#it will be so nice to finally finish a wip and have it off my plate

[bizarrelittlemew]

calling it right now that season 3 starts like this

[yuriyuruandyuraart]

👀 coming soon-ish?

[m1ckeyb3rry]

the end is near yuta lovers…pomegranate ink is almost finished

[oozeandgoo-art]

wip, not final colors or values, something something hangover baroque. This is my friend's fault and also they are a genius

finished here!

[wandaslittlebird]

Gentle With Mama

Stepmom!Wanda x Reader

After waking up next to Wanda for the first time in years, you find yourself rediscovering who taught you to be gentle.

CW: Stepmother/Stepdaughter, wet dreams, MOMMY ISSUES, breastfeeding, size kink, strap ons, first time? (kinda?), flashbacks, dacryphilia, R is a terrible fuck.

Word Count: 4.4k

A/N: This one is straight up Freudian filth, but I'm unironically proud of it so be nice to me.

A/N: There will be a third part to this eventually, but don’t hold your breath I’ve got a lot of other WIPs I’m going to try to finish first.

Part 2 of Her Special Girl

Wanda was almost embarrassed of the way her heart sang when she woke up with you in her arms the next morning. You were home! Her baby is finally home! 

She hadn’t really even realized how much she’d missed until you’d come back. Sure she thought about you everyday, wondered how you were doing, slept in your bed when she found herself unable to sleep, wore your hoodies around the house, fantasized about you while she…okay so maybe she had missed you more than she cared to admit. 

She giggled when she peeled the covers up to find both your thighs and hers covered in cum, as well as the sheets and the blankets. “Aww my sweet girl,” she cooed, pulling your head up under her chin. She kissed the top of your head stroking it gently with her thumb. “Did you have a good dream?” Even in your sleep, she could’ve sworn she felt you nod. 

It was tempting to shake you awake now. Maybe she’d even make a little fuss about the mess you’d made, watch your face get all red with embarrassment while you tried to hide under the blankets, covered in your own slick. God you’d be so cute. And she was willing to bet you’d do anything to make it up to her, little doe eyes pleading for forgiveness over something Wanda was not even upset about in the first place. She could have you as putty in her hands all morning. 

She shook the thought from her head. As tempting as it was, you’d had a rough week already. She opted instead to grab the discarded towel from last night and use it to clean herself up. Then she pulled back the blankets, smiling when you whined and grabbed around for them in your sleep. “Shh, detka. Keep sleeping. Mama’s gonna get you all cleaned up.” 

She gently wiped you down with the towel, shushing your whines as the cool fabric hit the warm skin of your thighs. You moaned when the fabric hit your core, stuttering your little hips against the fluffy towel. Wanda chuckled. “Settle down, honey. You're gonna get yourself all worked up again.”

When she finished with the towel, she pulled a sheet from the closet. She climbed onto the bed between your legs, lifting you off the bed while she scooted the clean sheet underneath you. She heard a sleepy little whimper in her ear as she lifted you up against her chest. “Mama?” 

She laid you back down against the clean sheet, pulling up the duvet to tuck you back in. “Shh, it’s okay little love. Go back to sleep.” She wiped the hair off of your sleepy face, pressing a kiss to your forehead. 

She wadded up the wet blanket, throwing it into a pile with the towel. You groaned. The extra blanket was definitely missed without any clothes on in the middle of winter. Your face reddened as you started to realize she was cleaning up a mess. Probably your mess. 

“Did I wet myself last night?” You asked, sitting up in bed as panic started to build in your chest. Did you seriously just wet the bed at 22 years old? Did you seriously just wet your parents bed at 22 years old?

She sat down next to you pulling you in to kiss your head. So much for not embarrassing you. “You made a little bit of a mess, but it’s okay. Mama took care of it. It wasn’t a potty mess, if that’s what you're worried about. My sweet girl just had a really good dream is all. You don’t need to be embarrassed, honey.”

“O-okay,” you nodded, still blushing fiercely as you curl into her. You were unsure if it was more or less embarrassing that you’d cum in sleep rather than having pissed the bed. Still, you were able to relax into her, recalling bits of the dream that had caused the mess in the first place. “Mama?”

“Yes, little love?”

“It’s not a bad thing to have naughty dreams, is it? Cause, like, you’re asleep and you can’t control it.” You couldn’t look her in the eyes as you spoke. 

Wanda chuckled and kissed the top of your head. She knew your shame well and never wished to perpetuate it anyway. “No sweetheart. It’s not a bad thing.”

You nodded shyly. “Not even if they’re about mama?”

Wanda smiled, pleasantly surprised by your admission. “Especially not if they’re about mama, honey.” She squeezed you tight, pressing a long kiss to your forehead. She bent and whispered in your ear. “Sometimes mama has naughty dreams about you too.”

You smiled up at her, kissing her jaw before kissing your way further down her body. You rubbed your hands over the soft expanse of her stomach, admiring each curve and dip with endless wonder, caressing her with gentle hands. You traced the stretch marks that littered her side, curving upwards from her underbelly and her hips. 

She’d always loathed this part of herself. She never, for a second, regretted her boys, but she could not deny the havoc having twins wrecked on her body. Two babies meant she grew bigger all at once, leaving her skin stretched grotesquely. She hated when people brought any attention to at all. 

Yet, when she looked down at your face, she could not bring herself to ask you to stop. You look at her with a wonder she’d never experienced before. The innocent look in your eyes was not one of someone trying to console her about her broken body, but one of pure worship. It had never even crossed your mind that such attributes could be considered ugly. To you, she was nothing short of pure perfection. 

You kissed her just below her navel, nuzzling your nose in the space above it. You hummed contentedly, resting your head on her stomach, rubbing small circles on her lower abdomen.

But after a while, your face fell from one of contentment and joy, to one of an almost sad longing. 

Wanda noticed the shift immediately. “Is everything alright, love?”

You paused, unsure of what to say without making it weird. You could barely speak above a whisper. “It’s not fair.”

Wanda tried to pull you up her body so she could hear you better and give you comforting kisses, but you were cemented in place. “What’s not fair, detka?”

“I didn’t get to grow inside of you. I had to grow inside of some rotten woman who doesn’t even love me anyway!” Frustrated tears pricked your eyes. Nothing was fair. Your hands continued to gently caress the womb you envied. “I hate her! She was never my mama!”

Wanda sighed, playing with your hair. She held an equal amount of hatred for your mother, if not more. Her lack of dedication and responsibility towards you had always been equal parts confusing and infuriating. “I’m sorry, detka. I’m sorry she doesn’t treat you like the special, important little girl you are. You deserve so much better than her. She doesn’t deserve to call herself your mother.” Wanda pulled you up her body again, this time dragging you up by force. She needed you closer. 

You conceded allowing her to slide you up the bed and tuck your head under her chin. She gently petted your hair and rocked you against her, shushing your cries and wiping away your tears. “Why doesn’t she love me?”

Wanda felt her heart shatter into a million pieces. She wasn’t sure what to say. She couldn’t understand how any mother could treat their child so carelessly, least of all when that child was as brilliant and wonderful as you were. “Because she’s only ever looking out for herself. Because she’s so blinded by her own misery to see what a beautiful thing she has created.”

Your hand gently caressed her chest, feeling her nipples harden under your fingertips. She shivered under your touch, watching you as you looked longingly at her chest. 

She recalled a random conversation she’d once had with your mother in which she had said she didn’t breastfeed any of her children because it was quote “not her responsibility to get up in the middle of night when the baby got hungry.” 

God I would’ve been so much better at being your mother. I would’ve stayed up all night just to watch your sweet little face as you nursed. 

She smiled sadly. She couldn’t turn back the clock, but she had you here with her now. She couldn’t change what you did and didn’t have then, but she could give it to you now. 

“Come here, sweet girl. You can suck on mama. It’s okay. You don’t have to be embarrassed.” She manually parted your hesitant lips with her thumb, allowing you to take her into your mouth. “That’s it sweet girl,” she cooed, stroking her hands through your hair. She ran her knuckle over your soft cheek, still covered in fine baby fuzz. Your lips were soft and warm around her. She thought she’d never get tired of the sight or the sensation. 

For a moment, you felt a sense of peace wash over you. Despite never actually having been breastfed, your body knew instinctively what to do. It’s like it had been waiting all along, for Wanda to come around. You sucked at her with effortless rhythm, perfectly massing her nipple with your tongue. But then, a new sadness and longing creeped into your mind. There was no milk here. There was no milk here for you, and there never was because she was never truly yours. 

You pulled away, shrinking back down her body. You clutched at her waist, nuzzling into her so hard it was like you were trying to crawl under her skin. You wanted to be inside of her where you'd be safe and warm and comfortable. You needed to be inside of her. It felt like the only thing that could quell the aching in your heart.

“Mama?”

“Yes, little love?”

“Can I…?” You pressed on her lower abdomen in indication. “Please?”

She looked down at you, your big soft eyes pleading with her. How could she ever deny you anything? “Aww sweetheart, do you wanna be inside mama?”

You nodded eagerly, still clinging to her lower half. 

She stroked your temple with her knuckle. “Alright, honey. You can be inside mama. You just have to be gentle. Can you do that? Do you remember how mama taught you to be gentle?”

You laid with your head pressed to her stomach, recalling what it meant to be gentle. 

—————

“I’m scared, mama,” you said, voice shaking slightly. You were 18 again, a newly deflowered girl who was yet to explore anything beyond a few fingers. The two of you’d been talking about this for a couple weeks now, and you were sure you wanted to try it, but you were still so nervous. “Is it gonna hurt?”

Wanda gently slid a soft towel under your butt. She warned you that you might bleed a little tiny bit, since it was your first time. “It might. But it will only hurt for a little bit, I promise. And then you’re going to feel so so good, baby. I just know you’re gonna love it.”

Wanda knew what she was getting herself into here. She knew the moment she was inside of you, you were going to be hooked on the feeling. She had no doubt you’d be begging for her strap every single time you were alone together. 

And god she could nearly cum from the thought alone. 

You, sitting at her feet while she worked, begging to be fucked just one more time. You, falling apart as she buried herself inside of you. You, incoherently mumbling her name while you cried on her big toy. 

Deep breaths. She had to pace herself. This was only your first time after all.

“Mama’s gonna be so gentle, okay? And if you don’t like it, we can stop and you don’t have to try it again,” she cooed. 

You nodded. Poor thing, you looked like you were already about to cry and she hadn’t even touched you yet. 

“It’s okay to cry, sweetheart,” she insisted, more for her own purposes than for your comfort. She stroked your cheek gently, watching the first of many tears roll down. “It’s okay. Mama’s got you. Take a deep breath for me honey.”

You nodded again, closing your eyes to take a deep breath. “I trust you, mama.” 

“I know, love. Mama’s gonna take good care of you.” She opened a little bottle on the side table. “Now this is gonna be a little cold, okay?” She said before pouring a little bit of lube down your folds. She slowly massaged it inside of you with her fingers, shushing your little squeaks of discomfort as the cool liquid hit your most sensitive parts. Then she massaged a generous amount onto the shaft of her toy. 

She could have, admittedly, gone a bit smaller for your first time. But, as much as she didn’t want to hurt you, she couldn’t pass up the opportunity to watch you squirm on a bigger toy. It wasn’t anything outrageous, of course, but it was still a generous 8 inches and probably twice as thick as the three fingers you’d had inside of you before. 

She slid the tip of the toy through your center, wiggling it against your clit. You shivered at the new sensation, your nerves still growing inside of you. She lined the toy up with your entrance. “Okay, baby. Take a big deep breath for me.”

You did as instructed, taking in a long shaky inhale, and exhaling. On the exhale though, she pushed the first inches of the toy inside of you. You cried out, flailing around underneath her as she pushed into slowly. Your hands shot down between your legs, pushing against her lower abdomen to keep her from pushing in any further. “Mama please, please mama it hurts.”

She took your hand from her stomach, gently placing it over your head. She intertwined her fingers with yours, allowing you to squeeze her hand as much as you needed. “Shh baby, it’ll only hurt for a second. I promise it’ll feel good in a minute. Just trust me love.”

You bit your lip hard, but nodded your head, allowing her to keep going. You whimpered and cried with each cruel inch that made its way into you, but eventually she stopped. 

“That’s it baby. It’s all the way in. Aww, sweet girl mama’s so so proud of you. I know it hurts baby but you’re doing so good,” she praised, kissing away your tears and softly caressing your face. Her body was flushed with yours. You squeezed her hand, trying to relieve some of the pain. 

She whispered soft words of comfort and soothed you while your face slowly shifted from contorted in pain, to mindless with pleasure. She used her free hand to wipe your hair from your forehead. “There you go sweet girl. Does it still hurt?”

You shook your head. “N-no. I just feel… you.”

She kissed your forehead gently. “I’m going to start moving now, okay? Just tell me if it hurts again and I’ll stop.”

You nodded, wrapping your free arm around her back, clinging to her. Your other hand still squeezed hers. 

She started slow, just as she promised she would. It stung, a little, but more than anything, you just felt full of her. It felt heavenly. You weren’t sure how you’d live your entire life without it. You wanted her buried inside you forever. Anything less, you thought, would be unsatisfactory. You’d felt heaven, and now you’d never be satisfied on Earth. 

Almost unintentionally, you scratched her back, leaving red tracks down her spine. She gasped and thrust into you. You cried out, freeing your other hand from her grip and wrapping it around her back, now clinging to her with both arms. 

“I’m sorry baby,” she whispered, kissing your temple in apology.

“It’s okay, mama,” you mumbled, face buried in her shoulder. “Please don’t stop. Please don’t leave me.” You wrapped your legs around her waist, holding her inside of you. 

Wanda knew in that moment, she had you hooked. She rocked into you faster, your old bed creaking with her movements. You whined and whimpered with each thrust, but matched her hips with your own. You were so desperate for her, so desperate for her to make you hers. 

“I-I love you. Mama I love you. Please don’t stop. Please mama never… I want you inside of me forever. Please, you feel so good,” you rambled breathlessly, clawing into her back. You hadn’t stopped crying through the whole ordeal. You were unsure when the crying had turned from pain to pleasure. 

She breathed heavily in your ear, your desperate clinging forcing her to double her efforts. She was only spurred on by your scratching. Each jolt of pain sent her hammering into you harder than before. “You’re doing so good, baby. Mama’s close, honey. Oh love, just like that. You’re gonna make mama cum.”

You felt her hips stutter as she came, finally collapsing breathlessly on top of you. She laid there for a few moments before reaching down between your legs to pull the toy out. 

“No! Mama please don’t take it out yet. Please just a little longer. Just for a little bit while we cuddle,” you pleaded. 

Wanda laughed breathlessly. “Okay, sweet girl. We can leave it there for another minute longer. But then you have to sit up and drink some water.”

She laid on your chest, letting you play with her hair. You ran a gentle hand over the long red lines that covered her back, occasionally hitting a spot that would make her wince. 

“Oh! Careful detka. You gotta be gentle with mama,” she said. 

You bent down and kissed her back, brushing your hands over the scratches more lightly this time. “Gentle with mama,” you repeated, coddling her body until she fell asleep inside of you.

—————

You nodded. Gentle. You remembered gentle. 

“Okay, detka,” she chuckled. “I’ll go get it.”

She hopped up off the bed, heading into your bedroom. She kept the secret toys in the top of your old closet with the remainder of your clothes, a place she knew your father would never look. She pulled down an old duffle bag that had remained almost entirely untouched since you left. 

She returned with a large scarlet strap, your favorite, already secured to a harness. You excitedly clambered off the bed, allowing her to help you buckle it around your waist. 

You were tempted to pull her into a bruising kiss right there, back her up until her knees hit the bed, and push yourself inside of her until you both forgot where you ended and she began.

But you promised to be gentle. So you would be gentle. 

You waited for her to crawl up on the bed before crawling up behind her and kneeling between her legs. She reached back to grab a bottle of lube from the drawer at the side table, reaching down to rub a generous amount onto the strap. 

She smirked when you whined, bucking and twitching against her hand like you could actually feel her movements. With how reactive you were, she was sometimes genuinely convinced you could. 

“Already, honey. Nice and slow for mama,” she instructed, allowing you to start slowly pressing yourself into her. 

You did as instructed, lining yourself with her entrance and watching in fascination as her body took more and more of you inside of it. Your eyes went wide and you watched a small bulge form at the base of her abdomen. In a moment of excitement, you pushed yourself all the way inside of her, bottoming out unexpectedly.

“Fuck!” She shouted, hands immediately pushing your hips back. 

“Sorry sorry sorry!” You apologized frantically. You hadn’t meant to hurt her, you’d just gotten excited. Your hand ran gently over her abdomen, instinctively trying to soothe the pain you’d caused. 

“It’s okay baby. Just nice and gentle for mama. Can you do that for me?”

You nodded eagerly. Slow and gentle. You could be slow and gentle. Just like she taught you. 

You tried again, this time succeeding at a slower pace. You reached down to touch the bulge in her stomach. Your heart raced with excitement. That’s me! That’s me inside of mama! 

You started to slowly rock your hips back and forth, whimpering as you watched the bump in her stomach slowly move. “Mama…”

Wanda had her head tossed back over the pillows, head spinning with the sensation of being so incredibly full. “That’s it, baby. That’s my sweet girl, being all nice and gentle for mama,” she moaned. “You can start moving, sweetheart.”

You moved slowly at first, clearly very nervous to accidentally hurt her again. But after watching the rhythmic movement of the bulge in her stomach for a few minutes, your thrust became more erratic. You rutted into her with absolutely no rhythm, your own head spinning with too much excitement to care.

Words like “slow” and “gentle” were forgotten to the wet sound of her cunt swallowing you. You panted pathetically, whimpering as thoughtlessly chased your own pleasure. 

Two hands fell on your hips, stilling them and forcing you out of her. “Okay, honey,” she chuckled, amused by your lust blown eyes pleading with her to let you keep going. “It’s okay baby, you’re okay.”

She grabbed you and flipped you over, pinning you underneath her. She straddled your waist. “Now just be a good girl and lay down for me just like that. Mama’s gonna have her turn now okay?”

You nodded eagerly, propping your head up with pillows so you could look at her. 

She lined the toy back up with her own entrance, slowly lowering herself down onto it. Your eyes went wide at the sight of the beautiful woman, in complete ecstasy as she took your toy down to the last inch. She threw her head back, moaning with unrestrained pleasure. 

Your hands clambered up her body, desperate to grab a hold of anything at all. She took one of your hands in hers, flattening it out and placing it against her lower abdomen as she rode you. “You feel that baby? That’s you, honey!”

You nodded dumbly. “Inside mama.”

“That’s right, detka. You’re inside your mama,” she cooed. “Oh fuck, you feel so good baby. Do you like being inside mama, sweet girl. Do you like feeling your big toy moving inside of her?”

“Mhm,” you groaned, biting your lip. “You feel so good. It’s so tight and warm. You’re so beautiful mama. So so beautiful.”

She smiled. “Thank you, baby,” she said, squeezing your hand. “Fuck your making your mama feel so good.” Her voice cracked and her eyes rolled to the back of her head. 

You sniffled, tears pricking the corner of your eyes. You could hardly take it, watching her face contorted in pleasure while you felt yourself moving inside of her. It was all too much. 

“Aww, sweet girl,” she cooed. “Come here, honey.” She pulled you up by the arm so you were sitting up, flush against her. She ran her fingers through your hair. “You’re doing so good, sweetheart. You feel so good buried inside of mama, right where you’re supposed to be, huh?”

You nodded against her chest, arms wrapping tight around her waist. “Uh huh.” Your nails clawed at her back in a desperate attempt to pull her closer. 

She groaned at the feeling of you, slicing at her skin. “That’s it, detka. Hold onto mama, baby. I’ve got you. No need to scratch, honey. I’m not going anywhere.”

She continued to ride you while you cried into her chest. “Mama… I love you! I love you, mama! Please mama! I love you so much.”

“I love you too, darling,” she moaned. “Do you wanna make mama cum, sweet girl? Do you wanna feel mama cum around you?” She lead your hand between her legs, guiding you to play with her clit. 

You nodded frantically into her chest, circling your fingers around her swollen bud. “I wanna make you cum. Please. Please cum for me, mama.”

Before you could even finish your sentence, she was crying out, pulsing around the toy. She quickly swatted your hand away, instantly overstimulated by the intensity of her orgasm. 

You caught her as she nearly fell backwards. The toy popped out of her and bounced against her stomach. You eased her down against the bed, stuffing a pillow up under her head. You wrapped your arms around her torso, cradling her head in one hand. You pressed a long kiss to her forehead. “I got you, mama.”

You got up, making quick work of removing the harness before crawling back into bed with Wanda, who lay completely breathless. You managed to turn her around, laying her gently against the headboard so you could press a cold glass of water to her lips. 

She smiled, taking the water from you and happily gulping it down. “Thank you, sweetheart.”

You smiled back at her and kissed her temple, grabbing your pajama shirt and using it to very gently clean her up. She winced when you touched between her legs, still terribly sensitive from her orgasm. 

You grabbed her hand, intertwining her fingers with your own. “It’s okay, mama. I’ll be gentle.”

She smiled down at you, beaming with pride. “You really do remember how to be gentle with mama.”

You grinned. “I learned from the best.”

You tossed the dirty shirt towards the hamper, just barely missing and landing on the towel and blanket from earlier. Wanda chuckled, pulling your body against her own. She guided your head down to her chest, encouraging you to take her nipple into your mouth. “Do you wanna try again, little love?”

You nodded, wrapping your lips around her, suckling peacefully. This time, it didn’t matter that there was no milk there for you. It didn’t matter that you hadn’t grown inside of her, or that she wasn’t the first person to ever hold you. She was holding you now.

She was still your mama, and you were still her baby. Everything else was white noise.

Taglist: @wandasdove @themilfsland @moonxytcn @jordy-12 @the-lakes89 @boredandneedfanfics @bwe-esfr @wandasslut3000 @kaymariesworld @wandasfreak @lesbiansweet

[kentopedia]

˚₊‧꒰ა cold embrace (provenance) — fyodor dostoevsky

𝓈𝓊𝓂𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓎. you buy a two hundred year old house with a two hundred year old painting hanging above the mantel. it's not the only thing the previous owner left behind.

𝒸𝑜𝓃𝓉𝑒𝓃𝓉𝓈. ghost!fyodor, f!reader, violence, angst, death, alternate / modern universe, no smut but it is suggestive, fyodor is kind of a pervy ghost so, wc: 6.1k

𝓃𝑜𝓉𝑒𝓈. this one has two titles bc it was supposed to be for my kinktober... never finished it. embarrassing ! but here is a semi-revamped version for this series! i can finally check it off my wips page <3 idk how i feel about it but i hope you enjoy

part of my summerween series !

A chime from the grandfather clock brings Fyodor out of his stupor, the sound signaling another day, another meaningless hour that will only continue his eternal misery. He’s grown used to it now—evening after evening of emptiness, of reading nothing but the same books, playing the same pieces of dull sheet music, and the lifeless chess matches against himself. The house is cold with only his presence, dusty without a housekeeper and a life to make it a home.

There are a million things in Fyodor’s life that he must have done to deserve this misery, but he can’t pinpoint which one solidified his reward of a lamentable, endless cycle.

He’s certain hell is better than this. It’s something he wishes for every day, if only to have an eternal companion with the devil, a challenge to overcome.

Though, even with this boredom, Fyodor refuses to let anyone live in his home. They’ll only serve to be another pain, something that would, surely, push him past the brink of sanity.

The centuries old décor will get replaced with gaudy twenty-first century items, ones that will be nothing more than an eyesore. There are a few already scattered around his home from previous tenants, but only things that he believed useful enough for him to keep; a few books from authors he didn’t live to read, a television from the nineties, a computer that he watched one couple scroll on before he murdered them in cold blood.

Perhaps he is two hundred years dead and gone, but he refuses to be an ignorant ghost, one that is unaware of anything beyond these four walls, caught forever in the past.

Although now, it’s been a while since anyone’s tried to move in, and he’s certain the only reason the house hasn’t been torn down is because its preserved nicely, an eighteenth-century home that has withstood the test of time.

Fyodor, in his lowest moments, wishes they would tear it down. Maybe then, and only then, can he be set free. Or maybe, he’s forever trapped in this exhaustive lot, doomed to decay, even when there’s nothing left of the foundations but soil.

He pushes a pawn forward on the board, putting himself in checkmate for the millionth time in a row. It’s been so long that he’s used to his own tricks. Even the computer, which he’d come to understand quickly, is no match for him. It’s far too exhaustive to play against a machine that utilizes an algorithm he can so easily decipher.

Out of nowhere, the front door unlocks, and Fyodor glances over at the sound, dark hair falling over his eyes. Seconds later, he notices an older realtor with a clipboard leading you around, a woman he’s never seen, dressed up nicely with a darker shade of lipstick smeared across your mouth.

He’s been through this before. It’s a miracle the realtor hasn’t given up on this house yet, a mansion she is determined to sell despite the endless horrors that have been committed by his hand.

“Here it is,” she says, nervous, gesturing around the expansive hall, the crystal chandelier and staircase that immediately follows. “It was built in 1731, but one of the owners remolded it in the style of the mid-nineteenth century. The structure has been stabilized; it’s safe… enough.”

The two of you chat, but he doesn’t bother to listen in. It’s all questions of: when can I move in? can we negotiate? — things you will come to regret once he sets his sights on killing you.

Then, the realtor is sighing, wringing her hands together as she watches you spin around the house in awe. It’s clear that you’re impressed by the layout, the rich furniture and colors that have been used.

That, at least, satisfies Fyodor. Everyone else who has moved in was looking to upgrade it to a modern style, rid the place of its aged grace and charm.

“I’m truly sorry,” she says, brushing curly hair away from her cheekbones. “But I am legally obligated to tell you that every person who has lived here before has suffered a terrible, terrible fate. There have been gruesome murders that cannot be explained, done in ways that I don’t even want to tell you about.”

You laugh, eyeing her with skepticism. “Are you telling me it’s haunted?”

The realtor shrugs. “That’s what people say.”

“I don’t believe in ghosts,” you answer, and Fyodor rolls his eyes, scoffing as he floats to the second floor, unable to listen into the unreasonable conversation anymore. It’s been the same story for decades. No one believes in ghosts, but it is always a ghost that kills them.

He returns to the chess board, irritated, though unable to consider the game any further. Your face is stuck in his mind. For some reason, he can’t remember the last time he’s ever seen anyone with such beauty.

Fyodor stops; your ageless elegance doesn’t matter—it can’t, and it won’t. You’ll be dead by the end of the month, when you gather all your things and invade the bedroom that was once his own. Even if you are beautiful, you are a nuisance, a threat to Fyodor’s eternal torment and quiet existence.

Still, he can’t help but wonder if it would be nice to have something other than his own thoughts to distract him from the endless misery.

You move in on the thirteenth of June, nothing more than a few boxes and a decade old car to keep you company. He guesses you’ve traveled a long distance to get here, and you’ve gotten rid of half of your life in the process.

A good thing for him. That means things can be over relatively quickly, and all your belongings can be disposed of easily after he kills you.

You spend the entire first day unpacking, and Fyodor waits patiently, allows you time to get comfortable in his home. He watches as you bring a stack of thick novels into the waiting room, which once boasted large parties, and place them on a shelf below those that have his name within the covers.

You take a few calls as you hang up your autumn coats, ones that won’t be needed for a few months. The voice on the other line sounds frantic, worried. A local, most likely. You only seem annoyed by his continuous string of anxieties.

When the sun sets, and you grow tired, you rub your eyes and head to bed. The first night you will spend in this place that Fyodor likens to Hell.

It’s the time he’s been waiting for—a moment to catch you off guard. You are so unsuspecting, already so at home in the mansion, that you have no fear of anything hurting you in the middle of the night.

While you get ready for bed, Fyodor slips into your room, observing the pieces of your life that have conquered his bedroom. A soft classical piece plays from your phone, one that he recognizes from his mortal life. Clearly, you are fascinated by the period he once lived in. A shame, really, he won’t be able to tell you more about it.

You leave the bathroom, come back towards him to change into a pair of small shorts, a large shirt hanging over your frame.

He’s forgotten how long it’s been since he’s seen a woman, how long since he’s touched one.

Fyodor finds himself distracted by your body, the smoothness of your skin. His eyes travel over your legs, your hips, the fullness of your breasts and ignores how much he desires to let his thumb graze over your flesh. There is something so soft about you, so gentle and innocent.

Perhaps, that is where his fascination stems from: he has always been the opposite. Even in his human existence, Fyodor was not a kind man, and he doesn’t plan on becoming one now that he is dead.

He shakes away the vision, the thoughts that swirl within his mind. It has been far too long since he has experienced any sort of pleasure, and maybe even a man as cold as himself is not immune to the desires that course within his veins.

Though he tries to be. He ignores his arousal desperately in exchange for a renewed bloodlust.

You climb into bed, put your phone on the white cord, and shut your eyes. Thirty minutes later, you’re sleeping soundly, soft puffs of air leaving your lips as you sleep.

It’s the opportune moment. The silver knife gleams brightly in his hand, streaks of moonlight tracing over the slanted point. It’s the same blade he’s killed every other new tenant with, their screams still echo in the halls like a harmonious melody each time he bring the knife down on another unknowing victim.

He stands before you at the side of the bed, watches as your chest rises and falls, the evidence of your life undeniable. You are a lovely image like this, something to be painted and adored; more beautiful than many of the women he’d met in his time, even those who were of the finest elite in the country.

Fyodor presses the blade to your throat, contemplative. He considers how much lovelier you will look with the scarlet stain of blood seeping down your neck, spraying across the room and ruining the fresh sheets. Will you awaken, gasping as you claw at your throat, or will you drift away without even understanding what has become of you?

He pictures it, and digs the blade close to your throat, nothing more than a pinprick of blood flowering there.

You don’t awaken; but you a little sound leaves you, something between a gasp and a moan, and you shift away from the knife gripped between his pale fingers. It’s a sound that has him pausing, musing, as he regards your vulnerable state, a beautiful figure there with no clue that such a murderous man is also a resident in her home.

You make another one of those pretty noises in your throat, and Fyodor, against two centuries of murderous intent, pulls the knife away. He watches as you roll on your stomach, your shirt scrunching, moving up your body to reveal the undersides of your breasts. Your hand shifts towards him on the bed, reaching in his direction, before you still. Then, your breathing is back to normal, evened out completely.

Your lips part blissfully as you sigh in your sleep.

He can’t stop looking at you, can’t stop wondering what his name would sound like leaving the perfect swell of your mouth, if you’d sound just as pretty when you orgasm as you do when you’re asleep.

Surely, he can find a better use for you—it would be a shame for such a pretty thing to go out so early.

As he draws back, Fyodor notices the chess board on the side table, the pieces arranged nicely, each on the correct square. He can’t tell if you play. You could just have it for decoration, or perhaps it was a gift given to you from a lover that he hasn’t seen pictures of, the one that he’s certain someone as lovely as you must have.

The board is aged; not as old as the one in the drawing room, but a nice set, nonetheless. Fyodor glances back at your sleeping form once more, smiles coolly to himself, and shifts a pawn forward.

The chess piece is the first thing you notice in the morning.

It’s almost ridiculous how easily it catches your eye, a tiny little movement within the chaos that was your brand-new room. A pawn is on a different square, leering at you from the other wall, as if smiling, a flashing sign above its head, calling to you, hoping you’ll pay attention.

You almost think nothing of it; things can move, can’t they? Perhaps there was a shift in the earth overnight… Though, that makes little sense when you think about it rationally.

It’s strange, that much is certain. You remember the realtor telling you about the ghosts, and though you aren’t inclined to believe in haunted houses and scary stories, you find a part of yourself questioning the logic of the chess piece.

You are certain it was on the correct square before you slept.

It’s the only thing on your mind as you get ready, suffer through a tasteless breakfast, and throw on a rain jacket to combat the dreary weather. You’re meeting a friend for lunch—the only friend you have in this town. Sigma is the sole reason you decided to move here, instead of the other arbitrary cities that you’d been desperate to escape to.

Still, the board won’t leave your mind. You take one last glance at it before, on a whim, pushing the opposite color pawn forward as well.

Then you leave, hoping that a conversation with your friend will take your mind off the strangeness of that happenstance, the anxiety you feel about moving to a new place, a new job where no one knows you, a home that stays cold, despite the heat that reigns with long summers.

The walk to the cafe is short, but with the wind and the drizzling rain, you are miserable, your hands wrinkling from the dampness, even within your pockets.

Sigma is waiting for you, his lavender and white hair loose over his shoulders as he peruses the menu, eyes darting across it like he’s never read it before.

You sit, offer him a greeting, and though your conversation is cordial, the two of you catching up on your day, you eventually ask the question you’ve been dying to know.

“Do you believe in ghosts?”

Sigma stops, puts the utensil back down on his plate, and regards you with a thin frown. “Did something happen?”

You think of the chess piece, wonder if another will be moved when you get home. “No, but—”

“I told you not to move into that house,” he says, eyes narrowing. Sigma refuses to step into that mansion, grows anxious every time you mention it. “Over ten people have died there. Do you want to get murdered?”

“No particularly,” you say, staring at him flatly, your mouth pulling into a line. “But I’ve made it one night already. I’ll be fine.”

A hard laugh leaves him, as he shakes his head, unamused by your cheekiness. “That’s what they all say, isn’t it? Then they all die.”

“Very dramatic.” You take a long sip of your water. Sigma’s features don’t crack in the slightest as he stares at you, waiting for you to continue. “I’m not scared. I just want to know if you believe in ghosts or not… Because I don’t.”

Sigma’s eyes flit across your face, searching for any hint of a lie, for any signs of fear. When he finds none, his hands stretch across the table, lacing them together as he glares. “Whether you believe in ghosts or not doesn’t matter. There’s something evil about that house, and you’re putting yourself in danger by living there.”

The conversation with Sigma weighs on your mind for hours after, when you return home, still thinking about the chess board. It was just as you’d left it, two pawns moved forward, staring each other down menacingly. Nothing out of the ordinary.

You sigh and finally put it out of your mind. It was just a coincidence, that’s all. The piece was probably on the wrong square all along, and you’d been too tired last night to notice it.

Instead, you focus your sights on unpacking, and contemplate what to do with the portrait hanging above the mantel.

It’s a dusty old thing, one that the previous owners had, for some reason, never taken down. It had hung over the mantel for centuries, the corners faded from the sun, but the sinister grin of the subject never losing its effect.

You tilt your head, stare at it from a different angle. Looking at it that way, you could, perhaps, see why the painting appealed to them. It’s old, with a style from a different century, and the man composed of deep shadows and pale colors is undeniably handsome. He seems out of place in the portrait, trapped there, too otherworldly to be captured on such a canvas. His features are sharp, molded out of something tougher than diamonds, something more beautiful than this plane is able to comprehend. His deep eyes seem to know all as they stare at you, trace you across the room.

For minutes, you are hypnotized, before a wave of disgust washes over you, and you turn away, unable to look at it any longer. You’ll sell it, you decide. Maybe it will be worth a pretty penny.

That evening, you decide to look into it, but the search into a local art dealer doesn’t get far. When you sit down at your laptop, beginning to type your question into the browser, the lid shuts on your fingertips.

It takes a moment for you to register what had happened. A faint sting dances along the back of your hands, your knuckles tender as you lift the lid back up. Lines bounce along the screen, as if the imprint of your hand had made its way into the pixels, matching the pulse of your nerves.

You curse lowly, hoping that a reset will fix the issue.

The lid had just fallen, nothing serious. It was a newer model, but those things could happen. Issues with the manufacturing, with the way it was assembled. Technology fails you all the time.

You hold the power button, irritated, and upset, when a horrible, screeching noise echoes from the computer. Nothing but a shrill scream, the speakers begging you for help. You slam it shut once more, and the noise stops, but your heartbeat doesn’t slow down.

Shit.

Tomorrow, you’ll have to take it in, and see if anyone can discern the issues. It’s not ideal, but there’s so many things to still need to do, and a broken laptop makes those things very difficult.

You sigh, pushing the chair back into the table. The portrait looms above you as you retreat back to your room, hands shaking. It’s irrational, you know it is, but you swear his eyes follow you all the way up the stairs.

It doesn’t take long for you to start believing in the ghost that is haunting your manor, the one who has let you live for a week and who plays a new game of chess every time your back is turned. Whoever it is, they are much better than you; so far, you’ve lost twice—haven’t even gotten close to winning.

He hides things from you, items that you are needing for the next day, papers that you can’t submit to work on time because the important files have been stashed away.

You find your books opened to paragraphs the ghost seemingly finds interesting, your sheet music scattered in a mess when you return. The candles get blown out unexpectedly, and doors slam when you’re not suspecting it.

If he’s trying to scare you—it isn’t working. You remain in the house, sometimes talking to him like he’s a friend, whispering amongst the walls that know all of the secrets in your home.

You stop at the library on your free weekend, flipping through a dusty copy of the local legends, only stopping when you find your home. There’s a copy of the painting there—your painting, the one that still hangs above your mantel, despite your better judgment.

Beside it, there’s a painting of your home, done when the house was first built. The outside of it is a differently color entirely, the garden in front blooming with pink and yellow flowers. It looks cheerful; the home of a warm and loving family, inviting and kind to each of the neighborhood children. Nothing like the dark manor it is today, with a dead garden in the front and shutters that keep even an ounce of light out.

You read the pages proceeding the painting. The first owner had been a kind man, but the next were not such. After the original owner lost his wealth, he sold the house, passed it to a line of greedy men, ones that were focused only on their money. For a century, it went on this way—until a man named Fyodor Dostoevsky purchased the home for twice as much as it once was.

He was the one who changed it, renovated it, upgraded it to his own personal style, ensuring that it fit in with the times and his own opinions of luxury. Fyodor was charming, but ruthless, deadly with his own intelligence, owning half the town as they lost their money to his schemes.

Fyodor’s rein came to an end when he was poisoned by his closest friend, perhaps the one man he had trusted. It was the first murder in a string of ones to follow within the house.

You close the book, unsure if you regret the knowledge you’d gained or not.

The house feels colder now that you know the history of it. As if you can see the cruelty etched into every wall. Colors of the home bleed into each other, a pastel yellow of warmth and light, and the next room empty, almost uninhabitable, with its royal purples.

You stare at the portrait as you make dinner, feeling like you can never escape the gaze of those oil painted eyes. He has a name now—Fyodor. It feels even more disarming now that you know more about him than he’ll ever know about you.

And though Fyodor watches you, every night, from every angle, you convince yourself it’s just the way that the painting is situated. It would be foolish to think that he’s really watching every move you make, irises pinned on your form, unblinking.

The oven heats up behind you as you cut up your food, humming a soft tune to yourself. It’s getting hotter outside – you’d almost forgotten how miserable the summers could be. You forget every year, even though you’ve lived many.

Just as you’re getting lost in your thoughts, going through a list of things that need to get done in your fixer-upper home, you hear a scratch behind you.

It’s a quick sound, so quick that you almost think it was only your imagination. It’s enough to give you pause, your humming fading out into the night as your eyes dart around your house. Although you’ve tried not to let urban legends get the best of you, you’re paranoid in this aged mansion now.

A few seconds pass. You listen to the sound of your own heartrate, feel it pounding in your chest as you will it to calm down. It’s just enough time for you to convince yourself that it was nothing, that you’re far too nervous about silly ghosts to think rationally.

Though as you turn, a knife flies from the counter, just grazing your cheek, but enough to cause a scratch to open up against the skin. Your finger draws away scarlet as you press it to the wound, staring at the painted crevices of your fingertip.

You can’t move. Despite every cell in your body begging, screaming at you to move, you’re frozen, trapped in the four walls of that kitchen as you stare at your bloodied hand.

It’s all a dream, you repeat to yourself. A dream.

One that you don’t wake up from.

Time passes strangely, when every muscle in your body is on edge, your head pounding from the anxiety that spikes throughout your nervous system. A bead of sweat drips from your temple, and though you aren’t sure how long you stand there, nothing else happens. The knife remains lodged in the wall behind you, and the ghost makes no other attempt to lodge one into your stomach.

It’s quiet. There’s no noise, save for the music that plays softly from your phone.

After you regain control of your racing heartrate, you realize that the song playing isn’t what you’d put on originally. It had switched to a gentle, classical piece. Tchaikovsky, you think… or something similar. Something that a man from a different era would be familiar with.

“Who’s there?” You find yourself saying, perhaps stupidly. “What do you want?”

There’s no response – of course there isn’t. You’re talking to the air. To a ghost. No one had gotten inside the house. You’d checked more than enough times, just as you always did.

“I live here now,” you offer, thinking that, perhaps anger is not the best course of action. Neither is fear, though, if the scary movies you’d watched as a teenager had been any indication. “But I’ll leave, if you want me to.”

There’s no answer to that either.

You sigh, and deflate once more, trying to make yourself believe that there was a logical explanation to knives flying and playlists changing. Just as you’d made yourself believe that everything the “ghost” had done before was just a game, innocently played.

Perhaps, there was never a ghost at all. It could be that stress is driving you to insanity.

With a glass of wine in your hand, you finish up dinner, feeling like you are at your wit’s end. How is it that only a few weeks in this house has already singed your mind, turned you into a believer of things that you are not?

The portrait feels like an omen, staring at you with violet eyes, as you wonder where Fyodor is now. Does he watch you when your home, cooking, as you shower, a vicious gaze tracing over each curve of your body, with a sickening thought of all the things he wishes to do to you?

You shiver. It’ s been a while since anyone’s looked at you with a hint of desire. The feeling has become foreign, now, but you can still recall the gratification that comes with being wanted, how it makes you feel, if only for a moment, comfortable in your own skin.

That thought alone quickly snaps you out of your irrational behavior. Thinking of a ghost wanting you? A man that had been buried in the earth for so long that his body would be nothing more than bones?

This house was making you sick, you concluded, wrapping your leftovers up in plastic and tinfoil, placing them in the fridge. Your nervous friend was right – you never should’ve moved into this house, and you never should have stayed this long.

Your hands shook along the banister, heart racing around every corner. You expected that, maybe, you would see a dark-haired spirit there, his body translucent, but still corporeal. Though, there was no spirit hiding within the depths of the shadows, lurking in the places where he still belonged. No sounds startled you, caused you to jump as you brushed your teeth, completed the one last routine of your day.

The bed was colder than usual as you climbed into it, like a flush of a cold spot had settled within the sheets. You remembered what they said about temperatures and ghosts—how they changed, nothing able to survive in the places that they haunted, as they were not of this world, but something in between, something unnatural.

Your lamp flickers as you turn it on, and it’s just one more red flag you choose to ignore. In houses as old as this one, there are issues like that. The wiring is faulty, the electric needs to be monitored, a laundry list of items you will probably never resolve.

There are a thousand rational conclusions, though, and only one irrational one, which puts your mind at ease. Things like flickering lamps and cold spots can be explained simply, even if knives flying at your face cannot.

Still, you settle into bed, deciding that you will talk to the realtor again soon. You’ll move in with Sigma if he’ll have you. Anything to put your mind at ease for good.

That night, you dream of Fyodor, as if he is there right in the room with you, looming above you with those deep, violent eyes. His fingers, long and pale, trace across your cheekbones, as your eyes flutter open, consciousness coming back to you.

He says your name – it’s no surprise he knows it, after living with you for so long. It’s spoken softly, with a hint of possession behind it, like you belong to him. And yet, you’ve never said a word to him, even if all this time, he’s gotten to know you better than anyone else ever has.

You expect a scream to leave your throat, some hint of surprise, of fear, even, to see a stranger in your bedroom. To see him watching you with those familiar eyes, hair falling over his pale forehead as he gazes down at you from the edge of the bed.

No sound emerges.

Your mind feels a little fuzzy, hazy at the edges as you blink at him, closer to a state of intoxication, than you are alertness. Despite that awareness, you can’t seem to snap out of it; maybe you don’t want to. Instead, you sink deeper into the warmth, the honeyed feeling that comes with turning off your rationality. Everything feels as if it’s coming through in blurred, rosy glasses.

“Fyodor,” you mouth, instead of the scream that you’d anticipated, his name coming out in two wistful syllables.

You should hate him – there’s something in your instincts pushing back at you. A flash of a knife, the days of chaos and uncertainty, where you were sure you were losing your mind, come back at you.

But none of that seems to matter now, as you trace your finger across his cheek, feeling the sharp indent below the high bone. His eyelashes are a shade lighter than his hair, soft as they flutter over his forehead. The portrait of him didn’t do him justice… or perhaps, it is in death that he has found his purest form.

“I’m too tired.”

You’re not sure where those words even come from. Calm, like this is nothing but routine, and waking up with Fyodor beside you is the closest thing to normalcy.

He smiles at you, leaning over you again on the bed, lips pulled tightly together in a morbid grin. It does little to sour your mood, to scare you into action, even if you can’t quite understand why.

“I know,” he replies.

It’s the first time you’ve heard him speak, a deep, accented sound smoothing against your ears as he traces his gaze against each of your features; musical, almost. His voice calms you, lulls you back into a meditative state.

You reach for him, in a trance, and twirl a strand of his hair between your finger, just to see if he’d let you. After the hell you’d been through the past week, well – was it really that miserable? He seems content to watch over you, observe the gentle movements of his dark hair coiled up around your pointer finger.

“Why are you here?” you ask, your voice softer than a whisper, carried away by the wind until it never existed at all.

Fyodor never disappears from your line of sight, even when you try to blink, to close your eyes. He’s there, gazing at you with a lustful fondness, one that’s dangerous, perhaps even malicious. If it’s a dream, it sure feels like a vivid one.

“You wanted to leave,” he says, taking your finger away from his face, before bringing it to his lips. The kiss is barely there, and his mouth is cold, chapped, from the brutality of the afterlife. “I couldn’t let you do that.”

“Hm?” You try to sit up. It takes more effort than it should’ve – you’re so relaxed, so weak, that you fall back down, letting yourself sink into the plushness of the pillow. “Why?”

Fyodor releases your hand, before touching his own finger to your mouth. It’s slender, like a piece of ice, gently parting your lips before grazing your chin, hovering over your neck. Then, he drops his touch to your collarbone. He stakes a claim on every inch of your skin, pausing as he reaches your chest, still covered by the blankets.

Your clothing is thin – it wouldn’t take much effort to get his cool hands on your bare skin. But he refrains, still smiling before answering your question, tucking his hands together onto his lap. “It’s been so long.”

It doesn’t make sense, but you can’t muster up the effort to question him, not when he’s contemplating every word, like he’s hesitant to scare you away. You let him think, watch him ponder, as you stare, too exhausted to move a muscle.

“I thought you’d be like all the rest,” he says, taking a seat next to you on the bed, nearly touching your hip. “They were nothing but filth, stains in these halls. It’s a crime for them to ever think that they belonged here. In my home.”

You blink. “It’s my home, too,” you say, suddenly filled with an immense amount of dread. It crawls up your neck, chokes you, and nothing leaves you but garbled sounds, as you panic.

Fyodor doesn’t move – there is no twitch in his features, as he watches you with disguised adoration, a kind you didn’t think a ghost capable of revealing. “Of course it is, darling,” he says, so softly, it could’ve been mistaken for kindness. Fyodor leans down, presses his cold, dead lips to your cheek, a kiss of death. “That’s why I couldn’t let you leave. It’s your home. You belong here.”

“Right,” you breath, steadying yourself, before nodding. “My home.” Once more, you gaze around the room, your eyes flicking over every surface. Things are exactly as you’d left them, nothing out of place. “With you?”

The ghost smiles, and reaches out to you, finally helping you into a seated position. Your neck is so stiff, in pain, and you roll it around, feeling nothing there when you expect shifting bones. “With me,” Fyodor confirms, running his icy fingertips across your throat, tangling them with your hair.

He leans into you, pressing a lingering kiss to your mouth, one that catches you off balance, before you accept it with an eagerness that surprises you further. It doesn’t feel unfamiliar, instead, it’s as if you’re coming home, like the man you’ve never seen until now was always meant to find you.

A thought that should’ve scared you, even though it doesn’t.

Fyodor pulls away, right as you begin to shift forward, maneuver yourself onto his lap. “You should rest,” he replies, keeping you at a distance. “It might take some time to adjust.”

“Hm? What do you mean?” you blink, holding onto his wrist as your gaze shifts from his impossibly dark eyes to the mirror across the room.

There, in the darkness of the evening, shrouded in moonlight, you can see your reflection staring back at you, eyes vacant, lifeless. You expect to see yourself as nothing but exhausted, but when you draw your gaze across the image of yourself, there is blood seeping from your neck, a stream of scarlet. There is thick gash across your throat, slashed so deep that it would’ve killed you instantly.

The expression on your face shifts from one of calm to horror, as you scrape at your neck, trying to clear off the blood that isn’t really there, the permanent wound that will follow you even into your death.

“What did you do?” you scream, tears rolling down your cheeks, even though you can’t feel them, can only see them in the mirror. “What did you do to me?”

Fyodor smiles, eyes crinkling at the corners. Though you fight against him, he takes you into his arms, and you are too weak to fight him off. “I told you,” Fyodor says, shushing you, running his palm over your head as you scream. “I couldn’t let you leave.”

thank you for reading !

[suga-kookiemonster]

ctrl-alt-del | jjk (teaser)

summary⇢ you graduated bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, but, to your extreme disappointment, your big girl job isn't turning out to be nearly as exciting as you thought it would be. still, you're holding out hope that your talents will soon be recognized and your coworkers will stop trying to include you in their gossip sessions. enter jungkook, the quiet IT guy who's gradually making your days more bearable. (and if you find him easy on the eyes, that's nobody's business but yours.) pairing⇢ jungkook/reader teaser word count⇢ 1.4k genre⇢ smut | humor | office!au warnings⇢ nothing too bad for this teaser! just a mention of oral

a/n⇢this fic has literally been sitting in my wips for YEARS lmao. i feel like it's finally time to set it free 🕊️✨ it's looking like it's gonna lean more towards pwp, but there's definitely still enough plot in there to keep it interesting. not sure when it will be up, but wanted to share a snippet to get your thoughts and get myself excited to finish the last leg--fingers crossed for the next month or so 🤞🏾🙌🏾💜

When you graduated top of your class with a marketing degree and a job already lined up, you weren’t big-headed to assume you would be given a lot in the beginning. No, you knew that you were the new kid on the block and needed to prove yourself first, needed to work your way up from the bottom. But what you definitely didn’t anticipate was working up from thefigurative trenches, almost exclusively doing busywork—constantly making coffee runs, catering business lunches, printing out endless spreadsheets.

Eighty-thousand dollars in debt, and you are a glorified intern.

You’re positively itching to hit the ground running and get your hands dirty, your job isn’t too bad. The people there are all nice and welcoming, the complimentary coffee in the break room is decent enough for your dwindling bank account, and every couple of weeks, the company sponsors an employee barbecue were everyone can fraternize and enjoy free food.

“Apparently it fosters unity and teamwork,” your coworker Joy informs you as you both stand in the food line. “Seokjin—that’s our CEO—is really big on unity and teamwork.”

Joy is also a member of your marketing team. Though as sweet as can be, she has no filter, and thus always has a lot to say about everything—which has helped you when it comes to learning the ropes about the company, but has also had you clutching your imaginary pearls in some situations where you found it inappropriate. Despite only being a year older than you, her title of Marketing Associate (instead of your measly Assistant)means that she technically outranks you, though she doesn’t usually enforce that fact (unless there was something that needed to be copied or filed, of course). Still, she immediately took you under her wing when you first started, and she is the closest person to a friend you have at work (even though her daily coffee order is always so ridiculous, you are convinced that she has to be fucking with you—or at least engaging in some form of mild hazing.).

“I think it’s nice,” you reply. “I’ll never say no to free food, and they let us out early and everything.”

“I mean, pretty sure you can get the hotdogs twelve in a pack at the dollar store,” Joy quips, raising her eyebrows at you pointedly. “But sometimes the boys from Sales take their shirts off and play soccer, so there’s that.”

Your eyes dart to said Sales boys against your will, gaze drawn to Jung Hoseok as he chats animatedly with his teammates by the tables. You’ve only spoken to him once or twice, but his fiery red hair and even brighter smile caught your attention immediately, your heart rate accelerating at the sight of him in hallways mere days into starting your new position. Who better to have a mild work crush on than a sweet-talking salesman who winks at you sometimes in passing?

An appreciative noise has you turning back around, embarrassed at being caught ogling how shapely Hoseok’s butt looks in his dress pants today, but it’s just Wendy from accounting, Joy’s best friend and thus a harmless, familiar face. Wendy has cut in front of a few editors to join you and Joy, and the way that she smiles at you lets you know she’s up to no good. “He’s cute, huh?” she asks, leaning towards you conspiratorially. “I would definitely give him the good ol’ suck behind the dumpsters over there, if you catch my drift.”

“Err…yeah, I do,” you reply awkwardly. She had been explicitly clear—keyword explicit—so there definitely isn’t any room for misunderstandings. Is this truly appropriate work function conversation? From the way the editors behind you are politely clearing their throats, you think not.

“Behind the dumpster?” Joy asks curiously. “He’s standing right next to some sturdy tables that I, for one, would take great advantage of—”

“I’m gonna go get us some drinks,” you announce loudly, your neck heating up. “Can you grab me a hot dog, Joy?”

“Sure,” she says dismissively, already distracted by her sudden debate with Wendy about the most convenient place to suck off salesman Jung.

The whole conversation is making you uncomfortable. You are not a prude—far from it—but there is a time and place for everything, and your coworkers’ blasé attitude towards speaking about inappropriate topics at company functions on company time rattles you a bit. So instead of engaging in the risqué discussion further, you make your way to the cluster of brightly-colored coolers that presumably hold beverages, sidling up to the only other person lingering the area.

“Anything good?” you ask cordially, making your coworker, who had apparently been deep in thought while considering his beverage options, startle a bit.

He’s tall, his large frame covered in the appropriate business casual attire of nice jeans and a powder-blue buttonup. When he turns his head to look at you, you’re met with large, dark eyes blinking in surprise from behind wire-rimmed glasses. Said eyes dart around for a moment before determining that you were, in fact, speaking to him.

The man clears his throat. “Just the usual,” he says, voice soft. Timid.

“The usual?” you repeat. There are little hoops dangling from his earlobes, and you brush off your surprise at seeing them, returning your gaze to the coolers. Water, a clear soda, a cola. “The basics, you mean. Well, can’t really complain, right? Seeing as it’s all free. I think it’s really nice of them.”

Your companion seems surprised at your words. “It is,” he agrees softly, eyes meeting yours for a second before dropping back down to the cooler. “Um, are you...are you new?”

“Damn, I guess my cover’s blown.” You shoot him a wry smile. “Yeah, I just started a couple of weeks ago. What gave it away?”

“It’s just—no one else here really cares about these barbecues anymore,” he admits, looking at you, but not quite. More like, in your direction. “Everyone has forgotten to appreciate the little things.”

“Nothing is a given,” you shrug. “So you need to appreciate things when you can. And besides, those lots of little things can really add up without you realizing it.”

He finally seems to look at you properly, and the weight of his large, gentle brown eyes throws you off for a second. “They can,” he agrees, lips slowly drifting up. 

“What do we have over here?” a loud voice interrupts, a hand falling to your shoulder. You look up, and are met with the brightness of salesman Jung.

“Ah,” Hoseok says with a wink, reaching into the cooler. “I love Sprite.”

“Me too,” you reply automatically, and then immediately want to smack yourself. Because you don’t—carbonated beverages make you break out. But your mouth had formed the lie without your permission.

Embarrassed, you reach into the cooler, grabbing three water bottles. “See you later,” you squeak, avoiding eye contact as you make your escape.

Joy and Wendy are already watching you when you return to where they have procured a table, and when you hand them their waters, Joy raises an eyebrow. “I was wondering how long you were going to talk to that IT guy.”

“Yeah, and why did you leave when Hoseok showed up?” Wendy pouted. “_____, the universe is only going to give you so many opportunities. If you don’t want the ball, then pass it to me! Goddamn.”

“IT guy?” you ask, hoping to slide past that last remark.

“Yeah. His name is Jungkook, I think? Mostly works with the printers, started a couple months ago.” Joy shrugs, obviously disinterested by the topic. She reaches for the ketchup bottle in the center of the table and squirts some on her hot dog. “This is the first time I’ve seen him at a barbecue, though. Honestly, I’m surprised he even came out, because the IT dudes generally keep to themselves. The rarely leave their little tower,” she adds with a dismissive wave.

Wendy scoffs. “Who cares about Jeremy! Hurry up and eat, I’m sure Sales is gonna start their soccer game soon.”

“Soccer game?” you ask.

“The sales department likes to play soccer during these things,” Joy informs you. Her expression brightens. “Hey, maybe Hoseok will take his shirt off again! Let us pray.”

To your coworkers’ disappointment, Hoseok did not take his shirt off. But they certainly had a good time watching him run back and forth across the grass.

[deanstead]

Marry That Girl

Pairing: Jay Halstead x Reader

Requested: no

Word Count: 600+

Tags/Warnings: none

A/N: Short one because I haven't released something for Jay in way too long! This has been sitting in my WIP drafts for the longest time so I finally got it written! An anon requested something similar for Will but since I had a half-written fic, I finished this and posting this instead! As always thanks to bestie @seatsbythepit for being my beta queen~!

JAY HALSTEAD MASTERLIST

You hadn’t thought this through.

It sounded like an innocent enough date when Jay had asked if you wanted to go watch the game. You hadn't been dating for long, and every day felt a little unreal in a ‘I can’t believe Jay Halstead wants to go out with me’ kind of way, and you appreciated every opportunity you got to spend with Jay especially since you never knew if he would have to go undercover or spend nights at the district trying to clear a case.

But now that the game was approaching, you were in a bit of a panic.

You enjoyed watching a game, but you didn’t always know what you were watching or doing, and you weren’t sure you were ready to let Jay see that side of you.

“Y/N, everything okay?” Kelly’s voice interrupted your internalized panic and you glanced up.

“Ah, I should have thought of you!” You proclaimed, earning yourself an eyebrow raise from the squad lieutenant. “I need your help.”

Kelly raised an eyebrow but chuckled before nodding toward his office.

You thanked all the stars that it was a quieter shift. After all, an entirely quiet shift didn’t exist at Firehouse 51. But at least that’s the way you liked it.

Kelly gave you a crash course, but not without reminding you that you owed him one. You spent the rest of the downtime studying it so that at least you’d have something smart to say, even though there were a few times you wondered what the hell you were doing.

Hard work indeed paid off.

You walked out of the game, feeling a little embarrassed as Jay’s friends gushed over you.

“Jay, you got a good one. My girlfriend doesn’t even want to come to games with me.” One of his buddies quipped.

Jay laughed, putting an arm around you and grinning. “Hey, should I be worried? What if you guys just call her for the games instead?”

The laughter rumbled through the group as they all nodded, teasing Jay that they’d rather call you instead of him in the future.

You really did owe Kelly one.

As his friends dispersed, calling that Jay had better bring you out for the next game, Jay’s phone rang.

You nodded at him, telling him he’d better take it, assuring him that you and Will wouldn’t leave him behind.

Jay took the call from Voight, glancing toward where you and Will were talking as he nodded. “Yeah, I got it. I’ll be right in.”

Jay could feel the dread in his gut, that felt just a little too much like guilt that he had to blow off again tonight even though he’d promised a nice after-game dinner and maybe some drinks and cuddling.

“This is why you don’t promise anything, Jay.” He mumbled to himself, before he walked back toward the both of you.

“Hey, Y/N, I…”

You glanced at the look on Jay’s face and just smiled. “Gotcha.”

“Sorry.” Jay couldn’t even say anything more because everything else in his head sounded like an excuse.

“I’m not saying I’m not disappointed, because I kinda am. But I get it. And if these were bells going off for the ambulance, I’d do the same thing you’re doing now. So, go.” You paused. “But you owe me a mind-blowing date.”

Jay laughed and nodded. “That, I definitely do.”

You shot him a huge smile and headed off toward Jay’s truck to wait because you knew he’d at least take you home before heading back down to wherever he was supposed to go.

Will watched the exchange with a mix of amusement and awe before he glanced at his younger brother.

“Jay?” Will called, before Jay and him headed off in different directions.

Jay glanced up at Will and Will smiled. “You better marry that girl.”

THANK YOU FOR READING!! PLEASE TELL ME WHAT YOU THOUGHT OF THIS!!

If you want to support me, buy me a coffee!

[dollsorwhatever]

More Cleo

Some more Cleo updates since my last post about her on here! I mostly post on twitter nowadays but I like to keep this account somewhat up to date, especially since I can be more long-winded here lol "Casual" Cleo (rerooted Ghoul Spirit Cleo) is finally finished! She's been mostly finished for a month or so but I dragged my feet doing the hair rings lol.

They're inspired by a set of wig rings found in the tomb of Sithathoriunet (Middle Kingdom, 12th Dynasty), shown here at The Met and here in an earlier Met exhibit, displayed on reconstruction wigs.

I couldn't find any metal beads in the right sizes or color (and I wanted them to be the same shade of gold as her accessories) so I made these myself with a handful of coffee stirrers that I painted and cut into little rings lol Other than the hair rings, she's been given a pair of shoes since my last post (Goreganizer Cleo's shoes with the Skullettes dremeled off and painted), a new choker that I made by cutting MB Cleo's ponytail holder into separate pieces, sanding off a few parts and reassembling it (the cartouche on it actually spells her name btw!), a Gloom and Bloom Cleo purse that I painted to match her shoes and a new clasp on her kilt made with a G1 Cleo vanity bracelet. Also, it was pointed out to me yesterday that the hieroglyphs on this top (from G1 I Heart Fashion Cleo) spell out to say "oh my Ra" phonetically lol. A nice touch that I never noticed! And I also finished up this Cleo a while back but never posted her here lol

Her headdress is a heavily altered and repainted Monster Ball Cleo headdress; I just wanted the "core" of the headdress so I removed everything but the cow horns and sun disk with my dremel, then drilled a hole through the back and pinned it to her head lol. The bracelets are all g1 Nefera bracelets that I repainted (as well as Nefera's necklace) and her shoes are from Skulltimate Secrets Cleo but repainted to match the rest of her accessories, and the hair rings are repainted G1 sig/Howliday Cleo bracelets. The first two 'tiers' of hair are her original rooted hair, but the longest tier is an extension that I made and pinned to her head. My general idea is that this is something she'd wear for temple ceremonies or religious events, or as a model for portraiture and statuary that represents her as an embodiment of Hathor? Not sure! My SS2 Cleo custom got some small updates shortly after my last tumblr post about her, mostly just her new headdress and new fishnets that actually fit her lol

And finally a group shot of my current Cleo lineup:

Skulltimate Secrets Cleo (far left) and Goreganizer Cleo (second to the right) are still WIP but they look good enough to be part of the shot! I also have a partially rerooted Monster Ball Cleo waiting for a new fit too, but there's no room on this display for her and she's barely dressed anyway lol

[spockandawe]

Oh man. I'm really trying to claw my work hobby-life balance back into order, but in my defense, this set has been in wip limbo for a few weeks. I started it before the blue and tan piece! But then I needed to order more green straw, and the shop was on vacation, and then I ordered the wrong green straw. But it finally came together! This was actually supposed to be the practice project to git gud at inlays before I did some overambitious pictorial thing. However, I'm extremely impatient and demand immediate gratification at all times, so everything went way out of order

This was also an experiment in rays. Watching the pros, on a large piece, when everything radiates from a single point, they don't usually bring every piece of straw back to that point. Even if you're very good, it's hard to keep it all crisp and precise. So here, I defined individual rays that would be filled separately with just one point for that surface area. The gold pieces have thirty degree rays, and the green has twenty degrees (I think I like this better), and I tried to concentrate the lighter colors toward that center.

For the biggest, most boring ray on each piece (two rays together for the green), i put in the straw crosswise, and planned to do some geometrical cutouts. For the gold, this worked great! For the green, I ran out of straw. I also realized that the measurements written on these frames were a lie (I think they came from the outside of the frame, not the space for the picture). All the finished area I had to trim off would have probably been enough straw to finish :')

But the straw arrived yesterday! And I finished filling out the canvases and worked out some nice cutouts. The gold cutouts involved taking circular bites out of circles, radiating from the center, so in this one, I did overlapping circles of increasing size, radiating as well. And the skill level up between me doing the gold inlays (and then two big projects) and then the green inlays was NOTABLE. I'm always so relieved when I can see that happening! And now with all four frames filled, they've been installed on my office wall. I'm in a few more meetings lately that want my camera on, but my wall was embarrassingly boring. Not a problem anymore!

[cevansbrat0007]

Request: Andy Barber & Baby Girl having sex during a thunderstorm.

Through the Storm

Summary: Andy helps you overcome your fear of thunderstorms.

Warnings: Astraphobia, Smut, Anxious Reader, Dominant Andy, Manhandling, Fingering, Spanking, CMNF (Clothed Male, Nude Female), Safe Sex, Cuddles, Cursing, Minors DNI

A/N: Finally finished this WIP! This request takes place early in Andy and Reader's relationship. Part of my ongoing Growing Pains Series, but can also be read as a standalone. Not beta'd. All mistakes are my own. Likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated.

You stare out into the backyard, watching sheets of slanted rain pelt against your boyfriend’s newly installed patio. While it wasn’t much, it was enough to give the compact enclosed space the cozy feel it had long been missing. You’d even helped him with the landscaping, much to your chagrin. 

Andy had been quick to learn that while you enjoyed gardening you were also terrified of virtually all things creepy crawly, like bees. Especially bees. Your man hadn’t known what to make of that one, which had certainly made for an entertaining afternoon. 

A loud crash of thunder suddenly booms overhead, startling you so bad that you nearly drop the bottle of water in your hands. You fucking hated thunderstorms, a fun little nugget that you had yet to share with the man who was currently waiting for you to join him upstairs. 

Truth be told, you hadn’t even planned on staying over tonight. You were supposed to be home by the time the storm rolled in, tucked away safe and sound on your couch. All the while clutching your stuffed bear, Mr. Sprinkles, for dear life and watching your favorite comfort films until Mother Nature decided she was done with her tantrum.

But dinner with friends had gone long and then the show had started late. Well, the dinner itself hadn’t actually been with friends – more like one of his work colleagues. But the guy’s wife had been nice enough. And after enjoying one last round of drinks, you four had wandered across the street to take-in a production of Aladdin on Broadway. 

Of course musicals weren’t really your thing, but since it was a childhood favorite of yours you’d been all for it. Your boyfriend didn’t know how much of a Disney fan you really were. Which was okay. Because he was older, more mature. And as such, you always tried to come off more sophisticated than what you actually were.

He’d already been married once before and had a child. One he’d lost a few years back. You two had yet to actually have a true conversation about that one but you were almost certain it was coming.

It had to be, right? Because it wasn’t like you both could skirt around the topic forever. But, at the same time, it’s also not like you could be the one to bring up. Like, how would a conversation like that even go? 

Exactly. It wouldn’t. Because you couldn’t. It wasn’t your place. 

So, you would allow that door to remain shut for as long as it took to allow him to open it and guide you through. You could be patient. 

Alright fine. You would make yourself be patient. And until then you would keep trying to demonstrate the right amount of emotional maturity needed to prove that you could be a good partner and support system. Or at least a little worldlier than you probably came off.  

But all of that would be pretty hard to do if Andrew Barber knew that you were secretly afraid of thunderstorms. He wouldn’t get it and you would only end up tripping all over yourself if you tried to explain. Which meant that you had to make a decision.

Either you could be brave and climb the stairs so you could crawl into bed – his bed – wearing nothing but a pair of panties and one of his oversized t-shirts. Or you could sneak upstairs, grab your clothes, and dash out your man’s front door into the night like a madwoman and hope that he would be too stunned to chase you down. 

“Whatcha doin’ down there, Baby Girl?” Andy bellows from up above, making you jump.

“Noth–coming!” You shout back as you pad towards the stairs, still trying your best to devise a plan. Andrew Barber was deceptively fast, which meant running was out. So you were most likely gonna have to suck it up until he fell asleep and then you would be free to tremble in peace. 

The city’s hottest attorney could not know that he was dating the world’s biggest scaredy cat. If he ever found out, you might never recover from the embarrassment.  

You find yourself holding your breath as you round the corner before stepping inside Andy’s bedroom. Your man looks up from his phone when he notices that you’ve finally joined him. A warm smile spreads across his handsome features as he leans back, allowing his big body to relax against the frame. 

“Thought I was gonna have to come looking for you.” His husky purr sends a tiny shiver coursing through you, all the way down to your toes.  

“Uh, nope. Here I am.” Your eyes stray towards your overnight bag nestled innocently in the corner. Because if you weren’t mistaken you were also beginning to sweat. “But I was thinking that maybe I ought to – nooope!” 

An loud, unexpected clap of thunder has you diving towards the bed with a shriek. You seek refuge under the blankets, ignoring the sounds of a bewildered Andy calling your name. He tries to lift up the edge of the comforter, but you refuse to let go. 

At this point, you have no desire to acknowledge just how ridiculous you were being at that very moment. Because you were scared.

And also a smidge mortified.

“Um, honey..?” Andy works to keep his tone light. “What’s going on?” He pauses briefly as one big hand comes to rest on what he assumes must be your head. “Are you okay?”

“Yep!” You squeak out, clutching the blanket even tighter around you. “But I’m also really, really sorry.”

“Sorry for what?” Again he tugs at the edge of your makeshift shield, prompting you to try and roll away. “You haven’t done anything – can you at least look at me? Please.”

“Um, I…I don’t think so. No.” Your words come out slightly muffled.

You’re rewarded with a heavy sigh followed by a brief moment of silence. Although you’re not sure what you expected him to say, you’re still surprised by what comes next.

“Well, if you won’t come out, then I guess that means I’ll just have to come under there then, won’t I?”

Fine by you. Because you were pretty sure that you were only seconds away from dying of embarrassment anyhow.

“Kay.”    

“Let me in, princess.” 

Relief fills him when he sees you finally relax your grip. Seconds later he joins you under the blankets, cocooning you both within the plush softness.   

“Hey.” Andy breathes as his eyes strain to adjust to the light.

“Hey.”

As if of its own accord, one of his hands reaches over to gently brush your curls away from your face. A quiet sigh makes its way past your lips as you feel yourself melting into his touch. In a way it acted as an unspoken reminder. 

You were safe with this man. Which meant it was time to fess up. 

“Umm…” He makes an exaggerated show of looking around. “Why are we hiding?”

“Because.” You whisper, only to flinch when another crack of thunder echoes above. 

“Because?” Your man drags out the word. “Because what? Are you–?” He cuts himself off before trying again. “I’m gonna guess that all this has something to do with the storm. Am I somewhere in the ballpark?”

His question has hot tears pricking the backs of your eyes.

“I don’t like it.” You croak before giving into temptation and burying yourself in his tattoo-covered chest. “In fact, I hate it.” 

Good Lord, you sounded so pitiful right now. 

“The…storm?” 

“All of it.” You confirm as you begin to tremble ever so slightly. “The lightning, the thunder, the heavy winds, the sound of the rain. S’too much.”

“I see.” Is all he says, even as his hand goes to rest on the small of your back, rubbing in easy, soothing circles. 

“I’m sorry.” You feel even worse when the tears spill over onto Andy’s bare skin. 

“Hush.” Comes the soft-spoken command, drawing you flush against his much larger body. “There’s no need to be sorry. I just wish you would’ve said something earlier. Is that why you were so adamant about going home tonight?”

“Mmhm.”

But then your handsome ogre just had to go and be difficult.     

“And I convinced you to stay.” Andy huffs out a disappointed breath at the same time as he drags his knuckles along your spine. “I should’ve noticed something was wrong. All I could think about was how much better I sleep whenever you’re next to me.” You can tell he’s annoyed now – not with you – but with himself. “Should’ve thought to ask why you seemed so skittish.” He drops a brief kiss on the top of your head.   

“Andy…”

“I’m sorry, Baby Girl.” He grunts, pulling away so that he can get a good look at your face. “No–” He continues when you open your mouth to interrupt. “I should’ve been paying better attention. That’s on me.” He takes a moment to whisper his sensual, full lips over your own. 

“It’s okay.” You assure him before pressing a tender kiss on his left pec, just above his heart. “I probably should’ve said something earlier. It was just…I guess I was embarrassed.” You finish with a shrug. 

“Why?” He cocks his head to the side as he patiently waits for you to answer. Although it was hard to read his expression in the dark, you knew he was genuinely curious. 

“Because it’s a stupid.” You mumble a few seconds later. “It’s stupid and I’m stupid for–”

“No it’s not.” Andy swiftly interjects. “And no you’re not. So please let that be the last time I hear you refer to yourself that way.” His gruff tone leaves little room for argument, not that you were in the mood anyway. Seconds later, another clap of thunder, followed by a flash of lightning, has you diving back into the safety of his arms.

“Fuck.” Pissed at himself, he quickly wraps his arms around you before gently rocking you back and forth in an effort to calm you down. “When did it start?” More thunder booms overhead the whole house, loud enough to shake the whole house. 

Andy frowns when he hears the tiny whimper that escapes your throat. .   

“It’s silly.” You warn, even as you close your eyes and force yourself to take a deep breath. 

“Try me.”

He’d stay up all night if that’s what it took to get you to talk. The last thing he wanted was for you to shut down on him. Again.  

“Please.”

Guess that was your cue to start spilling your guts. 

“Wh–when I was a little girl, I couldn’t have been more than six or seven, there was this really bad storm. I mean later we would find out that tornadoes had touched down all over the region. But that night – I swear the rain was coming down so hard it sounded like hundreds of baseballs were being pelted against the roof. And the wind was blowing so hard that it kept rattling windows.”

“Mmhm.” The small, noncommittal sound rumbles from somewhere deep within his chest, spurring you forward. 

“So my dad woke us all up, me and my siblings, and herded us down to the basement. I guess he’d been watching the news and figured we’d be safer there. My mom had laid out blankets and sleeping bags for us. At first it seemed kinda fun – almost like we were camping out.”

Another bright flash of light briefly illuminates the bedroom, but you’re too engrossed in your story to really care. Plus, you had Andy to keep you safe. Nothing bad ever seemed to happen when you were with Andy.

At least not so far. 

“I could see that.” Your boyfriend affirms, before giving your hip a light squeeze. “Bet you probably had a cool sleeping bag.” 

“I totally did. I actually had one of those Disney character sleeping bags.” The memory makes you smile as your initial anxiety begins to lessen. “Come to think of it, we all did. But mine had Genie from Aladdin on the front of it. I remember because I got to pick it out myself.” 

“I knew I had the right idea when I invited you out tonight.” Andy muses, brushing his mouth against your curls once more. 

“Yeah, Big Man. I’m a Disney girl. And I sure did love that sleeping bag.” You take a moment to lace your fingers through his, needing the connection. “Which was why I climbed right on in and let my mother zip me up. At that point, I think my little sister started crying or something, so I let her crawl inside with me. After that she went right to sleep.”

“But I’m guessing you didn’t.”

“Nope.” Your grip on his hand tightens, but your man doesn’t pull away. Even so, you allow your thumb to sweetly caress along the ridges of his knuckles. “I stayed wide awake for what felt like hours just…listening. Listening as the wind picked up, as the thunder got louder and louder. Until it became so loud that it sounded like the storm was happening right above our house. And then suddenly there was this crash that shook the entire house – almost like a bomb went off.”    

“Listen, I know sometimes storms can seem–”

“It was a tree.” You quietly forge on. “The storm had knocked down a tree. It fell through the roof, into the room I shared with my sister. Of course nobody was hurt, but ever since then I’ve been terrified of thunderstorms.” You finish, somehow feeling even more foolish than when you’d first started. 

“Holy shit.” Andy exhales before briefly nuzzling your nose with his own. It was a simple stress touch, nothing more. But at this particular moment, it means everything. “I mean, I’m sure this probably goes without saying, but I’m so glad you weren’t in there when it happened. You or your sister.”

Wordlessly you nod, still wishing that you’d found a way to make it home tonight after all. Come tomorrow you’d finally bite the bullet and start looking for a therapist. Perhaps it was finally time you found a way to move past some of your childhood trauma. And maybe then–

Your thoughts are interrupted by the deep, rich timbre of Andrew Barber’s voice. 

“I’m afraid of clowns.” Your boyfriend grunts in a very matter of fact tone. “And spiders.” He tacks on with a slight grimace. “Can’t get near either one of them without breaking into hives.” 

“Oh.” Is all you can manage, clearly surprised by his sudden openness. You hadn’t been expecting that at all. “So I‘m guessing anything to do with Pennywise is probably – ahh shit!” You cry out when the familiar sound of thunder makes you lose your train of thought, leaving you unable to finish your small attempt at humor.

Almost immediately, you feel two strong arms band themselves around your waist, drawing you closer even as you try your damnedest to scramble away. You throw off the covers before attempting to swing your legs over the side of the bed so that you can make a mad dash in the direction of the basement.     

“Hold on, baby.” Andy growls, wincing when your elbow accidentally connects with his ribs. “Just settle down for a second, okay? We’re gonna get through this, I promise.”

“Nope – I’m good! Just let me go, please.” Instead of doing as you ask, he flips your bodies, using his considerable weight to keep you still. “I’m serious, Andrew!” You tell him, thumping his back with your fist for good measure.

“Hush.” He takes advantage of your positions long enough to glide his lips along the column of your throat, leaving a trail of goosebumps in his wake. “Just focus on me – on us – and let everything else fade away.”

Hmph. Easier said than done, handsome.

Andy gifts you with a glimpse of his pearly white teeth before slanting his hungry mouth over your own. He moans into the kiss, gently sucking on your bottom lip and releasing it with a slight pop. When you don’t respond he does it again, this time tracing the curve of your lips with his sinful tongue. 

“But what if –.”

“Shh.” Your boyfriend pauses his sensual assault long enough to stare down at you while he braces himself on his forearms. “You have my word that nothing bad is gonna happen while I’ve got you here, with me, in this bed. We’re safe, Baby Girl.” He then angles his head to nip along your jaw. “Let me show you.”  

“Do you trust me?” Where had you heard that before?

“I…” You trail off as he continues to nip at your heated flesh, paying special attention to the sensitive shell of your ear. “Y–yes.”

“Good.”

Apparently that’s all the permission Andrew Barber needs, because the next thing you know he’s sliding one large hand up your thigh, his lightly calloused palm sending pinpricks of pleasure straight to your core. Seconds later, you both are treated to the sounds of tearing fabric. 

Well, there went your panties. They’d been shredded to hell just like every other pair that went before it. 

Next up is your shirt. He manages to whip it over your head with relative ease before resting his delicious weight on top of you once more. Clad in only his boxers, he makes a show of grinding rapidly hardening cock against your damp pussy.

“Andy.” You whine, wantonly arching your hips in time with his thrusts. “Don’t tease me right now.”

“Why not?” He purrs as a hand moves to fist itself in your hair, wrenching your head back with just enough force to make you feel dizzy with lust. 

Reaching up, you capture his face between your hands to pull him down for another kiss. The scruff of his neatly trimmed beard feels so good against your skin.

“Fuck me, please.” You hiss, seeking a much needed distraction as a flash of lightning threatens to send you running for the hills. Since this man wouldn’t let you leave, your next best option was to let him bury his thick cock inside you so hard and so deep until you no longer had the capacity to think. 

Or walk properly, for that matter.

“Your wish is my command, baby.” Your boyfriend groans as he continues to circle his hips. With that said, he then makes quick work of removing his boxers before tossing him aside in the direction of his hamper. He misses, of course. Which is why you silently vow to pick it up later.

Now freed from its confines, you watch Andy’s impressive manhood immediately spring to attention, lightly smacking his abdomen as it bobs up and down.

Good God, you’d be lying if you said the sight didn’t make your mouth water.  

His mouth curves into a roguish grin as he purposely slides himself between your slippery folds. He revels in your wetness, loving the way your slick coats his aching cock. Shit – if he wasn’t careful he risked blowing his load before it was time. 

Which absolutely would not work. You always came first. That was the rule. There were no exceptions, unless you were playing a game or something.

Reaching over you, Andy grabs a foil packet from his nightstand. Tearing it open with his teeth, you lean back on your elbows while he handles his business with the condom. Maybe next time he’d allow you to put it on for him. You’d always wanted to try…

You also weren’t quite sure of exactly when he’d gone and removed his boxers, but you also weren’t complaining either.         

“Now, sweetheart.”  Your man begins as he takes a hold of your calf, tenderly draping it over his muscled shoulder as the wheel continues to howl outside. “All you’ve gotta do is lay back and focus on how good you feel.” He leans forward so that he can trace his tongue around your nipple before sucking the delicate flesh into his waiting mouth.  

Your back bows as you thrust your chest forward in silent offering. Andy groans as continues to toy with your pouting nipple before switching to the other. You let out a sharp cry as he brings the pebbled tip in his mouth, lightly pinching it between his teeth just hard enough to make you writhe beneath him. 

That’s part of what always made this feel so good. The way he always seemed to mix pleasure with a little bit of pain. 

His mouth eventually finds yours again as your hands smooth their way over the blades of his shoulders, allowing you to run your fingers along the contour of his muscles. And when you finally reach the firm globes of his ass, you can’t help but giggle as you finally give into the temptation to smack it. Hard.    

Just the way he liked it.

“Remember, sweet brat. If I’m gonna wear your handprint then I think it’s only fair you wear mine too. Understand?” Of course he doesn’t wait for you to answer. Instead he maneuvers himself up so that he can expertly flip you over onto your stomach before pulling you up so that you’re now resting on your hands and knees before him. 

Instinctively you arch your ass in the air, inviting him to make good on his promise. This man loved spanking your ass every chance he got. And what’s more, you seemed to enjoy it almost as much as he did.

“Now be a good girl and put your hands where they’re supposed to go.” 

A small shiver of anticipation courses through as you move to obey. He chuckles softly as he watches your eager fingers grip the headboard. Later he would tell you how proud of you he was in that moment, that he was honored by your faith in his ability to distract you from the violent storm taking place right outside his window.

It meant the world that you trusted him enough to take care of you at a time like this. 

“Fuck, you’re perfect.” Andy purrs as the heavy weight of his palm comes down on your upturned rear with just enough force to make your naughty pussy gush. Unable to stop it, you can’t help the groan you emit when he does it again, loving the way he kneads and caresses your most intimate curves.  

“So are you.” 

Your body jerks when he decides to focus his attention on your greedy little cunt. Nimble fingers spear you open as they between your glistening folds to tease your throbbing clit. It’s not long before your hips begin moving in time with his ministrations. 

Soon your eyes flutter closed as you bear down, shamelessly grinding yourself against his calloused palm. At first, Andy is content to simply watch as you slowly work yourself into a frenzy.

Because this time, when the sound of thunder crackles throughout the room, you barely react. In fact, you hardly hear it. You’re too engrossed in the pleasure, too caught up in just how good your man is making you feel, to remember to be afraid. 

“Easy, greedy girl.” Andy hums after another beat goes by before finally removing his hand. The fucking bastard.

“Nooo!” You whine, hating the way your impending orgasm lingers just out of reach.

"Yeees.” There’s a slight mocking edge to his tone that has you glancing over your shoulder to shoot him a glare. 

“Swear to God you’re so fucking beautiful. Even when you’re trying to turn me into dust.” He winks at you then before allowing his hands to settle on your hips. Goosebumps pebble across your sweat-dampened flesh when you feel the head of his impressive cock nudge at your entrance.

“Please.Please.Please.” That one word is whispered over and over, like a fervent prayer. 

Just then, a stroke of lightning brightens the room, treating you to a fleeting glimpse of your man right as he thrusts himself inside of you, all the way to the hilt. Your eyes threaten to roll back in your head as he forces you to take every deliciously thick inch of his cock, stretching your tight pussy until you can’t help clench around him.     

Andy starts off slow, gradually building up the pace as your velvety walls continue to milk him for all he’s worth. His fingers dig into your curves as you rear back to match his movements. Soon, he adjusts the angle of his thrusts, allowing him to go even deeper. 

“S’good, Andy!Fuuuck!” You moan as Andy continues fucking you into oblivion. “Yes!Harder, pleeease!”

“My baby wants it harder?” He growls, adjusting his position to give you exactly what you asked for. A desperate sob bubbles up from your throat, prompting you to bury your face in a nearby pillow.

Too bad your man is having none of it.        

“Oh no.” One large hand moves to wrap itself around the delicate column of your throat, applying just the right amount of pressure to make your pulse spike. “You don’t get to hide that pretty face from me. Not tonight.” He grunts before allowing his free arm to encircle your waist to haul you against the hard wall of his chest. 

A hand soon finds its way to your breast. He lifts the tempting weight, before plucking at your nipple with his thumb and forefinger, evoking the most exquisite sensations. 

“You’re doing so good, Baby Girl.” Andy rasps, tweaking his angle so that he can find your spot. “So good. Told you I’d keep you safe.” The sounds of flesh slapping against flesh echo throughout the room, creating an erotic tempo. “Would never let anything bad happen to you.” 

Your boyfriend’s Boston accent grows thicker and more pronounced with each passing second – letting you know that he’s close to losing control. That’s when you decide to push him closer to the brink by reaching behind you to pull his head down for a kiss. It’s hot, wet, and deep. And by the time you both come up for air your heart is hammering in your chest. 

“I…I know.” And you did know.

Tipping your chin back, you allow your walls to flutter around his fat cock, making him twitch. Your core begins to spasm as you feel the coil in your belly tighten even more. Andy makes sure to keep a tight hold on your sweat-slicked body as his lips continue to whisper kisses along the curve of your jaw.  

White hot pleasure dances along your skin, meanwhile Andy’s thrusts continue to grow more and more erratic with each passing minute. One of your hands slips from the headboard to help keep you upright. 

“Cum, princess. Give it to me.” He snarls through clenched teeth before reaching down to deliver a slap to your pussy. It feels so good that you beg him to do it again and again. “Be a good girl and fucking cum!”

That’s all you need to hear before you go tumbling over the edge and into bliss. “Fuck!Fuck!Fuck!” Ecstasy slices through you, making you cry out loud enough to wake the neighbors. Thank goodness there was a storm going on outside, otherwise someone might’ve taken it upon themselves to call the police.  

Chest heaving, you continue bouncing on your man’s cock. He felt so amazing it bordered on obsession. And you knew he’d feel even better once you had him in your mouth. Andy shudders behind you, his big body trembling with the force of his orgasm.  

Completely spent, you both flop down on the bed. You’re both naked and sweaty, but neither of you really cares all that much. You curl up in his arms, resting on his chest so that you can listen to the soothing sound of his heartbeat. 

“You okay?” Andy murmurs a little while later when he notices that your eyes have begun to droop. “Do you need me to–”

“Mm…” You purr, stretching your arms above your head as you stifle a lawn. “I’m thinking I need some more of that. Like tonight.” 

You grow quiet once you realize that you no longer hear the sound of the rain. Or the wind. Or the thunder. All is as it should be. Thank goodness.

“Give me ten minutes to refuel and I’m all yours.” He grunts before disposing of his used condom in a nearby garbage can.. 

“Thank you.” You mumble, feeling your cheeks heat. “For tonight, for what you did.”

“Not sure if I did much of anything.” Andy smiles down at you, his brilliant blue eyes filled with sincerity. “You’re always safe with me, princess. So just relax."

“I believe you, Andy. But the storm –"

“Is about over. We fucked right through it, baby.” You don’t have to look up at him to know that he’s got some kind of shit-eating grin plastered across his handsome features. "But most of all, thank you for trusting me with your secret.”

“Thank you for not laughing.“ Your hand reaches up to stroke your knuckles along his bearded jaw. 

“Hm.” Andy mutters. “Maybe next time we’ll have to try making love in the rain. What do you think, princess?”

“Um, baby steps, Andrew.” You counter, expertly dodging his first question. “Let’s go smaller. I’m talking waaay smaller.”

“Fine. I’ll settle for a kiss during a light drizzle.” Your boyfriend concedes, laughter and warmth suffusing his tone. 

“Consider it done, handsome.” You mumble as sleep threatens to overtake you.

Later, Andy would tell you that he let you fall asleep that night on purpose. Your earlier anxiety had really done a number on you, which is why he was content to let you rest. Instead of complaining, he holds you close, silently willing his heart to beat in time with your own. 

And when you wake in the middle of the night, cocooned in the safety of your man’s arms, you know without question that you are cherished beyond measure.

END

[psychedelic-ink]

𝐒𝐂𝐑𝐄𝐖𝐄𝐃 𝐔𝐏 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐁𝐑𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐈𝐀𝐍𝐓

pairing: max phillips x f!reader

genre: smut, office romance

word count: 5k

summary: a week after walking in on your boyfriend fucking someone else, Max gives you the day off. You leave, unaware that you dropped your watch. Much to your surprise, he brings it to you. Your relationship with him escalates in the following days.

warnings: office sex, rough sex, praise kink, dirty talk, use of 'sir' & 'good girl', piv, dom/sub dynamics, very mild degradation (he calls you his cocksleeve like once), dumbification if you squint, soft!max at times

a/n: I drafted this months ago and only now I finally finished the fic, I have no idea why I waited this long especially since I'd written most of it back then but other wips got in the way--sorry Max lmaodvdf this is my first time writing for you and I hope I did you justice 🖤 I rewatched his scenes and I'm still so horny for this man it's making me look stupid

Max’s office is the nicest one of everyone who works in this building, albeit a bit darker. There’s a succulent on his desk that reminds you of a translucent star and you can’t seem to draw your eyes away from it. His voice is smooth and melodic but you aren’t really listening. Your hand moves over to your watch, feeling the coolness of metal underneath your fingertips. It’s nice. 

It’s safe to say that you’re not really paying attention to anything. 

Your eyes are wet still, a sting every time you dare to blink. It’s been a week since you found your boyfriend screwing someone else on the couch in the living room. The image still lingers in your head, taunting you. 

While you stared, unblinking as they scrambled for their clothes, all you could think of how happy you were that they didn’t use the bedroom. 

Now that the relationship is over it’s easier to see the red flags. The way he belittled you, your passions, the things that you enjoyed. Your body, your cooking, anything you did was never enough for him. It was an open invitation to mock you for who you were. And that was the least of it, he never touched you, and you had to beg him for sex— not in the fun kind if you might add. You feel so fucking stupid for trying to make him happy.

“You’re not listening are you?” 

You flinch upon hearing the question, eyes finally snapping away from the succulent and turning to Max. You didn’t mean to be so obvious about it. He sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. . . Great, another person you couldn’t make happy no matter what you did. 

“You’ve been like this all week. Is there something going on? You can take leave if you need to, you’re not really much use like this anyway” 

His words sting but you can’t really blame him for it. Though you did find it funny that as an immortal he was so pressed for time. 

“Sorry,” you say and he looks at you, really looks at you. Brown eyes move from your eyes to your lips, his own tongue darting out to wet his own. “I’ll do better just some... personal stuff going on,”

“Family?” 

“Shitty breakup.” 

“Oh.”

Max appreciates bluntness. You figured that one out on your first day here. He isn’t a fan of keeping anything that might affect your work bottled up. He doesn't like the guessing game either. If there’s something wrong he wants to know and if he can he’ll fix it. Not that he can really fix a broken heart. 

He suddenly stands up, making his way around the desk. He lends against the edge, hands on his lap. Instictecly you curl your fingers around the armrests. Max is pretty docile for the most part, unless he’s hungry. But the way he’s looking down at you, brows relaxed and a faint smile tugging at his lips, it makes your heart drop. He’s a walking corpse but his eyes are more alive compared to most people you’ve met. 

“I’m sure you’ll be happier without commitment wearing you down,” he says, voice dropping, barely above a whisper. You shudder and fail to see the way his fingers twitch. “Don’t think about it, relax, sweetheart.” 

And you do. It’s like warm water dancing over your skin. Your shoulders slump, your body limply sinking into the chair. A lazy smile spreads across your lips and he smiles back, teeth winking at you between his plush lips. “That’s it. You’re not feeling anything  now, are you?” 

You giggle, shaking your head. Even your heartbeat slows, the tips of your fingers tingling with pleasure—

You blink, pinching your brows, you slowly roll your shoulders and hear your bones crack. Max is gazing at you with utmost curiosity, thumbs drumming silently.

Then it hits you. The fucker is using his powers. Fucking vampires. 

“Stop it,” you hiss, your body relaxed but mind racing. He rolls his eyes and waves his hand as a sign of dismissal. The tension that had disappeared from your muscles return at full force, and you jolt. “You shouldn’t do that,” 

“I was trying to help,” he answers without a care in his tone. He buttons his vest and gestures with his head to the door. “Take the rest of the day off. Sort yourself. See you tomorrow, sweetheart.” 

“But—” 

“Just go. It’s fine,” when you fail to look convinced, he pouts and draws a cross over his chest. Ironic. “I swear. Now go, take the day off, collect your thoughts or whatever you need to do,” 

You leave without pointing out the irony of him making a cross over his non-beating heart. You’ve worked long enough to know that if the boss wants you to take the time off, you take the time off. 

Max drags his palm over his face, eyes rolling to the back of his head as he hops off the desk and turns to look at the empty seat you left behind. He’s not sure if he should be condoning this kind of behavior. He doesn’t want people barging in here asking to leave with the most minuscule of problems. But it isn’t typical of you to be distracted so he decided that you earned it. 

He’s curious about what kind of man would be stupid enough to leave you, let alone make you look that sad. Not that it’s any of his business. 

Max is amidst turning on his heel when he sees it. A small sparkle on the carpeted floor. Cocking an eyebrow, he leans over with his hands in his pockets. A watch? 

That’s right you had a watch when you came in, you were playing with it while he was going over the weekly sales. You must’ve dropped it. Looking almost bored, he scoops it off the floor and stares at it. He sees your initials written on the back, a pretty, delicate little accessory. 

Surely you would miss it. He knows your address due to dragging your drunk self back home after an office party— so maybe he should bring it to you. Max sighs and flips the watch over. He has time to make a quick stop. 

He leaves the office with the watch snug in his pocket. It really isn’t his style to be nice, or remorseful, but he does feel a tad guilty using his powers on you. He genuinely did think he was doing some good. It did look like you were feeling better until you broke out of the trance. 

Max steps into the elevator. The tedious music loud and scratching his ears as always. 

Taking a day off isn’t going as smoothly as you had hoped. 

Initially, you thought you would binge your favorite shows and eat a bucket of ice cream. Instead, you ended up staring blankly at the ceiling, arm dangling out from the side of the bed. It’s a shitty feeling. Your heart feels heavy and uncomfortable. Maybe Max taking away the pain wasn’t so bad after all? 

There’s a loud knock on the door and you jump. Every bone in your body aches, your heart beating fast as you head to the living room. You’re praying to every god you know that it’s not your ex. You don’t want to deal with him. Especially not today. 

You take a deep, calming, breath. It’s okay. He wouldn’t just show up now, would he? Stupidly enough you don’t look through the peephole before yanking the door open, the person that lurks on the other side takes you by surprise completely. 

It’s Max. 

What the hell? 

“Hiii,” he says with a smug grin. He lifts something to your line of vision and it takes you a moment to recognize your watch. “Found this, thought you might miss it.” 

Blinking, you open your palms and he drops it. It feels like a dream. “Uh…thanks,” 

“You’re welcome,” he peers over your shoulder, looking into the dimly lit apartment. “So how’s your day off going?” 

“Not as fun as I hoped,” you give him a bittersweet smile. His eyes meet yours, and you see your reflection in them, so bright. “Do you want to come inside?” 

A shudder climbs your spine when something dark crosses his face, eyes becoming sharper. Your stomach churns and you swallow, fingers tightening around the watch. 

“Would love to” he chirps, practically jumping over the threshold. “Thank you for the invite, much obliged.” 

“You really can’t come in without being invited?” you ask, closing the door with a push of your heel. 

“Nope,” he answers, emphasizing on the p. “Why do you think I left you at the door after the party? You were too drunk to say ‘come in’ I basically had to push you through the door just so you could crawl the rest of the way to your bedroom,” 

“I honestly thought you were just being an asshole,” 

He scoffs, “I am an asshole. Just not to the people I like,” 

He drops down to the couch, which in return makes your stomach sink. You really need to burn it, you don’t think you can have it in your apartment anymore. You sit across from him, placing the watch neatly on top of the coffee table. “I wasn’t aware you liked me,” 

“Let’s say tolerate. I like your work ethic.” 

“Thank you?” you answer, unsure.

“You’re very much welcome.” 

You’re not sure why you invited him inside. He doesn’t drink coffee unless it’s morning, and he doesn’t really like to eat as far as you could tell. The silence is deafening and uncomfortable. You part your lips to ask if he would like tea or anything else but he beats you to it, gaze fixated on you. 

“So, how did it happen?” 

Your throat goes dry, “What?” 

“The break-up,” he shrugs and leans back into the couch, you internally cringe. “Do you want me to break his neck or something?” 

“What—No!” you’re horrified but can’t ignore the way warmth blossoms in your chest. You’re highly aware that he’s joking, however, it’s still a nice thought that someone actually cares enough to get pissed about it. “Where did that even come from?” 

“I don’t know, I’m not sure I like seeing you so sad. It’s unnerving.” 

“Sorry that my misfortune is bothering you,” you answer, crossing your arms. “He cheated on me, and I’m only now realizing how shitty he was.” 

“Ouch.” 

“Yeah,” 

“So I do need to break his neck then?” 

You laugh. 

You aren’t expecting it, but here you are rubbing tears from your eyes as you laugh with your whole body. There’s just something about the way he said it; as if it was the most normal thing to do. He seems to enjoy the way you laugh. Smiling wide and bright, watching you with fond eyes. 

After minutes, your laughter starts to die down, softening into breathless giggles. You’re surprised to find that Max is still smiling at you, no smugness, no cockiness, just an earnest smile. 

“Thank I really needed that,” you say, heat building at the base of your spine. “Sorry if I worried you. It’s been a bit rough lately.” 

“We can’t all be perfect every second,” he grins, he flattens his palms over his thighs, moving them up and down. Your breath hitches, eyes involuntarily dropping to his crotch. You’re flustered all of a sudden. He tilts his head, tongue poking out of his cheek as he gives you an open-mouthed smirk. “See something you like, sweetheart?” 

Your eyes snap to his face, cheeks burning, “Nope. Not—Not at all,” 

He leans forward, placing his elbows on his thighs. There’s a table in between but you feel as if he’s a breath away. You swallow, goosebumps rousing over your skin. 

“You know I can smell it right?” he purrs. “I can smell the arousal gathering between your legs. I can hear the way your heart is beating… That asshole had no idea how to fuck you properly did he?” 

Your pussy bottoms out at his words. You don’t want to give him the satisfaction that he’s right, you don’t want him to know how badly you want him inside. For him to whisper praises into your ear as you squirm around his cock. You lick your lips. He’s not using his powers, you can tell. Yet you still want to blame it on the fact that he’s doing something to make you feel so hot and bothered. But it’s not him, just you. 

You’re not sure when you started to have the hots for your boss, but clearly, there was something there. Lurking in the darkness of your mind.

“Look at you,” he coos, eyes raking over your body. “So sweet and afraid. Let me be the first one to say that he didn’t deserve you. Not in the slightest,” 

“Max…” you warn. 

“Yeah…?” he mimics your tone, smile somehow wider. “Would you want to get coffee before work tomorrow morning?” 

The question catches you by surprise. You observe him for a brief moment, he seems dead serious—at least the amount of serious Max Phillips can be. 

You nod.

Your first early morning coffee date with Max goes exactly how you expect it to go. You pay for both coffees as a thank you. He found it unnecessary but grumbled a thanks anyway. He talks a lot about work; about sales, about his time in Romania. But mostly work. You do appreciate the distraction though so you don’t complain. You pitch in, telling him ways the company could improve but also adding that you want to quit one day and do something better with your life. 

The following mornings follow the same pattern. Mostly conversations about work, and sipping coffee. That is until Tuesday rolls around. It’s an especially cold morning and you find yourself huddling closer to him as the two of you sat on the bench. He doesn’t really seem bothered by the cold, which makes sense since he’s cold-blooded. 

Max’s eyes drop to your trembling fingers that were curled helplessly around the coffee cup. You notice his frown, his gaze lifts back up to meet your eyes. “Do you want to go inside?” 

“No, I’m good. Besides it’s too early to start working.” 

He chuckles, shaking his head. “We do get here early don’t we.” 

“I mean…we don’t have to. But I have been enjoying our mornings.” 

“So have I,” he chews on his bottom lip, instinctively moving closer to you when he feels a shudder crawling up your spine. “It sucks that I can’t really warm you up—being undead and all— This would be the perfect moment to hold your hands.” 

Funnily enough, he does manage to warm you up. You look down at your hands, the cup only half full, you place it to the side. Max truly had been a balm to your broken heart these past couple of days. He never got overly flirtatious again as he did in your apartment, some part of you is disappointed that he didn’t. 

“You can—” you lick your lips, the wetness furthering the chill. “You can still do that. If you want to.” 

“Yeah?” he moves his jaw, eyes dropping to your lips. “You’ll be colder.” 

“I think it might be worth the risk.” 

Max brings your hands to his lips, brushing your knuckles and kissing each finger individually. You shudder. He wasn’t wrong, he was awfully cold. But you weren’t wrong either, it’s worth it. Hundred percent. His mouth moves over the back of your hand in the shape of waves, the pit in your stomach rolling, and butterflies fluttering in your chest. His eyes meet yours and you’re mesmerized by him. His eyebrows raise, lips kissing the curve of your wrist, laying a path to the inside, he drags his teeth over the skin right above the vein. 

A sudden fear spikes from your feet to your neck. He wouldn’t, would he? 

“Are you afraid of me?” the question is whispered with a breath into your skin. Everywhere except the tip of your nose is warm. He looks at you with heavy eyelids, lashes kissing his cheeks every time he blinks. 

You don’t have an answer, but you know what he needs to hear. 

“I’m not.” 

Before you can blink his lips mold into yours. He traces the seam of your mouth with his tongue eagerly, and you part your lips, allowing him to taste and dominate. With both hands he holds your wrists firmly, pulling you close until you’re basically flush against him. Max inhales as he presses deeper, licking the inside of your mouth and swallowing your whines. 

He breaks away from you with a smile, you see the flash of fangs.

You gently knock on the already open door. Max is positively exhausted. His eyes snap from his computer to you, he sighs and signals you to enter with two fingers. You close the door when you enter. 

“Are we still good for dinner?” you ask, feeling slightly foolish now that you were standing in the middle of his office. 

“Sorry baby, not today. These assholes managed to mix everything up, need to fix all that so I’m going to be here late,” 

You try very hard not to look disappointed. You already know you failed when you feel your bottom lip starting to quiver. You ball your hands into weak fists, pushing your nails into your skin. He notices, a moment of worry crosses his face. 

Tonight wasn’t really a date, or anything important. It was just dinner. 

Then why are you so upset?

You neither move away nor lean in as he wraps his arms around you, pulling you into a tight embrace. “What’s wrong?” he murmurs, and you exhale at the way you can feel his chest move underneath you. 

“Nothing, just—Don’t worry about it. I’m just being clingy. I know you’re busy,” 

“Clingy? Oh, sweetheart,” he rolls his chair back and slaps his thigh. “Come, sit on my lap.” 

“Uh…” your eyes flit between his spread legs and his face. “Excuse me?” 

“Just get your gorgeous self over here.” 

Swallowing, your legs move on their own. Your heart does somersaults in your chest. His smile never falters as you slowly lower yourself down, feeling his frame under you. Your insides clench. Your arms shake. You feel his breath on your neck when he guides your arms around his neck. He presses his lips where your neck and chest meet, heat coils in your stomach. 

“Max…” 

“You could never be too clingy,” he murmurs. “And even if you were I would love it. I’m actually really happy you came over, I was starting to think this thing between us was going nowhere.” 

“You want it…to go somewhere?” 

“Of course, I fucking do,” he snaps, looking up, glaring at you. “Do you think I come here that early just to drink coffee—I like spending time with you.” 

You feel yourself start to tremble as his hands move up your thighs and cup your ass. He squeezes gently and you gasp, your skin prickling under his touch. His lips move away from your neck, pressing soft kisses up your jaw until he reaches your ear.

"I want to take this further," he whispers, his breath hot against your skin. "I want to fuck you, sweetheart. Bend you over this table and make you scream my name because I’m sure haven’t been screaming anything for a while."

His hands move around your body, tracing the line of your spine and the curves of your hips. His touch is gentle and yet rough at the same time, your heart beats faster with each passing second. You melt into him, wanting more, wanting him.

“I want to feel your wet cunt around my cock,” he groans, dragging his teeth down the column of your neck. His voice drops an octave. “Let me fuck you sweet thing.”

You pause for a moment, and then you nod, your heart pounding in your chest.

"Yes," you whisper. "Yes, I want this too."

Max smiles, a satisfied smirk playing at the corners of his lips, and he pulls you in for a long, deep kiss. He nips at your bottom lip before pulling it and slipping his tongue into your mouth. Pulling you closer—inhaling you—he cups your head from both sides, and groans into your mouth. You feel the growing wetness between your legs, your body having a mind of its own, you grind down on him, shuddering as you feel the hard length under his pants. 

“Needy,” he tuts, gripping you by the neck. You hiss when he yanks you back, the rest of your body falling still. “You’ll take what I give you. Is that clear?” 

“Yes—” you bite the inside of your cheek. “Yes, sir.” 

Your cheeks burn as his eyes widen momentarily. Then he closes them, taking a steady breath, he cocks his head to the side. A soft hum echoes in his throat. 

“I like that,” he purrs, opening his eyes. “Say that again.” 

“Please, sir.” you choke out.

Max's grip tightens as he bends you over the office table. You gasp, your skin hot as he shoves your pants down to your knees. While you kick them off, you hear a zipper, feel the weight of his cock on the top of your ass. Your face is directly staring at the door— If someone were to waltz in, the first sight to greet them would see you taking your boss’s cock. However, you can hardly care when his warm breath fans your neck, his breathing uneven and rushed. 

He slips his hands down and cups your ass, kneading and squeezing as he shoves you further against the cold desk. 

"You look so sexy like this," he growls, his cock pushing against your ass as he presses himself against you. His hands move up your body, and he starts tugging at the buttons of your shirt, loosening them one by one. His lips brush against your ear and you shiver in anticipation as his hot breath tickles your skin.

"Say. It." 

It’s a threat and some wicked part of you is tempted to exhaust his patience. His hands move down your body, and his fingers start to tease your nipples as he traces circles around them. Then, when you don’t answer, he pinches them harshly. 

Your body jerks at the sharp pain, an acute moan rips from your throat. 

“Fuck me, sir. Please.” 

“You sound so good like this, begging for my cock,” he purrs. “I’m going to go easy on you today sweetheart, but don’t expect me to always be so nice.” 

He slides his hands lower, and his fingers slip between your legs, teasing and caressing your wetness. Your eyes roll back as his fingers start to penetrate you, and you grind downs in search of more. Wanting him deeper, wanting more of him. 

“So fucking wet,” he coos, he pulls out his fingers, smearing wet streaks across your hips. He nudges his cock between your folds and rocks his hips, the catches against your clit and a loud moan rips from your throat. “That’s my girl, and you thought I didn’t want this. What kind of idiot wouldn’t want this pretty cunt? Hmm?” 

“Max, please. . .” 

You hear the growl that rattles his chest. Closing his eyes, he cocks his head to the side, tongue tracing the edges of his fangs. “I really love hearing you beg,” he groans. “And the blood rush in your veins.” 

Your breath catches in your throat—and in one smooth thrust, he slips inside of you. You clutch the edges of the desk, your eyes rolling back into your skull. Suddenly the rest of the world blurs and it’s just you and him. He stretches you perfectly, his length deep enough to hit all the right spots. His hands smooth a path up your spine. You practically purr at the feeling. You whimper, and when you do, his lips are on your neck in an instant. His body a cool, yet comfortable, blanket on top of you. 

“Good girl. Look at you, being so obedient,” he licks the salt off your skin. “You feel so good, baby. The perfect cocksleeve for the boss.” 

“Oh god—” you choke out. You have no idea how to respond to that, but your body sure does. Your walls flutter around him, squeezing him tight. His breath hitches. You feel him straighten behind you, his hands press you down from the waist and you can’t help the small squeal that parts your lips. 

He’s restraining himself. You can tell by the way his hips twitches, eager to bury more of himself into you. His nails bite into your skin and instinctively you raise your hips. “Maaax,” you moan. “Fuck me, please. I can take it.” 

“You can, can’t you?” he mutters, sounding almost impressed. “My perfect girl. You’ll take everything I’ll give you?” 

You breathe out, “Yes—” 

And he gives you everything. 

Every thrust knocks the air from your lungs. Somewhere on the desk your arm hits a stack of papers and they fly everywhere, making a mess on the floor. Max doesn’t stop. He jackhammers into you, splitting you into two. It never felt this intense before. Never. You struggle to breathe and with every snap of his hips, you feel slick dripping down your thighs. Max groans as he wraps his fingers around your neck, pulling you up. Your breasts sway with every stroke, your nipples aching from how hard they are. His one hand remains on your throat as the other moves to your chest, kneading the soft mound in his palm. 

“Wouldn’t be fun if someone walked in right now?” he teases, his teeth grazing the shell of your ear. “Seeing you getting absolutely railed—kinda wish I had a mirror so I could see how cock drunk you look, sweetheart.” 

Fuck, is all you can think and you desperately want to voice it out, tell him how good it feels. His voice, his breath, his teeth, his cock— But all you can do is whimper helplessly, hoping that the sound is enough to convey how much you’re enjoying this. 

“So stupid for me, I love it. You want me to make you come?” 

Another whimper. You nod helplessly, forcing yourself back to meet the movement of his hips. He hums as his hand slides between your legs, he draws wet circles around your clit, and your entire body clenches. You can barely hear him from the blood rush in your ears but you think he mumbles ‘oh shit’. Max continues to play with the sensitive bundle of nerves, with fast strokes he mumbles profanities against your skin. 

You come with his name on your lips. Your body convulses, muscles clenching and unclenching over and over as you gush all around his cock. It feels never-ending. He grinds his hips, burying himself deeper, throbbing inside. You hiss as your second orgasm washes over you, fluttering and twitching, your body goes limp. You're fairly certain if Max wasn’t holding you up, you’d collapse. 

Much to your surprise, Max slowly lays you on top of the desk and the office ceiling comes into view. He’s still pulsing between your legs. He smiles down at you, slides his fingers between your lips—the same fingers he made you come with—and leans in to shove his tongue alongside them. You part your lips wide, the taste of yourself and him making your head spin. You moan around his tongue and fingers. He pulls back with a smile.

“Where do you want me, sweetheart?” he asks, cupping your face with the same hand. 

“You can come inside,” you answer in a daze, then quickly add. “You can’t get me pregnant right?” 

He shakes his head and you smile, “Go ahead then.” 

It doesn’t take him long. He buries his face into the crook of your neck and takes deep inhales of your scent as he spills inside of you. You thread your fingers through his soft locks and gently tug on them. He groans. 

“That’s nice,” he hums, pressing his lips over your clavicle. “I wanna spend an eternity between your legs.” 

“Should I be scared that you actually can do that?” you say with a soft chuckle, he looks down at you, a mischievous smile tugging at his lips. He wiggles his brows. 

“Maybe.” 

Max slowly pulls out, and when he stands, he watches the mess pour between your legs. His pupils eat away the color of his eyes and you shudder at how hungry he looks. 

Suddenly shy, you avert your gaze as you try to collect yourself, “Sorry about messing up your schedule. I’ll see you later.” 

“And where do you think you’re going?” 

He grabs your wrists and pulls you into an embrace. You hadn’t realized how tense you were until you feel yourself melting into him. 

“Fuck work,” he says, his hand resting over the small of your back. “I’ll get it done later. Let’s go home so I can at least spend tonight between your legs.” 

You grin into his chest, happy that he can’t see how ecstatic you look. He probably knows how excited you are anyway. 

“Sounds like a plan.” 

[alnilaem]

a toxic ghoap wip i had in my drafts from months ago but will no longer be continuing. i just wanna dump it here lol

cw for misogyny, smut, (internalized) homophobia, hedonism, sacrilege, prostitution mention, ghost is an ass

pls heed all tags, this was a vent fic, and also bare in mind im never gonna finish this lmao

-

Johnny's world is asymmetrical.

His world. His beginning and his end. Humvees and Dauphin 2 helis and deployments around the globe. Undercover operations, saving women and children, the comforting carbon steel of a rifle in his hands. 

It’s an unspoken stigma, but it’s there. Materialising as insults while his lads take the piss out of each other, and in the form of dishonourable discharges. 

The stigma has always been there. It has no start and no finish, so Johnny can’t remember where it came from, but he knows it was there since primary, where boys would kick girls at the bends of their knees and yank on their pigtails, squatting to the floor to get a look-see up their chequered skirts and cackle, all while Johnny stood off to the side, overtly uncomfortable. 

Mum’s complained. Teacher’s were involved. Dad’s simply said, “Boys will be boys,” and the situation was brushed under the carpet.

The stigma tailed Johnny into secondary school. His older cousin lent him a suit for formal, which prompted Johnny awkwardly standing on his doorstep with his date—a pretty lass named Rory—as his mam snapped a spate of photos. 

Johnny’s disposition was a grave juxtaposition to Rory’s. She was all grins and giggles, cantered into Johnny’s arm, while he was inelastically poised with tight lips. 

His mam wouldn’t stop pinching his supple cheeks, trying to shepherd a smile out of him. She gave up, throwing her hands in the air and wheedling them off the porch, tacking on an ornate, “Have fun, kiddos!” as they pooled into Johnny’s scrap metal car. 

Johnny felt as if he was lacking something. As if his wings had been clipped by the world a little too soon. It’s always been like that. A piece of him plucked from his wracking ribs and stolen, ever since he was a little boy. So in a lapse of judgement, in order to prove himself, to shatter the bubbling stigma, Johnny sought out the most masculine thing to offset his failure: follow in the steps of his cousin, and enlist. 

It was a rashly undertaken decision, but a decision he stuck with, because, for the first time in forever, Johnny’s old man clasped his shoulder in pride. 

But stigma was an incessant little thing. Because even in military school, it followed him closely. As Johnny’s school brothers had Playboy rafts and pin-up girls folded into their pillow cases, he would blunder upon being asked, “Who’d ye shag?” by his mate. 

In boot camp, he was a lowly private, whose hands would jade and cramp from cleaning rifles. They gave him blisters. And so his bunkmate—a nice lad from Glasgow with a crooked nose—would tend to his fingers during their lunch routine. Hidden somewhere in the corner, making jokes about their Drill Instructor. Callum, was his name. He’d swathe Johnny’s hands in gauze and garnish it with a lopsided smiley face. It always sucked, fell apart half way, but he did it anyway. 

That’s when Johnny started blistering his hands on purpose. 

Wedging his thumb in the dip of a garand and not pulling it out until it was swollen. Then he’d snivel, seeking Callum out in their barracks. There was a pull in Johnny’s stomach, half of an ebb that finished Callum’s flow. It would give him rashly undertaken ideas—such as fixing his hand in the lid of an armoury shell—for Callum to fix up. Johnny would find him among their other friends, beseeching with his cobalt eyes, holding out a hand.

In enlistment, his confusion ripened into a gravely miscalculated realisation. That it wasn't an affinity for men Johnny wanted to be—to attract ladies with his chest candy and the brandished title of military man—no, it reared its ugly head when Johnny finally became his own private. Grinning, at the time, clean-shaven and giddy as his mother snapped a spate of photos of him saluting in his new uniform, plaintively whining when she reached out to adjust his garrison cap because “It’s lopsided, pumpkin!” To which Johnny, under the searing gaze of his fellow privates, would clip, “‘Cos it’s meant to be like tha’, ma!”

Johnny didn’t know when it started. He just remembered realising how good Callum looked one day at the range—sweat sluicing down his pale neck, disappearing behind his lapels, ass filling out the space of his pants as he would squat to the ground and aim for the faraway target. Before he knew it, Johnny was seizing lights out. Using the time to sneak off to the bathrooms and cramp a fist around his leaking cock, beating his dick to the thought of him. Him, him, him. 

Johnny’s sordid thoughts didn’t emulate what his granny had planned for him—to pass down her old wedding stack once he “Found the right lass,” to bring home to her; it wasn’t what the Orthodox spiels of sermons and hymns and praise on Sunday’s drilled into him; it wasn’t what his uncle was anticipating—“Got a girlfrien’ yet, Johnny-boy? Ah, why’re ye frowning! Soon enough, ye will.”

His fantasies rivalled those of his squadmates. Because on his first tour, a summer ten years ago in the chilly expanse of Northern Ireland was a woman that approached them. Denim skirt and a mulberry red halter top. Kitten heels, sunglasses. Shiny lipgloss. She tried to ply them by batting her eyes, offering her services. She was smart. Military men always paid. It’s the desperation that got to them most of the time, a tinge of worry, and a hint of entitlement. They took the bait. Rode her back to camp and took their turns with her.

When it was Johnny’s turn, he listlessly declined and hung his head. He said he had a lass waiting for him back home—Rory—that’s the first name that popped in his head. His secondary school girlfriend in which he sobbed on when he tried kissing her. Johnny said he had a bird, just like all his other lads, with pictures of their wives and girlfriends pinned to the massive cork board in the middle of their camp. But they had no problem indulging themselves. 

They were shoving him around, calling him all sorts of names, bullying him into following them. And that’s when Johnny caved. A cacophony of hollers flared out around him as he ducked into the tent where the woman lay, thin bed sheets hiked up to her collarbones, her previous lipgloss smeared over her chin.

Johnny said, “Hi, how are you?” Because that’s what his mother taught him. She softly giggled. 

Not at him, but with his overdue respect.

Johnny shucked off his uniform with trembling hands, mounting her with his dick flaccid and stomach flipping. He remembers ruminating, “Why don’t you like it? You should like it. Love it,” but his heart leapt to his throat and his navel twisted, heart seized as the head of his cock kept slipping around her messy opening, poking her thigh. His throat constricted, dry, then slackened. A muffled sob wracked through him. Barely concealed by the threshold of his thin lips. He pushed his tongue into the roof of his mouth and buried his face in the crook of her neck, collapsing into her bare chest, furiously wiping his tears into the inflatable mattress.

Then, the body beneath him quivered. Johnny hoisted himself up, a spiel of apologies curling off of his tongue, when he realised she was crying too. The same type as him—wrung out, jaded, tired. She blindly reached out for him and pulled him close. Not reaching for his dick nor biting sensual whispers into his ear. They held each other for a little while, coalescing as their cries muffled into each other’s skin. Then, she pushed him off. Slid off the mattress and snaked her into her clothes. 

They both left the tent shaking. She was still sniffling. His lads cheered as she walked away and clapped him on the back. 

That’s when Johnny realised there wasn't a place for him in his world. Johnny shrunk himself, half the light he used to be, pushing himself into a little box as his world around him clipped off his wings. 

Now, Johnny’s world consists of something a little different. 

Something sinewy and rough around the edges. Gruff, but tactical. Calm, akin to the placid sea, but could flip a switch and emulate its choppy waters if he wanted to, too. Big, striking, with eyes that could kill a sailor. A deep timbre mandated by Manchester. Wide-set shoulders but a willowy waist, hips that sway as he walks. A macabre mask and skeletal gloves—ones that have Johnny wrapped tightly around his fingers.

Johnny grew into himself between serving in the parachute regiment to selection for the SAS. He got rougher. Learned how to hide himself better. Perfectly fit himself within the Task Force, around men who would become his best friends and brothers. He’s otherwise your normal guy. Goes to the bar with the team when they’re able. Shooting darts with Gaz (“You’ve got a Marksman badge but can’t score more than two points? C’mon, mate…”); pool with Price; and drinks with Ghost.

Beer always sloshes over the lip of Ghost’s glass when they clink their drinks. It crashes up and over the Brit’s fingers, dripping down his hands, between his thick fingers. Johnny always resists the urge to lean in close and lick the wash of alcohol glistening Ghost’s knuckles. 

But they’re just friends. Apparently. Because friends don’t fuck.

It started way down in Chicago’s heart, after another op. Gaz—ever the exploiter of his puppy eyes—managed to ply Price into stopping at a bar instead of heading straight back to base for paperwork. So they stopped at a little hole-in-the-wall, still rife with adrenaline, spreading out and all doing their own thing.

Johnny and Ghost were sat around a rickety table with wobbly legs. A spread of peanut shells around them and sticky rings of alcohol from their glasses glossing the surface. Ghost raised an arm to wipe his eyes, knocking over Johnny’s beer in the process. An expletive crossed the Brit’s tongue and he apologised, grasping a fistful of napkins and scrubbing it over Johnny’s soaked shirt. 

It ebbed and flowed in long, rough strokes. Ghost’s hand gliding over Johnny’s legs, Ghost’s middle finger and thumb snapped around Johnny’s thigh, his grasp cutting into the sinews. 

It wasn’t that different from suturing a teammate up after a mission. But with the unsaid admiration Johnny had for him, tempered by the hint of alcohol on the roof of his mouth and the hazel canopy of Ghost’s lashes, over his focused eyes, arousal quickly seized Johnny.

Ghost’s hand brushed over a tent on Johnny’s jeans. One that hadn’t been there before. He cut his next stroke from the root, pausing, and blinked up at his friend. 

The Scotsman felt a wound up spring in his stomach. He turned away, smacking Ghost’s hand, and ran a hand through his black tuft of hair, slapping both sides of his shaved heads. He felt his lungs betray him—squeezing like dried fruit and refusing to expand—to yield to his sudden heavy breathing and quick succession of heartbeats.

Johnny shook his head. Sputtering. “Lad, y’know, sometimes we can’t control ‘em–” 

The words died on his tongue when Ghost flattened hand against the bend of his knee. He was testing the waters. 

Johnny looked back, gulping, and took the bait. He inched his knee closer, until it met with Ghost’s thick leg. It’s something he’s done so many times. When he was starved for friction but couldn’t make it overtly obvious—grazing Ghost’s hand passing him a flare; knocking his foot under the table during debrief (“Sorry, lad,”); applying extra gauze to a slice in his torso just to feel Ghost’s chest throb below his fingers a little more.

But this is different. Something Johnny’s chased for so long. A tangible ghost on his tongue for a flavour he’s longed for with just fantasies while he fucked his fist late into the night. 

Ghost tightened his hold on Johnny’s thigh. “Sons of bitches, ain’t they?” 

His voice was taut. As was the muscle between Johnny’s shoulders.

They exchanged a glance. Soundless, but not wordless. Then Ghost slunk his hand down and wrapped it around Johnny’s swelling cock. 

The feeling of it—a sensation so foreign, so yearned for—penetrated Johnny’s core. It made him yelp and jerk his knee into the table, sending more beer spilling over the rim of his glass and onto his pants. 

Ghost hummed, shook his head. “C’mon, Johnny, let’s get you cleaned up, yeah?” And he inclined his head towards the bathroom in the back. 

Johnny blindly nodded, yielding to Ghost’s hold as he hoisted him from his seat. Ghost directed them through the sea of gyrating bodies and towards the toilets. They bursted inside, and the Brit pulled Johnny into the last stall. A seedy little thing, with graffiti and the ash of cigarette butts welded into its walls. 

The succeeding acts were a blip in the streamline of Johnny’s memory. He remembers Ghost shucking his pants down, then settling himself behind him. He remembers Ghost’s gloveless hand reaching around and working over his drooling cock. He remembers a voice in his ear, “What the fuck are we doing,” and a bulbous cockhead poking his ass. He remembers the shrill rattle of the stall hinges as he withered against it, trembling under Ghost’s deft hands, the finger that swept over the slit of his cock and slipped down to fondle his balls. 

Before white-hot pleasure seared his vision, Johnny remembers emptying his come into the crotch of his denims, shaking, as it dampened his pants and as Ghost commanded him to pull it back up. 

They left the bar alongside each other, meeting everyone else on the pavement. Johnny’s lips were popped open and swollen. Peeling, from how his teeth had sunk into them. His eyes were glossy and his hair was tousled in the middle of his head. He had a wet patch on his jeans.

“Oh, you are pissed, mate,” Gaz exclaimed, “I– that’s pee?”

“Spilled some water,” Ghost lied to the other teammates, “had to sort him out.”

They made it back to base within hours, signing off to their quarters. 

The next day, Johnny didn’t see him at all. 

The day after that, too; Ghost didn’t even spare him a glance.

He tried reassuring himself. Ghost hadn’t talked about men before—not in this calibre—so Johnny told himself it’s because he was digesting what rashly happened in Chicago. 

That was, until, he was paged one night. A command from Ghost to meet him in his quarters. The message was succinct: one sentence, leaving no lines to be read between. Johnny walked ambled to his room with his heart in his stomach and his blood rushing to his ears. Nudging the door open, Ghost was on the edge of his bed, legs parted, smarting denim-washed jeans and a black pullover. A simple, soft gauze balaclava. 

His eyes slid upwards first. Then the rest of his head. Ghost pinned Johnny under his smouldering gaze, then beckoned him forward with the tilt of his head. No words were swapped. Ghost simply tugged Johnny forward, between his thick thighs, and bullied the Scotsman to his knees with a hand splayed over his half-shaved head. 

Johnny’s eyes widened. He popped his lips open to speak—lips Ghost whispers his thumb over to seal shut, uprooting his words from its step. Ghost shook his head, undid his belt with a single hand, and shucked down his jeans. He palmed himself for a while, watching Johnny’s eyes sheen over, before pushing his boxer-briefs scarcely over his meaty thighs, pinching the head of his cock. 

Ghost didn’t even bother pulling his balls out. Just his dick—long, thick, a comely vein running beneath it—better than anything Johnny’s ever wanted. Better than the images he’s fucked his fist to, memories of Ghost, freshly out of the shower after sparring, his thin towel outlining the barest hint of his dick. 

Johnny reaches out, but Ghost swipes it back. He tuts and softly smacks his cock against Johnny’s ruddy cheek, watching as a string of his precum connects to Johnny’s face. 

“How bad do ya wan’ it, Johnny?” Ghost had prompted, swiping his cockhead over the Scotsmans lips, then pulling it back whenever his jaw readily slacked. 

“Real… real bad, Lt.” He breathed. 

Ghost tapped his cheek again. “Open.”

And so Johnny did. Like it was second nature, like he’s been wanting for so long. Waiting for so fucking long. 

Johnny’s lips popped open and closed around Ghost’s wet tip. He swirled his tongue around it, clumsy in his movements, teeth grazing Ghost’s skin.

He winced. “Easy…”

Johnny blinked in a rapid succession, nodding, sucking him in a little deeper, mindful of hollowing out his cheeks and relaxing his jaw. Ghost’s eye twitched, hands digging into his tuft, hanging his head back, softly bucking his hips up into Johnny’s mouth. 

“Atta boy, Johnny, fuck– where the fuck’d you learn this, eh?”

Johnny replied with a gargled purl of precum and saliva coalescing in his mouth, gagging over the wide girth splitting his jaw open. Ghost laughed, his gloved hand settling on the scruff of Johnny’s neck, pulling him a little closer; sinking his cock a little deeper, rutting his pelvis into his squadmate's pliable mouth.

Ghost cums. Johnny laps it all up. And in an undertaken lapse of judgement, rises to his feet, puckering his frosted lips, ready to hike Ghost’s balaclava above his nose and share his taste with him. But Ghost set a hand to Johnny’s face, shaking his head. He tucked his softening cock back into his pants.

That was the first instance Johnny disregarded. One he ignored in favour of indulging himself in something he yearned after for years. He didn’t realise his grave digging began there—when he witlessly nodded in response. 

And from there, it became a cycle. It was always on Ghost’s call. Never Johnny’s. When Ghost wanted his dick sucked; when Ghost wanted a wet and tight hole wrapped around his cock. Johnny knew better. He knew he was being shepherded into something bad, but he couldn’t help himself.

Trembling under Ghost, his whole world encompassed by the Brit’s towering stature, was all that mattered to him. Getting spread over a cock he’s wanted for so long, a long ways from the taboo fantasies that’s collected cobwebs in his thoughts for so long.

Johnny was less of a teammate, more of an outlet for Ghost to exhaust his frustrations into. Even then, it was a pill Ghost had trouble swallowing. As if he’ll acknowledge it, and a relationship will materialise. So he stays still—fucks Johnny like a dirty little secret then turns the other way. 

Johnny tries talking to him. Tries telling him he struggled with the same thing. That he isn’t alone and that he belongs here. That there’s no shame in it. 

Simon collapses Johnny’s pleads with a final, resolute bark. “I ain’t gay, mate. You’re a friend helping a friend.”

-

basically it ends with Simon shepherding Johnny into some hedonistic, one-sided relationship. Johnny just accepts it bc if Simon wont love him, he’ll do it by proxy, because hes all fucked out and desperate for him🖤🖤

[onceuponastory]

ball of fluff - bucky barnes

Plot: Bucky tells Y/N how he met Alpine. Pairing: BestFriends!Bucky Barnes x Female!Reader (but maybe there's something more there... 👀 it's me, of course there is) Warnings: A few mentions of Bucky's past as The Winter Soldier, and how we was used and controlled without his consent. Also includes mentions of how Bucky hates himself for what he did, and the nightmares he has. But as always, if I miss any triggers, please let me know! Notes: Hey, I finally finished a WIP, hahaha. And it's another episode of "this was supposed to be a drabble but it's over 1k words."

Not beta'd, so any mistakes are my own.

“Morning.” Y/N smiles, walking into the kitchen at Avengers HQ. The room is mostly empty, aside from Bucky. He lounges on the couch, scrolling through his phone and laughing to himself about something on the screen. When Y/N sits beside him, he murmurs a greeting before immediately going back to laughing.

“What’s so funny?”

“Oh, it’s just Alpine.” Bucky replies. “Look, I got him a new toy mouse a few days ago, and he’s already destroyed it.” He grins, holding out his phone to show her the picture. Y/N leans in, laughing when she sees the picture, especially the satisfied look on Alpine’s face. It’s nice, seeing Bucky laughing like this, sounding so happy. Although, it is a little weird.

Because Bucky looks so intimidating usually, the master of a death glare. And yet here he is, making cute cooing noises and laughing over pictures of his cat like a completely different person from what history and the news will tell you. But she likes this version of Bucky a lot.

Well, she likes everything to do with Bucky Barnes a lot. Like the way he always makes her heart skip a beat, or how she always has a lovesick smile on her face whenever she’s around him. She just can’t bring herself to tell him that though.

“If you don’t mind me asking…” Y/N asks, her brow raised. “How did you find Alpine?” Bucky’s own brows furrow.

“You’re asking that like it’s a weird question.”

“I just mean, knowing you, I thought you found him on a mission somewhere and rescued him from an evil base, from some supervillain like in James Bond.” She chuckles. “Screw damsels in distress, you rescue cats in distress!” She grins.

“What is it you actually think I do?” Bucky raises a brow, yet can’t stop another grin from tugging at the corner of his mouth. A sight that makes Y/N’s smile grow just that little wider. God, she’s got it bad.

“You know, superhero stuff.” Y/N shrugs, and Bucky chuckles.

“Well, I may be a hero, but I found Alpine in a perfectly normal way.…”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

One year ago….

The room is filled with noise, and Bucky awkwardly fiddles with his gloves. He really should take them off at some point. New year, new him and all that. And, of course, being pardoned helps as well. That one might take a little longer, though. This task is small, and manageable. Although, when you have spent your entire life being used as a weapon and fighting space monsters on the regular, everything seems minor in comparison.

Right now though, it feels huge, like when they first faced down Thanos for the first time. Or when he came back to earth after being gone for five years and became a man out of time all over again. 

“Hello sir, how can I help you?” The voice of a staff member makes him jump slightly. He’s still not used to this, to being noticed and to being someone, to being Bucky Barnes, rather than a weapon used and controlled without his consent. Rather than The Winter Soldier.

To be honest, he’s not sure if he’ll ever be used to it. 

“Hi. I was thinking of getting a pet. I was thinking about a cat, but I’m open to anything, really.” Of course Bucky doesn’t tell him it’s because he’s so alone, and thinks he might lose his mind again if he’s alone any longer. The nights get so lonely sometimes, especially with as many nightmares that he has. Being alone with his thoughts, forced to confront what he did for so long every night, is his own personal hell. A punishment he wouldn’t wish on anyone. Maybe being responsible for another life, rather than taking it away, will be good for him.

That is, if he doesn’t fuck this up, too.

“Of course, sir.” The man smiles, beckoning for Bucky to follow, which he does. “We have plenty of cats available, from kittens to seniors. Do you have any specific breed in mind? Any age or gender?” 

All the questions make Bucky furrow his brows together. Choosing a cat seems to be harder than he thought. Obviously, he wasn’t expecting to just walk in and for someone to just hand him a cat, but still. “Not really.” The staff member nods, smiling.

“That’s totally fine. You’re not the first who just wants to walk around. I’ll show you what we have, and we can go from there.”

Bucky looks at every variety of cat and kitten at the shelter. They’re all adorable, but none of them feel right, like his cat. Suddenly, he sees a little white ball of fluff curled up against the corner of a cage. They don’t even move when Bucky approaches. “Who’s this?” He asks.

“That’s Alpine.” Alpine looks up, looking for whoever came to see him. His blue eyes stare at Bucky for a moment, and he cocks his head to the left slightly before burying his face back into his fur. “Sorry, he’s really shy. We’re not sure if he likes people that much.” Bucky chuckles. Well, at least he sounds like him. Bucky doesn't like people that much either. Maybe this’ll be a good match after all. “Do you want to see some more cats?” The staff member asks, but Bucky keeps staring at Alpine, watching as his little head pops up again, checking to see if the stranger outside his cage has gone. 

“Hey there, buddy.” He whispers, smiling. He expects him to curl away from him again, but to his surprise, he takes a few steps forward towards him, tentatively sniffing the air, then Bucky’s gloved hand. Bucky chuckles, murmuring an “aww.” to himself as Alpine brushes his head against his fingers, nuzzling into them and purring. 

“Wow! He rarely does this. You must be special.” Yet the man’s voice fades out as Bucky and Alpine make eye contact. At Christmas time, Sam and his nephews showed him that movie The Grinch, where his heart grows three sizes after he discovers the true meaning of Christmas. Originally, Bucky wrote that off as cheesy nonsense, but now he feels it happening for real as he looks at this tiny little cat. He smiles. He’s perfect.

“I’ll take him.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

“Brought him home about a week later, and the rest is history.” Bucky smiles.

“Oh. My. God.” Y/N gasps. “That’s so cute. Turns out you’re just a big softie deep down, huh, Buck?” She chuckles. Bucky flushes pink, and Y/N continues to grin. 

“Don’t say a word.” Bucky hisses, but Y/N keeps laughing and smiling. And despite how much he wants to keep it cool, and act like it’s not affecting him, Bucky can’t help but laugh. Because she’s right. Sometimes (more often than he’d like to admit) Bucky hangs onto his Winter Soldier persona, using it like a mask to hide behind. After all, it’s better than having to meet new people all the time, and to actually make relationships with people. People who could disappoint him, or leave him when things got too hard. Nobody would ever go near him if they thought he was still like that, still an asshole who would kill you if you looked the wrong way at him.

But with Y/N… he doesn’t want to hide himself anymore. She makes him the happiest he’s ever been in a long time, and brings out the best parts of him, the parts he thought were gone forever. Her laughter rings through the air, the sound the sweetest melody he’s ever heard, and Bucky just can’t stop smiling. Y/N likes him for who he is, and despite how much he hates himself… Bucky loves the way she makes him feel. 

Well… he loves Y/N more than anything in the world. But she does make him feel pretty damn great.

“You know, Alpine sounds amazing. Maybe I’ll meet him one day.” She smiles. The thought makes Bucky’s heart grow even more, this time so big it could explode out of his chest. His two favourite people, the people he loves most in the world, meeting each other.

“Yeah.” He chuckles, smiling softly. “Maybe one day.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Maybe we'll see reader meet Alpine..... 👀

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[sabrondabrainrot]

🌦️Dark Sun and 🔅Servant Sun

I tried my hand at designing Servant Sun and Dark Sun.

I'm getting more caught up on the lore!! Click underneath for art closeups and more Lore rants and AU idea! Plus, I have sketches and a comic WIP I've been working on.

😉

There will be rambly spoilers to where I am in the Lore.

For Dark Sun I was inspired a lot by the thumbnails, they give him red eyes a lot in the thumbnails and I like the smarmy red eyed look of the guy. Tried to capture his 'regal-holier then thou' attitude in his design. He's still Sun though, so I used OG Sun's palette (my first Sun design!) to reflect the fact they have the same beginnings. I don't trust anything he says but I know something has totally happened to his Moon (I'm really banking on the idea he ATE him/ ATE his intelligence chip) so he carries his Moon's bell and he also repurposed the star pattern of Moon to parade it around as like a symbol his Moon is at his heal. I don't know if I like his final look but I think it's because I gave him dramatically darker shading vs the other Suns.

Servant Sun! Here's my take on him. He's been suffering for over 10000+ years under Lord Eclipse abuse. We saw how he was being punished just because Lore Eclipse was bored! I feel really bad for this Sun, it was hard to draw a design for him. I think despite his servant title Lord Eclipse just keeps him around not only to keep himself sane but also a trophy/slave to show off to Moon and the others in the afterlife. I had this like monologue for SSun basically, "The sound of bells long ago stopped ringing for the daycare attendant turned servant but Lord Eclipse still can hear the sound of metallic chimes when the neurotic servant cleans thanks to his fanciful additions." (aka the chime of chains) He's also got an apron that's falling apart and SSun used random old fabric to patch it up (it wasn't random it was his old clothes). I was really inspired by Meagancandraw's design of Servant Sun!

Here's my AU sketches. I'm planning to clean these up and maybe color them? This is basically just the AU idea that I think Sun is going to somehow get reborn but be a being reborn from star power and negative star power? I don't know if it's possible? He becomes a mix of the two in my AU. I know some current spoilers and basically I know he may be immune to negative star energy? He can also hold Star Power uniquely and it 'taste good to him'. I will never let go of the fact he told Moon it taste nice like dried watermelon. His untrained magical outburst was also compared to be as powerful as Golden Freddy's. There's big theory he's going to die or be sacrificed but I have this idea what if he's essentially remade? idk just rambly thoughts. So yeah, he has a cool new look to go with his magical transformation.

BTW he is very sad cause he can't be near his family in this AU my brain cooked up. He's basically radiation incarnate now <3 His eyes are cracked because they're intensely pouring out Star/Negative Star power. Just a constant pull and push of power circulating in him.

this is the comic idea I have currently. I don't have a ton of motivation so any encouragement to finish this comic idea would be super appreciated! I'm not a comic-type artist so this is out of my comfort zone (I've made a few comics but usually they are pretty janky)

ON TO THE RAMBLES - spoilers BEWARE:

NEW MOON MY BOY PLS YOU ARE HIDING STUFF FROM YOUR FAMILY. BOY NO. HE IS GONNA USE RUIN TO BRING BACK SOLAR?

Blood Moon just took Ruin. Also Dark Sun repaired Ruin after Molten took him to die in the dead dimension?? BOY??? Also, Dark Sun did something to Eclipse??? Bro is plotting. I wish I could get a read on Dark Sun but I don't even know how much of the truth he's been sharing thus far. He has no reason to tell anyone the truth and so far he hasn't hurt anyone just stole a bunch of data from Moon and built a bunker to escape total dimension collapse...He's just a big wild card for me.

Then there's New Moon, He's just actually going crazy after meeting Old Moon. Sun can tell something is wrong with his brother!!! I hope he can help him but spoilers tells me otherwise. The family is trying! Earth heard out Eclipse and Eclipse is getting Earth proof that Moon is currently cray-cray. Lunar is kind of hanging near Sun and Earth because the creator is now actively trying to kidnap him. So much spicy drama.

I don't pay attention much to the Freddy side of the plot but he's also dying?? bro??? What about Francine? The missing mom/wife? Poor Francine's suffering, she needs her mom and dad! I like that Puppet is hanging around her grandchild more it is very sweet. Foxy also got his 'bestfriend' Puppet a house/condo. hmm-Mmmhmm. Definitely no romantic tensions there. Definitely not.

(side bar, I don't ship Kidscove but I do ship the Foxy and Puppet do they have a ship name? Also no hate to Kidscove I just think Foxy treats Sun like a kid a lot. I like the gooseworld Kidscove. Sun laid eggs, so wholesome.)

Lunar is just waiting for news on his trial and I am in suspense hoo boy...Then the stuff with FC being put in a new body and Frank is not happy about it. I def can tell there's big lead up to the astral bodies making a big move I just wonder what the move will be. I feel like now Lunar and FC are going to end up being more intwined then they might think.

Also I love Dazzle!!! AAAGH! She and Jack are so cute! I loved the ep Sun took Dazzle and Lunar to the store that was so sweet. Can't wait to see more of them! They're such a cute dynamic! I like seeing Lunar put his best foot forward to help Dazzle too.

I can tell Moon is slowly distancing himself from the others but it's like this odd thing where he's no longer obsessed with Solar being back per sei...but he's obsessed over how HE has to be the one to bring Solar back in his way because HE promised and he wants to be better then Old Moon and yeah...he's got a very warped perspective I feel like? But Molten and Ruin BOTH pointed out Moon is being possessed by something so I think he's definitely sick? Or something is keeping him from seeing the error of his way.

Rambles over :)

I do plan to draw Solar and Eclipse and Lord Eclipse next but I'm stuck on what I want to do for Solar's design :P I might make a poll in the future!

[k-atsukibakugou]

pretty boys get what they want

pairing: denki kaminari x f!reader w/c: 1.2k warning/s: fem!reader implied but no pronouns used, ftm denki, strap sucking/jerking teehee notes: @aquadenks MY BABY pls have this offering; this is a bit short but it deserved a full post frfrfrfr im in love with him

crossposted to ao3 • masterlist • wip updates & voting • kofi • askbox

“it doesn’t even do anything.” you whine, holding your knees in front of your chest, hiding your face behind them, your warm cheeks pressing against the bare skin there, your pants discarded to the floor, probably only moments before denki had stood up to slip the harness up over his hips.

“who says?” his cat-like eyes twinkle, a smirk ghosting over his lips as he continued adjusting the straps around his hips, lowering his gaze from you for only moments at a time until he was comfortable, “helps me get it nice and wet, and makes you look so pretty.”

his attitude only makes you roll your eyes at him, trying your hardest to ignore him while he finished adjusting the silicone through the ring in the centre of the fabric, finally settling back into his spot on the couch, one of his arms slung over the back of the couch, his other lazily looped around the base of the silicone cock, his legs falling further open as he settled into the comfortable cushions. his demeanour like he was asking you to pass him the tv remote, not jerk off his strap-on.

his eyes shimmer in the dim light, shadows cast over sharp cheekbones from whatever movie he'd put on, his plump, wet lips curled into a confident smile, not a trace of the apprehension you felt.

"it's okay, baby, look, i'll help you out." while his words were sweet, encouraging, the tone of his voice as he leaned forward was anything but, his voice deep with hunger. denki’s eyes looked like molten gold staring at you, his appetite flashing behind his iris, not breaking the stare even as he bent forward into himself, pursing his lip, still studying you when he spat, the glob landing at the tip of the silicone.

your face burned behind your knees, his casual confidence somehow making you squirm more in your spot, he tugs at your hands around your knees, pulling them away to fall down beside your thighs. you let him tug at your limbs, his slender, painted fingers wrapping around your wrist, your heartbeat rapid and uneven under his fingertips as he tugged you closer to him. your gaze drops to the fraying edge of the couch the moment your fingers graze the silicone, your cheeks burning hearing your boyfriend groan beside you, his hand tightening around your wrist like he did when you’d graze over his clit, his heavy breathing sending electric shocks through your body.

“right there, baby.” you only whined in response, unable to resist inching closer to him, sitting up on your knees before you glanced back up at him, your breath nearly knocked from you watching him, his eyes drooping like he was half asleep, but the electricity behind them enough for you to know he was wide awake. watching the way his throat bobbed, you squeezed your hand around the plastic, your thumb swiping through his saliva at the top, spreading it around the head with your thumb until his hips bucked up.

denki bit back a grin watching you, the way your hand loosened the moment he moved, the way your eyes darted from his jaw to the rigid toy between his thighs, the way your face inched closer, wanting so badly to take him into your mouth, to suck and lick at the toy like it was his skin.

“you don’t have to be so scared of it.” he teases, his own hand gliding up and down the toy inches ahead of your parted lips, his movements slow, smooth, none of the jerkiness of your own movements, only confident flicks of his wrist, his hips bucking again into your hold when his hand met yours, stroking the rest of the length you neglected while smearing his saliva around the tip.

you shoot him a glare in response, the venom behind it played down by the way you squirmed on the spot, your thighs squeezing together when he spat once again, this time into his hand to spread over the dildo, biting his cheek to hide a smile when your eyes widened at the lewd wet squelch of just his hand rubbing back and forth.

denki’s breath hitched in his throat just watching you squirm, studying the way your eyes widened, the way your breath quickened watching him, embarrassed to be getting wet from the visual of denki helping you stroke his cock, the way his hips would buck and jerk like he could feel your touch at the tip.

“i’m not scared of it,” your voice is so soft he questions if you even said anything, ignoring the urge to tease you for it when you inch closer, glancing up at him nervously when you slowly lick at the divots in the silicone, letting your saliva join his dripping down the length of the toy.

you felt feverish, unable to tear your eyes away from the way his hips rolled into your touch, the tip of the toy pressing past your lips, your hand dropping down to join his at the base, spreading the wetness over the length. Slowly, you opened your jaw to take more of the toy into your mouth, slurping and squelching sounds echoing through the room as you twisted your wrist around the girth of the silicone, watching your boyfriend from under your eyelashes while you swallowed around the toy, spreading your saliva with your hand as you drooled more and more around him.

short, garbled whines left your lips whenever denki would hiss or groan, the blond putting on a show just to watch you squeal and blush, revelling in the way you drooled when his tongue darted out to swipe across his bottom lip, addicted to the way he could see your hips jolting, desperately searching for any stimulation.

the ache deep in your stomach was nearly unbearable, waves of desperation washing over you the longer you stared up at his heaving chest, your skin burning hotter and hotter at the hungry way he watched you take the toy in your mouth, the same eyes tracking your saliva dripping down the length of the toy, collecting at the base and at the centre of your bottom lip, even as you sucked and tried to swallow some of the liquid.

your slick hand met his on the toy when you jerked your wrist, your glazed eyes meeting the mischievous gold of his, you already looked debased in the reflection of his eyes without either of you really touching one another; you watched yourself in his dark pupils, entranced by the string of saliva connecting you to the strap as you sat back on your knees, staring at your swollen lips as you murmured a breathless plea.

one he couldn’t resist when you looked so destroyed already, eyes wide and glassy staring at him, hand between your thighs, twitching fingers at the base of his cock, burning skin beneath the fabric of your top, dripping with desperation.

shifting himself up onto one knee, he grinned at you, still bent with your face level with his crotch, the toy hanging in front of your face, the tip looking like it was dripping with precum, “how could i ever say no to you, pretty?”

© all works belong to @k-atsukibakugou, @gwen0m, and dlirious on archive of our own, do not plagiarise, translate, repost, feed my works into ai or recommend my work on other platforms, or bind my fanworks for sale.