns you his affection, and his thumb presses into the corner of your mouth, unhinging your jaw until it falls open, lax. He holds you like that, mouth lax with his hand still around your neck. The other lifts away from your lips, goes to the thick band around the bridge of his nose, slips inside. 
There's no buildup to it. No lingering sense of anticipation. Practical, detached, he merely tugs it down, and lets it snap under his chin. 
Your breath is punched out of your lungs at the sight of him. Barefaced. Scarred. His nose is crooked; a jagged hook with scar tissue delineating the spots where it's been broken too many times. His lips are—
Full. 
Mangled. 
Scars run in thick slashes over them, denting the flesh in places. Burn marks line his pale flesh. Charcoal rubs into his eyes, highlighting the whites of his lashes against smeared soot. 
He's—
Pretty. 
Like a car crash. Calamity. The broken remains of a town after a hurricane, a tornado, ripped it apart. Ugly, brutal. His face looks like it's been mauled by a bear, a tiger. Scarred and hideous, and—
You shiver. His eyes drop, landing on your own lips. The soot on his brow flutters down, lands on his eyelashes when he lifts his brow up mockingly. Derision curdling an awful smirk on the corner of his mouth. Crooked. Like him. Like his teeth. His nose. His boxy jaw. His lips—
You kiss him. 
Can't help yourself, really. There's a pull. Gravitational. Magnetic. You need, need, to taste him. To quench this ache in your jaw that makes you want to wrap your tongue around something, play with it between your teeth. Soft and sweet—
Ghost's lips are plump beneath yours. The thick scar tissue is almost velveteen when it glides over your bottom lip. You moan into it, into the feeling; victory—however pyrrhic—swims like mercury in your veins. Finally. 
And he doesn't kiss you back. Doesn't make any effort to reciprocate at all, but he's not tense beneath you. Not stunned. Or reluctant. He’s pliant. Malleable. Agreeable, willing to let you devour his mouth, his taste, as much as you want. Doting. Letting you spoil yourself on him. With him.
Because you need him, don't you? 
Like the air you breathe. The food he gives you��apples, always, on rainy days; salmon and rice in a pretty bowl with your name etched into the porcelain—and the attention, the affection—
(suck my cock, pretty girl. don't make me put a gag on you—deeper, you can take it, can't you? take my fat cock all the way up inside your sweet little cunt—my pretty girl—)
—it’s all so divine. 
His hands on your body, your throat, spasm. Once. Just once. Against your leg, his cock twitches. Leaks prespend into the demin. You rut against his thigh, aching for it. Whimpering—
And then he's groaning into the kiss, snarling out your name until it wedges between your lungs, syphoned in from his scorching breath. Another brand in the shape of him. 
Ghost kisses the same way he eats—messy, sloppy; all teeth and tongue, and full pretty lips. Clumsy, like no one taught him how to properly hold his silverware and he's trying to mock what he saw on television. Brumish. A broken, contemptuous pastiche of sumptuosity. A starving dog, snarling around its plundered morsel. Protective. Possessive. 
It coils around you. Thick, smothering. 
He sucks your tongue into his mouth, catching it between his teeth. The sting brings tears to the corner of your eyes, and when you pry them open, you find him already staring at you (always, always, always—), lidded. Heavy pools of desire shaded in the brume of a winter dawn. A bonfire flickering in the distance of a whiteout. Sanctuary from the cold—
He seems to catch himself. Expression flickering. Warbling around the edges. It closes off in a blink. He pulls back. Locks into the ashlar veneer of this indifference he wears like a suit of armour. 
But you saw it. It was there. Within reach—
“Need me, don't you?” He drawls, timber a needlepoint between cruelty and desire. Sultry, low. Husky. He knows what it does to you. How he can unravel you at the seams with just his voice alone. “Need me so fuckin’ much, pet. Would be lost without me—”
“Please, Simon,” you whisper, feather-soft. Cunt throbbing, pulsing. Needy. “Please—”
The strident reprimand for using his name doesn't come. His hand tightens around your throat, unconscious. A paroxysm that has pleasure carving itself down your spine, electric. 
“Come get it, then,” he rasps, voice wrecked. Raw. Curling at the edges, thickening his accent until the words elide. 
Hand to your throat, he drags you close. Closer still. Keeps you sat pretty on his lap as he pulls you in for a bruising, hungry kiss. Tongue shoving between your teeth when you gasp.
His kisses are always hungry, but this is different. Greedy. He devours you whole. Eats you alive. His hand falls to your lower back, holding you tight to his chest.
You moan into it, fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt. Squeezing until your knuckles blanche, joints twinging in discomfort. 
After months of nothing, this alone is bliss. His taste soaking onto your tongue, drenching it in the bitter tang of sage, wheatgrass, and stale cigarettes. Intoxicating. It leaks into you, nocuous. Infects from the inside out. 
His plan coming to fruition, you think. What he sought out to do all along, ever since you wandered close to this untameable Tartarean guard, and offered yourself up to the jowls of a starving beast. 
He pulls away with a heavy breath, eyes charing around the edges; brittle briquette. 
“Gonna be a good girl from now on? Come upstairs, be a good mum for dad? Or am I gonna ‘ave to cane this—” his hand drops, grabbing a fistful of your ass in his hand, fingers digging into the skin between your cheeks. Possessive. It cracks like a whip down your nerves. “—tight lit’le arse?”
You shake your head instantly. Quickly. “I'll be good,” you whisper into his chin, tongue flicking out to lick across his scars. The dried sweat on his skin tastes briny. Reminds you of the ocean on a brumous November evening. The incipient yawn of a ravenous hurricane gathering its lot on the shore. 
Sirens blare in the distance. Fear curdles in your guts, sits heavy like a stone. An anchor. 
“So sweet f’me,” he mutters, words deepening as his head falls back, letting you pepper kisses across the underside of his jaw. Mouthing along the constellation of scars. His voice is rumble. It shivers across your lips, tongue. Shakes the marrow in your bones. “Better stay this way, pet.”
Into his pulse, you murmur, “I think you like it better when I’m bad.” 
You can feel the snarl brimming in the back of his throat. Your ass stings with the phantom burn of when he lashed out with the whip. It drags a whimper out from deep within your chest. 
His hand tightens around your neck. A warning. “Got some guests over f’dinner tonight. Would love to finally introduce them to my sweet little wife—” deft fingers slip across the dewy skin of your folds, knuckles grazing over your drenched hole. The touch makes you squirm. “But if you’re gonna be bad, then I’ll leave you locked up down ‘ere.”
“I’ll be good,” you swear, words a hushed breath over his jugular. His finger flattens, drawls soft, slow circles around your clit. “Ah, I’ll—I’ll be so, so good, Simon—”
“Good girls deserve rewards, don’t they?” His palm flexes possessively around your throat when you nip at old scar tissue. “Maybe I’ll let you sleep in our bed tonight instead of in your dog house. We can ‘ouse together. I’ll fuck you proper—” he roughly shoves two fingers into your hole, leering when you gasp, back arching in a bow. “Know this pretty pussy has been achin’ for me, ‘asn’t it? Gonna breed it full—”
There’s static in your head, ringing in your ear. The noise distorted, pulled underwater. You think you say something, plead—no, no, no, anything but that—but his hand tightens around your throat, fingers pushing up, up into you, notching against that spot inside that makes your head swim, your vision flicker. The abyssal chasm inside of you aches, rages; its waters swell, currents frothing, slamming against the ceiling of its iron prison, and—
Simon pulls away. Fingers stilling inside of you. No friction, no relief. Hypoxia renders the world silent. Muted. Held in stasis, stagnating at the edge of a gaping precipice he holds you over, secured by the fragile curve of your neck, fine bone china. 
Phosphenes swim by. The chossy wobbles.
This distance is agony. You need to be closer, closer, to crawl inside of him, to live in the brackets of his ribs, safe and protected from the world he warns you about. Stone cold. You mewl, whine—
“Gonna be my good little wife?”
Gasping with broken lungs, you nod. Nod, nod until you’re nauseous. Dizzy. Sick—
His spit cools on your lip. Your hackles raise, body shuddering in revulsion—some primal part rears, hisses it’s infectious. Wrong. Get rid of it—
“Not gonna run?”
Slowly, you lick your lips, catching his sickness on your tongue. Swallowing it down until it sinks like a stone to the bottom of your belly. Heavy, for such a small, damning thing. 
How absurd, you think. How absolutely mad. 
Then you whisper, paperthin, “kiss me again, please, Simon—”
And he moves. Liquid in the gloam. Made more for shadows, midnight, than for golden apricity, where the light is harsh on his face, unveiling ruins and ravines; monoliths meant to be paid tribute to in the dark. Your hands lift to his jaw when he moves in, catching your lips in a bruising, biting kiss. 
His touch is searing. Owning. He isn't laying claim: no, you're already his. 
It's possessive and angry. No finesse. All slate teeth and tender tongue. They slide together in a strange game; little fawn stupidly nipping at the tiger's heel. He lets you, groaning into your mouth when you arch back, hips pushing into his fingers, taking him deeper. A pale pantomime of what's to come when he lays you on his soft bed, sweet and divine, and buries himself deep. 
It should scare you. Ought to. And maybe it does. Survival, you think, but you still pull him closer. Deeper. Because it’s bliss, you find. The world around you falling dead. Silent. Pulled into a vacuum. Teetering on the edge of a black hole, event horizon. He drags you in. 
Simon hums, pulling you closer. Touching you—soft, sweet. Palms a gyve. Shackles, chains. His fingers lift from your neck, trailing down the slope of your throat until he reaches the golden loop of your collar's hook. His gaze glides, magmatic, down to where your leash dangles between your heaving breasts.
It's almost tender when he grabs it into his fist. When he pulls, pulls—
Your back arching. His fingers slipping deeper inside your cunt. Obedient little doll.
When he lifts his eyes, the look you find is hot enough to char bone. You taste blood in the back of your throat—
Into the seam of your mouth, he purrs, “good girl.”
—and you swallow it down with a moan. 
(after all, you know better than to run from starving dogs—)
3K notes · View notes
luveline · 2 years ago
Text
𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐬𝐨 𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐝? | 𝐞𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐞 𝐦𝐮𝐧𝐬𝐨𝐧
Your best friend Eddie tries to explain what a hickey feels like and finds he doesn't have the words. He could show you, though, if you want? [3k] 
fem!reader, shy!reader, implied inexpereinced!reader, friends-to-lovers, pining, mdni heavy petting, hickeys, lots of hickeys, marking up, neck kissing, shoulder kissing, heat of the moment confessions, eddie being flirty but also a good friend, requested here
𓆩❤︎𓆪
Eddie strokes down the length of his guitar neck almost tenderly. You're focused on his hands rather than his mouth as he recounts last night's date to you, distracted by the deft movement of his fingers, which aren't exactly small. It's an oxymoron —paradoxical, even— that his thick fingers would move with such gentle precision. 
You shift around where you're sitting on his bedroom floor, criss-cross applesauce with an uncomfortable heat rising from the bottomless pit of your stomach to your tight collar. The white button up you'd worn under your sweater vest is a size too small. You're really starting to notice. 
You peel out of the vest and hope it'll help you calm down.
"She wasn't exactly sweet," Eddie says, plucking a string, listening to the sound, and tuning it this way or that depending on how he liked it. "I think she wanted to get it over with, which isn't really my thing. She was in my lap before I could make it clear I wasn't interested in anything quick." 
You lift your gaze from his hands. He must feel you watching his face. He looks up in tandem and smiles reassuringly. "It's fine. I kind of thought she was getting into it, she was like a vampire on me at one point, but I wasn't feeling it and it's clear she wasn't either. Drove her home. How was your night, d'you watch that tape?" 
You trace the coil of a black curl down to his shoulder, and can't force yourself to meet his eyes as you ask, "A vampire?" 
"What?" 
"She was like a vampire at one point, you said." Eddie's arm goes still. "What did you mean by that?" you ask.
He puts his guitar down on the floor. You worry you've said something truly dull for him to place his sweetheart in such a rush, but Eddie's like that. He can tell you're embarrassed no doubt, and he's giving you the answer to your question as swiftly as he can to soothe the wound. 
"Here, look," he says. He pushes his hair away from his neck on one side and tilts his head, bearing a wine-stained curve of skin to you unabashedly. "She kissed me. She gave me a hickey, used a lot of teeth. That's why it's bruised so much on the edges." 
Warmth you've never felt rushes in, like your blood has superheated, and it's written on your face. Eddie's room feels suddenly a thousand times smaller than before and more intimate, his poster wallpaper curving in, the space between you inching closer. 
"Sorry," he says, "I know it's kind of weird to show you." 
"No, I'm sorry," you say, mortified. "I shouldn't have asked you." 
"Yeah, you should. You didn't get it and now you do. I don't mind telling you." 
Eddie lets his hair fall back against his neck, a kinky curtain that looks ridiculously soft in the orangey light of his lamp. There's a butter smoothness to it, and the way he moves as he does is worse, his hand open and reaching for you. He doesn't hold your hand, doesn't even try, just lets his upturned palm hang off the edge of his knee as if to say, Ask me whatever it is you want to ask me. It's cool. 
"Why would she do that?" you ask, gesturing to your neck.
"It's not her fault, I was flirting with her a ton trying to make it work."
"Not like that." 
Eddie's hand turns toward his knee. "Like what?" 
Your hand drifts to your own neck absentmindedly. You get kissing, wanting to be kissed and wanting to give them. You understand why she kissed his neck; if you'd been in her position, alone in the car with Eddie laying his charm on thick, you might climb the console and push aside his hair too. 
"I know why she kissed you. I don't see why she…" You rub your lips together, your embarrassment turning sharp. You hate how humiliating this feels. "I know what a hickey is, Eds, but why would you want one?" 
His turn to fluster. The tiniest tinge of pink paints his cheeks. "Are you asking me why I enjoyed it?" 
"Did you?" 
You despise yourself, truly. Worse when Eddie laughs, his chest forward, hair falling in his face as he chuckles sincerely. 
"Yeah," he says, smiling at you "I liked it. Before she started trying to kill me I was having a good time." 
He doesn't put you through the agony of asking what you both know he wants to. 
You've never had one?
"It feels warm, and it's– you know how being kissed gives you butterflies, right? It's better than that. It's hot, and all her weight is on you and you have your hand on her back trying to pull her in, and she's as close as she can be without, you know." Something flickers across Eddie's face. Not longing, but a remembered pleasure. It makes you squirm. 
"I don't see how it doesn't just hurt." 
The hand that hadn't been reaching for you holds a pick. He flashes it between his fingers, a party trick, a nervous tic, his eyelashes tangling together as his eyelids inch closed. He scrunches his face up for a second. 
"Don't hate me if I ask you something weird," Eddie says, eyes shut tight. 
You don't think you could. You watch Eddie's face, knowing he can't see your analysis, and feel a shock of pins and needles in your hands when his eyes open and immediately lock on to yours. 
"Do you want me to give you one?" he asks. 
Your lips feel like they've been glued shut. You're aware of your breathing, how shallow each inhale has become, but you can't do anything about it. 
He has the decency to acknowledge what position his question puts you in, "I know it might be weird but I can't describe it to you if you don't know what it feels like." 
You surprise him. You surprise yourself. "Uh, yeah. Okay." 
"Yeah?" 
"It doesn't hurt?" 
"Not unless you want it to." A hint of a smirk plays on his lips, though it fades quickly. "It doesn't hurt. That's not the point. But it can feel… foreign." 
You nod jerkily, wishing you knew what to do. 
The atmosphere is thick enough to cut through. Neither of you like it. Eddie gives you another type of smile, a familiar one that says, I'm your best friend, I always will be, so please chill out. 
"You're gonna have to sit in my lap." 
You actually laugh. "Eddie," you chastise, thinking it's a bad joke. 
"Sorry, sweetheart, but it's that or the bed." His teasing tone is light, but he still adds, "I mean, we can do it sitting next to each other but it's difficult. Whatever you want, though." 
You climb up on your knees. You're shy, absolutely, you always will be and especially when Eddie's teasing, but he really is your best friend, and the bed isn't happening.
He doesn't scare you. 
He grins and ushers you toward him. "Alright, come here." He tugs one of your thighs over his lap and your breath catches. He grabs the other and any laughter between you abruptly dies. 
You settle over his lap with an expression not far from pained. Eddie's hands rest against your thigh and your hip. He has to look up at you now, and he does as he encourages your weight firmly downward. You're more than conscious of where you're positioned. 
"Do me a favour?" he asks. 
"Yeah." You put your hand on his chest tentatively. 
"Don't suffer through it if you hate it, okay? All you have to do is say something and I'll stop, but if you feel like you can't, a good right hook would work too." 
"I'm not gonna hurt you," you protest. 
"Me neither," he says. His hand lifts from your thigh to your neck, and he brushes his fingertips down the curve of it ineffectually. It would feel good if you weren't choking on air. "Relax, sweetheart. Please." 
"I'm really warm." 
"Your shirt's too tight anyway," he says, hand at your collar. He thumbs open your top button, a second, and exposes the flat of your chest. His fingers slide across your neck as he folds back your starched collar. They're cool compared to the raging heat he finds there. 
You take a deep breath. 
"You could put your hands in my hair," he says. Wishful thinking has hope colouring his tone. 
You put your hands on his shoulders. The very tips of your fingers partition his curls. 
He raises an arm above your mess of limbs to weave a hand behind your ear. It's then that you feel his callouses, so rough against the delicate skin of your scalp. Despite their texture, you find it feels good. He tucks his hand in tight, and slowly, slowly turns your head to the side. 
"Look up," he murmurs. 
You lift your head and stare at the ceiling with widened eyes. 
He can't know but he does, and he says, "Close your eyes." The heat of his breath kisses your neck.  
You shiver at the suggestion of his lips, and again when they press to your skin. Close-lipped, Eddie kisses the skin just under your ear where on the opposite side of your head his thumb strokes quarter circles. You're quickly overwhelmed by the duelling sensations. You don't notice his lips have parted until he's kissing a sloven path downward, his spit cooling in wake. 
This isn't a hickey, this is straight up kissing, and you don't know what to do with how you feel. You hide your hands in his hair. 
It tugs him forward. He reads your hands for enthusiasm, and if it is or isn't he pulls you closer still and opens his mouth against your skin. His teeth are impossible to ignore. 
Your hand works further into his hair, getting caught in a tangle as he sucks your skin between his lips. His lazy mouthing turns insistent but still gentle, his teeth scratching ever so slightly at your pulse as it capers beneath his ministrations. You gasp at the warmth blossoming under your ribs. You cup the back of his neck a touch too tight. 
He doesn't stop kissing you, only grabs your wrist to stop you from choking him out. You make a sound you've never made with him before, a mewl, all breathless and teary as the sensation worsens. Which is to say, betters. 
He breaks a particularly rough kiss to suck in breath, his nose sliding up the curve of your neck as he leans back. "You okay?" he murmurs, half-lidded eyes locking onto your flushed face. 
"Why does it feel like that?" you ask. 
He drops his head, his nose level with your chin. "I don't know," he says, punctuating with a kiss right there, the closest bit of skin he can find. "Want me to do it again?" 
You swallow and he must see it. He says nothing, wrapping his arms around your waist as he waits for you to respond. Your stomach pushes into his, your arms braced on his shoulder so you don't collapse into his front, limp with touch. 
"Sweetheart, can I do it again?" he asks.
"Yeah," you say, quiet but enthusiastic. "Please." 
He's slower this time. Eddie leans into your neck and doesn't kiss you at first, his lips so close to your skin that you can feel their phantom. You skin tingles from his previous scandalising, and it doesn't beg, skin can't beg, but you can, you curl your arm behind his neck and hook his head there, crushing his hair to the crook of your arm. He doesn't take much convincing beyond that. His lips smush against your neck and you feel every millimetre as they part, heat and warmth and wet spreading like budding flowers come to bloom. You melt into him soon after, and Eddie takes your weight in stride, hand at the small of your back and pulling you in so hard you can feel his ribs. 
When you think you're used to it —not used to it, but expecting what can be expected— Eddie nips you. Tiny dainty kisses broken up with a nibbling you'd couldn't describe as anything but playful. He laughs at your gasping and does it again, again, giddy hot laughter mixed with one of the strangest feelings you've ever been subjected to. You're molten. You're dizzy with it.
Eddie pulls back enough to ask, "I'm gonna undo another button, okay? Just one. Is that alright?" 
"What for?" 
"So I can kiss your shoulder. Just your shoulder." He sounds pleading, desperately excited in a way you've never heard him and you want to know what it'll feel like, so you let him. 
This next button unveils the top of your bra and the soft hills of your breasts. He doesn't look, barely glances at his hand as he tugs your shirts down your arm, diving into the juncture of your neck like he needs it to breathe. His kisses are proper compared to some of the stuff he's been doing, but then he opens his mouth and the flat of his tongue wets your skin as he kisses kisses kisses down your shoulder. His hand is somewhere under your shirt, fingers slipped under your bra strap and pulling teasingly at the elastic as he eases you down in his arms. You're shorter than him where you'd started taller, totally compressed in his arms and at his mercy.
When he pulls back, the slimmest ribbon of spit shines between your shoulder and his lips. He wipes his face with the back of his hand, his eyes glassy, and that hand cups your face. He pretty much grabs you, but there's not a lick of cruelty in his touch. Eddie's rough. Never cruel. 
"You're on fire," he says. It's objective rather than joking. "You're so hot. Do you want to stop?" 
"Not– not unless you want to," you say, trying to quieten your breathing. You sound like you've run a marathon. It feels like it. 
"I'm gonna give you a real one, cool?" 
"I didn't know they weren't real." 
"Oh, sweetheart," he says, and his eyes are damning, a loving pity in the black of his blown pupils, "I was just warming you up." 
Your mind blanks. 
"Make sure I can hide it," you say. 
You aren't thinking straight, concerned about hiding his hickeys but not what this means for the two of you. His unexpected hunger, and your willingness to let him eat you whole. 
"I don't think you can hide it anymore," he says, stroking your cheek with his thumb. 
You look down at his lips. They're rosy, swollen from the pressure.
He sees you looking. 
He yanks you in by the waist and sizes you up, almost, like he's calling your bluff, not spiteful but something mean about him as he stares at your mouth in return. 
Like he doesn't want you to make the mistake. Like he knows you won't. 
His hand tips your chin up high and he ducks his own down. An inch and you'd be kissing. That's all it would take.
"Is that really what you want?" he asks.
"I don't know," you say. Is it what he wants?
It has to be. 
"Have you wanted to, before?" He draws a line down your cheek with his marriage finger. Fast as a heavy tear. "You want me to kiss you?" 
"Yeah," you whisper, trying to make sense of this, your sudden confession, a secret want pushed into the light. 
Eddie turns his hand and strokes down your cheek with the back of it, pushing any dampened baby hairs away from your skin. His gaze softens. 
"Was that so hard?" he asks. 
"You knew?"
He kisses you. He's smiling, and he doesn't take just one. He must kiss you four or five times, your lips parted enough to know he could push it further if he wanted, but he doesn't. These kisses are unhurried, missing the ravenous passion of his hickeying but not the fondness. 
"You don't know how hard it is," he says after he's broken away, his forehead tipped against yours, "how hard it is to have someone look at you like you look at me everyday, like I'm something you can't have." 
"I didn't know–" you knew. You felt the same. His kissing is evidence alone. it's confessional.
"I know. Guess I thought nothing good would come of it, but– but I don't want good. I want you." 
He pulls back quickly, like you've said something confessional rather than him. He surprised himself. 
"I'm not good?" you ask. 
"You're good. You'll ruin me, that's all." 
You don't have time to ask him what he means by that. He kisses you again, kisses your cheek, draws a line of crescent moons down along your neck to the mess he's made of you. He kisses– he sucks your neck so hard, so sudden, that goosebumps erupt and you can't stop yourself from saying, "Ohh," as you cling to his shoulders. 
This is the vampire thing he'd talked about, the points of his teeth stark against your skin even now. There's another layer of vulnerability unveiled here, knowing that he could really hurt you and knowing he never would. He kisses you until you're overwhelmed by him. Heat everywhere. Sweat shining on your skin. You don't want anything else but this.
You squeak as the pressure turns from pleasurable to too much. Eddie hears the pain in it and pulls away, instantly sorry and willing to prove it, his hands cradling your face. 
You pant. He shushes you gently.
"Sorry, baby." He pets your cheeks. 
Your head falls back, too heavy on your sore neck. You feel wiped. 
Wiped, but good. Lax. 
"That was nice," you say breathlessly. 
Eddie sits up and drags you with him, hand behind your neck to prop you up. He's laughing again, his awful sweet laugh that you've heard a thousand times before. It never fails to make you smile. 
"You're like a dead fish." 
You cover an eye with your hand. "I take it the romance is over." 
"You thought that was romantic? Babe, I'm only getting started." 
Eddie gives you a quick peck. Where his hickey had felt like the heart of a star growing hotter with each passing second, his smaller kiss feels like the sun through blinds, a dappling of warmth. 
"Are you messing with me?" you ask.
He pushes his arms over your shoulders for a hug. 
"No. Not messing with you." His nose rubs against the shell of your ear. "It's about time we talked." 
You let your hand drift down the dip of his back.
"Okay," you mumble. Talking. You need to talk about whatever it is that just happened. 
"...Maybe I'll get you a glass of water first," he adds.
"That's a good idea." 
𓆩❤︎𓆪
Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed, and if you did, please consider letting me know/reblogging, it means the world to me and makes a big difference!! ♡ NOTE: Eddie def pines back if that isn't fully clear, I tried to imply it with his date where he could've hooked up with someone but didn't go through with it, it was cos he's too in lurve
15K notes · View notes
verstappenverse · 1 month ago
Text
Home is Where the Heart Is
Pairing: Max Verstappen x Reader
Summary: You’re very excited to redecorate, and Max is absolutely smitten.
1k words / Masterlist
Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media
Your phone vibrates on the coffee table, the screen lighting up with a new message. It’s Max, of course. He had to run out for a few hours, some training before his next race, but he promised he’d be back in time to help with the culmination of your decorating project.
On my way. Ready to hang up those weird plant things you ordered. followed by a laughing emoji.
You can’t help but chuckle. Max had poked fun at your excitement the entire week. You’d been planning this makeover for so long and now that everything was finally coming together you could hardly contain your enthusiasm. You had spent ages scrolling through home decor websites, adding things to your cart with gleeful abandon. Colour swatches were scattered across the floor, paint samples were smeared on the walls. The new shelves, throw pillows, and, yes, the complicated plant hangers he loved to mock, were all waiting in the corner of the living room.
"Okay, well they're not weird, they're aesthetic," you mutter to yourself, smiling as you look at the hanging baskets you’d planned to fill with greenery.
Just as you’re untangling the macrame ropes for the third time, the front door swings open, and Max walks in. He’s wearing that relaxed, post-training glow, one you’ve come to associate with this calm, off-track version of himself.
“Hey you,” he calls out, dropping his keys on the table. His eyes roam the living room, his lips curling into a grin. “So… what are we hanging first?”
You barely register his question as you concentrate on an imaginary layout in your head. "Do you think the sofa should stay in the centre, or should we move it to towards the window?"
Max walks over and stands next to you, pretending to study the space like he’s an expert. "Definitely the centre,” he says after a pause, though it’s clear he hasn’t actually thought about it.
You narrow your eyes at him. "You’re just saying that so we can be done faster."
Max’s grin widens, completely unbothered. "I might not care about throw pillows as much as you do, but I’m here to help. You’ve got my full attention."
“You underestimate the complexity of decorating,” you said with a grin. “It’s an art form.”
He bends down and kisses your cheek, his stubble brushing against your skin as he hovers a second longer than necessary. He walks back and leans back against the wall crossing his arms with a teasing smile. “Promise I’ll bring my A-game."
You shake your head, feigning exasperation, but you’re secretly thrilled to have him here. "I want this room to be perfect," you say, more to yourself than to him.
Max looks at you with soft eyes. "It’s already perfect."
"Max…" you groan, "the couch isn’t even in the right spot!"
"You know what I mean."
Your heart does a funny little flip at his words, but you push it aside for now. "Okay, so this first," you announce, grabbing the ropes and handing them to him.
He takes them reluctantly, staring at the pile in his hands like they might start moving on their own. "Are you sure about these?"
You giggle, reaching for the small hook you bought for the ceiling. "Of course. Plants are a must. Greenery is very calming you know."
Max raises an eyebrow, clearly skeptical. "You’ve seen my old apartment right? No plants there and I was pretty calm."
"You’re calm on the outside, but inside you’re one bad plant decision away from chaos."
He laughs at that, the sound warming the space instantly. “Fine, fine. Where are we putting them?”
You point to the corner near the window, excitedly showing him the exact spot.
As Max climbs up to attach the hook to the ceiling, you sit back on your knees, looking around the half-decorated room. The shelves are still leaning against the wall, the box of candles untouched, and the cushions… well, they’re scattered everywhere. But you can already picture it in your mind, your perfect little sanctuary.
He finally gets the hook in place and hangs the first rope. Stepping back to admire his work and gesturing towards it.
You clap your hands together. “It’s perfect!”
Max shakes his head, chuckling. “You’re way too excited about this.”
"I just love how everything’s coming together," you say, getting up to wrap your arms around his waist from behind. He’s warm, solid, and his familiar scent fills the air, making the room feel even more like home.
The room starts to take shape, and with each new addition Max’s admiration for you grows more than he thought possible. He’d occasionally step back to admire your work, his gaze lingering on you with a look of pure adoration.
Max leans into you from behind, his arms resting over yours. “I like seeing you like this.”
“Like what?”
“Happy,” he says.
You smile up at him, “I am happy. Especially now that you’re here.”
He turns you around in your arms, catching you off guard as his eyes meet yours. There’s that familiar spark of mischief. “You know, I never thought I’d spend my afternoon hanging plants or arranging cushions,” he nods vaguely towards the room, “but if it makes you this excited, I guess it’s worth it.”
“You are so cute,” you tease.
He reaches out, brushing a stray lock of hair from your face, “Well, you’ve certainly outdone yourself."
You stand there in the middle of your half-finished living room, surrounded by unpacked decorations and the future plans you’ve been obsessing over. But for a moment, it all fades away as Max leans in and kisses you, soft and slow, like you’re the only thing he wants to focus on.
When he finally pulls back, he cups your face in his hands, his eyes locking with yours. “You’ve made this place beautiful, and it’s all the more special because you’re in it.” Your heart flutters, touched by the sincerity in his voice. His hand gently strokes your cheek. "So, what’s next?" he teases.
You laugh, resting your head against his chest. "Maybe we can take a break… but just for a little while.”
Max pulls you closer, wrapping his arms around you. “Take all the time you need. This place already feels like home.”
530 notes · View notes
mysicklove · 1 year ago
Text
𝐏𝐈𝐂𝐊 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐏𝐎𝐈𝐒𝐎𝐍
Tumblr media
DAY 27: OVERSTIMULATION + EDGING
With: Megumi Fushiguro and Yuuji Itadori
Word Count: 3.3k
Warnings: sub! Megumi x dom! gn! reader x sub! Yuuji, sadistic/crazy?/meanish reader, weird amounts of cum...like a strangely alot of cum involved, frottage - mlm (ik ik i have another day for this only but i just had to include it), handjobs, bondage, megumi in subspace, megumi goes a little insane? reader checks up on him tho, orgasm denial, orgasm control,
A/N: this is alot. like kinda hardcore. if this is ur first fic of mine or ur first dom! reader fic....try a less agressive fic LOL
Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media
Neither of them understood how they got into this situation. The two of them were friends. Never in their lives did they think that they would see each other in positions like these. Megumi was never supposed to see Yuuji’s half-lidded eyes and flushed cheeks, and Yuuji was never supposed to see Megumi’s high pitched moans, and twitching body. It was lewd. All of it was so lewd, and it seemed to turn the boys on even more.
But of course, this wasnt the first time you've done this. It was a routine by now, but even so, the boys seemed to flush in embarrassment when the two of them knock on your apartment door together. But it may be the slight humiliation that has them crawling back each week.
The two of them sit on either side of you, trapping you in between their muscular bodies. But you weren’t afraid – In fact, even with your cornered position, you were by far in the most control. The way you and the boys like it.
Your hands move up and down in a repetitive stroking motion on both of their cocks. Fushiguro’s is longer but on the thinner side, pretty with a pinkish tip that contrasts the pale skin nicely. Itadoris was girthier, bigger in general, and an impressive sight overall. You even caught Megumi staring wide-eyed the second his best friend pulled down his pants. But even so, Yuuji appeared sheepish, almost embarrassed at his size. It was quite cute, frankly.
But now, they lay content against you. Megumi is on the stiffer side, still embarrassed at the whole situation, but his soft moans show that he is enjoying it. Yuuji, on the other hand, rests his head on your shoulder, occasionally kissing the flesh to show how pleased he is. 
“I’ve got a fun idea,” You hum, not stopping your movements on their cocks. It’s a slow pace, but not slow enough where they feel frustrated. A good motion to keep the boys from whining too much. Although, you do plan to change that.
Megumi hums, his eyes falling shut with a shaky sigh. Yuuji blinks up at you, curious. “Yeah? What is it?”
You turn to him with a smile, and accidentally stop your movements. Megumi, ever the little princess, whines out immediately in complaint. Yuuji chuckles into your shoulder at the noise, and you roll your own eyes. “Yeah. Yeah. I know. I know,” You say, hands moving again before he could bark out a real complaint.
“Well,” You hum and then scan the room. “Need a coin or something small,” You murmur, eyes furrowing to search your place for the object. Yuuji, ever the one to please, doesn’t hesitate to pull away from your touch and go searching through his bag stark naked.
Megumi blinks at him and then leans on you, his messy hair tickling your chin. “He is like a dog.”
“It’s cute.”
“Yeah. Can you?” He mumbles into your neck. You smile, knowing exactly what he wants, and thumb at his cock’s head. His eyes slightly roll back, and he groans into your skin. “J-Just like that.”
Yuuji is back in less than a minute, slotting himself in the space next to you, and slightly grinding himself on your knee for a little extra stimulation. He hands you the coin, and you smile at him, kissing his cheek in reward. He beams at you, and you can’t help but smile back. 
You pull your hand away from Megumi again, and he basically growls into your shoulder. “So dramatic,” You tease as the boy pouts, grumbling and looking away. “Alright. I'm going to put this coin in one of my hands behind my back, and you guys have to guess which one has it.”
“What’s this for?” The dark-haired one demands.
“You will still touch us, right?” The pink-haired one pleads.
You chuckle at them both. “It’s a secret. And yes, don’t worry, sweetheart.”
They were both intrigued by your actions but obviously wanted whatever game this is to go by quickly so that you'll begin to jerk them off again. 
“Whoever guesses correctly gets to cum tonight, and the other does not.”
The boys eyes snap to one another. Neither of them wants the latter. Their kinship was put to a hold. In this moment, all either of them wanted was to have a shattering orgasm.
You place your hands behind your back and move the coin into a hand that they dont see. Then your place two fists in front of them. “Alright who is guessing first?”
You should have known that the two of them werent willing to be polite to one another. “That one!” Both of the boys exclaim, pointing to the fist farthest from each of them. At least they chose different hands, you note, trying to hold back a grin. 
The two of them vibrate with nerves, leaning forward and almost pushing at one another. You hold your hands out and wait for a moment, building up more tension. Megumi barks a complaint about how long you are taking, so you roll your eyes and flip your hand open, exposing the coin to the boys.
Yuuji seems to deflate, eyes widening, and then collapsing his head onto your shoulder with a broken whine. Megumi on the other hand tries not to show his excitement, but the widening grin on his face, and the way his fists clench in victory conveys otherwise. 
You spare him a feline grin, and he immediately knows that something is amiss. Yuuji wasnt the one to get put through much harsh treatment, considering the boy was always the sweetest to you. Pampered, the two of them were, even if Megumi was a little bit more temperamental. It was rare for them to get punished. You had your rules to follow, and they did (even if Megumi complained once or twice) without hesitation. So there was never a need to be mean to them.
But of course, you never did need a reason, did you?
Tumblr media
Yuuji stares. As if in a trance, the dark eyes never leave the sight in front of him. He is completely infatuated by it, desires it, really. 
Two quick strokes, focusing primarily on the head, snaps Yuuji out of his trance in an instant. His back straightens, and his eyes widen as he doubles over on himself, nails digging into his thigh. He lets out a shaky, “Heh-Ah!” and his whole body shivers. He was teetering on the edge, just one more stroke and he was bound to come crumbling down. He wanted nothing more than to do so. Your hands pull away, and Yuuji's mouth goes dry, but he doesnt complain. His eyes flicker to it again.
“No. No. No more. No more! I can't do it anymore!” The dark haired man screeches, shaking his head from side to side and biting on his lip. Cum glides down the pink tip, and it begins to coat his balls a murky shade of white. It's sticky, and it makes him feel gross, but his stomach and thighs were no better. It was everywhere, or at least Megumi feels so.
His eyes are tied behind his back. A cruel precaution that Yuuji didn't have. But that is simply because Yuuji was less likely to touch himself than Megumi was to touch you. His wrists are bound together in pretty red soft rope. Your favorite of course. He hates it.
Megumi's legs kick out, and tears stain his face. You frown at him, using your free hand to remove the lip from his teeth. “You're gonna hurt yourself,” You mumble, pouting slightly, and forcing his mouth open. He sniffles, shaking his head, but lets you.
“Y-You're hurting me!” He yelps, leaning his body toward you to convey how upset he feels. 
You bark a laugh, shaking your head. “Well that's dramatic. To cum and cum on repeat sounds so appealing…” Your eyes flicker to the pink haired boy. “To Yuuji at least, yeah?”
Megumi notices for the first time tonight Yuuji's stare. It wasn't on his face though, it was focused solely on his now white coated cock. He is panting, chest raising and falling with each deep breath. A drop of precum falls onto the towel beneath him, but he doesn't spare it a glance. His dark eyes never leave Megumi’s cock. Envy is what he feels. How badly did he wish his own dick was stained that color.
Megumi tries to shut his legs in embarrassment, but your hand was currently resting on the base of it, so he fails to. You use one hand to force them apart so that Yuuji can see, and then you give Megumi three warning strokes. His body arches and a broken cry is let out from the overstimulation. He has already cum three times now in this short span of time.
You hover near his ear, gazing at Yuuji in amusement. “Look ‘gumi. He’s enthralled by it. All he wants to do is cum, and here you are complaining about it!” You purr, kissing his cheek and then pulling away.
Yuuji finally speaks up, probably seeing that you kissed the other from his peripheral vision. He glances up at you, and his shoulders slump. “Please.”
A puddle of precum has formed beneath him, but it was nothing compared to the liquid that coats Megumi's pale skin. Your hands begin to pick up the slow pace again, and the boy begins to hiss out. He squirms in your hold, and gets close enough to you for his teeth to latch onto your shoulder. You chuckle at him, but bare him no mind. “What are you pleading about, Yuuji darling?”
He opens his mouth, glances at Megumi who is trying desperately to tear out of the restraints, and then closes it again. His friend's cries go straight to his cock, that was borderline turning purple at this point. He shakes his head, and puppy dog eyes bore into yours. “Please. It hurts.”
You reach over to him, and Yuuji knows better than to get his hopes up. In fact he knows exactly what is happening, so he squeezes his eyes shut and braces himself. One slow pump, and then two, and Yuuji is just grazing his high. He can almost taste it, but you pull away before he can fully experience it. His fingers tense up, and he forcefully raises them to his head to cover his eyes. He was bound to touch himself if he kept them there. Yuuji clenches his teeth and groans, while his cock twitches a couple times, and another glob drops.
“F-Fuck me,” He cries after a moment, resisting the urge to bury his fingers into his skin to hopefully ease the tortuous feeling. 
Your hand makes a particularly loud squelching noise, and Yuuji's eyes are back onto your hand and Megumi's cock. He stares at it with need wanting nothing more to be covered in his own cum. To cum as many times as he wishes. It was driving him insane.
Megumi seems to be curling into you. His head somehow found his way into your neck, and he sobs into it, searching for some sort of comfort. He is hiccuping by now, and a bountiful of different fluids coat his face, let out without his control. “So mean. Mean. Mean. Mean,” The boy chants, and you hum at him, petting his hair.
“I know. But you are so pretty like this, you know I can't help it,” You murmur, one hand continuing to stroke him off, while the other tries to comfort him.
“Noooooo,” He whines in return, and you kiss his temple, mumbling into his ear about how wrong he is. 
You hear Yuuji call your name and you spare him a glance. Tears were finally cascading down his pretty tan face, and your eyes light up. “What's wrong, Yuuji?”
He comes tumbling forward, his forehead resting on the bed before you. He cries into it, and grips onto the sheets just inches from Megumi's knee. “I-It hurts. I'm going insane. Please. Please, I'll do anything. Please let me cum, I am begging you,” He warbles, close to tearing the sheets apart. 
You sigh and look away from the two. “Well you two are no fun,” You complain, ignoring the way Megumi whines into your neck. Yuuji doesn't move from his bowing position. “Yuuji, you want to cum?”
“I-I'll do anything! I promise!” He proclaims into the sheet.
You smile at the back of his head. “Good! You can rut against Megumi's cock then, since you've been eyeing it all night.”
You pull your hand away from the cum coated cock, and wipe the remains on Megumi's thighs. He remains quiet, trying to catch his breath.
Yuuji raises his head from his bowed position, his cheeks flushed a bright shade of pink. He glances at his friend's trembling body and gulps. “That will…I–F-Fushiguro?”
Green eyes flicker to you first, and it doesn't take much thought to realize that he seemed to slip into the subspace. The eyes are hazy, and little thought seems to be behind them. “You…Want me to?”
You rub at his cheek. “I do. You'll make Yuuji feel good. And I bet you'll have fun too!” You coax, already helping him out of his place in your lap. He struggles to stay up, body nearly collapsing from exertion. Yuuji catches him before he falls back, and you grin at the pink haired boy with a nod.
The hands still remain tied behind his back, and he holds himself up on his knees. Yuuji is in a similar kneeling position, stabilizing the other by holding onto his shoulder. His eyes flicker back to Megumi's cock, completely naturally lubricated, and then he shakes his head to snap out of his thoughts. “I-It wont take me long, okay Fushiguro? J-Just need...Need a little stimulation…Please?”
“Yeah, I know. Just be gentle, please. I’m s-sensitive,” He mumbles in return, strangely not caring about his tear and drool face. Even his stained cock didn't bother him.
Yuuji nods his head, and gulps, turning to you for confirmation. You nod at him, and in return, he brings Megumi's body closer to his. Their stomachs touch, and the pink haired man places his head in the others neck. He brings one hand to Megumi's ass, and pushes it forward, forcing the two of their cocks to touch.
Its so wet, so lubricated, and must be so easy to glide against. Yuujis eyes roll back, and Megumi lets out a broken cry. He starts his rutting, and everything seems to go blank. It's wet, and the two of their cocks make a lewd sort of noise that drives him insane. “Oh fuck, Fushiguro,” Yuuji whimpers, and Megumi in return cries out. 
He forces Megumis body closer to his, and the man yelps. “Gentle Itadori, p-please!” But the other doesnt listen, and continues to grind their cocks together at a rapid pace, loving the feeling of the sticky lubrication. More tears come tumbling out of the dark haired man, and you watch in silence, completely intrigued by the whole thing. 
You watch Yuuji grab some cum from Megumis thighs, and place it onto their cocks. He moans out, and your eyes widen in delight. “Yuuji,” You purr, and the man glances over at you, shivering under your gaze. “If you get him to cum again, could you imagine how much extra lubricant you will have?”
Yuujis eyes widen at the prospect, and he begins to respond, but is cut off. Megumi begins to laugh, and the noise startles the both of you. The laugh is more like a yelp, a sort of mix of a cry and a giggle. You glance over to him, and his face is broken out into a grin. The tears dont stop flowing from his eyes, and his whole body is twitching rapidly under Yuuji's hold. A strange sight. 
“Megumi,” You question, forcing Yuujis hips away from the other to give him space just in case something was wrong. “You alright, love?”
He shakes his head back and forth rapidly and you raise your eyebrows.  “N-Nothings gonna come out!” He giggles with a hiccup, and Yuuji's eyes widen in surprise. “Gonna shoot blanks!”
You gulp, and a shiver runs down your spine. You feel Yuujis gaze on you, but you don't look away from Megumi. “I-I wanna see it,” You whisper, pupils dilating at the prospect. You let go of Yuujis hips, and nod at him to continue.
“I-I dont think I can last that long,” The pink haired one mumbles out, and you brush him off.
“You will, do you understand?”
He whimpers, but nods, and then brings Megumi back closer to him. But to both of their surprises, you wrap your hand around their cocks. Yuuji whines, and Megumi borderlines yelps. You don't say anything as your hand rises and falls. “N-No, no, no. I can't last. Please. Please.”
Megumi's fit of giggles ends quickly, and he's back to crying. Yuuji’s teeth dig into his neck, and the dark haired man's back arches and he hisses out. “Yes you can,” You encourage, “You just gotta wait for Megumi to cum.”
Yuujis arms come wrapped around the other, and he begins to grind himself onto the other. “F-Fushiguro, you have to cum. Please cum. Please please cum!” He pleads, hoping that his movement will help spur the other on.
Megumi shakes his head back and forth, and he continues to sob. “I-I'm close. Its too much, oh fuck!” Your hand focuses on the tip, and you watch Megumi's hands try to break out of the restraints again.
Yuujis nails drag down the others' backs and by now, he's crying. “It hurts. I need it. Please. I can't hold it. Please Fushiguro let me cum!”
A broken cry is let out, and Megumi hits his climax. The second Yuuji sees Megumi's eyes roll back, he comes tumbling after him. Unlike the stoic boy proclaimed earlier, two globs of cum leak out of his pink cock. But, to be honest, you're not too disappointed, because the sight of them cumming together was truly a pretty sight. Yuuji shoots his load all over Megumi's stomach.
Yuuji clings onto the other like Megumi was some sort of lifeline, and if Megumi didn't have his hands binded, you are sure he would do the same. Tears stain the tan boy's shoulder, and he continues to hiccup through it all. Yuuji, on the other hand, is loud. He moans out, high in pitch and cracked.
And when the two come down from their high they peel away from each other, completely spent. Yuuji finds himself resting his head on your shoulder, with a content smile, and Megumi is sprawled across your lap, currently getting untied and cleaned up. And eventually, once the two of them are cleaned up, and receive proper after care (involving tons and tons of praise for megumi, and physical affection for Yuuji), the two of them pass out, curled up next to one another.
But everything after that night was strange. Whenever you ask them to guess what the hand of the coin is, the boys seem to scamper away from you, completely terrified of the outcome. It was a pity, truly, especially since you plan to have them switch positions next time. Luckily you didn't need a coin game to decide their fates.
Tumblr media
PREV POST | MASTERLIST | NEXT POST
Tumblr media
6K notes · View notes
magniloquent-raven · 2 months ago
Text
"Oh, good, you are alive." Eddie says as soon as Tommy opens his front door. He pushes his way into the house without waiting for a response, and leaves Tommy blinking at empty space.
"...Sure, come on in," he mutters.
"Would it kill you to answer your phone some time?" Eddie's standing in the living room, hands on his hips, looking at Tommy like he's expecting something.
And Tommy's still lingering in his own doorway, suddenly very aware of how ripe his PJs have gotten. "It's my day off." It's a lame excuse and he knows it. He turns away to shut the door so he won't have to look Eddie in the eye.
"It's been, like, three weeks, man."
Tommy sighs quietly. "Yeah, look, it's just..."
"Is this the part where you tell me you both love me equally and it isn't my fault mommy and daddy are getting divorced." He's being flippant, but there's anger there. Tension in his voice. Tommy's not sure if it's on his own behalf or Evan's. Either would be fair, probably.
No. No, it isn't. It's not fair. He doesn't get to storm in here and judge Tommy's life choices. It's not like he's happy with himself about this, he didn't want to break things off. It just. Didn't work out.
"We don't, Eddie."
"What?"
Tommy folds his arms across his chest. "Love you equally. He needs you more than I do."
"What happened to me being allowed to have more than one friend?"
You know what happened, Tommy wants to snap, wants to be the kind of person who gets so angry he breaks, bleeds the tension out. He wants to untangle the knot that's been tightening in his chest for weeks.
Instead he hunches his shoulders. "Nothing, you have plenty of friends. A whole station of them." Tommy bites the inside of his lip so hard he tastes iron, and his eyes fall shut for a moment while he collects himself. "I was trying to make things easier for you."
Eddie narrows his eyes. "Yeah, nothing easier than getting ghosted. In fact, I love it when people I care about suddenly stop talking to me."
"You know what I meant. You have to take his side."
"Oh, I am. Breaking up with him like that was stupid, and he's really hurt."
Tommy barely contains his wince.
"But you were my friend before you were his boyfriend." Eddie's expression shifts, not quite softening. "I'm not here to defend Buck's honour, I'm here because my friend isn't making good choices and I'm worried about him."
He cried that night three weeks ago. Held off until he'd made it home and then bawled like a child, curled up in the dark and not bothering to wipe the snot from his nose. He hasn't cried since. Not when he found one of Evan's sweaters shoved between the cushions on his couch. Not when a date night reminder he forgot to delete from his phone dinged three days ago. Every time he wakes up to nothing but empty lock-screen he feels a little more hollow thinking about all the texts he used to get in the middle of the night.
But he hasn't been crying about it. Until now.
He's not sure what it is exactly. Something about Eddie refusing to let Tommy stonewall him. Something about all the things he's gone through alone never mattering to anyone. Not enough to warrant more than courtesy comfort.
"Woah, hey, was it something I said?"
Tommy shakes his head, and wipes his cheek with the heel of his hand. "It's been a weird few weeks."
It has, is the thing. He used to be good at being alone. But six months of borrowed time was enough for him to be in a lot deeper than he thought. He doesn't just miss Evan he misses being invited to his family dinners, and hearing about life with the 118.
"How 'bout I drink your beer while you tell me about it."
"...Okay."
558 notes · View notes
hedgehog-moss · 19 days ago
Note
Pls give recommendations for Odd books 🙏
Here we go, a list of literary oddity :) This post contains majestic spheres, alien taxonomies, cruel subway polytheism, a fourth-dimensional cat, disturbing earthworms, infinite space football, existential mussel terror, a Parisian absurdist time loop, and a picture of a telegraph-pole-man-cheetah. I'm not exactly recommending these books, in the sense that I won't take any complaints if you find them more odd than good, and some of them transcend the concepts of good and bad anyway.
• The Other City, Michal Ajvaz. It's all like this:
Tumblr media
• Contes du demi-sommeil, Marcel Béalu ('Half-asleep tales') —is the book that prompted my post about stories that have no ambition or justification beyond being odd. I'm sad that it hasn't been translated :( One of the tales is about a strange opaline sphere that rolls on the road. It doesn't accelerate when the road becomes a steep slope but continues rolling majestically. At one point it floats away towards the sky. Someone wonders if it was the moon. Someone else says authoritatively "It was an angel's egg." Everyone is reassured by this explanation. The whole thing feels exactly like remembering a dream you had. There is also a man who reads too much and whose body atrophies so only his head is left and his wife puts it in an egg cup for better stability.
• Leonora Carrington— The Skeleton's Holiday, or maybe the Hearing Trumpet. I've read them so long ago but I think the latter is the one with the old ladies and nuns? There's also a guy who was murdered in his bath by a still-life painter because he said there was a carrot in one of his paintings, but it might not have been a carrot? It's hard to remember details from this book without feeling like I might be making them up. Bonus Leonora Carrington painting which kind of feels like a short story:
Tumblr media
• The Codex Seraphinianus, of course. I wish there were more bizarre encyclopaedias out there.
Tumblr media Tumblr media
Also I love this review:
Tumblr media
• Sleep Has His House, Anna Kavan —I really liked the way this book used language; making life feel like a fever dream even more than in Samanta Schweblin's Fever Dream (which I really liked too.)
The eye is checking a record of silence, space; a nightmare, every horror of this world in its frigid and blank neutrality. The actual scope of its orbit depends on the individual concept of desolation, but approximate symbols are suggested in long roving perspectives of ocean, black swelled, in slow undulation, each whaleback swell plated in armour-hard brilliance with the moonlight clanking along it . . .
• The second half of Michael Ende's Neverending Story, where things get stranger! I remember the hand-shaped castle with eyes and the city of amnesiac former emperors and the miserable ugly worms who cry all the time out of shame then create beautiful architecture with their tears...
Tumblr media
• The Gray House, Mariam Petrosyan. This is the one I had in mind when I talked about a 'museum of the strange, but one you wouldn't want to be trapped in after closing time'. Another book that made me feel uncomfortable in a similar (good) way was Edward Carey's Observatory Mansions, the protagonist of which is a man who curates an odd private museum and can't stand the sight of his own hands.
• Oh, speaking of uncomfortable, and hands—He Digs A Hole, by Danger Slater. To me this book was in the more-odd-than-good category but I liked its refusal to have a coherent philosophical meaning. It's about a man who can't sleep so he goes to his garden shed and saws off his hands and replaces them with gardening tools. Then he starts digging a hole. And then it gets weird. (Read at your own discretion if you have a worm phobia; there's some body horror featuring sexually aggressive earthworms. And then it gets disturbing.)
• 17776 — Someone sent me an ask a few years back to recommend this online multimedia narrative to me and I really enjoyed it! Here's the summary, borrowed from the wiki page: Set in the distant future in which all humans have become immortal and infertile, the series follows three sapient space probes that watch humanity play an evolved form of American football in which games can be played for millennia over distances of thousands of miles. The work explores themes of consciousness, hope, despair, and why humans play sports.
• Saint-Glinglin, Raymond Queneau —the author admitted that this book presents some "internal discontinuities." I didn't like it much but I respect the talent it takes to write a novel where everything feels like a random digression, including the key suspenseful scene that matters to the plot. The one digression I loved had to do with the way the narrator is existentially horrified by various sea creatures. It's like he dreads them so much he can't help but think about them when he should be telling a story.
The oyster... This gob of phlegm, this brutal way of refusing the outside world, this absolute isolation, and this disease: the pearl... If I conceptualise them even a little, my terror starts anew. The mussel is even more significant than the oyster and even more immediately admissible in the domain of terror. Let us indeed consider that this little sticky mass whose collective stupidity haunts our piers, consider that it is alive in the same way as a cow. Because there are no degrees in life. There is no more or less. The whole of life is present in every animal. To think that the mussel, that the mussel has, not a conscience, but a certain way of transcending itself: here I am once again plunged into abysses of anxiety and insecurity.
Near the beginning he philosophises about what would happen if a man and a lobster were the only two survivors of the apocalypse. The lobster would break the man's toe and the man would say, "We are the only beings that remain on this devastated Earth, lobster! The only living beings in the universe, struggling alone against the universal disaster, don't you want to be allies?" But the lobster would disdainfully walk away towards the ocean, and "the sight of the inflexible and imperturbable lobster pierces the sky of humanity with its unintelligible claws." (I can't overstate how little this has to do with the rest of the book.)
• Autumn in Beijing, Boris Vian —needless to say the story does not take place in autumn nor in Beijing.* To the extent that it can be said to be "about" something, it's about people trying to build a train station in a desert with tracks that lead nowhere. (I just went on goodreads to check the title, and it's actually called Autumn in Peking in English. I also discovered that it was featured in a list of Books I Regret Reading. I liked this book, but I understand.)
(* French writers love doing this—like when Alphonse Allais said about his 1893 book The Squadron's Umbrella "I chose this title because there aren't any umbrellas of any sort in this volume, and the important notion of the squadron, as a unit of the armed forces, is never brought up at all; in these conditions, hesitating would have been pure madness.")
• The Library at Mount Char, Scott Hawkins—I fear this one makes a little too much sense for this list, but you can't say it isn't weird; and I loved it and recommend it any chance I get.
• The Eleven Million Mile High Dancer, Carol Hill —this book was so wacky and made me laugh. I've not yet managed to successfully recommend it to someone; its brand of odd didn't resonate with the people I know who've read it but that's okay. You could say it's about a woman astronaut whose weird cat disappears into the fourth dimension (or the quantum realm?) and she goes to space to save him—but that makes the book sound more straightforward and less messy than it is. Her cat leaves her a note before he disappears:
Tumblr media
• The Bald Soprano, Ionesco —fun fact, there's a tiny theatre in the Latin Quarter in Paris where this absurdist play has been staged every night for nearly 70 years, with the exact same set design and costumes and everything, like the actors are stuck in a time loop. They celebrated the 20,000th performance this year! There's an actress who has been playing her character for 40 years and said joining this theatre was like joining a religion. I've been going to see this play as a New Year tradition with my best friend since we were 14, so I love it madly, though I wouldn't say it's good, necessarily—the author said it was about "absolutely nothing, but a superior nothing."
• Statuary Gardens; or Les Mers perdues (apparently not translated) by Jacques Abeille. This man is obsessed with weird statues. Unfortunately I find his writing style rather dull—I feel like he takes strange ideas and makes them feel mundane in a bad way...! But his books still have a nice, quiet, oneiric atmosphere, and images that stayed with me, like a solitary gardener trying to grow stone statues in the depleted soil of a walled garden. Here are some illustrations from the second one:
Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media
I'll look into some of the books recommended on my previous post! (and I agree with the people who brought up Cortázar, Borges, and Junji Ito. <3) Some potentially-odd books I have on my to-read list: Clive Barker's Abarat, Goran Petrović's An Atlas Traced by the Sky, Salvador Plascencia's The People of Paper, Jean Ray's Malpertuis; Jan Weiss's The House of a Thousand Floors; Brice Tarvel's Pierre-Fendre.
482 notes · View notes
solarmorrigan · 1 year ago
Text
“Oh shit, what’s wrong?”
Steve watches, horrified, as Eddie reaches up with his free hand to swipe at the moisture gathering beneath his eyes.
“Nothing, man,” Eddie croaks, and Steve doesn’t believe him for a moment.
“Did I hurt you? Is the bandage on wrong? Too tight?” Steve becomes aware as he speaks that he’s all but clutching Eddie’s hand in his own and makes a conscious effort to loosen his grip.
This only seems to make things worse; Eddie makes a noise of protest and grabs more tightly to Steve’s hand and then looks twice as mortified as before, and that’s not at all what Steve wants.
Changing Eddie’s bandages is a goddamn ordeal; there are so many of them, and they seem to be everywhere, and Eddie doesn’t have the good drugs anymore, just Tylenol, and he’s always exhausted and sore by the end of it all. Steve doesn’t want to make him feel worse.
He would start fixing it, if he only knew what he’d done.
“Eddie,” he says softly, “please tell me what’s wrong.”
Eddie shakes his head, swiping under his eyes again. “It’s seriously nothing, it’s stupid. It’s just…” he hesitates, and Steve squeezes his hand encouragingly. “It reminded me of my mom, what you did, with the little – like, the little kiss on the bandage when you finished putting it on. She used to do that.”
“Oh – shit, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to, like, overstep, or–”
“You didn’t–”
“I thought it would make you laugh or something, not drag out some sad memory, and–”
“Steve,” Eddie cuts in more firmly, “you didn’t. I’m not fuckin’ sad, it just – kinda hit me weird. That’s all.”
Steve purses his lips, staring up at Eddie from the kitchen floor, where he’s been kneeling in order to work at the bandages. He’s not sure if he should get out of Eddie’s space now, maybe give him a minute to himself, because Eddie is still holding onto his hand, and Steve still has another bandage to change out, and then Eddie rolls his eyes at him.
“Stop looking at me like you ran over my dog, man. I swear to god, I’m fine. It was kinda nice, actually, alright?” Eddie huffs. “Like, I forgot about that, until you did it, so it was– it was kinda nice.”
“Oh,” Steve says.
“Yeah. So do you think we could just…” Eddie gestures at his cheek with his free hand, and Steve nods.
“Yeah, lemme– I’ll finish up.”
The bandage on Eddie’s cheek is the last to change out, and Steve tries to make it quick. He has Eddie hold his hair to the side as he works, mostly to give him something to do with his hands – there are a million hair ties still floating around the house from before Robin cut her hair (Steve finds more every time he vacuums, he swears the things multiply in the dark), but Steve’s found that giving Eddie some kind of task keeps him still while Steve deals with disinfectant and gauze.
He's gotten the process down to something simple and efficient, and it feels like he’s done too soon. Eddie takes a sidelong glance at him when he takes his hands away, though he’s obediently holding still until he’s given the all-clear.
“Done?” he asks.
“Almost, yeah,” Steve says. “One last thing.”
Slowly, in case Eddie wants to pull back, Steve leans in and presses a featherlight kiss to the center of the bandage, holding his breath in shivery anticipation of Eddie’s reaction.
“That alright?” Steve asks quietly.
“Uh.” Eddie drops his hair and turns to look at Steve, eyes wide but dry this time. “Yeah. That’s– Actually, no.” Steve’s stomach drops when Eddie shakes his head, but then Eddie goes on, “I think you should do it one more time. Just, like, to make sure it works.”
“Yeah?” A slow grin curls over Steve’s face as his stomach makes its way back up from where it had landed near his ankles. “I think you’re right. Better safe than sorry.”
Steve leans in again, giving the bandage a quick, gentle peck. Then, because he can’t quite help himself, he presses another kiss to Eddie’s chin. And then, because they’re right there, pink and inviting and slightly parted as Eddie watches Steve with rapt attention, Steve presses one last kiss to his lips.
Eddie barely has time to return it, but he laughs when Steve pulls away. “Pretty sure my mouth was never injured, Steve.”
“You sure?” Steve shoots back.
“I mean– Well, you could check,” Eddie offers.
“Yeah, I could,” Steve says, leaning back in for another kiss – one that he thinks should be much more thorough.
All in the name of proper care, of course.
[Prompt: Kissing your partner's wounds]
3K notes · View notes
aouiaa · 5 months ago
Note
hii can you please do an abby x reader where Manny throws a party at the WLF stadium and abby and her gf go and her gf gets quite drunk and when she gets drunk she gets clingy and it’s just cute and fluffy and stuff.
if not don’t stress 💐💐
Tumblr media
❝ HOW ABOUT THAT OFFER ? ❞ — ABBY ANDERSON
Tumblr media Tumblr media
warnings and disclaimers, dealer!abby, alcohol consumption, usage of pet names (babe, pretty), descriptions of types of drunks, abby being so mm (need her).
TAPE THE MOUTH SHUT, i couldn’t resist the chance to scooch in the amazing dealer trope. i meannn, who doesn’t love her? I DO, MUAHAHA. keep sending requests! i love getting requests, or asks in general. just read my rules AND don’t be weird. OKAYYAYAABYEYEE
Tumblr media
A firm knock on the wooden, painted door interrupts the participants inside. the music, once a mere background noise, now assaults your ears as the door opens and manny stands there, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. after greeting abby with dab, the two of you step into the room, the space seems to shrink as groups of people mill about, mingling together. the thick air, laden with the combined scents of sweat and weed, assaults your senses.
The tension in the air calls for some liquid courage, barely letting abby mingle with her own crowd, you practically drag her towards the makeshift alcohol table, where you promptly pour a random assortment of shitty, cheap liquor into a solocup. abby, who’s barely registering how she even got it there, notices your witch’s concoction, and laughs, leaning close enough so you can hear her over the music. "you sure you wanna drink that?" she taunts playfully.
In response, you scoff, rolling your eyes as you defiantly pour the chaser into the cup. "i can handle my liquor just fine, abby." you assure her, unamused. she immediately leans back, putting her hands up in a playful gesture of surrender "alright, alright," she laughs, "just saying ‘cause last time..." her voice trails off into laughter as you let out a exasperated sigh.
As the night wore on, so did the consumption, making the atmosphere becomes more carefree. it was cup after cup as you soon feel that familiar warm, fuzzy feeling that signals your transition to “that type of drunk.”
Everyone knows there are distinct of drunken personas: the aggressive, rowdy, and affectionate. as for you, the affection is on full display as you shower the apples of the blonde’s cheeks with kisses, dispensing them like a sprinkler sprinkling a flowerbed.
Abby, taking on the role of the caregiver for the evening sticks by your side at arms length. seated on a couch in the far corner of the main room, you purchase a spot on her lap, head resting on her shoulder with your arm flung around her neck while your other hand gently holds a half-empty cup of tonight’s libations. one of her lean, strong arms is wrapped around your waist, acting as your anchor.
Occasionally, between conversations with manny, she checks on you. this time is no exception, a strong tingling feeling resonates down your body from the touch of her lips brushing against your ear as she whispers, "lemme know when you're ready to head out, alright, pretty?" pressing a kiss to your cheek which makes you whinge, burying your face into the crook of her neck, flushed.
The thought of escaping this crowded scene and snuggling into the warmth of your fluffy pajamas, ensconced in the embrace of your plush bed, was tempting. but a guilty pleasure at best. you knew that abby's presence was strictly for business, parties merely transactions for her trade.
Over the course of the past three hours, a steady flow of people approached the two of you, each one slipping her money before muttering a brief ‘thanks’ and disappearing into the masses.
When money talked, you wouldn’t dare silent it.
It’s why you haven’t confirmed your submission, maybe the booze was talking, but all you really wanted to do was be coddled by your gentle giant. it’s not anything different than what it was three minutes ago. from afar, someone shouted her name, summoning her services. abby acknowledged the call, quickly murmuring, "i’l be back." before waving manny over to keep an eye on you.
It should have taken no more than a minute, perhaps a minute and a half if the asshole was particularly awkward. but that additional thirty seconds felt like an eternity of separation from her. you shook your head, pressing your body against hers as if your proximity alone could make her stay.
“no, stay here.” you sulk, abandoning the cup within milliseconds and wrap your arms tightly around her neck.
She chuckles, enclosing your body in a warm embrace. "but, i’ll be gone for a minute, tops." she promises.
Frustrated, you give her your best puppy eyes, questioning. “why can’t they just come over here?” shortly adding the dramatic proclamation, "i’ll die in those sixty seconds." that she knows you mean. with a heavy sigh and zero hesitation, she looks up at the guy waiting for her, then shakes her head dismissively before returning her attention back to you.
“okay, okay,” she hushes you, “i’m right here, babe.” she says, kissing your forehead and shifting in more comfortable position to embrace you. resting her head on yours and utters the only good thing that has came out of her mouth tonight.
“how about that offer?”
Tumblr media
requests are open, don’t be shy :3
Tumblr media
PERMANENT TAGLIST, @dyk3ang3l, @elliesprettygirl, @les4elliewilliams, @r3starttt, @slut4mascss, @marsworlddd, @bready101, @abbysleftbicepp, @airenaa, @caraphernellie, @astralnymphh, @whore87, @kaiilectric, @sapphicontherun, @mikellie, @nihilisticangelbby, @be3flow3r, @ppuussyyy, @clairoscharm
[!] — PERCHANCE YOU WANNA BE ADDED TO MY PERMANENT, look here for more info!
534 notes · View notes
multific · 1 year ago
Text
A Rare Flower in a Factory
Tumblr media
Karl Heisenberg x Reader
Summary: Everyone has their own hidden little secrets, it just happens to be that Heisenberg's secret is the rarest and most beautiful flower.
Tumblr media
Everyone has their secrets. Even the four Lords.
But no one could have guessed Heisenberg's.
Down deep in the dark, the deepest and most hidden place in his entire factory, just about where the rust ended, there was a living space.
A small, yet comfortable little place that the Lord himself built with his two hands.
Heisenberg was proud, he provided a home.
And in that home lived his beautiful little flower, his bride.
Someone no one would expect to find in such a place.
Yet, there you were, hidden away from Miranda and the other Lords.
Heisenberg's beautiful flower.
You were the reason he wanted to fight to be free. You were the reason he wanted to leave this Godforsaken place and start a new life. 
But no matter what he did, he failed.
He always moved back to his chambers, feeling like a failure. But each time, when he saw you, he felt at ease. As if all his worries melted away.
And you loved him so much.
"Karl?" you called out as he got out of the bath. "Are you hungry?"
"Yes." came his reply and soon he joined you in the kitchen. His arms moved around you as his mouth moved to your neck.
"Not like that..." you giggled as he pulled you closer.
"I'm always hungry for you, Doll. But I do need some food before I have my dessert." you smiled at him as you both finally moved to the table so you could eat.
---
You woke up to the feeling of cold on your feet.
You were naked under the blanket, with an equally naked Karl attached to your back.
It got rather cold in the factory during winter.
But you woke up with the need of pee and your throat felt dry.
You wiggled out of Karl's hold.
You put a long shirt on, which reached to your knees before leaving the room and headed to the bathroom then the kitchen.
On your way to the kitchen, you noticed the door to your home open, you found it weird but decided to just close the door and get your glass and go back to bed.
You poured a glass of water for yourself when you thought you heard a noise.
The factory did make a lot of noise so you didn't think much of it.
However, the second time, you couldn't ignore the footstep you heard, you knew it wasn't Karl, you could hear him snoring.
And just as you rounded a corner, there it was.
One of Karl's many creations. 
It had human legs but it was mostly a machine with huge machetes for arms.
You wanted to run but the thing was faster, it slashed and as you put up your hand to protect yourself, it cut into your palm.
"KARL!" you managed to yell, hoping he would come and save you. 
And again, the monster got ready and this time it slashed your forearm. You made another sound of pain and the machine-human fell to its knees, you heard the metal in his body squeeze.
You looked to your right and noticed Karl.
He was looking at your bloody hand. He made a gesture with his hand and the monster flew backwards, right out the metal door.
He rushed you into the bathroom, taking out a first aid kit and he started to work on your arm.
"This is all my fault."
"It is not, Karl."
"I didn't check if the door was closed."
"It's not your fault." you insisted, but he kept on avoiding your eyes. "Karl." you called out but he didn't listen. He bandaged up your arm and took you back to your bed.
"I'll clean up." he said and you knew he needed his own space and time. So, you allowed him to have it.
By the time he arrived back, you were fast asleep.
---
The next morning, you woke up alone.
You looked for Karl, but he seemed to have gone missing.
You knew better than to roam the factory, so you stayed put, reading your romance books and cooking lunch and dinner.
You also didn't forget to take care of your wound, you cleaned and re-wrapped it.
Karl arrived back later than usual, you waited in the living room for him.
He came into the room, his eyes filled with pain.
"I'm so sorry."
"It is not your fault. The thing wandered where it shouldn't have."
"Exactly, so, I prepared a new place for you, it is still rough around the edges but..."
"Will I get a window?"
"Yes, and a balcony. I'm done hiding you down here, it is far too dangerous."
"But what if Miranda finds out?"
"I bet my ass, she already knows." Karl made his way over to where you were sitting on the couch and knelt down, holding your hand in his. "I always fared something would happen down here with you, you will be a lot safer upstairs." he said and you nodded, you leaned over and placed a kiss on his lips.
"Okay, when will I move?"
"Hopefully tomorrow. I have them working on the rooms for you, then you can add your touch to it." you smiled at him.
"Thank you, but you got to stop blaming yourself, Karl."
"How can I ever make it up to you?" his fingers gently ran along the edge of your badage.
"I have a couple ideas. You can start with your fingers, then your mouth and last-"
"You are naughty." he smirked.
"Just the way you like it." you put your hand on the back of his neck and pulled him up to kiss you.
Karl was definitely thankful for you and your forgiveness. He was so mad with himself all day, he killed every single one of his machines in revenge.
He shouldn't have, but the thought of losing you became overbearing. It was all too much for him.
And he will make sure that no one ever will get to you. Not Miranda and not the entire world, for you were his hidden flower in a garden of madness and pain.
Tumblr media
Taglist: @fleursirvart @greenarrowhead @thisismysecrethappyplace @sincerelyfan @theoneanna @aestheticsandmarvel @rororo06 @castellandiangelo @destynelseclipsa @spilledinkindumpster @capsiclesdoll @puknow @alwayshave-faith @alex12948 @lxdyred @imagines-by-a-typical-fangirl @anonymoussherlockandmarvelgeek @praline357 @trshngyn @avengers-r-us @violet-19999 @top1bbgloak   @manduse   @jacalineiscomingforyou  @mandoloriancookie @noname2246
In case you want to help out a dreamer: patreon.com/multific  
~Masterlist~
ˇAO3ˇ
DO NOT STEAL, REPOST OR TRANSLATE ANY OF MY WORKS 
2K notes · View notes