#like the second they realize you're not Like Them

[slytherinslut0]

SLYTHERINSLUT0’S KINKTOBER

october 4th. mattheo - virginity loss / corruption kink.

PART TWO | kinktober masterlist. | 2024.

summary: pls read part one first for a lil buildup. also. im laughing at myself bc there was a perfectly good bed…right there…

warnings: 18+, SMUT MDNI, virginity loss, PIV, so much dirty talk, so much patience from mattheo, (more of a realistic virginity loss bc it’s not always easy), praise!!!!, slight degradation, fingering, multiorgasm, handjob, best friends lil sister trope.

Mattheo Riddle was so accustomed to this. The pulse of adrenaline in the dead of night, the quiet hum of anticipation stretching every second longer than it needed to be. You weren't naive to that, not to him, nor the danger he carried so effortlessly in his stride. He wore it like a second skin.

But you—you were not accustomed to it. Not to any of this.

So when you pushed open the door to the room of requirement a little over ten-minutes later, you hadn't been sure what you were expecting to find. Something darker, maybe. More foreboding. But when the room revealed itself before you—silent, draped in soft moonlight that pooled over the bed with a window wide and open, spilling that pale silver fog across the floor—you almost laughed.

Too perfect. Too on the nose, like the castle itself had been watching you both for months and had decided this was the moment it would indulge you.

"You're late." Mattheo's voice cut through the quiet.

His back was to you, suit jacket discarded on an old oak desk against the wall, dark curls falling just above his collar as he stood by the window, eyes fixed on the lake. The moonlight made the ripples dance, just like the tension in the room.

You took a step toward him, silent.

He turned, finally. His eyes met yours and you saw it—the hesitation, the way his gaze moved over you, slow, cautious. He took in the way the light draped itself over your shoulders, moving lower—and it was as if for the first time, he allowed himself to see you fully, all the details he had so tried to ignore, now right in front of him. He drank them in.

You gave him a small, nervous smile, hoping it would ease the weight of his stare. "I didn't realize you were the type to keep track of time."

He moved closer, but not close enough. Not yet. His breath was tight, chest rising and falling too fast. The space between you felt like a chasm, though it was barely there at all.

"You've a lot to learn, little girl," he teased, that familiar smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, though it did nothing to mask the conflict in his eyes. It was meant to disarm you, but it only made the air heavier. His jaw tightened. "You're sure about this?"

"Quite sure," you breathed, stepping closer, close enough to admire the sharp line of his jaw, the soft stubble. "You're the one who's hesitating."

"I'm not hesitating," he muttered, though the roughness in his voice betrayed him. He knew he shouldn't be here, shouldn't be doing this with you. His best friend's little sister. He wanted to give you every chance to stop this, to walk away. "Just trying not to rush this—rush you."

You let out a small huff, your hand moving up to find his chest, feeling the rapid thud of his heartbeat beneath your fingertips. Mattheo Riddle was nervous.

"You've been making me wait for months," you whispered. "I don't think a little rushing would hurt."

He swallowed hard, his eyes locked on your hand as it trailed over his chest, lower, teasing. Every touch was a flame against his skin, every breath between you a match struck in the dark. He wanted you, more than anything, but the weight of it—the wrongness, the danger—clawed at his conscience.

His hand caught your wrist, intending to stop you, but his fingers lingered against your skin. Frozen.

"We shouldn't be doing this," he muttered, the words thick in his throat. "Your first time should be—"

"My choice," you interrupted, pressing closer, your body flush against his, your lips brushing his jaw as your hand slid lower, teasing the edge of his belt. "My virginity is mine to give, Mattheo. And I want to give it to you."

He shuddered, your words settling, sinking into the dark space that held you both captive. His hand found your hip, the other threading through your hair, gently tugging your head back to expose the soft skin of your neck.

"You’re not thinking straight," he rasped. "You'll regret this..."

But even as he said it, his hands tightened, pulling you impossibly closer.

"I'll regret nothing." Your fingers slipped lower, grazing his crotch, moving with nothing but instinct and need. Biting your lip, you felt the outline of him, hard and aching under your palm, and squeezed—he grunted, snapping his hips, and you throbbed. "Shit, Mattheo..."

"You are—fuck..." Mattheo's voice was a ragged breath, the words drawn out like he'd been holding them back for months. "...such a little tease."

You let go as quickly as you'd squeezed, and he growled against your skin, fingers tightening in your hair. Your hands found his face, pulling him in, crushing your lips to his. You moved with intent, pushing him back until his thighs hit the edge of the desk, and he groaned again—this low, guttural sound that sent a thrill through you.

You smirked into the kiss, tasting his frustration, savouring the way his defences cracked open. When you pulled back, his chest was heaving, lips swollen, eyes dark with want.

"I learned from the best," you whispered, teasing as your fingers slid down, finding the buckle of his belt. He watched you, every breath uneven, as you worked at the latch, pulling the leather free. "You've had months of fun tormenting me," you continued, moving to the button, the zipper. "Kissing me, only to say it was a mistake. Grabbing my ass every chance you could. Talking sweet when my brother wasn't looking..." your smirk deepened, and you looked up at him through your lashes. "...it's my turn now."

His pants sagged around his hips as you undid them and he cursed under his breath—his brain was struggling to catch up, like he couldn't believe the sudden shift, couldn't quite fathom the boldness with which you undid him.

Until—his hands were on you, spinning you around, your back hitting the desk with a thud.

"You think you're in control here?" His fingers slid up your hips, dragging your dress along with them, baring your skin to the cool air. "You think you have any goddamn idea what you're doing?"

You shuddered—you'd never seen him like this before—there was something feral in the way he moved, now, something sharp in the way his hands worked. His thumbs hooked around your panties and in one swift motion, they were gone—torn down your thighs before he urged you back onto the desk, parting your legs with his torso.

You were breathless, chest heaving, pulse thrumming wildly. His presence consumed the room, and for a moment, it was all you could focus on—the intensity of him, the raw, unfiltered hunger in his eyes.

You stared up at him, mind empty, until—

Smack.

His palm came down on your inner thigh, not hard enough to hurt, but enough to send a jolt of sensation straight to your cunt. Your skin stung from the contact, but that wasn't the part that made you gasp. It was the heat, the way it surged through your veins, flooding your abdomen in a slow, aching pulse. You liked that.

"I asked you a question." His lips brushed against your ear, breath warm as he leaned in. "Two, actually."

You couldn't think, mind swimming—the press of his body, the rough timber of his voice, the weight of his hands as his fingers teased, climbing higher, brushing closer to the ache between your thighs. You sucked in a breath, trying to recall what he'd asked, trying to focus anything but the fire he was lighting in you—

But then, his fingers slipped further, closer, just barely brushing your slit, and your hips jerked involuntarily, chasing that touch.

"No—I don’t—“ the shame in the answer barely mattered. His fingers were so close, so close. "Gods—I just know I want you—"

"That's all you think about, isn't it?" He smirked, lips falling to your neck, tongue tracing the places he knew would wreck you, each soft, wet press making you whimper despite yourself. "You don't care about anything else..." his fingers slipped lower, dipping between your folds—and you cried out, shameless, the sensation unlike any other you'd ever felt. "…not the consequences, not the risk...you just want me…”

Your nails dug into his back and he sucked in a breath through his teeth, wetting his fingers in your arousal before gliding back up to your clit and tracing over it.

"Oh—Gods—" you whinged, moaning into his shoulder.

Mattheo’s hands were experienced—that much was certain. Those fingers knew exactly how to move, precisely how to trace light, delicate circles over your clit that made you twitch, squirm— nerves stripped as you took in the new sensation. It wracked every inch of you, and you could feel him savouring your helplessness, drawing out every ounce of tension that had been building between you for months.

“You’re soaked.” You could hear the disbelief in his voice. “...filthy little thing for me, aren't you?"

"Gods, Mattheo, yes—" your eyes rolled, thighs twitching against his hand. "I am—ohh—"

"Yeah?" His tongue traced a slow, wet path up the side of your neck, teeth dragging over your pulse. "You like this?"

His words were enough to make you want to scream, but no sound formed—just a low, broken moan that spilled from your throat, raw and shameless.

"Answer me," he murmured. "You ever orgasm from this before? Hm?"

"No—" your voice choked, trembling as you squeezed your eyes shut, unable to look at him, something like shame pooling in your stomach. "Oh, fuck—"

"No, what?" His fingers pressed harder, circles growing faster, more insistent, and his voice—Christ, his voice— "I asked you two questions, little slut. Keep up. You wanted this."

"Yes—mmf—I like it—" you whined, the words a desperate spill from your lips, too flustered to form anything coherent. "And no—Gods—you're the first to...to touch me like this..."

He figured as much but the admission tore through him nonetheless, his teeth sinking into your shoulder with a groan—not enough to hurt, but enough to leave a mark, a bruise, a reminder. His hand dipped lower, a finger pushing inside you without warning, pressing deep into your slick heat, and you cried out, your body tightening, pulsing around him, vision swimming.

"And this?" His voice was a smirk against your skin. "You let anyone else inside you like this?"

You knew he already knew the answer. You both did. He was reveling in it—the way he had you, trembling, helpless. You'd never heard him like this, never heard him so crass, so unfiltered, and the way he spoke made your whole body flush with heat.

"No." The word was a strangled moan, barely a breath. "Gods—Mattheo—you already knew that—"

He crooked his finger inside you, and your back arched, the stretch unfamiliar yet mindnumbing, his thumb working your clit. You felt teeth nipping at your earlobe, a hum into your eardrum—his body thrumming with the satisfaction of finally, finally letting himself have you where he wanted.

"Perhaps I did." He added another finger, curling them inside you, his teeth scraping along your neck in a smile. The groan that slipped from your lips was desperate, pained in its pleasure, your body reacting to every new inch of him. "Fucking hell—you can barely take two..."

Your head shook, words failing you. "Gods—Mattheo—I...fuck..."

A low grunt rumbled from his chest, his fingers moving quicker, slick with the evidence of your desire. "Feels good?"

"Yes—" you moaned, breath hitching, vision blurring as he pumped his fingers in and out, building something inside you that you couldn't name, something new, something overwhelming. "I feel—oh, gods—something...happening—"

"You feel something?" His voice was mocking, drenched in that innocent, teasing tone that had you falling apart. "Yeah? What's happening, princess?"

You couldn't find breath, couldn't form the words to answer him. The pressure inside you was mounting, intensity unbearable, your body tense and straining toward an edge. You clung to him, breathless, desperate for more, desperate for something, anything—

"I don't—" your voice broke as his fingers curled deeper, wetness flooding between your thighs, his thumb relentless. "Pressure—fuck—so much—"

He nodded. "Yeah? Pressure in that pretty stomach? Feels fucking good, doesn't it?"

"Fuck—yes, yes," your lids fluttered. "S’good—"

"You're so close." He watched you, drunk on your downfall, and smirked as you neared the edge. "You're going to cum for me."

Sanity shattered in your throat—words trapped, swallowed by the tension, leaving only the soft, unbridled whimpers you once might've once found embarrassing. But there was no shame now, not when you were this close, the pressure coiling tighter in your core, ready to burst.

"Ohh—" you managed, lungs sputtering, head tipping back. The sound of your voice, the way you moaned, was foreign, unfamiliar to your own ears. "Gods—oh fuck-"

"I know," he cooed, sweet like sugar. "I know."

You were a mess. Too close, too overwhelmed—everything was him. His scent, the heat of his skin, the feel of his fingers working that magic that had your body convulsing before you could even cry out, before you could process the way your vision blurred with the force of it. The climax hit like a wave crashing over you, and your moans were swallowed by his kiss, his lips on yours the second your body tightened, shaking against his hand.

He was relentless, rough and insistent, kissing you like he wanted to devour you whole—drowning out the world as your body pulsed around his fingers. You’d never felt such an intense sensation, lava coursing, replacing the blood in your veins. His breath stuttered against your mouth, a low groan vibrating through him, the sound making your spine tingle.

"F-fuck," he muttered, pulling his fingers from you, glistening and wet. "Messy little thing."

The words sent a shiver through you, not just from their meaning but from the way he said them, like something perverse, intimate. Your chest tightened with the warmth of them.

"You—" you panted, trying to find your voice. Blinking through the haze of lingering bliss. "You can't say things like that."

"Why not?" He chuckled your name against your neck, lips brushing a path to your ear. "Because you might fall in love with me?" His teeth grazed the sensitive spot under your lobe, along your jawline. "Oh wait...you already have."

"Shut up," you whispered, stomach flipping at the way he said your name, the way it dripped from his mouth like honey. "Have not."

"I've known for a while, you know," he mused, his voice so low, so quiet. "Don't think I haven't seen it—the way you look at me." He kissed your skin again, working his way up, each press of his lips something sacred, moving closer to your mouth. "The way you can't get enough of me."

You could kill him for it, for the way his words sunk into your bones, making all the feelings you've buried rise to the surface, pulling you under. He just had to go there—had to milk every inch of your composure out of you, because it's not enough for him to have you disarmed physically—sexually—he needed to have you disarmed emotionally, too.

Perhaps the worst part of it all is how right he was. Arrogant bastard.

"Stop talking," your hand drifted down, grazing the bulge in his pants, your fingers slipping under the waistband, rubbing him through the thin fabric of his boxers. It was reckless. You've never done this before, but God, you wanted to. "Stop talking and teach me."

The room tilted—the world off its axis. His breath caught, choked in his lungs as he grabbed your face and pulled your lips to his—his kiss wild, his tongue insistent, running along your gums and wrestling with yours for control.

"Fuck," he groaned into your mouth as you tugged his boxers down, freeing him, your hand wrapping around him. Hot. Hard. "Wrap your fingers around it, princess. Gentle strokes. Just like that."

Your heart stumbled at the sound of his voice, thick, raw and open. You tightened your grip, stroking him slowly, experimentally, and he hissed through his teeth, a groan vibrating through his chest.

"You're so big," you murmured, forehead against his, the words spilling out without thought. "So thick..."

"Fucking minx," he moaned. "Stroking me and telling me how big I am—fuck—you're not as innocent as everyone thinks."

"Only you know this," you whispered, your hand moving in slow, deliberate strokes, pulse soaring as he groaned. "Does it feel good, Matty?"

"Fuck—Christ—" his breath was jagged, words ripped from his throat like they barely wanted to come out, hips jerking mindlessly. "Tighter, mm—little tighter—"

Your cunt throbbed—each whispered invocation of a god not his own, of something he didn't believe in, forced a shudder through you. That's how you knew. Knew how lost he was. He’d no mind left at all if he was muttering muggle gods.

"Like that?" Your fingers squeezed around him, your gaze burning into his as you looked up through fluttering lashes.

His face was a storm—flushed, eyes half-shut—but at your voice they opened and flicked down to yours, and for once, there was no arrogance, no mockery in that stare. Just raw, primal need, burning so fiercely it made you ache. His hips rocked, desperate for more. Painfully. A hole in his chest torn wide open for you to see, and he didn't care. Couldn't care.

"Yeah—shit—just like that," he gritted out, grip on your hips bruising, but you welcomed it. Needed it. "Fast learner, aren't you?"

"You're a good teacher," you whimpered, a sound that was barely yours as his fingers slipped between your thighs, finding your slit, teasing you open again. "Oh—"

"You've always been a little teacher's pet," he groaned, thrusting into your hand as he slipped a finger inside you. The stretch made you wince, pleasure and pain blurring into something that sent sparks behind your eyes. He watched you, gaze molten. "Fuck—it’s gonna hurt, you know that, right?"

The ache spread through you, but you didn't flinch. "I know," you whispered as his thumb found your clit, making you gasp. "I trust you."

"I know you do." His voice dropped, eyes dark and soft at once as he pushed another finger inside. "You know you’ve always had me wrapped around your fucking finger. You know I care about you—“

His words were too much, pressing on something fragile inside you, and you pulled him into a kiss to shut him up—deep, desperate, drowning. Your hand tightened on his length, the heat between you flaring, and you moaned against his mouth, shaking with the need for more.

"I want you," you breathed, each syllable shivering on your lips as you clenched around his fingers. "I've wanted you for months—"

Months? No, it had been years. Years of wanting, needing, watching from afar, heart in your throat. Years of avoiding anyone else because no one was him. You knew he’d felt the same and it killed him. It wasn't logical, wasn't supposed to be like this—not with you, not now, not his best friend's little sister, not him whispering sweet, dangerous things while knuckle-deep inside your virgin cunt.

It was as if you both shook those thoughts from your minds at once. You’ll think about the implications later.

"You've got me," he rasped, hips grinding involuntarily against your hand. "Just—fuck—don't hate me after this."

Hate him? The very idea was laughable, absurd. You could never hate him. Not even in those moments you tried, not even when he deserved it.

"I could never hate you," you murmured, drawing him closer, lips trembling against his. "Just—please—"

Something shifted in his eyes, and he knew. Knew what you needed. What you both needed. You were vulnerable, trembling, but you trusted him—completely. You’d been in his life for so long. You knew he’d never hurt you. He could see it your eyes, the trust, the in the way your body bent to his touch.

"Alright," he said softly, a hand running up your body to cup your face, thumb brushing your cheek. "Alright."

His fingers slid out of you, leaving you bare and breathless, and you swallowed. This was really about to happen.

"Lay back," his voice cut through your haze. "Legs to your chest."

The command wrapped around you like a vice, tightening the anticipation, and you fell back on your elbows, staring up at him as you raised your legs. Vulnerability crept in, making your thighs tense, but Mattheo was there, spreading you open with firm hands, pressing himself against your slick. His eyes were locked onto yours, all that self-assurance gone, melted into something more human—something raw, unguarded.

You could feel it; the vulnerability of this moment stretched between you both—the distance you'd maintained for so long, the careful walls you'd built, were nothing now. He was in too deep, and so were you.

"Stop me at any time," he whispered, his voice a raw rasp, eyes meeting yours. "Just breathe.”

He leaned down until his lips ghosted over yours, and you kissed him like the world might collapse if you didn't. He guided himself against you, the press of him at your entrance an unbearable ache. He was hot, hard, huge—and despite the wetness slicking down your thighs, your body resisted, too tight, too unsure of this.

You whimpered, instinctively trying to pull away, but he stayed, pressing kisses to your hair, your temple, whispering something that sounded like comfort but burned like fire. It hurt more than you expected, more than any of the fantasies you had dared to entertain.

Doubt curled through your chest, what if you couldn't take him? What if—

"M-Mattheo..." his name broke in your throat as you clutched his arm, nails digging into his skin. He tried to push in again, but your body resisted. "It—you—you can't fit..."

"Shh," his lips ghosted over yours, his hand slipping through your hair, trying again, moving slow, controlled. "You're just—so goddamn tight—"

The way he said it sent a spark through your veins. It was filthy, shameless, and it lit you up from the inside, despite the pain. No one had ever spoken to you like this. You swallowed the lump in your throat, tears pricking as he tried to work you open.

And then—he was in.

"I-it hurts," you hissed—pain lighting up your spine as he worked his cockhead inside you, pushing against the resistance of your walls. His breath came in sharp, ragged bursts, each inch a battle. The pressure was unbearable, the sting so sharp it was paralyzing. "Oh, fuck, Mattheo—"

He groaned, a sound from deep within his chest, his head bowing, sweat creeping over his brow.

"Shhh, I know—I know..." he murmured through shredded cords, fighting to maintain control as his hips paused, barely halfway in, just enough to make you feel like you might break. "S'okay...you're doing so good..."

It was overwhelming—the fullness, the ache that felt like it might split you in two. And yet, beneath the pain, something else stirred. His words, soft and rough all at once, made the sensation bearable, turned the hurt into something else. You focused on his voice, on the way he stroked your hair, the way he held you like you were the most precious thing in the world.

"Why—mmff—gods..." you could barely speak, the words tangled in your throat. "Why do you have to be so big—"

A strangled laugh escaped him, though his eyes stayed shut tight, his jaw clenched—cock twitching inside you.

"I don't—fuck—know." His fingers brushed your lips, covering your mouth gently. "Don't go talking like that—not right now—"

You might have laughed, too, if your body wasn't so taut, strung tight with tension and pain and something far more profound. He was barely inside you, his words making your insides clench, drawing another groan from his lips at the squeeze.

His hand held your jaw, palm pressing lightly over your mouth, enough to breathe, to speak—

"Why—" you knew what he meant, knew the warning in his eyes, but you couldn't stop yourself. "—not?"

His breath hitched. "Because—" he swallowed hard, words coming through gritted teeth, his fingers tightening around your jaw, a warning in his grip. "Because—fuck—your mouth will get you in trouble."

Oh. That was what he meant.

"But—oh fuck—you're so...big..." the words slipped out before you could catch them, a disgruntled moan falling from your lips as he sank all the way in, filling you so completely it was dizzying. The pressure, the heat, the sensation of being pried open—it was all too much, and you cried out, unable to stop the sound from spilling out. "Ohhh—so big—"

"I said, fuck," he cursed, hand clamping firm over your mouth now as his body shuddered, as he ground his hips gently into yours. "—don't say that."

It was too late. You didn't need to say anything further. He could feel it—he could feel everything in the way you clenched around him, barely letting him move—so goddamn tight it was almost painful—he could feel it in the look in your eyes, in the trembling of your body beneath his.

"I can feel you thinking it," he grunted as you squirmed beneath him, every movement making him twitch inside you, drawing another choked groan from his throat. "Merlin sakes—"

You knew he wasn't used to this. To slowing down, to drawing out the tension like this, to the maddening slowness of every motion. He wanted to lose himself, to break you open hard and fast, to take and give and take again until both of you shattered into something unrecognizable. But he couldn't—not with the way your eyes glistened, not with the way you gasped and whimpered as he filled you.

"No talking," he sucked in a breath against your neck, his hips rolling into yours in slow, unbearable waves. "Only if you need me to stop."

He was breaking. So were you. Every thrust was an exquisite kind of torture—an ache that twisted and stretched, dulled only by the flick of his fingers against your clit. His lips pressed along your neck, kissed along the line of your jaw, groaning with each deep, patient push, carving his way into you as you clung to him, your mind floating through the fog of pain into something different—something overwhelming.

Your head fell back. “Oh—Oh gods—“

Each gasp felt like it might be your last as that something built deep inside you, tight and unfamiliar, an ache that didn't hurt but begged to be released. And he felt it too—Mattheo felt it, the way your body pulsed beneath his, the way you tightened around him like you couldn't bear to let him go.

"Bloody fuck—are you—are you going to—" his words were ragged, broken. He couldn't finish the thought, couldn't hold himself together. "Are you—"

“Mattheo—” your voice trembled, a breathless moan as your back arched, pressing into him, your body seeking more. The pain was null now, replaced by an overwhelming pressure, something tight and aching and good—you felt every inch of him inside you, every pulse of his cock as he moved, slow but relentless. “Mattheo—oh gods—”

"Fuck—" he bit down, teeth sinking into your neck as his fingers swirled your clit in rhythm with his thrusts. "You're gonna make me—"

You choked because there was no space for words, no breath for anything but the raw sound of your bodies—moans, gasps, ragged inhales tangled together as you both hurtled towards something inevitable. The light of the moon radiated the man above you and that was all you could register other than the rising crescendo of your climax—something so intense it scared you, almost broke you apart—your body seizing, trembling, as his fingers pressed harder against your clit, as he thrust deeper.

And then, there was only one more blink until you shattered beneath him, the orgasm tearing through you in oceanic motion, muscles clenching around him so tightly he could barely move—and then he was there, too, his body jerking as he groaned into your skin, his release ripped from him in jagged gasps as you milked him without mercy. He slumped on top of you, fingers digging into your skin, the two of you pulsing together in the aftermath, the room spinning, your bodies still trembling from the force of it.

The world was slow to return, the roar of sensations fading into something quieter, softer. The weight of him on top of you was grounding—his forehead pressed against the crook of your neck, his chest heaving as he caught his breath. Neither of you moved for a long while, just basked in the silence, kind that settled in after something irrevocable had passed between two people.

And then, Mattheo pushed up, enough to meet your eyes. Your chest ached at the softness inside his own.

“Are you—” he swallowed as he drank you in, the sheen of sweat on your skin, the flushed cheeks. His words hung in the air as if he didn’t know how to finish the question.

“I’m okay,” you nodded, voice hoarse. “I’m good.”

Mattheo nodded too but didn’t move, still buried inside you, just taking you in. Then, gently, he shifted, pulling back with a slow, careful movement that made you wince slightly. The second he’d pulled out, you felt different—more aware of the vulnerability you’d just laid bare, more aware of the line you two had just obliterated into absolute shambles.

“You sure?” he asked, a flicker of something deeper in his gaze—

You nodded again, the smallest smile pulling at your lips, though your heart was still racing, the enormity of it all sinking in.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “I’m sure.”

His jaw tightened, his hand brushing a strand of hair from your face, his thumb lingering on your cheek.

“This changes everything, doesn’t it?” His voice was barely audible, like he didn’t want to admit it out loud.

Of course he was thinking it too—how could he not? This was no longer something you could pretend didn’t exist, no longer something you could hide behind banter and stolen glances and secret kisses.

“Yeah,” you breathed, fingers tracing the line of his jaw, feeling the tension there, the heat still radiating from his skin. “It does.”

[bbokicidal]

Is That All? .:. Lee Minho .:. 10/04/24

Genre : Smut Pairing : Lee Know x Fem!Reader Warnings : Somnophilia, wet dreams, dabbles in dub con, clothed sex (ish), grinding, dry humping, thigh fucking, groping/fondling of ass and chest, Minho kinda... rubs his cum into your skin idk.

Kinktober Day 2 of 10 : Somnophilia/Wet Dreams w/ Lee Know

Next Post : 10/09/24

Minho had a speculation that he'd find you in his bed before he even stepped into the room. You'd told Chris prior to escaping from the party that you wanted to go lay down after having one too many drinks. Sleep-ridden and body like lead, you escaped from the music to the vast upstairs that offered comfort and warmth - and quiet. The hallways are narrow, many rooms branching off to either side in the dark. But your hazy, clouded-with-alcohol mind seems to be set on the one directly in front of you at the end of the hallway.

You found solace in the sheets, the soft red satin of the dress for your ‘Devil’ costume sliding over your skin and bunching up around your hips as you settled in. The sheets are cold against your thighs and exposed arms, untouched until now, but they envelope you with joy and caress every limb as you relax under the comforter. It’s heavy - weighted, maybe? - on your form, pressing you into the mattress that creates a growing want in your chest to simply never leave from that spot. It’s almost the same as feeling .. a medication, taken orally only ten minutes ago in an effort to relieve the dull ache that formed in your skull from your previous drinking. Though you hadn’t actually taken anything prior to heading upstairs - the bed you lay in offers you the same relief.

It's only an hour and twenty minutes later that the bedroom door creaks open, clicking shut soon after as it clasps within itself. Minho enters the room with a heavy sigh, dropping a witch hat down on his floor - and never wanting to look at it again. Vascular hands lift to his neck, unlacing the strings that held the deep maroon cape up around broad shoulders and really tie the ‘wizard’ look together. Or so Changbin said; The loser that roped him into dressing up at all in the first place. The fabric slinks to the floor in a pool as he removes his dress shoes near the door, stepping out of them toe-to-heel before making his way over. His vision blurs with alcohol but he’s plenty sober to see mostly well - given he’d been babysitting a few of the others during the night as it went on. The cold sheets produce goosebumps along his arms as he pulls the blanket back to climb in, ready for the soft comfort of his own bed.

His body relaxes against the mattress, thumbs hooked in his jeans to push them down until he's kicking out of them and left in his black sweater and, ironically, matching boxers. It's only then that he realizes you're in his bed of the eight you could've chosen from, though he doubts it's on purpose when he really thinks about it for a second. You're not close with Minho, almost at all, and if you were sober you would've chosen Chris' bed with ease. You knew where his room was - how it looked, the ‘Recording in Progress’ sign hanging on it at all times. vBut in a drunken and tired haze, you'd found your way to a different room instead without a care.

And Minho didn't mind much. He pulled the blankets over his shoulders, left a small gap of room between your form and his own for what he told himself was your own comfort, and fell asleep with relative ease. The alcohol weighed heavy on his head and the ache for sleep pushed his shoulders into the sheets as he drifted off, his mind finally falling silent for the first time in simply too many hours.

He only wakes up when something begins to bother him. His previous dream lurks into his head, the image of your mouth wrapped around his cock. Snug, warm, wet. Minho's head lulls against the pillow as he fights to go back to sleep, hoping that the dream will continue if he does. He wants to feel it again - feel your tongue lathing over his bare skin - feel your lips pressing kisses to the tip of his cock. He wants to feel your hair tangled in between his knuckles again, fisted tight in his grip as he guides your head back down on his cock - pushing until the flushed pink tip of his length prodded and rubbed over the back of your throat. He wanted to see you looking back up at him again, your eyes glossy and the skin just beneath flushed rosy with blush of soft embarrassment. 

He wanted to feel the tight of your throat gasping for air as he let his hips buck upwards, pushing closer and holding you in place so he could fuck into your pretty mouth. He wanted to feel it again - the way you swallowed around him until he was on the verge of painting your tongue with his cum.

He felt a bit selfish to admit it in his head but - He wanted to feel that bliss again.

Minho's needy as he rolls onto his side. He feels a little unsure about how close to you he is. His hips are flush to your pretty little ass and his cock strains in his boxers, aching - longing - for friction. He's barely even thinking when his hips begin to carefully roll forward. The feeling of his cock straining against his boxers is one thing, but the feeling of your ass is another. He's sighing out almost immediately, lips falling apart before his teeth sink down into the lower of the two, desperate to hide any noises or breaths that escaped his throat. Minho feels a bit embarrassed when he peeks down, eyes falling from just over your shoulder to where the head of his cock ruts at your clothed skin. There’s a patch - wet, sticky on the inside, and quite large - where Minho’s pretty pink cock had leaked against his boxers. And that wet spot was starting to transfer to your dress, dampening the satin each time his hips rolled forward.

 His hand lifts from the sheets to instead take hold of your hip before, suddenly, he falters.He grows unsure on if he should grab onto you or not, scared to wake you from your comfortable slumber; So instead, his fingers slowly curl into the fabric of your dress as to not disturb you. Minho finds comfort in holding onto you like this - using it as leverage as well to subtly and carefully drag your curves back against himself where he lay directly behind you. His hips roll forward again, and again, and again; And again.

His fingers grasp tighter, tugging slowly on the satin until your own hips pivot towards him. The angle is perfect, he thinks, for him to rock his hips upwards so his cock could slide right over your pantyline; Given he knew already just from being so close to you that you were wearing a thong. He breathes out, jaw clenched and eyes sliding shut, as his cock slides perfectly between your asscheeks. He’s not going to ever say it aloud but he’s almost… completely relieved of shame as he chases his release that's coming so slowly because he can't move too fast or he'll wake you.

But he has to stop, his hips faltering when he feels his pull on your dress drop. His hold is suddenly so loose - no longer leverage to pull you back against him. The fabric had slid up over your hips and to the soft of your waist, exposing the black lace that disappeared between your legs. He feels a shuddered breath brush against his front teeth as he reaches down, fingers spread and hand running over the warmth of your newly exposed ass. He gropes, watching the flesh bulge between his fingers. It’s as perfect as he’d imagined before. Not that he’d… imagined you naked before. Only a few times! When he got off… twice a week… for the last year….

Minho can't help himself. He watches as you lean forward into a pillow of his, breathing heavy with sleep and curling up. He knows he needs to see more - so he takes the risk and carefully winds an arm over your waist. His arm brushes yours; Heavier, thick with muscle, and ridiculously warm. The risk is massive - touching your chest like this. But he feels his cock twitch and pulse in his boxers the moment he sees your tits spill from your dress as his fingers curl into the deeply cut neckline and pull down. His lips part, a satisfied gasp escaping his lips at the sight. His hand moves then so he can hold onto you, fingers curling around your breast and letting his knuckles become engulfed in the warmth.

His free hand, the one not busy with grabbing and squeezing at your chest, slides down into his boxers; And he’s quick with tugging the black fabric down so his cock could slip between your thighs. He's sighing out with a smile soon after, hips rolling forward once more - the exact same way they had before. Slow. Careful. Only now it was so much better.

The soft sounds of his cock slipping against your warm skin fill the room; Your slick seeping through your panties the more he rubs up against your clothed folds, the soft pink flesh he can see through the black lace. He even hooks a finger in the thong to tug it taught, watching it press flush against your pussy. 

Minho chokes, and he has to pause for a moment. Was this... right?

His eyes flutter back into his head as he thinks to a few weeks ago when you had been drinking with him, Chris, and Changbin. You'd confided in them about some guy you'd been seeing who had constantly had wet dreams about you - to which Changbin makes a suggestive comment about how he should've just fucked you then. But Chris barks out with laughter in an attempt to ease the situation and slaps his friend, "Hey--! No. Definitely not okay to touch a woman when she's sleeping unless she's into it!"

They'd all paused when you'd giggled out and leaned in, your eyes dark and hazy while you were chewing on your lip in a drunken, happy daze. "Who said I'm not into it?"

Minho sighs out in bliss and glances down to watch as the head of his cock catches on your clit, your hips stuttering forward a bit but unable to move with the way he holds your panties tight. He has to do it again - and again. It’s so cute, watching your hips try to wiggle away from his cock at the sudden stimulation only to settle back down once he stops. His teeth sink back into his lip as he moves in - just so he can sink into your thighs as deep as he can. His body wracks with a shudder when he sees that his balls are pressed flush to you - as close as possible - just imagining that it’s your sopping pussy instead of your thighs.

His cock ruts against the plush of your skin until he's whimpering against the back of your neck. Unable to keep from pressing closer and closer, his hand leaves your breast so he can simply tighten his arm over and around you, pressed to your torso to pull you back against his own. Minho presses his body closer and you seem to sink into his warmth - his chest pressed to your own and the soft, welcoming sweetness of his tummy flush to your back. He'd been eating well - eating more - since Chuseok, and even let himself indulge in the sugar of the Reeses down in the candy cauldron. And now you got to experience it right up against your body, along with the weight of a thick thigh slipping over both of your own to hold you down.

And he relishes in the way your thighs press together because of him. His cock twitches in need, cum spurting from the tip and painting your skin white as his hips fumble behind your own. Minho peeks down to watch, pulling back in an attempt to keep it from hitting your skin in a panic that it’ll wake you from your slumber. Though it's far too late for that - so he has to think of something. Some way to get rid of it.

He decides it's best to get rid of it in a way he thinks is.. insanely hot. Not that he would ever admit that aloud. 

He lets two fingers drag over your thigh, collecting the cum that he'd... tried so not-hard to get on you, and slowly parting his fingers to watch it string between them. Minho sighs, head tipping to look for a better angle.

His hand settles back on your ass, gliding down your skin with care until his cum, now less sticky and almost completely gone, was rubbed into your skin. Smothered over you - a soft sheen to your pretty pink ass that was warm from his constant and incessant rubbing. 

Minho relaxes back shortly after. He gently fixes your panties so they're loose and settled once more, comfortable against your skin and no longer pulling so tight at the pussy he’d just been rutting up against like some poor dog in heat. Laying back away from you and staring up at the ceiling, his hands tug on his boxers to tuck himself away and he lets out a breath in relief. And, well, release.

He feels you shift beside him and falls a bit stiff when you roll onto your back as well, shoulder laying atop his as you settle comfortably. He relaxes when you once again become still, eyes darting down as your hand slowly comes up to cup his cheek. He sucks in a breath, chest raising beneath your arm as it rests over top of his torso. Minho shifts, head slowly tipping in your direction to see you already looking back at him with soft and lidded eyes - clouded like before, only this time not from the alcohol you’d consumed.

"Is that all?"

Taglist :  @crybabykurominho @softkisshyunjin @minniesverse @dwaekkicidal @lixies-favorite-cookie @bookheadeily @jeonginsleftcheek @madkati @jisunglyricist @millseyes-world @warpedspirit @lovetaroandtaemin

[delightfultheoristfox]

Fair trade

John Price x Reader

Cross posted from AO3.

This one shot deals with heavy topics such as emotional manipulation, emotional abuse from family, and self-objectification.

I'm begging you to read the tags before pursuing the story. Thank you so much for taking care of yourself first. 🦊

If you're looking for some aftersex comfort, recommending this by @/karlachismylife. 🧡

18+

Word count: 10k CW: smut (cunnilingus, blow jobs, sex seen as a form of self-harm, sex seen as a way to feel useful), heavy angst, hurt/comfort, dubcon if you squint.

Masterlist 🦊

𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬

“No, we can’t come over, darling.”

To have a life planned out must be a dream. No worries nor fears, because everything is already outlined—a step-by-step guide, given to you at birth. A path, a purpose.

To give is your purpose.

It’s been ever since before you hit the eighteen mark; the birthday being only a threshold that signed your legal independence.

But you’ve always been, haven’t you? Shadowed by bigger problems ever since you were a small thing because there wasn't trouble that mattered less than you did.

The difference being that before you were shielded by your naïveté, by the bleeding heart they’ve carefully built for you, so you’d bend and break pliantly, even willingly at times, without ever realizing.

Now you're an adult, they'd implied.

Now they can use you at your full potential, and you won’t even put up a fight. You won’t set boundaries, because this is all you’ve ever learned. This is all they’ve ever taught you. Their perfect mold, kneeling in perfect obedience.

But how much can one take in a lifetime?

“Thanks for the help, love. I’ll call you tomorrow.” 

“Will you?”

“Of course.”

But staring at the phone won’t make it ring.

When you’ve never had a moment for yourself but plenty of time to dedicate to others—where do you draw the line of this so-called purpose, then?

“Happy birthday sweetheart.”

“It’s next week, mum.”

“Oh. I must have mixed it up.”

This goal—this agonized prize, towering at the finish line you’re desperately running to, the one defined by your family the moment your first cry pierced the air—what is it, exactly?

It’s a cascade of praises. It’s a shower of love that reawakens you from your torpor like a bucket of ice-cold water. It's abrupt but somewhat needed until it slowly becomes fresh instead of freezing, and it hydrates your skin and soothes the thirst. You feel rejuvenated, coming out of your lethargy, and alive and thriving and—

It stops.

Your fifteen minutes of unbridled, limitless love just snatched away in spare seconds.

And you’re parched again. Sometimes, they leave you wanting until you’re on your knees. Sometimes, they never give it back.

And so, the questions arise—what happens when you’re not needed anymore?

What happens when the calls plummet?

When the visits diminish until there are none?

When you're a ghost haunting your own life because your purpose is slowly vanishing. When that prize stands in the distance as a rushing fountain of praises and kindness, but you've already given a hand, an arm, your legs, your voice, your heart. What then?

How do you move, exactly, if there are no limbs to which attach the strings? How will you speak, if they’re not shaping your voice?

How does your puppeteer lift you from the floor? Your ventriloquist—how will it force you to agree to every demand?

“You... met without me?”

“Sweetheart, we thought you were busy.”

“You could’ve asked.”

“You would’ve said no.”

But you wouldn’t have. You’re not even sure you can say ‘no’ to them.

Is there someone who will hoist you up, when you’re nothing more than a torso, and take you to the finish line?

“Uh, darling, mind calling later?”

“I’m not feeling fine, I was hoping—“

“I’m busy, love.”

A therapist for your mum.

A crutch for your dad.

An advocate for your brother, but you’re no one to them.

A child, once. A person, now.

A notification on their phone. A Google reminder of a birthday.

A missed call. An excuse.

A vacant shape in a family photo. A memory, then nothing.

Raised to serve. But what happens when there’s no one to serve?

“What you’re doing to me is not fair.”

“I don’t like that attitude. Don’t forget how much we did for you.”

Your hands are tight around the steering wheel. White knuckled fists and creaking leather. The car smells of stale tobacco, cigarettes you’ve smoked with your offhand limp out of the car window, then stubbed in the portable ashtray.

"We love you, of course we do. How could you ask that?"

It's raining but your window's rolled down, a ciggie snug between two fingers. Elbow propped on the car door, arm hanging out. The sleeve of your sweater is soaked, and the cigarette is sodden. You don't even notice it when you bring it to your lips and take a drag. Nothing fills your lungs.

It’s fine.

It's a habit. It's autopilot. You go. You exist.

“It really doesn’t feel like it. You haven’t called in weeks.”

“It’s just—we’re people too. We’re busy.”

“You’re not busy for my brother.”

“He’s—you’re different, darling.” You’re used. We’ve consumed you.

It’s a feeling of emptiness that spills out of every hole like heavy smoke, clouding your senses. A husk that billows dark tendrils from its eyes, moves mechanically like an alien imitating a human being.

It's fake. You're a dummy. Unhuman. A thing.

“I just need your help. I—I’m not fine. I’m not asking for much. Just an evening toge—”

"So much is happening right now. You can deal with it on your own, love.”

You close the car door once you've parked it in the garage. Up the stairs you go, dragging your feet on every step.

“Like you’ve always done.”

Would this world exist even if you weren’t in it? Would these stairs lead to your apartment, if you didn’t inhabit it?

Is your flat even yours? Sure, you’ve paid for it. The party you threw after your signature was placed on the contract is still a cherished memory.

But what were you even celebrating? Four walls. A roof over your head. A bed to kip.

It’s a lot, you’re aware. Not everyone can say they own all that. But do you? 

They’re things. Can you own things?

Surely, you are owned. By them.

But you’re not even sure you need things. You can’t need, because things don’t need. And what are you, if not a thing? Because things are used, not humans. Humans fight back, eventually. Humans hold their pride dear, it's the only character that separates them from animals, from meat. You never bit back, not once. So what does that make you, if not theirthing?

Your purpose is not a choice you made, it’s theirs. You have to give—that is why they made you.

You own, so you can give them.

You earn, so you can give back.

Because who’s given you a roof when you couldn’t afford it yourself? And the food in your belly?

Darling, it wasn’t for free. You were expensive to raise. You were costly to craft, to mold, to perfect.

But they haven’t called. No one has. No one will. 

The master left the strings—and what of you, now? Do you just lie limply on the floor, waiting for the next hand that'll hoist you up?

And if they don’t call to ask from you, how do you know you’re doing fine? How do you know if the finish line is close when they took your eyes already? How do you ask for help, if you don’t have a voice?

But that was the point. Their goal. They own you, and without them, you’re nothing but a heap of wood, infested with termites. Wooden rods on the floor, nylon strings cut short. You’ll grovel and beg, they’ll croon at you in mockery, bleeding you dry, but it will be enough for you—anything would be enough for you.

You unlock the door. John hears and his head peeks from the kitchen.

“Hi love,” he rumbles, and you feel it shaking your heart.

Does he need you?

John Price is a captain of the special forces who has gone through hell and back. He's witnessed things you've only heard from the mouths of journalists or read in black-and-white papers, and he came out of each one of them unscathed. Strong. Resilient.

He doesn’t need you. 

“Sortin’ out dinner,” he adds, and returns behind the wall that separates the living room from the cooking area. “You’re gonna love this pasta, I’m telling you.”

Of course, he doesn't need you.

The house is pristine. He takes care of it while you’re at work since he’s off deployment. He’s going to be home for a while now, a handful of months. That’s a good thing, you miss him when he leaves.

It’s you who needs him. But you can’t need, so how does this work, exactly?

How do you explain that hole in your stomach that relentlessly craves to be filled? That makes you want to curl on the floor. Turn into dust and seep through the cracks of the hardwood.

Disappear. Invisible. Paper-thin.

Because maybe you're tired of being needed. Perhaps you want to break through that mindset and start needing something.

You chastise yourself for even concocting the thought.

You stand stock still at the door. You hear nothing but the blood rushing in your ears and John moving pans around the kitchen.

You see his head at the doorway again.

“Love?”

Your eye twitches, but you don’t answer.

He doesn’t need you. Then why is he here?

There are plenty of people out there who’d love to bend for him. Mouths he can kiss. Holes he can fill.

That’s what people are, no?

No. That's what you are.

You’ll make him need you. You’ll show him that you’re fundamental, not just another hole. That you cannot be replaced, because you can't afford to lose him. You can't.

It’s selfish, it is.

You cannot be selfish, it’s not what you were taught. But you will. Just today, just now. The first apparent tear into the careful pattern threaded by your family.

But it's not really a hole, is it? If you're carving it to escape a trap, only to fall back into another one of your own making.

You hurriedly toe off your wet shoes and walk with purpose to the kitchen, dropping your bag on the floor as you do. He quirks a brow at you and your silence, but his face soon morphs into sudden confusion when you come to stand in front of him and drop to your knees.

You know how to do it—how to make people smile.

Your empathy is unmatched. You read people's tics, their quirks. Gauge them from the way they move their lips, the words they use, the way they look at you.

And John—oh, he loves how you work with your mouth.

And if he needs your mouth, then by extension, he needs you.

Your hands palm his thighs as you flutter your lashes up to him. He's forced to lean back against the kitchen counter, but he's not looking at you the way he usually does—not with his lidded blue eyes, heavy and wanton.

John looks dubious instead. Even flinches when you press your cheek to the crotch of his jeans, stroking the fabric to your skin. Denim’s rough, and it especially hurts when the plump of your cheek catches the zipper’s teeth.

Good. 

Let him take. And let it hurt.

“What’s goin’ on." He states, doesn't ask.

Please, take.

You’re already working through the button and the zipper when you answer, fingers shaking as you do. “I wanna suck your cock.”

Now, John wouldn’t normally complain, but you sound much different from the other times in which you actually do want to suck his cock.

He hums, allowing you to palm him through his briefs, gently but firmly pressing your hand where he’s still soft. You nose him through the cotton, flattening your tongue against his dick—you can feel it twitch under the muscle. Good, means his body is responding how you want him to.

His hands curl painfully tight around the lip of the counter.

It’s so silent except for your heaving breaths warming up his length and the buzzing fire on the stove.

You place tender kisses as you feel him harden under your lips.

He's looking at you to try and gauge the reason behind all this. It's clear to him that you're not being your usual self, there is something in your eyes that tickles him in the wrong place. You know he knows—you know he's gathered something's wrong. He’s ever so attentive, capturing every minimal change in the wrinkles of your face.

You're so akin to him when it comes to that.

You don't give him time to ponder for long, though. You take his cock out of his briefs and force it into your mouth.

John knocks his head back against the cupboard and fixes his eyes to the ceiling, wide open. A heavy breath leaves him languidly. His cock chubs up as it sits heavy on your tongue, and you can feel it fill up your mouth.

“Christ.”

Yes. It’s what you want, to hear him lose himself in you.

You start slowly, pumping your hand at the base along with the movements of your lips, mindful of keeping your teeth out of the way. Tilting your head sideways, you let the tip of his cock push against your cheek while your tongue lavishes the malleable skin around its length.

Your eyes swivel upward, and you're met with the view of his corded neck, tight and straining as he refuses to look at you.

No. 

He needs to know it’s you.

He needs to understand that you can give this whenever he wants, that you're not just another mouth. That no one else is as versed as you are when you eat him up. Your tongue knows how to follow the vein along the velvet of his skin, all the way to the slit on the tip. Your hand knows how to cup his balls and brush the seam in the middle—how he shudders, each time you do.

He needs to know that.

He can’t let you go. Not him too.

He has to hoist the limbless torso that you are towards the finish line, where you’ll get your caresses and your praises and your prize: the crumbs of love you’ll lap until your famished heart stops rumbling.

So, you drift your free hand upward and thread your fingers through the curls on his pelvis, gently grazing the skin with your nails. Then, you drum the pads on his soft belly, feeling them dip into the flesh and hit the harder muscles underneath. You splay your palm in the middle of his stomach, where you can feel the blood rushing madly as his heart pumps all the same.

It’s enough for you, the bodily reaction to the softness of your mouth.

But why isn’t he looking at you?

Recognize that is me. That I can make you feel good. That you need me, that you still do.

In the desperation of the moment, you opt for the best you can do: you take him deeper. The hand at the base of his cock moves to flatten on his thigh, and you carelessly widen your jaw to take more, and more, and more.

You flatten your tongue against the underside of his shaft and then twirl it around, all the while hollowing your cheeks without ever daring to take your eyes off him. That way, if he decides to look down at you, he'll find you teary-eyed and wanting—perfectly on your knees, like a devotee, no matter how artificially placed.

Your lips slide so easily up and down his cock, coating it with saliva, teardrops and precum. They swell so beautifully around it like a plump peach being ravaged; he always flatters you for it. Calls you beautiful when you suck him off so fervently, eliciting choked moans from you as you drink up the praise. 

You dive in and the head tips at the back of your throat, causing you to gag around it. The muscles of your neck clench and he curses under his breath. Your eyes water in joy and overexertion when he looks down at you at the sudden change in pace. You don’t care if it hurts, let him bruise your throat.

You can give him more. You can give him everything. 

You push even further until you're nuzzling against the coarse hair on his pelvis. You choke around his cock, a weak and wet cough that causes drool to dribble at the corners of your mouth. You pull back then, to take a wet gasp around his length, and then push forward to flush your nose to his crotch once more.

The tips of your knees hurt; the tiled floor in the kitchen is hard and merciless against the bone. It'll leave your joints aching and rough. They'll pop when you stand up, they'll hurt tomorrow when you go to work.

Good.

The knot in your stomach is ever so tight, seeking to be released and let go. It contorts in wantonness and, you’ll realize later, mortification. Just because you’re used to giving yourself so freely in exchange for crumbs, it doesn't mean it gets easier every time—to watch yourself bend on a whim, to see your pride shatter into even tinier pieces.

You feel his hand thread through your hair and tears fall down your cheek because yes, now he’s going to fuck your face like you want him to.

Use me. Treat me for what I am. Become the fucking puppet master. Take my fucking strings now that they’ve dropped them and guide me through this fucking shit I was left in.

But instead, he pulls you back, his cock escaping your mouth with the same ease you got it in.

A ragged breath, thick and wet, leaves your lips as soon as they’re free. Your coughs turn into a hack, as you stare at the glisten of your spit coating his shaft. A string of thick saliva tethers your mouth to it. Tears roll down your cheeks as you recollect your breath, nostrils flaring in the attempt to take in the air you’ve deprived yourself of.

“What’s this.”

You swallow down the liquid pooling in your throat, salty precum and viscous saliva like tar, gluing your tongue to the roof of your mouth.

“Let me.” You croak. The thought that you might sound pathetic doesn’t even cross your mind.

His brows twitch, but he keeps his voice even. “No. What’s going on? Spill it.”

Your pleading look morphs into a glare. Bloodshot eyes, tears, and snot. Spit and cum. Clumped lashes and runny mascara.

Whore. 

Your chest heaves, not from the strain, but from being caught red-handed, and you don't know how to behave.

No one ever asks why you do it, they’re simply glad you do.

You’re helping, aren’t you? It’s what you were crafted for, brick by brick, bone by bone. Made to change like a chameleon based on other’s necessities.

It’s what you are—so let me do it.

“I want to suck your cock.” You say as crudely as you can manage. “I want you to come down my throat and then I want you to bend me over the table and fuck me until you’re empty.”

He runs his tongue over his teeth, still holding your head by a handful of hair. His fingers aren’t tight, but your scalp stings nonetheless.

“Can do.” He shrugs. “Need to know why, first.”

You’re a heap of wood once again, piled up at his feet. Your limbs are jointless, just lying there, waiting to be thrown in the fire to rekindle its flame, so everyone else can be warm at your expense.

A broken puppet can still be used for other purposes until it's ash.

There's nothing in you, if not how wonderfully soft your mouth would be if only he'd let you wrap it around him again.

“Because I want to.”

He curls his nose, mustache following the stretch. “Hardly.”

“I do.”

He tugs at your hair and says your name in such a commanding manner that you can’t help but deflate. The glare in his eyes snuffs the defiant flame in yours.

"Please let me," you plead, and the way you sound is nothing short of degrading.

You don't care. You don't care if you reduce yourself to a puddle of pleas. You know you're not supposed to need anything, but you need this.

Your hands are sticky with dried spit and precum when they grab his cock again. You start pumping it fiercely, trying to make his orgasm hit earlier than what you had planned. He holds your head out of reach, meaning you can't wrap your lips around it—you'll have to make do with your hands.

Slut. 

But it’s okay, you’ll be a slut, if it helps him realize that you can make him feel good with everything you have to offer. That he won’t find another as pliant and willing as you are. That if he wants to be served, you will be his thrall.

Everything you own, it’s so you can give him.

Everything you earn, it’s so you can give back.

He can mold you. He can break you and put you back together the way he likes. He can craft a new puppet out of you, you’ll hand him the strings. He’ll take you to the finish line and love you, then.

Only then.

You see his mouth curl, bile on his tongue, as he reins in his own lust. There’s something wrong about you tonight, and he’s starting to understand what it is.

And so, he leaves your hair, favoring the softness of your cheek. He thumbs the plump of your cheekbone and then rubs a line along your lower lip.

It's then that you take your chance and rush forward, planting a kiss on the tip of his cock. Tongue out to leave kitten licks at the drops of precum you are squeezing out of him with your hands, knowing he likes those tiny shocks it sends up his spine.

And just when you think he’s relented to your pleas, just when you have your lips plump and shiny, ready to wrap around the flushed head of his cock, he takes ahold of your chin and tips your head back.

“I love you,” he croaks.

Words he’s said already, but not as often as he should’ve. It’s his fault, he grievously considers, if you think you have to be on your knees to receive them.

He realizes it when you shock into a stop. When your eyes widen a tick too much.

Blind idiot he is.

"I love you," he says again, more firmly this time.

Your face screws up as if you're trying to wrap your head around this language you don't know. You haven't done much to reach that prize—if anything, you’ve done the opposite. You’ve edged him until the head of his cock has turned an angry red that must be aggravating to handle, impossible to quench without the welcoming warmth of your mouth or that of your cunt.

You blink up at him. Tears fall down your cheeks. “But you need to come.”

If you’d have shot him, he would’ve handled the ache much better than this.

"I need nothing." He supplies gently, tracing the corner of your lips with his thumb, getting rid of the mess he's inadvertently made of your mouth.

His statement hangs in the air, stale and musty and threatening, not as sweet as he thinks. It clogs your nose and tightens your chest, curdling your blood into frozen lumps. The noises around suddenly feel deafening: the bubbles popping on the surface of the boiling water, the wet sound of your skin unsticking from his cock as your hands leave it, their thud as they fall in your lap.

If you’re not needed, then what are you?

Carefully, he tucks himself back into his briefs as he kneels to your level.

He whispers your name and cups your cheek as he does. "I love you.”

You know he does, but stuck in the web woven by your family, you always thought it was a purely transactional sentiment. A fair trade.

He loves you because you kneel prettily in front of the sofa.

He loves you because you let him stuff you up and fill you to the brim with his come at the snap of his fingers.

He loves you because you're a lovely addition to his arm when you doll up for his work ceremonies or other functions.

He loves you because you cook a mean Sunday roast when he comes back from deployment.

And you love him because he's John, because what's there not to love.

With gentle blue eyes framed by bushy eyebrows, and droopy eyelids that give his often scowling look a gentler feel to it. The honey smatter of freckles on his nose, and the sharply trimmed beard on his jaw. Plump rosy lips, how soft they feel when he places them on yours, juxtaposing with the prickly ends of his mustache.

His encompassing heart and the way he's enlarged it for you to fit better, so you're all comfortable and warm in his life.

John gently presses his lips on your forehead as he speaks softly, "I love you."

Your eyes flutter closed. A heaving breath again, one that stutters as you try to inhale it. Fat tears fill the cracks in your lips and flow down your tongue.

John brushes the back of his knuckles across your cheeks. “Don’t need all this to love you.” And then he looks in your eyes, searching for any sign of skepticism, and regrettably finds a considerable amount of it. “You knowthat. Right, love?”

No, you don’t know.

But you don’t have the gall to tell him. Suddenly, it hits how pathetic you look. On your knees, begging for him to stuff your mouth with his cock so you can feel useful, so he can shower you with love once you give him a reason to keep you.

You kneel there helplessly, deflated.

Useless.

You gesture with your hands at him, feeling how limply they hang from your wrists as if you've never used them on your own in the first place.

There is very little you can do to humiliate yourself further, and yet you manage.

“But you need me.” You cry, as your face scrunches in a pain so deeply settled that John has no clue how to work around it. “I need you to need me.”

However, he tries. He tracks your tears with his thumb, stopping their fall right above your cheekbone.

"Don't need you, love." He says tenderly. "I want you.”

He shifts a little closer and cradles your face in both hands so that you cannot avoid his eyes even if you tried.

“Want you.” He breathes hoarsely, “Ain’t with you ’cause I need someone. I don’t need anyone, and I don’t want just anyone—I want you. ‘Specially when you’re not on your knees.”

Your nose is stuffy, and you can’t breathe right. Suddenly, you feel so unbelievably tired. Your face plops in his hands, and the humiliation feels ten times worse. It's hard, however, to interject with a word that would make him understand how deep this pattern runs.

He doesn’t let you, but only because he knows already.

"Like you when you get all chuffed ‘bout your plants sproutin’." He drawls. "Love it when you hop into bed and shove your cold feet against my thighs ‘cause I'm much warmer. Or when you make love to me. But not when you—when you pull this."

His voice is heavy. Your heart aches because you're so tightly wrapped in deadly silk, stuck in your family's cobweb, that you've never noticed how it must pain him as well, to see you reduce yourself to this.

"Bloody hell, love." He sighs, furrowing his brows. "I love you, yeah? I don't need—whatever this is. I don't want whatever this is.”

John's eyes close, his face screwing up in that way that tells you he's thinking. He shakes his head subtly, and you're afraid you've gone and done it now. He's going to go because he already has so much shit to deal with that your puzzled self would only be another broken case to add to his file.

But alas, dread doesn't even manage to settle on your heavy heart that he locks you in place with his blues.

One of his hands drifts to the back of your head. He leans in, enough for you to smell the tobacco on his breath.

You swallow dryly, lips parted in shaky pants. Eyes lidded and tired, nose scrunching in sniffles.

John presses a gentle kiss on your lips, no more than a peck. And then another one, and another, and another, until you can’t discern whether it’s the salt of your tears or that of his skin.

Your breathing becomes heavier and it mingles with his own when he comes to rest his forehead on yours.

"I love you," he murmurs tirelessly.

The hand on your nape guides you to him, and he kisses you again. Unlike the previous ones, this is bolder, yet tender all the same. He holds you in place while the rest of the world falls into impeccable silence.

The gentle smacking of lips is all you can hear, and even if only for a moment, it manages to silence the voice in your head—a mimicry of your family’s cries, their lying coos, their grating, consuming, plastic love. 

You feel yourself uncoil under John’s touch and the deft work of his tongue on yours. Hands in your lap, you abandon yourself to him, but it's a different type of surrender; your eyes close and all your feelings, all your energy, flow into that kiss.

“I-I love you,” you venture, breathy voice brushing his lips.

John inhales sharply, and he realizes this might be the first time you said it because you wanted to and not because you had to.

His hand drifts from your cheek to your shoulder, down to your stomach and he guides you to lie with your back against the kitchen floor. His palms flatten next to your head.

Normally, John would have you on a fort of pillows and blankets and would never compromise about it—constantly making sure you’re as comfortable as they come as he ravages you. Beforehand, you'd get ready in the bathroom, having prepped yourself to a T. Shaved and moisturized and seasoned like a prized pig for him to consume, wearing the prettiest, skimpiest lace to frame the petals of your perfectly waxed pussy.

Because it’s a fair trade; he treats you like a princess, so you can be his pretty whore.

Yet tonight you think he won’t do any of that. There is a gentleness in his kisses that, while not uncommon, certainly feels unique. Your hands hover between your chest and his, unsure of where to place them. You hope he’ll guide you through this too, manhandle you into position like he always does.

But again, he doesn’t.

He barely feels like John at all. His behavior is so different that if you closed your eyes, anyone could be in his place right now. But that is only your perception, isn't it? Because John has always been tender with you, you were just too busy thinking about how to repay his kindness instead of living in the moment.

His lips leave yours only to busy themselves with the skin on your cheek, then down your chin and to your neck. You gasp at the goosebumps, and he stops.

His face comes into view and it is so flushed you think he must be collecting all his blood right in the apples of his cheeks.

“Okay, love?”

You blink. Your mouth tastes more like his cigars than tears and precum. It makes you feel less dirty, even if what you did (and have been doing your whole life) hasn’t changed.

You swallow thickly as he gazes into your eyes.

“Y-yeah, just—” A crease forms between your brows, “I should—I left you like that, and—”

He hushes you.

"No need to bother 'bout me." He reassures you.

He presses a kiss between your brows, smoothing the lines your concern has formed. You close your eyes, focusing on how warm he is in contrast to the tiles pressing against your back.

“Tell me what you want.” He breathes. As if you have an answer for that.

His kisses trail down your face and your neck, turning more open and wet. The rising gooseflesh, however, does nothing to stop your mind from running miles ahead.

What do you want? 

You must've been posed that question before because it's such a basic one. You try to think of contests in which one might ask that, such as your birthdays, or celebrations, or a teacher wondering what is it that you desire in the future: a career, a husband or a wife, a family.

But to desire is to choose, and you don’t think you’ve ever been given that possibility.

Hence why you're rattled, aghast. On your back on the floor, with John sucking love bites on your neck.

You give the answer you know will make him content.

“Fuck me.”

You’ll moan like a porn star. You’ll dig your pretty nails into his back so he can show off the marks you left on him with pride. You'll pretend an orgasm if yours is taking too long, so that his ego will be kept fed and full, and he’ll still find you appealing. So that he can go tell his friends and comrades how good you are, in and out of bed. What a gem. Wife material.

He’ll doll you up and tie the strings around your wrists. Make you dance and you will—coy smile, pretty eyes and all. A new puppet out of you, just for his sake.

John stills, and he shifts uncomfortably above you. His mouth is suddenly next to your ear, and he leaves a kiss at your jaw hinge.

“You don’t want me to fuck you.” He murmurs, and you swear there is a hint of guilt in the way he says it.

You feel dizzy at the thought of being caught. It’s scary to have your thoughts so out in the open after having spent an entire lifetime locking them up.

John nips at the shell of your ear. You venture with your hands and place them on his chest, still unsure of whether you want him closer or far, far away.

"Can I make you feel good?" He asks hoarsely. Your body responds naturally and it makes heat pool in your lower stomach.

You suck in a breath, eyes fluttering closed at the idea his words have instilled in you.

You reply the only way you know. “You don’t have to ask.”

“Yes.” He says forcefully, almost as if he wanted the answer to stick to your brain for the days to come. The switch is so abrupt your heart skips a beat. “Yes, I have to ask. Of course, I have to ask.”

He props himself up, hips snug between your thighs. He could roll them against yours and seek the friction his chubbed up cock must physically need after you teased it.

But he doesn’t, and it makes you feel both inadequate and nervous.

“So, answer me, love.” He rumbles, as his pupils dance between your eyes. “Can I make you feel good?”

You’re not sure why, but it makes your eyes water and your heart hurt. Your brows draw together in a frown that rips at John’s chest.

“Y-Yes,” you stutter, voice strangled in your throat. “Yes, please.”

John leans in to kiss your eyelids as you snap them closed.

And then he kisses your cheek, your nose, and your lips. His hand trails over your sweater. A gentle tug at the hem makes tears fall down your temple and into your hair.

You give an imperceptible nod at his silent request and he thanks you by pressing his lips to your jaw. He lifts it above your breasts, sitting atop the plain, skin-colored bra you're wearing. You haven't shaved, there's regrowing hair under your armpits and you're flushed to the bone. 

You're not the doll you allow him to see. You haven't prepped yourself for consumption this time, and it almost makes you squirm, as you force your biceps flush to your ribcage.

He can't see that you're not the perfect little puppet you've always shown him. If you aren't perfect, willing, and breakable, then he can find a thousand more like you—better than you.

But he presses a kiss to your sternum, ignoring sweat, squirming, and whatnot.

“Beautiful.” He murmurs, tongue out to trace the line of the bone. “Pretty fucking girl.”

You sob. It doesn't deter him, as he lines the plain fabric of your cup until his fingers meet the clasp conveniently placed to the front. With a quick snap, he undoes it, and your tits spill out to the sides.

He hooks your attention back with a look, and you understand he’s asking, once again.

He’s seen you naked a thousand times but you realize he’s never seen you this raw. Your cheeks are flushed and his eyes have never looked so gentle yet hungry.

You nod again and he dives in, wasting no time.

His hands grab the fat of your tits. Push them together. Thumbs teasing nipples as they pebble under his pads. Lips kissing anywhere they can land, latching on flesh until it darkens. His teeth graze the peaks of your breasts, and your back arches off the floor.

Each grunt that escapes him has your spine vibrate. You can't fathom the thought that he likes this, not when you’re tasting like a long day at work and wet rain, instead of buttercream and mango.

You try to snake your leg between his own, to give back what he’s giving you. Carefully, you stroke the curve of your foot against his hard length, but he pulls back with his hips and gently guides your thigh to rest once more around his waist.

“Don’t need tha’, sunshine.” He grunts, a murmur lost as his lips mouth at your nipples. "This 's more 'n 'nough."

His hands hold you by the waist now, fingers gripping the flesh with tenacity. His beard scrapes at the soft skin of your tits as he travels downward with his mouth, following the path lined by your sternum to the gap between your ribs.

He licks stripes as if your skin were covered with cream. His teeth sink softly where your flesh is plumper, causing you to writhe against him, and he chuckles under his breath as he remembers you’re ticklish.

Such tiny things he knows about you, you almost forgot it’s been years he’s known you.

His bites turn kisses, and they're chastely pressed on the line of your stomach, over your belly button, and to the seam of your jeans.

John looks up at you when his lips reach the zipper, and by doing so you notice his brows arching up, causing lines to wrinkle his forehead. Pretty blue eyes take you in and the mess that you've made of yourself. Runny makeup, bitten lips.

You know he can see how undecided you still are. Brows pinched in both pleasure and discomfort because this is so new to you.

But you nod a little sharply for him to go on, as your mouth curls down in the hopefully non-futile attempt at muffling your sobs.

John unbuttons your pants and shimmies them down your hips to your ankles in such an agonizingly slow manner you can’t help but think he’s doing it to give you time to rebut, in case you change your mind.

You don't.

He takes them off together with your socks and brings your foot next to his face. Places a kiss on the side of it, sending tingles up your legs that tip to the apex of your thighs. He leaves small pecks down your ankle and your calf, closing his eyes and sometimes brushing his beard against your skin.

You look away, cheek flat to the tiles, now wet with your tears and the rain soaking your hair.

It doesn't deter John in the slightest, not even when he slowly comes down to a crawl, chest to the floor and nose on your mound. He tugs with his teeth at the cotton of your panties, nothing more than plain white cheeky underwear. So different from the way you always present yourself to him, with your expensive lace and your silks and your soft skin—painfully waxed so it could mimic the feel of your babydolls.

Gingerly, you reach down with your hand and thread your fingers through his hair, smoothing them back from his forehead. You cup the side of his face and brush your thumb to his flushed cheekbone. He leans into your palm and kisses it, uncaring of the stickiness left by your previous activity.

You feel something inside of you crash and break, then, like a glass vase falling from a height. You’re not sure whether it’s a good thing or not, because it makes more tears collect at the corners of your eyes and those are never predictors of a good ending.

He digs the tip of his nose against your slit, following the wet stripe that inevitably formed the moment you dropped to your knees for him.

“Can I?” He asks, sending little spikes of electricity up to your chest when his lips brush against the sensitive skin covered by flimsy cotton.

You feel your chest get so tight someone might as well be curling rope around it.

You feel so pathetic for crying just because you’re being asked about what makes you comfortable and what doesn’t. You’re such an advocate for your friends to go out there and demand for their needs to be met, that you can’t help but wallow in your hypocrisy when someone asks for yours.

He waits patiently for your consent, even if he's a breath away from your private parts, with his hands caressing the back of your thighs. Even if he's done this to you a thousand times already, with your squirming body giving him a show worthy of the cameras, had they been there.

He makes everything around you look so soft, even the tiles of the floor that are uncomfortably sticking to your skin feel like plush cushions.

You wonder briefly if this is how it should’ve always felt, had you allowed yourself to recognize your needs instead of seeing your body as a means to make others happy.

It comes out of your lips as a breath that’s followed by a wet sniffle, your head nodding softly, contrastingly to how tight you’re biting your own teeth.

“Yes.”

No amount of pressure on your jaw could stop the sob that escapes you afterward.

John closes his eyes and a warm shuddering sigh brushes your skin. You’re starting to realize that maybe you’re not the only one who’s being affected by this sudden change in your and his intimacy.

His fingers hook at your panties and he slides them to your ankles, letting them hang down one foot. You swing it carefully and kick them off as he returns his attention to the apex of your thighs, hooking your knees on his shoulders.

He starts tenderly, pressing kisses on the soft flesh of your vulva, paying attention even to the smallest bits you weren’t even aware could feel good. He latches on your outer lips, feeling how puffy they get at the slight suction.

Your thighs are corded and stiff under his grip, arms hooked around each plush leg, and palms flat on your skin.

John’s eyes are closed, although you wish he’d look at you as he travels with his lips along your slit. A kiss on your hole without probing too much, then one along the middle of your slit, which was getting impressively wetter as time passed, and the one on your hooded clit.

It sent jolts up your spine, causing your hips to buck against his mouth. His fingers tighten around your thighs in response, as if he’s trying to rein it in for you.

You appreciate it more than he thinks. You don’t think you’ve ever been placed on top of the queue so blatantly in your entire life.

The tip of his tongue darts out, but it’s obscured from your eyes by the regrowing hair on your mound and from his thick mustache. So, it takes you by surprise when he all but licks a thin stripe over the protruding part of your clit.

You hiss, and your head goes dizzy. You feel tiny pinpricks tingling in your brain, making you lightheaded and more than a little breathless.

During the whole relationship, you’ve been so focused on appearing like a full meal to his eyes, that you forgot how good it felt to be that meal on his tongue.

He laps at you again, eyes now wide open to gauge more of whatever you were giving him. You feel them as bright spotlights aimed at your face, but you can’t find it in yourself to display the act you’ve always given him.

You're already too different from the woman he's so used to seeing. You wonder if he likes you anyway; or if he likes you less, or more. When your eyes lock with his own, a dark flash tells you to go back to your ways. To flutter your lashes and pout your lips in small pleas, whimpering moans that always make his eyes roll to the back of his head.

And just as you’re about to give in to those old habits, John flattens his tongue against your cunt and licks all the thoughts out of your head. You tilt it back in a groan that has never, not once, left your lips in his presence.

He seems more than excited to hear it and starts eating you out like you’re his first meal in a century. This time, there is no plasticity in the ways you move. You’re not squirming away and acting coy about it, meeting his eyes to make sure he realizes that you're his pretty doll.

This time there’s you and the pleasure he gives you. There’s a hand in his hair that shyly tries to keep him still, as he puckers his lips around your nub and sucks it in his mouth. There’s the subtle canting of your hips to press your cunt closer to him, and the way he makes sure you don’t pull away from his tongue with his thick arms coiled around your thighs.

It’s so strange to allow yourself to feel so much. All this time you’ve been oblivious to all this as it happened in your same body because you were too busy focusing on how you appeared to his eyes. Even as he tongued your hole, your head told you it still had to be about pleasing him—because nothing in this world could ever be exclusively about you.

It hits you sharply that your beliefs about yourself, instilled by the callous teachings of your family, had bled through every aspect of your life. You already knew that, of course, but you never realized they had seeped into your intimacy as well.

Yet now you have proof of it, because you're sure John has not changed his tactics, it's you who's finally allowing your body to feel all this.

He twirls his tongue around your clit and you’re seeing stars. It’s such a strong sensation that you think you might have lost a marble or two in the process. Each grunt he emits from his lips vibrates through you and elicits similar sounds from your own mouth.

You’re not even looking at him, and you don’t care. It’s too good. He feels fucking heavenly and you’ll probably end up apologizing later for not having included him more, for not having paid enough attention to him as you should’ve.

But now—fucking hell, now—there's only how his tongue toys with each and every nerve ending of your sodden cunt.

You let him manhandle you, then, like he did so many times in the past. But now he positions you in an unflattering angle you would've never allowed before. He sits up on his knees, carrying your pelvis with him, close to his face.

To help yourself up, you place your hands on your haunches, propping your elbows on the floor. The tiles press harshly against the bone, much like they did on your knees when you’d knocked them down to suck him off not even twenty minutes prior, but now that pain feels so fickle compared to the pleasure he’s giving you.

He locks his arms around your lower belly, soft thighs pressed to his ears, and he dives in again.

Like this, you’re sure he can see every stupid, unflattering thing about you. But there’s the catch—it’s stupid. You’re sure you’re going to rethink all this eventually, but now everything that isn’t John and his lips on you is so unbelievably, fucking stupid.

“Taste like honey, y’ do.” You think you hear him say, as he nuzzles your cunt for all it’s worth.

He delves his tongue into your hole, plunging as deep as he can until he’s nosing your clit too. Facial hair scrapes the inside of your thigh raw, but that only enhances the opposite bliss happening thanks to his mouth.

You whimper, but not for show; it feels criminally good, and John knows it's real because your thighs shake so fiercely his vision goes wobbly too.

He chuckles, but it’s not derisive. His eyes are incensed, the light blue barely a rim around enlarged pupils. He looks in utter awe as he takes you in; face flushed, hair still wet from the rain and now from the sweat too. With an expression he's never once seen before, not on you. The sheer discomfort of the position but also the complete bliss that makes you forget you could have this on a more comfortable bed.

“Look at you—fucking beautiful." He murmurs with his lips to your cunt. "Criminal to hide this from me, love."

Your lips part into an oval, and your eyelids tremble, fighting the need to close your eyes and just feel. But he looks so unbelievably stunning you refuse, categorically, to take your eyes off of him.

And he apparently thinks the same, because his gaze never falters, not even when you tighten the grip your thighs have around his head. Nor does his tongue, as he plunges it again in your cunt, nose nudging your clit just right. 

He might be fucking you with his mouth, but he sure is doing it with his eyes too.

And you’ve never felt so seen in your entire life. You’ve never felt so beautiful, so worthy, as right now. You wonder if he’s always been looking at you this way, but you were too lost in your own ways to notice.

You feel tears trickle down your temples again, mingling with your hair.

Jaw clenched tight, you breathe it out with all the strength you’ve got left in you.

“I love you.”

And John breaks into something different. You must have given him some final blow because his eyes shut closed and his brows knit together. An expression you've never seen, equally as pained as delighted.

He doesn’t answer, using his tongue for other purposes, keeping the stimulation both inside and out of you. Strong arms hold you still to his face, squeezing painfully tight around your hips. Thick palms flat against your lower belly, with his thumb tugging at your mons to unhood your puffy clit.

He goes on until you can’t hold yourself up anymore, arms giving out from under you. But he catches you anyway, hooking your legs better above his shoulders. The fact that your thighs are pressing against his ears gives you some sort of relief, knowing his hearing might have been muffled by your flesh.

So, you let go.

You moan loudly, fuck the neighbors, and whatever the world has to say. Fuck your head for sabotaging you, and taking you away from him.

You feel it build up slowly but suddenly; one moment it’s just fully encompassing pleasure, the next there’s a vine that stems from your ravaged cunt and curls around your belly, up to your neck.

Your throat blocks off, breathing shallow and sharp.

And then everything snaps.

John fights against the bucking of your hips just so he can keep his mouth on you and fuck you through it.

Your groan is so guttural you don't even think that was your voice. You don't even think, period. Your mind blacks out. A scorching heat develops from your sternum and coils around your chest like ivy in bloom.

You’ve had orgasms before thanks to his mouth, or his fingers, or his cock.

This, however, it’s so different you might consider yourself reborn.

It’s liberating. It’s new. It’s free and only, completely yours. 

You don't even notice, as his tongue slows down, that your eyes are staring at nothing on the ceiling. That they fill with tears. And that you're crying.

You notice nothing, but just how good your body trembles, from the tips of your toes to the conscience in your head.

You don’t notice the sobs that leave your lips, as John gingerly places your body back down. Nor the way your chest heaves as if you’ve just learned how to use your lungs, while he hooks his arms behind your shoulders, and lifts you up to sit butt naked on the floor.

He holds you to his chest and you painfully sob against it. Not a thought about whether this is the right time to cry crosses your mind.

He cradles your cheek to his heart, while wet lips press against the crown of your head.

“Let go,” he murmurs, voice hoarse. “’M here, love. Let go.”

You cry so hard you think you might crack like porcelain on that floor. Your heaving sobs echo against the walls of the kitchen like the cries of a newborn child.

And John has no intention of letting you go through it alone. He is there with his hands, with his lips, with the strong, steady heartbeat against your ear until your wailing abates. Only then does he cup your cheek to lift your face.

You weep under your breath when you notice the bloodshot whites of his eyes and the clumped lashes. The dampness on his cheeks and the redness of the skin.

He smooths your hair back. Kisses your forehead with such intensity that he just might suck away the self-hatred your family has seeded in your brain with his lips.

He looks at you, then. Lips pursed in a tight line.

“You’ve never looked more beautiful than you do now, love.”

It’s inevitable the way your lips stretch in a smile that quivers and shakes in a breathless, wet chuckle.

You dig the heels of your hands in your eyes, sniffling painfully hard to get some air in your lungs. Your mouth is pasty and God, you must smell like proper shite.

But John leans down anyway and kisses your lips, uncaring of the salt of your tears, the snot, and the taste of you still lingering on his tongue.

And you kiss him back, this time threading your fingers through his hair, arms looped around his neck in an embrace you never want to break.

Noses flush against each other’s cheeks, lips parting only for you to take breaths because your nostrils are currently too stuffy for you to use them properly.

You sniffle and kiss and tug at his hair and hold him until you're both sated, but never enough. It won’t ever be enough.

A few beats of silence reign the kitchen as you sit on the floor, tangled in each other’s arms. The water in the pot must’ve boiled away, forgotten on the fire that still buzzes silently. John’s chest is your tiny alcove as you rest your head against it, and he holds you until your heart’s content.

Everything you’ve ever learned shakes before your eyes. Every thread that knitted the pattern carefully woven around you is slowly unraveling. The fabric wears down the more he shows you love without asking for anything in return.

He's making you regrow your limbs, returning the eyes they stole, allowing you to see that at the finish line, there's nothing but lies.

Nothing but missed calls, skipped appointments, and neglect. Honeyed words, saccharine pet names to render you soft as dough, willing to offer yourself to their exploitation. Sucking on every last drop of your sap, until only a hollow marionette is left.

John hasn't refilled you with energy; he made you realize you were never empty to begin with. Helped you see that they never smothered your fire to ashes, but only dimmed it to a flame, one you can rekindle easily.

One he cannot wait, for the life of him, to see ablaze again.

He’ll fight with you, give you the wood you need to keep yourself warm and your heart safe. Cut your strings once and for all, until you can get back on your feet again.

He thrives at the idea of seeing you glow like you did moments before, in your most raw and real form; a woman he's yet to meet.

However, being human, he does feel a temporary disappointment at the thought that you had put up such a blatant front for so long. Anger that he’d never noticed, thinking you were just this pliant little thing.

But he should've never thought of you as a thing. Never should've seen you as this obliging, pretty doll hanging from his lips. He should've dug deeper, like he always does even on the field, instead of falling for lies.

He’s often asked himself how you’ve never seemed to need anything, often pegging the behavior to self-sufficiency. You always took care of everything by yourself and promptly refused any aid when he tried to give it to you.

His mind reels with memories of the times he’s offered a helping hand, and you’ve politely declined it. It shatters him to think that you did it because you were afraid you had to give something back and maybe were too tired to offer anything.

It’s then that his mind deep dives into a place that sickens him.

How many times did you have sex with him and see it as a bargaining chip? Or as a way to repay him for something he’s done for you just because he loves you?

He shuts his eyes briefly, forcing the bile down his throat and deciding to dwell on the subject later. This moment comes first. You come first. So, he takes you in, blinking his eyes open once more.

He blindly reaches back to turn off the stove, before returning his arms around you. He brushes his lips to your temple, and your muscles soften under the way his breath tickles your skin.

You tilt your head back to lock your eyes with his own, gauging the earnestness swimming in his blues.

“I love you,” he breathes for the umpteenth time, that day.

No ventriloquist forces you to say it back. No strings move your arms to loop around his neck, as you lift yourself on your knees to be level with his eyes.

It's you, who rests your forehead on his own, brushing your nose to his in a butterfly kiss.

You feel like flesh and bone, more than polished wood tied to nylon strings. No voice box if not your vocal cords vibrating when you decide it, asking and giving all the same.

“I love you,” you whisper back.

There is no hunger for love, no finish line to reach. It’s not a race, not today.

And with John, you don’t think it’ll ever be again.

[loggiepj]

Almost

Cheerleader Wanda x Nerd Fem Reader Short Stories

When Steve invites you to join their volleyball game in the pool, Wanda can't seem to take her eyes off you as you get rid of your shirt, gaze ogling over the skin you mercifully revealed.

When one of the seniors, Jane, whistles and says "Where have you been hiding all this time, Y/n?" , Wanda's mood suddenly changes as she almost swims over to where Jane is and pull her hair harshly for staring at you. She doesn't want anyone looking at you like that but her.

It isn't until Natasha nudges Wanda's side when she realizes she needs to toss the ball to start the game.

Your team wins the first round, and Pietro carries you on his shoulders as he parades you through the group while giving each of them high fives. Wanda smiles at how adorable you look, comfortable as if you are not scared of anyone anymore.

Then she realizes, when you grab a cup of beer after Pietro puts you down beside the pool, that you're slightly drunk.

When you see Wanda staring your way, you head towards her near the speakers, a slight sway in the way you walk.

"I'm here to ask how the losing team is," you joke, giving Wanda a cup of beer.

Wanda slaps your arm playfully, trying her best not to focus at your exposed stomach.

"Don't get too cocky," Wanda warns coyly as she accepts the cup, "We'll win the next round."

When the stereo plays a catchy song, Wanda abruptly pulls you. "Oh, I love this song! Let's dance!"

She grabs your drink and places it on a nearby table along with hers then snakes her arms around your shoulders as she dances to the beat.

You can't stop smiling, your face hurts as you twirl the girl before you, dancing and laughing with her. Before long, your classmates begin to join as well. You dance with her for a couple more songs before the song switches to a slower beat.

Wanda slows down as she catches her breath, before leaning towards you.

"I'm happy you came," Wanda softly says, hiding her face at your side as she hugs you through the dance.

"I'm glad I did too," you admit, looping your arms around her body, smelling her shampoo and savoring how soft and smooth her skin feels against yours.

When Wanda pulls back slightly to look at you, you feel your heartbeat quicken. Everything seems to slow down around you. The sound of music becomes faint noise in the background as you hear your own breathing and the loud thudding of your heart.

Wanda isn't faring as well as she licks her own lips nervously, her eyes focused on your mouth alone. She leans forward so slowly and you feel yourself doing the same. There's probably an inch left and you can already feel the tip of her nose against yours until Steve blows a whistle to begin the second round, breaking the moment.

You two look like deers caught in headlights, embarrassed and guilty.

"I need to go check on Pietro."

"Nat's probably looking for me."

You both say at the same time, letting out nervous chuckles as you pull away from each other.

Wanda might have a word with Steve later for disturbing the moment.

Author's note: I truly appreciate your continued support in reading my stories. You can help me create more stories by supporting my writing thru this link. Thank you so much. ❤

[ms-demeanor]

So when I've left adequate distance between myself and another car, especially a semi, I have the chronic problem of people pulling in front of me, and either staying there or as a point on their way to a Jersey lane change. I'm not a fan of it. Is there anything I can do? Other than leave even more distance so I don't have to brake when they do it?

Relax and leave more distance. The car that pulls in front of you is now your new set-point. If a ton of people are pulling in front of you when you're leaving distance that you feel comfortable with, get in a slower lane.

One of the fun side effects of this technique is that when a lot of people do it, traffic improves and you get fewer people diving in front of you at high speeds. Part of the reason i yell about this on the internet with some amount of regularity is that I very selfishly want more people to drive like this because it makes traffic less shit.

But yeah if you're in heavy traffic and leaving a lot of space and people are moving in front of you, fuck it, getting closer to them isn't going to make anything faster. If you're in light traffic and moving at a good clip and people are moving in front of you then it should be very little effort (just taking your foot off the gas for a few seconds) to adjust to new cars in front of you.

I won't always adjust speeds if a car is moving more than one lane at a time. Sometimes people forget that their exit is coming up; leaving sufficient following distance means that there is more room generally for more people to make safe lane changes or get to an exit they didn't realize was coming up. Someone briefly passing into your following distance at regular highway speeds as they move into the next lane should have very little impact on your driving unless they have to slam on their brakes to get into the lane next to you, in which case they're kind of making a dick move but that kind of dick move would happen less if people were better drivers so provide an example of being a better driver.

[kissoulie]

〔 sanguine 〕

a world in which haku shota has known you longer than you have known yourself.

read the teaser here.

pairing: vampire!shota x human!reader

wc: around 6k

genre: soulmates, forbidden romance, angst, SMUT, MDNI

warnings: murder, dubcon, blindfolding, there is a lot of angst, very slight breeding/crying, perpetuation of suicidal thoughts. if you are not in the headspace to read this, please don't. also pls forgive any small spelling/grammar mistakes!! the spelling might be regional the grammar is not LOL

a/n: day 4 of piwontober is here!!!!! this fic is honestly my baby 😭 i birthed this thing over the course of almost 20 days. the specific soulmate rules this steals from are from the otome game bewitching sinners. there is some other influence in this work, some you will most definitely recognize. special thank you to @strawberry-seob for beta reading this for me extremely last minute, you're a champ, my midnight brain thanks you for dealing with all my little mistakes. 🤍

in loving memory of juyogf/348kg.

(they didn't die they just got sussed </3)

Above all to protect you.

Although you don't know it, you are being watched. The night air is crisp, a subtle breeze ruffling your hair, while smoke billows from your mouth and nose. “One of life's finest coping mechanisms,” you sigh, your blond companion nodding in agreement.

And my favorite modern amenity, Shota chuckles, arm moving to wrap around your shoulders, “Right behind Tiktok doomscrolling.”

Warmth fills you, despite the air suddenly chilling, “Thank you for walking me home, Sho.”

Shota courted you—as he called it—his infatuation steady, exhilarating, even comforting at times. You couldn't deny he seemed… almost obsessed with you. He knew everything about you without much effort on his part.

“Any time, darling. I like knowing you're home safe.” He presses a quick kiss to your cheek, swiping your vape from you, “Plus, it means I get an extra half hour with the love of my life.”

If only, Shota blinks quickly, eyes narrowing at the figure just out of your view. “It's still really sweet of you, Sho. I love you.”

The weight of those words in his mind have him smiling without realizing it. Despite his touch being just slightly too rough, you're as relaxed as ever, his hands feeling familiar in ways your mind can't put its finger on. Out of the corner of his eye, he catches your follower staring him down. Right. He's been on this mission for far too long. Shota inhales deeply, “I love you too.”

Falling in love with Shota is like second nature to both of you. Over all spans of time, you fall for him harder and harder. He holds your hands in his with a tenderness familiar to you, yet new every time. His eyes are so earnest. They hold your gaze like a blanket, always observant, always full of a sadness you can't quite place. Shota resents that he's the only one who has to carry this knowledge.

“You haven't eaten in a while.” You stroke his hair. Your hands spread warmth like fire everywhere they touch. He tries his best to remain present, in the moment, but his mind strays.

“It's okay.” His eyes are so far away.

You reach out to him, your fingers entwining with his. And though you don't know why, a feeling of complete hopelessness washes over you when his red eyes gaze deeply into yours. You pick your brain for the right words to say, worried that blunt language will cause him to pull away.

“At least- have a little, it’ll clear your mind?”

He shakes his head, “I love you. I’ll be fine.”

“I love you too, Sho.”

Sometimes it isn't about the words, but about hearing them back.

Shota nuzzles his face into your neck. He inhales deeply. Your blood always smells so sweet to him. The way you relax into his touch breaks his heart. Hands find their way up your spine, across your waist, squeezing your flesh in short bursts.

“Take whatever you need from me.” You don't understand his hesitation. He's always precise with his feeding, never letting himself get past the point of a little hungry. You trust him, he trusts you. Or at the very least, you think he does.

“Are you sure?” Shota’s fangs hover above your jugular, your eyes shining in the dim lights of his apartment. This isn't the first time you have been here, and despite what he knows is about to happen, he's sure it won't be the last.

“I’m sure, I promise, please take what you need from me.” Your voice is almost needy. His nails dig into your sides, eyes squeezing shut. If only he could forget everything else but this moment. If only he could turn back the clock, and be your lifelong lover, instead of being the reason your life isn't long to begin with.

“I will, precious. I love you.”

There's an unfamiliar sting when his fangs dig into you. His eyes flutter closed, holding you to him like you might disappear. He swallows, thick with your life in his mouth.

Shota is thankful that the vampiric part of his brain turns off any part of him that views you as more than just prey. He is your hunter. Your executor. Your lifelong nemesis. He feels you begin to weakly thrash in his arms, a mere whisper of his name snapping him out of his stupor. I’m sorry, he swallows you whole.

I’m sorry.

Your body goes limp. Slowly, you become just like him: A corpse.

Love became greed and erased itself.

Shota’s eyes are closed, fist wrapped tightly around his length. In his mind's eye is your face. He hasn't had the privilege of seeing you when you cum, and that's what he imagines every time he gets off. He thinks of your eyes fluttering closed in pleasure, his name nothing more than a quiet cry, your body milking him for all he's worth.

He thinks of you in his apartment, begging him to take what he needs from you. Your eyes that shone so brightly whenever you saw him. But alas, he is home, and not in that dingy little apartment he keeps for you.

His high approaches quickly, wrist cramping with exertion, if only he knew how you would feel. If only he had you once, so he could keep the memory for all time.

“Shota, his majesty needs you!” Three sharp raps on his door signal Jongseob’s arrival.

“I’ll be there in a second!” he nearly growls, tossing the covers off and putting on some slacks. His hands flatten his hair, eyes flicking to his mirror to make sure he looks presentable. He adjusts his belt, hoping he doesn’t look freshly blue-balled, “Did he say what he wants?”

Jongseob’s face as the door swings open is all Shota needs to see. His face falls into a grimace.

“You know, you'd think after all this time whatever being does this would have mercy on her.” Jongseob has always had more empathy than his Majesty, despite being his younger brother. “I mean, being lured to slaughter in every life must take i-”

“Quiet,” Shota grumbles, pushing past his brother and swinging open the doors to the throne room. His capelet hugs his shoulders when he bows, “Your Majesty.”

“My most beloved brother, it's good to see you.” Theo sits with perfect posture, crown perched atop his auburn hair. He peers down at Shota with an air of entitlement; As if he's just a vessel, and not a faithful family member.

“Likewise, your majesty. The prince-” Theo cuts him off with a wave of his hand. His eyes are piercing in ways Shota will never understand, his power undeniable while in his presence.

“I’m sure you know what I need, Shota. Take care of it.”

“Can't we just-”, Shota clears his throat, stepping forward tentatively, “Turn her? I mean, it's been so many years, I just-”

Theo stares intently at his younger brother. His eyes are full of authority, of a disturbing finality.

“Don't be silly, brother. You will perform your duty.”

Where did that terrible curse come from?

Shota finds you with ease thanks to the bond he shares with Theo. That, and he’s been chasing your scent for so long he could recognize you anywhere. Tonight, he's trespassing at a concert he doesn't have a ticket for. He's thankful for his vampirism in this atmosphere: it makes you so easy to spot at the barricade. He snakes through the crowd, his eyes honed in on you; a true hunter stalking his prey. The opening dialogue he’s prepared for you two to have about the boy group on stage is fresh in his mind—but you turn to him, your eyes staring at him with an emotion he hasn't seen before; a rarity, for him. He opens his mouth.

Then you’re gone.

There was something on that boy's face. A certain millennium old sorrow that you shouldn't be able to recognize. It’s etched into your mind, that beautiful face of his. You remember the silliest things, like his teeth, that he's your age, his roots were grown out. Clearly, you’re just lonely. But maybe—and only maybe—there’s something about him. An old soul, perhaps. Your thoughts are infested with him. So much so, that it’s a miracle you look up from your phone long enough to spot him on your train. Was this your fated love?

Has the universe finally shown mercy on your poor, lonely self?

You cast many nervous glances at the boy, who seems disgruntled. He’s bundled up in many layers to compensate for the incoming nor’easter, the visible part of his cheeks stained pink. It’s time to be brave.

Who inflicted this cruel punishment?

Shota sits bundled up on the subway. He's all too familiar with the route you take, electing to disguise himself so perhaps… you won't walk away from him again. Ever since your last encounter, the heart he never knew he had has been hurting him. He lies awake at night, unable to rest, thinking of the look on your face when you saw him. After much pondering, he realized he knew that expression: fear. It’s been so long since you feared him.

“Can I sit here?”

He's scared it's all a dream. Your smiling face, encased by a halo of fluorescent train lights. A lesser man wouldn't think of you as an angel.

“Ah, yes, of course-” He fumbles to scoot over just a tad, so you don't have to press yourself into him to sit with him.

“You're really pretty.” Your face lights up into the smile he's missed so dearly. Even though you come back changed in every life, your smile is always the same to him. “Sorry! That’s probably weird to hear, I didn’t mean it in a bad way!”

“Thank you, um, your smile-” The flush that tints his cheeks is foreign to him. Shota feels almost… excited. What’s happening is a gift from the gods. Your puppylike tendencies bleed through the walls he’s built since he last held you. When he gets off the subway, he finds himself walking with newfound purpose. Your number is scrawled onto his palm.

The fate that I devoted my life to; How could I forget?

Empty. Is there anything in Haku Shota’s life that is fully under his control? Is there even one instance where he isn't at the beck and call of another?

It makes him mean, to be so out of his own control. To wake up every day, and only be awake to the detriment of someone else. It’s slowly rotting away at his soul.

Not that there's much left of his soul, anyway.

And maybe Jongseob was the boy who saved his life, as well as the boy he still protected with his life. But Shota finds no enjoyment in this groundhog day he's found himself in. He curls in on himself, his mind racing. Everything is so loud.

Many days, he hopes he will finally be put out of his misery. His heart is twisting, turning, writhing, a mass of muscle and taut tissue, his lungs contracting and constricting, airways tight, so small he feels like he can’t even swallow his saliva, which is so thick and heavy in his mouth — if he could just breathe.

He grits his teeth, thoughts moving so fast he doesn't remember what he’s supposed to be—just that he is. His eyes are closed, shutting out another sense to keep up with, his whole body pulled tight with emotion like a marionette at the whims of his own consciousness.

Twitching. He can feel his body twitching every few seconds, uncontrollable and minute. He is in his head. With every thought that races through, one keeps looping as if desperate to be heard and to be seen: I don’t belong, I’m not happy.

A terrible oversimplification of his current plight, the thought manages to ease the onslaught of activity, condensing his thoughts down to his emotions. Does he feel anything? Has the numbness faded, causing him to stumble?

Trials and tribulations are commonplace for any person of his age, though certain anomalies of the mind can alter even the most simplistic emotion into a monster of its own merit.

Perhaps, this life isn’t meant for him.

It has made him happy. He has been good, and loved. He is good and loved.

But it isn’t for him. He can’t feel anything at all. Most of the time, he’s apathetic, with exception to sharp bursts of emotions. This isn’t a life he wants to live.

(He wants to live for you.)

Doomed. That is how he feels. The perfect descriptor for someone as cynical and apathetic as him.

The feeling leaves his mouth bitter, a smile displaying his outermost wants. It’s alarmingly easy to fake it. His own happiness is nothing but a facade. To him or to everyone?

Much of the time, being left to his own thoughts and opinions is what coerces his most vulnerable emotions out. It discomforts him, feeling the things he tries so hard to hide bubble up to the surface in undeniable agony. His heart, once hidden, emerges from its cocoon to try and blossom again.

If only.

But life is much more complex than these feelings of inadequacy. Even if he doesn't believe it.

“Pull yourself together, Shota.” Jongseob’s voice echoes in his empty apartment. He didn’t know who else to call.

“I wish I could feel normal again,” Shota whispers into the phone. He feels white hot shame course through him, and he regrets saying anything at all.

“If you felt normal, we wouldn't still be friends.” He laughs. Shota wonders how his friend could feel so light.

“Maybe we would be, but I’d be dead.” Dead might be better than this.

A forlorn silence falls over his room after he hangs up on his best friend. He closes his eyes, all of his memories a watercolor sketch of emotions. He has to end things between you two.

Your blood is still warm when he wipes it off his chin with a handkerchief. He knows Keeho will be there at any moment to clean everything up for him, and then Theo will want to celebrate. The cold air bites at Shota’s cheeks. It's like the universe is punishing him for his act of unkindness. He stuffs his hands in his coat pockets. When did I put on a coat?

There's one orange street lamp on his block. Did I ever notice how her smile was like the sun?

A car speeds by him dangerously close, the occupants seeming to watch him. Do I love her?

His phone lights up, a cheerful ringtone startling him. They don't have to know where I’m staying tonight.

The aftermath is always the worst part.

“Sorry, my roommate has a strict no boys policy.” You laugh, praying he buys the excuse. Really, it's not that Intak won't let you spend alone time with boys; it's that he won't let you spend alone time with this boy. Something about a bad vibe.

“I miss you,” he coughs, “When we aren't together, I miss you.”

Your stomach does a little summersault. A pretty boy misses you when you aren't with him.

“I’ll.. talk to him, maybe he'll relent because we're just friends-”

“I want to be more. Than just friends, with you.��� Shota gauges your reaction for 30 long and agonizing seconds. He watches the cogs turn in your brain, realization setting in. Then, there's that beautiful smile of yours. If only he could feel this warm all the time.

“Oh thank god, I thought I was just delusional!” Your fingers entwine with his, and a flash of something akin to recognition passes across your face.

Convincing Intak to let Shota over was an ordeal you were sufficiently blindsided by. Perhaps there was more to the story of why he doesn't want you with him, but if he won't tell you… it's no longer your concern.

That's what you tell yourself when you sneak the boy into your room, anyways. You feel completely safe with him. Completely at ease. So much so, that when he lays you back on your bed, dick heavy between your thighs; you relax and let him have his way with you.

“Have you ever done this before?” His voice is soft. His hands caress your body with reverence.

You shake your head. You feel his fingers slowly drag up your thigh, his body pushing your legs apart with his descent between your thighs.

“Gonna prep you, it'll feel good.” He presses a quick kiss to your clit over your panties. He takes his sweet time ridding you of them, sucking and licking at your clit. A sharp pain has your eyes snapping open.

“Sho, hurts.”

He soothes it with a kiss, murmuring ‘good girl’ into your cunt. He looks at you from beneath his lashes for approval.

“Shota, your eyes-” You gasp out, hands tugging impatiently on his hair. His tongue pokes slightly out of his mouth, chin covered in slick.

“Don't worry about it, baby,” he mumbles into your thighs, leaving a trail of wet kisses right back to where you needed him most.

“No- Sho-” You try to push him away, but his hands grab yours, “Quiet.”

He hums into your clit, pressing his fingers in to curl right up into that spot you love so much.

“Sho, stop-” The pitch of your voice is electric. The stuff of dreams, for him.

“No. You will cum for me.” His ministrations get more aggressive, more motivated. He sucks on your clit far too painfully for your liking, but it only gets you closer.

“Sho- Shota, fuck-” His eyes lock onto yours as you cum all over his face, before your head lolls back, lungs gasping for air.

He holds you close to him after, pressing gentle kisses all over your exposed chest and neck. He mumbles something you don't quite catch between the blood rush in your ears. All you can think about is how safe you feel with him. And maybe, there's a little voice in the back of your head that says you love him.

“Don't do that to me again,” you whine, clinging to him in the afterglow of your orgasm, “You really scared me for a sec.”

“Sorry, precious. I get a little mean when I’m desperate.” His voice is a pitch lower than usual, and it sends heat back between your thighs. He's still hard against you.

“Don't bite your lip at me like that,” he groans, manhandling you into his lap, “You're the one who said to stop, baby.”

His eyes are heady, dilated with lust. It's a gaze that has you stricken. The only reply you can muster comes out as a soft whine, “Just- make love to me, Sho.”

Fate is in my hands again.

You try to brush off the undeniable red you saw in your lover’s eyes a mere 3 weeks ago. He sneaks into your shared apartment far too many times, just to kiss on you and love on you. It's almost as if the sorrowful boy you met in the park all those months ago has been replaced by someone… happier.

The months fly by between the two of you, and even Intak seems to warm up to the idea of Shota sticking around. (Yes, there were many long nights of bickering when he found out you were sneaking him in.)

“Shota, I’m not so sure.” Black silk is cool against your eyelids—one of your boyfriend's many ideas to spice up your private time.

“It'll be okay, baby. Trust me.” He kisses your lips, then your cheeks, then your nose. You feel the bed dip with his weight, his eternally cold body pressing against your own.

“I trust you,” you breathe out, his lips ghosting against your own. You feel a sharp prick by your collarbone, followed by his tongue. “Soul?”

That blessed nickname you've given him. Your heart and Soul.

“I’m here, baby, I’m here.”

There's emphasis on dialogue in your sex life. At Shota’s insistence, of course. He loves listening to you whine and cry for him.

You're confused. Left completely in the dark, until you feel his dick dragging through your sticky folds. Without prep? Is the only question in your head, feeling the throb of him. You need him so badly.

“Sho-” you gasp out.

“I’ve got you.”

Right. He's got you. Always.

His hand wraps around your neck, applying light pressure just to test. Just to see where your limits are.

“N-No, Sho-” You weakly grab at him, not fussing, but still trying to pull him off of you. He feels your wrist go slack when he angles his hips up at just the right spot.

“You go so dumb for me so easily, precious.” Shota whimpers. His mouth falls open, eyes going hazy with pleasure, “Christ, I’m gonna cum.”

“Inside, please.” You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him ever deeper. You feel so good he can hardly breathe, squeezing around him like a vice. He's embarrassed by how quickly he always cums with you, but you never seem to mind. Afterwards you're always smug, teasing, almost mean.

“Okay, baby, anything for you.” He breathes out, thumbing at your clit. He tries to pick up the pace, but the grip you have on him is too tight, so he settles for grinding into your precious cunt.

“I love you, Shota, I love you.” You cry, kicking and shaking with pleasure, your whole body convulsing. He moans your name in a tone that's downright debaucherous. He's nestled so deep inside you, hand pushing your leg up further. He feels himself hit a wall within you, and you let out a sob. “Sorry, sorry, fuck.” 

I grew up in an eternity that will soon belong to you.

The ways in which Shota loves you are carnal. All this time, he's viewed the countless years upon years you've spent together as something out of his control. When really, he has all the control. All the power. Shota decides that in this life, the only way to keep you alive is to sever his proximity to you. The only way to protect you, as he so dearly desires, is for him to disappear. Watch over from afar. Maybe then, Theo won't hunt you like an animal. 

But he knows it's nothing more than a pipedream. And in disobeying his king, there's more than just a high probability that he'll never see you again. All these years spent pining after you, chasing you down, getting to know every version of you the universe has to offer; and he will finally die. He will finally get what he's always wanted, as is the price for your life.

May 25th, 1967

Feelings grow, morph, and change overtime. What was initially anxiousness at the thought of us talking has turned into anticipation. I hope we will meet again. I can prepare, but I will not remember. I can pretend to shield my emotions, but it's too late. I like you, plain and simple. I like you. I cannot wax poetic like this, I simply like you. You are a small comfort, a being I can rely on, someone I want to cherish and savor like fine wine. I think about arguments, and fierce letters, and sharp kisses and bites. I think about a confession on your lips, late nights by candlelight spent sitting too close for just enemies, just friends, just anything. I think about bringing you trinkets, books, scraps of literature I cannot admit to writing myself. I think about cooking together and laughing together. I think about how awful your cooking could be, and eating it all anyways because you made it for me. I think about reading together in silence, waking up to leaning against you, something you might never let me do. I like you. I cannot stand it. I ache for you to the point of nausea; mere words will not encompass it. I’m learning you, and tracing my fingers along the ridges of your soul again and again and again. It inspires hunger, insatiable hunger, blunt teeth tearing through threads of time and storing them in the maw, savoring them; Swirling them around, feeling each individual thread snap and break, swallowing even as the ends scratch my throat, and swallowing some more, asking for more, needing more to remember to reread to rethink to reanalyze to cherish and destroy and love and hate and hunger for more always more never less always enough never full. The hunger subdues, declines, takes its teeth out of me but not its claws, always threatening, always wanting. Wanting, wanting, wanting like it deserves to. I want to avoid, not be a moth drawn to flame, drawn to certain death, I want to allow myself to stop thinking stop being stop wanting but the need grows the want grows the anticipation and desire to connect and to be it fills and snakes and squeezes my heart and– I need to be restrained and unwanting and alone again so I cannot feel anything or anyone. So I cannot taste the breeze, the ashes, the sea, the stars. If only to feel you, and to feel you on the curve of the wind's fingers, caressing and cooling and soothing and peaceful. I wish that peace was me and I was peace but the feeling of duty, of punishment, of praise, it requires chaos, it requires not a moment of simple and singular silence. In you I feel silence, I become silence, I conform, I become too much, I feel nothing, I feel everything—I want you. And this wretched heart won't let me stop. Every time I open my eyes I'm attacked with memories of you, ghosts of love and adoration flipping through my eyes in seconds and I just feel you as my breath and my echo, the words I speak, and the air I breathe. I can feel you in my hands, in my laugh, in everything I do. You are my world, my lover, my friend, the nostalgia in my tea and the memories I have yet to make everything, everything always you. Even now I can't untangle the cord of our souls, what are the chances you remember? Very little, I'm afraid. I will never speak to you of this—I don't want to, and I'm scared, but my gods—if I would not tear down the heavens for you, then love is just a concept. I would still become destroyer of the heavens, hell's purveyor of punishment, all if it, if only for you.

Shota

October 31st, 1992

The problem is that I want to be wanted too, so what am I doing so wrong? I find it hard to form lasting connections as quickly as others, am I just not enough? What makes me so inadequate? What makes me so wrong?

Why can’t I love and be loved as others are? Why is that so hard? I’ve always struggled with connecting with people. Something about my humanness, or lack thereof. One of my favorite quotes is this: “We accept the love we think we deserve.” 

I know I don’t deserve much, but that’s… Not necessarily the problem here. How can I accept love I’m not given? How is it that people who’re supposed to have a strong bond with me, bond with other people more? Am I simply unlovable? 

What mark is there that ties me to them? If one of us leaves, our connection is simply lost to the wind. I suppose the ephemeral nature of my existence bleeds out into my relationships. I suppose that is the “wrong” within me. 

I miss you. You are in the moon that washes over me. You are in every tender morning. You are in the weeds I uproot. You are bamboo, invasive to my land. You are in everything I am.

Thank you for listening. I know you always will.

Shota 

December 25th, 2016

Everything that is "mine" has been stripped away from me.

People are

a hand

a heart

a hundred little things

slipping, just out of reach

away

Kind regards,

Shota

February 15th, 2023

My life and love have lost their luster.

and I, my gilded glow. 

My darling is made of stars.

My darling cannot see me from afar.

For what separates the stars from the Earth?

What stops them from moving ever closer, ever nearer, from loving the land below? 

Death, my dear heart.

The stars we see are dead, 

and thus

I, too, am loving a dead thing.

You wouldn't like the person I've become. And I won't blame you. I don't like who I've become either. 

Sincerely yours,

Shota

January 19th, 2024

I have much to say, yet no way to say it properly. I guess I will start with something I will never say again: I miss you.

My feelings alone are not enough to be the catalyst of a relationship, yet when I think about the few sweet words you’ve gifted to me I consider it may be enough. 

I know you. And truly, the more I think I do, the more I’m aware I don’t. I wonder what kind of person would steal your heart. Someone with gentle hands, soft words, the epitome of kindness? Yet cruel in their own way, when provoked? I am nothing like that. The jagged edges of my splintered heart are just that; jagged edges. I am not callous, but at times I find myself wanting to be what people believe me to be. That is to say, I want to become an unthinkable beast. 

Unthinkable beasts don’t cry for a lover they’ve never had though, do they. 

The thought of you arouses such anguish within me, my heart. I think you would despise this pet name. My heart, my heart, my poor, beating heart. Bitter blue, dancing flame, stormy rose. You get prettier as you age. Like a fine wine, or an expensive cologne. 

It’s not that I haven’t thought of you as a lover, but that I haven’t allowed myself to. It hurts. Worse than I believed it would. 

It hurts. It really does. I don’t even know why anymore. Is it because I am unloved by you? Is it because I’m scared of truly losing you? Am I so selfish that I want you back with no regard for your safety? I am, and I am not. I wish I could distract myself from you again. 

I want to be with you. I want to love you without doubt. I want to think of you and crave your presence without hurt. I want you, I want you, I want you, I want you.

Humans are such complex little creatures. Somehow, after reading all of Shota’s letters, you're more determined than ever to love him. His letters, his final gift of closure to you, they infuriate you.

Who is he to decide your fate?

Who is he to decide you're better off without him around?

It's a gut feeling that has you running to his apartment. Your chest aches from the cold air and exertion. Your feet only carry you faster. You've never had a soulmate. 

Across all those decades, you've never known what it's like. You were never able to understand the nauseating love others feel for someone else. You fell in love, but you never felt in love. 

Not until Shota.

You knew from the start: For you, there was only ever him. There is no soul more perfect, no heart more understanding—it is him for you. You pray to whatever god exists that he's still in Seoul.

Your hands shake while you fumble with the set of keys he gave you. The lock clicks, and you burst through, hoping to find a light on. 

But all that remains is silence. Cold and daunting.

You let out a hollow laugh to yourself. Tears prick the corners of your vision, then a scream bubbles up and into the back of your throat.

A pair of glowing red eyes stare back at you. 

Unlike your beloved’s eyes, that always adored you, these eyes are callous. They pierce through your very soul.

There's an imperceptible flinch on their end that has you stumbling back slowly. Your heart thrums violently in your ears, begging you to turn back, begging you to move or do anything to fight against your now oncoming demise. 

“He made a mistake.” It breathes in your direction, moonlight streaming through an open window. 

You take a small step back, and it takes one forward.

“I am here to fix it.” 

It lunges forward, hands snaking around your throat, smashing your head onto the tile below.

“Shota!” 

In your freshly fogged brain, all you can think of is him. 

He loves you.

He'll come. 

“Shota, help!” 

There's a deep throbbing in your chest. A fear stronger than your own grips you, your body finally listening and fighting for you. Black dots line your vision, your lungs burning in an agonizing pain you know to associate with death. 

And then the pressure is gone.

“I'm not good at this whole emotions thing.” A steady beeping sound fills the sterile room where you lay. 

“I don't even know where to begin telling you everything that's happened,” Shota swallows down his anxiety, warmth blooming in his chest. Your eyes flutter open to meet his.

“I should come clean to you.” Your voice has a rasp to it, throat completely dry from your days asleep, “I haven't been entirely honest.”

Your stare bores through him like acid. He feels your heart rate pick up before modern technology even dares.

“I… I’ve been seeing things. Myself. I don't know when it started, but shortly after I met you, she started appearing- first just occasionally, then the closer we got, the more I saw her. And then I started having these weird dreams about you… they felt like memories. I thought I was going crazy.

Shota, my whole life I’ve felt like no one would ever love me. Everyone had their soulmate, and I had no one. My parents didn't love me, I had trouble making friends, I felt no drive to ever… be anyone. And then I met you. You just got me. I finally thought: I don't need a soulmate. You never mentioned anything about a soulmate, you didn't seem interested at all—and then one day it just clicked. I felt like you were a part of me. 

That night, when I went to your apartment, it was her. Me? I’m not sure, but she has my face. I still don't…” 

You blink back tears. Shota holds your shaking hands in his. There's the boy you fell in love with. Soft hands, slow movements, love you've never felt with anyone else.

“Your soulmate is- Sorry, was, my brother. We're not related by blood, but by a familial bond forged when we were both children. I don't expect you to know anything about vampires, or what happens when they're soulmates with a human, but when a vampire is soulmates with a human they become mortal from the moment the two meet. Theo fought for many, many years to become the vampire king. He led wars, lost almost his entire family, and became the ‘monster’ he is today. I am of the opinion that he always envisioned a soulmate as powerful as him. And when he first saw you all those years ago, he didn't see the strength within you—only the vessel. I- I don't wanna get into it still, I’m not ready, but- when I was younger, I hated you. To me, you were just another obstacle in Theo’s way. He wanted you gone. My best friend was the one who would've done it if I didn't. I don't know what happened, you read the letters, I fell. I fell for you.” 

“Somewhere along the way, I think I fell for you too.” Your voice is as quiet as a pin drop. He looks at you, warmth and something else just beyond his soulful eyes. His lips curl into a beautiful smile, the first you've seen in this lifetime.

It's my fate

To dedicate myself to you.

taglist: @tkooooop, @haolovre, @jiungsdaisy, @jmclouds

[reidmarieprentiss]

I Love You, I'm Sorry

Summary: Based on this request! You write and perform a new song, Spencer hears it.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x singer!fem!reader

Category: hurt/comfort

Warnings/Includes: post break up blues, reminiscing past relationship

Word count: 2k

a/n: i hope this is what you wanted <3333

main masterlist

Backstage, your heart raced. The thump of the music and the roar of the crowd seemed to pulse through your entire body as if the whole of Madison Square Garden was vibrating with your nerves. You took a steadying breath, trying to collect yourself, but it was hard to ignore the flood of emotions clawing up from deep within. The thin straps of your dress sat delicately on your shoulders, and you smoothed your hands down the ruffled fabric, hoping that the trembling would stop.

This wasn't just any performance—it was the performance. A surprise song, one no one was expecting. One that held the raw, unfiltered truth of your heartbreak. "I Love You, I'm Sorry." You had written it when everything was still fresh, when the pain of your breakup was like a shadow that followed you everywhere. At the time, it had been too hard to even think about sharing with the world. But tonight, you were ready. 

The understage elevator began to rise, and you closed your eyes, willing the nerves to stay down, to let your voice and the song take over. The cheering above grew louder and louder, shaking the very ground beneath you. The audience didn't know what was coming, and part of you reveled in that—the sweet anticipation, the feeling of holding something so dear to yourself just a moment longer. 

When the platform locked into place, the stage lights were blinding, but they were familiar, almost comforting in their brightness. You took another breath, one more attempt to steady yourself, and pasted on a smile as you faced the crowd. The warm air filled with thousands of screams and cheers wrapped around you, the collective energy swallowing you whole.

Then, the first soft notes of "I Love You, I'm Sorry" filled the arena, a gentle melody drifting across the vast sea of faces. It was only seconds, but you could feel the change in the crowd, the gasp of realization—their screaming rising to a fever pitch, louder than anything you'd heard all night. This was something new. Unheard. Unseen. Yours.

You gripped the mic stand tighter as the lyrics began to spill from your lips, each word carrying the weight of the heartbreak and healing you'd experienced. For the first time, you weren’t just singing to them—you were sharing a piece of your soul, one you’d kept hidden until tonight. And in this moment, standing on stage with the sound of your voice echoing off the walls, you felt like you could finally let it all go, each note a step towards something new, something freeing.

This was your moment. Your truth. And as the crowd listened, every word hung in the air like a shared confession—a story that was yours but felt like it belonged to everyone who ever loved, lost, and tried to find their way back.

Two Augusts ago

I told the truth, oh, but you didn't like it, you went home

You're in your Benz, I'm by the gate

Now you go alone

Charm all the people you train for, you mean well but aim low

And I'll make it known like I'm getting paid

—

Penelope’s phone buzzed on the desk, lighting up with a notification that had her immediately squealing with excitement. Her eyes darted to the screen, and she gasped, hand flying to her mouth as she read the alert. It was from a fan account—one dedicated to her absolute favorite artist. The one she had posters of plastered all over her home office and whose songs made up nearly every one of her playlists. And they had huge news: a surprise song, performed live tonight, and someone was streaming it illegally. 

Normally, Penelope would never (lol) endorse anything illegal, but this was different. This was a once-in-a-lifetime moment she couldn’t miss. With barely a thought, she tapped on the link, the stream immediately popping up on her screen. The image quality wasn’t the best—dark and shaky as someone tried their best to hold their phone steady over a sea of swaying arms—but the audio was good enough. And Penelope’s heart pounded in her chest as she realized she didn’t know the song.

She pressed the phone closer to her ear, listening as the artist’s voice rose above the noise of the crowd. It cut through the chatter like a blade, the lyrics flowing effortlessly. 

That's just the way life goes  

I like to slam doors closed  

Trust me, I know it's always about me  

I love you, I'm sorry

“Reid!” she shrieked, almost dropping her phone in her haste as she rushed to her feet. She moved faster than she had in ages, practically leaping down the rows of desks to where Spencer was hunched over, diligently working on his reports. The bullpen was nearly empty at this late hour, with only a few agents scattered here and there, too tired to react to Penelope's sudden outburst. 

Spencer’s head jerked up at the sound of her voice, his face a mixture of surprise and confusion as she dashed toward him. “Reid!” she repeated, more insistently this time. “You have to see this!”

He blinked, looking between her and the glowing screen of her phone, a bemused expression spreading across his features. “What’s going on?” he asked, leaning back in his chair as she thrust the phone right in front of his face.

The phone's speakers crackled slightly as Penelope thrust it closer to Spencer's face, the low-quality audio doing nothing to dull the sharpness of the voice that poured from it—soft, melodic, achingly familiar. Spencer's pulse quickened as soon as he heard the voice, and his breath caught in his throat. That voice... It was you. It was your voice. And every word that spilled from your lips seemed to slice through the silence, embedding themselves into the space between his ribs like a blade.

Two summers from now  

We'll have been talking, but not all that often, we're cool now  

I'll be on a boat, you're on a plane  

Going somewhere sane  

And I'll have a drink  

Wistfully lean out my window and watch the sun set on the lake  

It might not feel real, but it's okay

'Cause that's just the way life goes  

I push my luck, it shows  

Thankful you don't send someone to kill me  

I love you, I'm sorry

Spencer's mouth went dry as the lyrics tumbled out in your voice—so familiar, like a touch he'd longed for but hadn't felt in ages. The melancholy melody hung in the air, weaving a story so heartbreakingly intimate that it felt as though you were standing right there, whispering the words directly to him. He couldn't move; his eyes were glued to the shaky video on Penelope’s phone, but his mind was far away, drowning in memories he’d tried so hard to keep at bay. 

Every note, every breath in your voice struck a chord within him. And the lyrics—the lyrics stung. Spencer could feel the thin layer of calm he'd built around himself start to crack, the words hitting too close to home, exposing emotions he'd tried so desperately to hide away. 

His fingers clenched the edge of the desk, knuckles turning white as he fought to steady himself. Did you still... love him? Despite everything? Despite the separation, the silence that had stretched between them like an unbridgeable chasm? 

I love you, I'm sorry.

"Reid?" Penelope’s voice sounded distant, her usually bubbly tone filled with concern as she took in Spencer’s reaction. "Are you okay? You look like you've seen a ghost."

You were the best but you were the worst  

As sick as it sounds, I loved you first  

I was a dick, it is what it is  

A habit to kick, the age-old curse  

I tend to laugh whenever I'm sad  

Stare at the crash, it actually works  

Making amends, this shit never ends  

I'm wrong again, wrong again

The words cut him deep. Each line seemed to hold up a mirror to your past—a past he’d tried so hard to bury, but one that never really stayed buried. Spencer could hear the regret in your voice, and it only made his own regrets bubble to the surface. His eyes stayed fixed on the screen, and he could almost see the intensity in your eyes, the way you closed them as you sang, finally letting the truth out.

He couldn't breathe. It was too much. He could feel the familiar tightening in his chest, the way his heart ached like it was being squeezed by a vice. You had always known how to say exactly what you felt, even if you didn't always share those thoughts with him when you were together. But this... this was different. Every note felt like a confession. A confession of the mistakes you made, the mistakes he made.

God, you were beautiful. You looked so beautiful that it hurt to look. It hurt to remember how it felt to hold you, how you fit perfectly in his arms, how your laugh had always been contagious, how your voice could calm every storm in his mind. He could feel a tear prickling at the corner of his eye, but he blinked it back, forcing it away. He couldn’t lose himself like this, not here, not in front of Penelope.

But he knew why she was showing him this—of course, he did. He knew Penelope adored you, both as a fan and as a friend. But more than that, he knew Penelope loved him, and seeing him carry the weight of the breakup had broken her heart just as much as it broke his. She probably thought showing him this would help, somehow. Maybe hearing your voice again would bring some sort of closure. Or maybe, Penelope just wanted him to know that you hadn’t forgotten about him either. That you still felt something.

The way life goes

Joyriding down our road

Lay on the horn to prove that it haunts me

I love you, I'm sorry

“Penelope,” Spencer's voice cracked as he tried to speak, his gaze never leaving the screen. He wanted to tell her to turn it off, to shut it down before he completely unraveled right there in the office. But he couldn’t. The sound of your voice had him rooted to the spot, and every breath felt like a struggle.

Penelope bit her lip, hesitating for a moment before she spoke. “I... I just thought you should see this, Spencer. I know you’re not, like... together anymore. And I know you never talk about it. But... this song... it’s about you. I just know it is.”

Spencer let out a shaky sigh, gripping the phone tighter as your voice filled the air around them. He couldn’t stop the memories from flooding in—the way her your smelled when you rested your head on his shoulder, the way you’d laugh at the smallest, silliest things just to make him smile, the fights, the apologies, the “I love you’s” whispered in the middle of the night.

And now, all those memories seemed to wrap themselves around the lyrics you sang—lyrics that felt like a secret letter meant just for him. He didn’t know if he was strong enough to listen to the rest of the song, but he couldn’t bring himself to look away, either.

The way life goes (you were the best but you were the worst)

(As sick as it sounds, I loved you first)

I wanna speak in code (I was a dick, it is what it is)

(A habit to kick, the age-old curse)

Hope that I don't, won't make it about me (I tend to laugh whenever I'm sad)

(Stare at the crash, it actually works)

I love you, I'm sorry

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

tag list <333 @yokaimoon @khxna @noelliece @dreamsarebig @sleepey-looney @cocobean16 @placidus @criminalmindssworld @lilu842 @greatoperawombategg @charismatic-writer @fxoxo @hearts4spensco @furrybouquettrash @kathrynlakestone @chaneladdicted @time-himself @mentallyunwellsposts @sapph1re @idefktbh17 @gilwm @reggieswriter @loumouse @spencerreidsreads @i-live-in-spite @fanfic-viewer @bootylovers44 @atheniandrinkscoffee @niktwazny303 @dead-universe @hbwrelic @kniselle @cynbx @danielle143 @katemusic @xx-spooky-little-vampire-xx @laurakirsten0502 @geepinky @mxlviaa @libraprincessfairy @fortheloveofgubler @super-nerd22 @k-illdarlings @softestqueeen @eliscannotdance @pleasantwitchgarden @alexxavicry

[thelonelyshore-if]

Perri Drabble

Or, Perri wakes up next to MC for the first time.

Perri opens their eyes and sees stars. 

The sky is a silver-dusted black canvas stretched far overhead. Without their glasses the stars are just blurs of light a million miles away, but that doesn’t stop them from being beautiful. The night is crisp. Cold. They shiver, instinctively pulling the sleeves of their cardigan down.

Where…are they?

Calling this grogginess would be an understatement. Their entire body aches. Their eyelids feel heavy, still weighed down by the lull of sleep. Their skull feels like it's been filled with white noise and trying to form a thought is like wading through quicksand.

Is this what getting more than a few minutes of sleep at a time does to you? They aren’t sure they like it. Especially considering that they have no idea how in the world they got outside. For all of their insomnia, they’ve never sleepwalked before. They doubt that they’ve started now. But if not that, then how…?

Aliens.

The idea instantly cuts through the slog of thought. Perri sits bolt upright, eyes splaying wide and pulse growing quick. They grin, even though the motion sends their head into a dizzying spiral. The stars dance overhead and their stomach lurches. They don’t care.

But…wait. No. That doesn’t make any sense.

Perri stares out, realizes that they’re sitting on the deck of their lookout tower. Usually they’d be lying on the cold metal of the deck. Instead, they brush their palm against something soft and worn. Their grandma’s old quilt. Wouldn’t aliens have put them back in bed? Not just dropped them off on the deck?

And the quilt is weird, too. It’s spread out beneath them so deliberately. Did they do that? Why? They furrow their brow.

Perri makes a frustrated noise in the back of their throat. They ball up a fist, gently knock it against their forehead. Someone’s poured tar over their brain, they can’t think, and they can’t remember. They curl up in a huddle, arms wrapped around their legs and forehead pressed against their knees.

Waking up is always confusing. They sleep so rarely that it’s always hellish to claw their way back into consciousness. Even so, this feels different. Perri groans and turns their head to the side.

They turn, and they see you. 

In an instant their blood turns to ice and, nearly as quickly, melts. The excited little pitter-patter of their heart turns into great racing thumps, the weight of it so fast and heavy that it hurts. 

Oh. Oh.

You're lying next to them, body stretched languidly across the quilt. The red light of the radio tower blinks overhead. Lazily, like a pulse. Every few seconds it lights you up with a brilliant crimson haze, and then just as fast you're swallowed by the darkness once again. The illumination makes you look otherworldly, like some kind of fae creature sprawled out on their deck.

Perri tries to swallow and finds that they can't, that a rock has been wedged down their throat. Cold sweat beads on their forehead and trickles down the small of their back. There's a pinching behind their ribs that stings harder and harder with each throbbing beat of their heart.

They look away. They can’t stand watching you any longer, not when everything is a blur. Instead they stare out at the forest. They can’t make out any details, not really, but they do see the thick layer of late night fog smothering the trees. Normally they like the fog. They like how it swallows everything until they’re just a tower in the sky overlooking a sea of gray.

Right now, though, it’s isolating. They’re trapped.

Did they…did you…?

You’re lying next to them on the deck of their lookout, so clearly something happened. Perri sits up, risks another peek. You look disheveled, but of course you would. You’re sleeping outside, in the cold, in the middle of October. It doesn’t diminish your beauty, and Perri has to look away again.

Fuck.

They look at their hands. Their arms. Take stock of their body. They’re in yesterday’s cardigan and a pair of plush pajama pants. If you two had…if something had happened, they wouldn’t be dressed. Right?

They can’t take comfort in it for long, because you’re still here. They woke up next to you under the stars, and they have no fucking clue why.

Well–that isn’t true. They have some inkling as to why. You’re here because whenever they see you their heart dances. Because you make them smile. You’re beautiful, and they adore you already, and somehow you like them back. Of course they wanted you here. 

If only they could remember asking.

Perri can’t take this anymore. They get to their feet, trying not to look at you. They wring their hands over and over. The gesture calms them down, if only a little. It’s easier to think when their fingers are busy.

Memory has always been a tricky thing for Perri. Their insomnia has taken huge bites out of their brain, chewing things like memories into barely-recognizable bits. People are supposed to sleep, as a rule, and they don’t. Not really.

They stumble over to the tower railing, staring out at the fog. They just need to think, and it will come to them. What did they do last night–that’s where they need to start.

Did they put on their show? Surely they did, they so rarely miss it. If so…were you there? Did you stay after? Did you ask to stay…did they offer? They can’t imagine they would have. As much as they like you, they’re terrified. Now more than ever.

What did you two talk about? Did you watch the stars? They’ve always loved how the stars look out here. This far out from town you can see them all.

Did you kiss them?

Perri’s heart constricts. They feel sick. What if you did?

They aren’t sure they can take the thought of kissing you for the first time and forgetting about it. Anguish washes over them, leaving them feeling brittle. Like any second now they might break into a hundred tiny pieces.

“Hey.”

They spin around, heart instantly in their throat. You’re sitting up, huddled with the quilt wrapped around your shoulders. They can make out enough of your face to see that you’re smiling, though you look half asleep. A thin layer of mist curls around you, so pale they can hardly see it.

Perri meets your eyes and it’s like getting hit by a truck.

You did sit in during their show. You listened as they talked to callers, occasionally chiming in with your thoughts. You smiled at them over the soundboard, your eyes sparkling. They teased and joked in a way they don’t usually. They always feel more confident when they’re on air…and they wanted to impress you.

The whole time they wondered if you were flirting. You kept smiling at them. Making excuses to touch them–hand brushing against one another, shoulders bumping. Each time they felt half-nauseous with anxiety…and excitement, too.

And then the show ended, and they felt suddenly bold. Asked if you wanted to see the stars. They had the perfect place for it, they explained. They took you out onto the deck, spread out a tattered old quilt beneath you. Pointed out their favorite constellations.

At one point you rolled over on your side. Watched them, instead of the stars.

“What are you doing?” they whispered.

“This,” you responded, just as soft, before kissing them.

How could Perri forget?

“Um. Hi.”

They turn and face you now, emotions they can’t quite sort out churning within. They feel as elated as they are terrified. You let the quilt drop off your shoulders, smoothing it flat once again before patting the empty spot at your side.

“It’s pretty cold without you,” you say, and they think they might cry.

“Sorry,” their voice breaks, a little, but if you notice you don’t say anything.

“Come back to me?”

Perri can’t refuse. They return to your side, drop to their knees. They can’t believe they almost forgot their first night with you. In an instant they know that what they’re feeling is relief. It crashes over them so fiercely that it feels like it could knock them over. 

It makes them bold.

They kiss you. It’s clumsy, but it’s good. So good. They feel tears prick at the corners of their eyes. You kiss them back with a sleepy enthusiasm. When they pull away you reach up, brush away their tears.

“What’s wrong?” you ask, doubt flickering across your face.

“I–” they start, before stopping. Shaking their head. They remembered, in the end, so it doesn’t matter, does it? They remember you. Of course they remember you.

“I’m just happy,” Perri says. 

And they're not even lying. Not really.

[sun4r1nnity]

Hi do you happen to take a request. If you up for it can I request fratboy atsumu and make it hurt/comfort wheter it's misunderstanding cz you know he is so popular or anything that you like. Love your job btw and you can ignore my request if you are not into it ♡♡♡

a misunderstanding between fratboy!atsumu and fem!reader.

hurt, comfort, vulgar words used.

note: hello! thank you so much for the request. sorry this took long, these weeks has been so busy and i've only got a chance to write it this afternoon. this hits hard while im writing because i experienced the same thing, but instead of reassurance i got dumped lol XD. i hope you enjoy my own interpretation of this prompt.

more fratboy!atsumu here!

dating fratboy!atsumu is wonderful, yet it comes with consequences.

the constant social events, the parties, and being under the scrutiny of his frat brothers can be overwhelming. however, the fear of not being enough for someone as popular as atsumu is your greatest concern. atsumu has a bunch of girls lined up for him, ready to take your place should the relationship end. you feel guilty of thinking this way, because your boyfriend has made it clear how much he loves you. the thought is slowly eating you up, and how bad it affects your emotions lately. you'd be so sensitive, which causes you to lash out on him for small or no reason at all, but you're grateful of how atsumu never once gets mad, instead offering reassurance you needed.

the atmosphere is vibrant with the crowd at the party, the sound of loud music, and an array of drinks and food spread out on a large table. you hadn't intended to go to a frat party with atsumu tonight, but you find yourself here regardless because it's suna's event. suna has always been nothing but kind to you, and you get along with him well, so it would feel rude not to attend tonight.

atsumu had left you on your own, engaging in conversation with his friends somewhere. as you mingle with familiar faces, trying to shake off the doubts in your mind, you catch a glimpse of atsumu across the room. he's talking to a girl, one you dont recognize. your stomach turns as you watch her, admiring her beautiful features and you suddenly feel ugly having her presence near you. not to say how sexy she looks, casually slaying any style that she wears. she's standing close to him, her body language open and flirty. she laughs at something he says, placing a hand lightly on his arm. atsumu smiles back at her, seemingly enjoying the conversation. the sight sends a jolt of jealousy through you. your heart was aching, so you decided to step outside to feel some fresh air. as you make your way to the door, you hear a couple of atsumu's frat brothers talking nearby.

"man, atsumu's only with her because she's safe. she's not like other girls, you get what i mean?"

"yeah, i give it a month before he gets bored and moves on. probably after he fucked her first, heard that she's a virgin," one of them said, earning chuckles from his peers.

"dude you seen the girl atsumu's talking to? man she's hot as hell, i bet he gets his cock wet with her instead of his girlfriend,"

the words sting, like salt on an open wound. you feel tears welling up in your eyes as you quickly leave the party. the fresh air outside does little to soothe the ache in your chest. you walk home, with every step feeling heavier than the one before, hurt and confusion swirl through your mind. you didnt care about atsumu who's still at the party, he can go have fun with his 'new girl'.

it wasn't long before atsumu came looking for you, only to realize that you had already left. "dunno dude, but i saw her crying when she got out of the house, i didnt ask because i thought you two had an argument or something," said a guy from atsumu's fraternity. what did he do? he thinks. not before his twin started asking the same thing, and he swore he felt like his life is on the line. "what the heck did ya do?" osamu's tone is mad, and he's second away from grabbing atsumu's collar and bash his head into the wall. "i dont know! i was just talking to midori and- " his eyes widen, finally realizing the reason why before smacking his head into his palm repeatedly. suna shakes his head. "better go now man, dont wanna mess up this one, yeah?" suna advised, patting on atsumu's shoulder before the blonde dashes outside and drove off.

atsumu's texts and calls remained unanswered. you activated do-not-disturb mode, silencing any notifications and calls from your boyfriend. your feet ached from the lengthy walk, and you regretted the impulsive decision you made earlier. suddenly, a honk startled you, and you turned to see a familiar vehicle—atsumu's car—slowing down to match your walking pace. despite this, your pride was unwavering, and you quickened your steps. atsumu's voice, calling out your name in an attempt to halt your progress, was audible.

"(y/n), baby! come on now!" he pleaded, but you continued to ignore him. striving to walk faster, the discomfort in your feet intensified. then, the sound of his car door closing followed by the approaching footsteps indicated he was coming after you.

"babe! c'mon, listen ta me," he pleaded, his voice filled with desperation. you kept walking, your emotions a whirlwind of hurt and confusion. finally, atsumu caught up to you, gently grabbing your arm to stop you. "please," he said, his voice softer now, "just let me explain,"

you stop, reluctantly turning to face him. his eyes were filled with worry and regret. "im sorry, m'kay? i didnt mean to make you feel that way," he began, his voice cracking slightly. "im sorry baby, midori is an old friend, and we have nothing going on, whether its in the past or now, we never had anything together,"

you looked away, the pain still fresh in your heart as you recalls those hurtful words you heard. "your frat brothers, they said some hurtful things. they said how you're only with me because im safe, and you're going to leave me right after you take away my virginity. and, how you're probably fucking with her behind my back,". you were choking back tears, overwhelmed by a wave of pain and guilt. "i feel worse, tsumu. i hate how i feel like im in a competition with all the pretty girls waiting for you to break it off with me, and- , and how im afraid im not enough with you, and you will leave me because you realized im not what you wanted,"

atsumu's grip on your arm tightened slightly, his eyes pleading for you to understand. he'll deal with those assholes later, right now his only concern is you. "fuck, 'm so sorry, sweetheart, im sorry," he said. tears welled up in your eyes. seeing your struggle, atsumu pulls you into a gentle embrace, his warmth offering a sense of comfort amidst the turmoil. "that's not true at all, my love for ya is genuine, those guys dont know shit about me, fuck," atsumu said, his tone filled with desperation and a slight anger. "yer perfect fer me, i fucking love ya so much. yer always be more than enough for me baby, so fucking gorgeous, perfect in every way, dont doubt it alright?" he confessed, feeling his eyes burning with tears.

"im so sorry. i should have noticed how ya were feeling," he murmured into your hair. "im here now, 'm not goin' anywhere. we'll get through this, i promise,"

you finally relax yourself in his arms, the hurt slowly beginning to fade. the raw honesty and vulnerability in his voice reassured you, and you felt a glimmer of hope.

the drive home was slow and filled with more heartfelt conversation. atsumu held your hand the entire time, his thumb gently rubbing the back of your hand as he reassured you of his love and commitment. by the time you reached home, you felt lighter, the misunderstanding serving as a catalyst for a deeper connection and renewed trust.

[mooniiify]

Hiiii

Any thoughts about Wriothesley, Tarutaru and Diluc having their first date with reader? I need fluff aaaaa

ouuu alright let's see

wriothesley would have to go out of his comfort zone for your first date, since he wouldn't want your first official time out with him to be in a literal prison. he says it's a surprise even though when he first invites you, he has no idea where to bring you. he rarely goes out nowadays due to how demanding his job is, but the days before your first date, he goes around fontaine, checking out different places, curating his plan.

on the day of the actual date, he tries to tame his hair with sigewinne's help unsuccessifully and goes to pick you up from your home, unaware of the sticker on his shoulder, courtesy of sigewinne. he was just a little nervous at the beginning, but once you chuckled at the sticker and pointed it out to him, his anxiety grew. had he just made a fool of himself?

the date continued, though, which eased his nerves. he took you to a play you'd mentioned you've wanted to see for a while first, then to grab a bite at hotel dubord (at neuvillette's suggestion) where you spend the evening talking over nice desserts; at the end of the date, you point out the other two stickers wriothesley had over his jacket, making him groan and you laugh

tartaglia is more of the adventerious type, so i feel like he'd want to do something more interesting than just a typical date, especially if you're also into it. he'd probably think about suggesting to go fight something or someone, but he quickly realizes that wouldn't really make a good first date, so he goes back to the drawing board.

he just so happens to ask you out around lantern rite when he's also in liyue, so he thinks that would be the calmest way to spend the evening. after all, his goal is to make you smile, get to know you better and spend time with you and show off to make you fall for him more.

regardless, tartaglia is tartaglia, so once he gets to a game booth, he's playing. he'll get competitive with a kid and forget where he is for a moment, though after he wins a trinket, he gives it to you, proclaiming he'd won it for you only and definitely not because he just wanted to win, which happens a few more times throuhout the night.

at some games, he even challenges you and cheers you on when you beat him at some of them. even if this is just your first date, he's your biggest fan and would lowkey let you win just to see the smile on your face tbh.

overall the date goes rather well and tartaglia is already planning the second one which is to fight any treasure hoarder they come across bc he thinks you look badass when you fight

diluc is a rather simple man. he's traditional. he would invite you to the dawn winery for dinner (and maybe a sleep over if it gets too late). i feel like diluc is the type of man to have to know someone really well or be friends with them for a while before he could even consider dating them, so he's not nervous about the first date because he knows you, or he's trying to convince himself of that, at least.

he wants to make it special, so he asks the maids to leave the kitchen and leave him to make the meal himself. everyone but adelinde leave, as she was too scared to leave him alone in the kitchen. ten minutes in and she had to step in and help him.

regardless, he helped for the meal at least halfway. he promises himself then he'd do better next time and learn how to cook.

anyway, you arrive and he'd set the table by himself, using the red designed plates he'd inherited from his mother, as well as his finest cutlery. he takes your coat off of you and hangs it himself, then pulls your chair out for you. you giggle at how gentlemanly he's acting, but it's not unwelcome by all means.

the date passes calmly, with the two of you talking about anything and everything. it feels like an usual hang out for the two of you, though this time a bit more intimate, as you're not aware of each other's feelings. after dinner, the two of you end up on the couch in front of the fireplace, with diluc's arm around your shoulders and you snuggled into him, eventually falling asleep in each other's warmth.

thank you so much for the request! hope i delivered! requests are still open!

[verycoolusername1]

Quite This High

Summary: In which Luke inspires a song out of you about his gorgeous blue eyes.

Luke Hughes x Singer!reader - Social Media AU(fc is Olivia Rodrigo)

A/N: this is part two to angel boy if anyone wanted it lmao you don't have to read the first part to understand this one as it's a social media au :D

Also I have no idea what Luke's eye color is but ig in this he has blue eyes and since it's national boyfriends day(and I'm hopelessly single) I decided to post a little something

Yourusername posted on their story!

Notifications

Tatemcrae: you're so evil for this!!!

liked by lhughes_06. Viewed by 4,567,981 others...

Real life

You sat on your couch with your notebook in your lap, on FaceTime with Luke.

"And then Jack slipped and I just could not keep it together." Luke chuckled at the memory.

You admired him through the phone. "You have nice eyes."

Luke looked at you softly, a pink hue slowly appearing on his face.

"What are you gonna write a song about them?" Luke joked but you could really tell he appreciated the compliment.

"Maybe." You smiled. "No yeah I am."

Luke's eyes widened at your confession.

"Have you already recorded it?" Luke asked.

"No, I record it next week." You answered.

Luke made a realization. "Wait... I come home next week. Are you... I don't know waiting for me to get back?"

You chuckled at his awkwardness. "I might be. And I still have to fix some of it. I only have the demo."

"Your job is like so cool. I suck at singing." Luke comments.

You chuckled. "Well you're amazing at talking so maybe one day you could be featured in one of my songs."

Luke looked at you in suprise. "Me in one of your songs? That would freak everyone out!"

You shrugged. "I know but I want you on one of the tracks."

Luke looked at you in admiration. "You're dangerous, you know that?"

"I've been told." You laughed.

In all honesty you could stare at Luke forever, more importantly you would probably drown in his eyes then an idea sparked.

"You just had an idea... what is it?" Luke asked.

"I know what to write, gotta go love you!" You rushed to your voice app.

"Love you too." Luke laughed.

You grabbed your guitar and began writing down lyrics on paper then you started the recording, getting to work.

One week later

Yourusername posted on their story!

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Liked by username60, username75, and 18, 536 others...

Y/n.updates: Y/N and Luke outside the arena after the devils win tonight!

Comments

Username54: after Y/n's story I gotta admit these two are cute

Username68: WHY ARE THEY SO HOT

Username79: they are serving omg

Username52: is this man gonna make yn FINALLY drop a love song??

Username43: @/username52 damn I hope so I'm tired of crying to songs- I'VE NEVER KISSED A GIRL 😭

Yourusername just posted!

Liked by lhughes_06, tatemcrae, laufey, and 5,480,378 others...

Yourusername: my new single 'ocean eyes' is out midnight and my new album 'CARE' out October 30th!

Comments

Conangray: I live to see Halloween after all

Laufey: so so excited to listen!!!

Tatemcrae: 😏

Username48: @/tatemcrae WHAT DO YOU KNOW TATE

Username73: not the album release date the same as the hughes bowl 😭

Username89: @/username73 ik they're so evil for this

comments are limited

Several hours later...

You ran your fingers through Luke's hair as he patiently waited for your new song to come out. Since you two have started dating he's practically became your biggest fan(Conan did not take that lightly).

He refreshed his phone multiple times and checking the time every five seconds. You could see his eyes beam with joy as he realized it was midnight.

You awaited his reaction as he put his phone to his ear, looking up at you softly. You two stayed like a couple of minutes before the song came to a close.

"What do you think?" You asked, breaking the long silence.

"I- it's amazing." Luke gushed.

"You really think so?" You said softly.

"Of course I do. Your voice is beautiful... I could listen to it for hours if I'm being honest." He admits.

You kissed his forehead. "That's nice to hear."

"How long have you been thinking like this?" He asks.

"About writing a song about you?" He nods his head. "Honestly since the day we met. I always knew I would write a lyric in about your eyes I just never knew I would write a whole song about them."

"Well your songwriting is nice, can you write more songs about me?" Luke looks up at you.

"Oh yeah I definitely will... maybe about your arms next." You teased.

Luke chuckles. "I think you should do my ears- oh or my curls since you love to run through them so much."

You kissed the tip of his nose. "I love you."

Luke kissed you properly on the lips. "I love you too."

[crying-fantasies]

Filming/photographing

Masterlist

Humans tend to be so insecure about themselves.

It's sickening, how their psyche has been twisted to never be sole enough, always pursuing the example of others, reaching levels of bad health and stupid dress codes to fit right in their own unnourished culture, fed by idiots and narcissism-centered idealism.

His tanks are heavy with worry when he catches you once again listening to the lies of your brethren, almost believing them when it is all you can hear.

He knows what the lies of others can do to the ones simply unfortunate enough to listen, and Soundwave would never let you be poisoned by them again as he captures your interest in him, as he drags his servos over your soft, giving body as it yields and bends, skin moving like ripping waves as your weak electromagnetic field pulses along with his.

Maybe it's low, most likely degenerated, but he is a mech on a mission when his knee makes contact with yours, legs falling apart to give him way as you follow his frame and lay on the mattress, the light on his visor, a furious invigorated red that burns with the passion only a lover could achieve.

A lover who had enough of the self-hatred stares you give yourself in a mirror.

He pauses and inquires, “Do you know how I see you?”, there is no broken contact between your eyes and his optics if only his visor is the only thing separating you both as his helm looms over you, “do you realize how I see you? Do you understand how I want you?”.

There is no answer, it pains him, to see you like this.

Is it so hard to let you know?

The answer, Soundwave realizes, isn't complicated at all.

“Would you want to see yourself through my optics?”, you squirm under him, fingers over his audial receptors making an effort to get him closer, but he wants a direct affirmation before he flashes the recorder inside his optics.

Soundwave, as a skilled negotiator, can make you see the positive outcomes of the deal, he begins to enlist them, numbering one after the other with his battle mask pressed over your sweet, little port and making you shudder against him, weakly trying to close your legs and stop him, he is sure that is the last thing you want, eliminating any doubts you may have about previous experience, but as a lover, he can hardly contain himself from creeping his digits over your body, making you sing and dance on his servos, you're already smiling nervously, arm over your eyes in an attempt to cover yourself before him, the smile only makes itself tighter as he can't contain himself anymore and the music spills from his frame, the deep bass of his growl and the music makes you vibrate, being so close to him, a sweet symphony fills your mouth, moans and whispers, his spark shines with affection and he can feel his modesty panel quickly being more of a hassle than a necessity, but alas, he can only do so much.

Primus condemns the fact he can not ruin you as desired.

Your affirmation, coming in between moans, finally reaches him, no second is wasted as his optics flicker again, a recording engraved in the deepest parts of his databanks, starting with your eagerness to discharge the fabrics and enticing him with bedroom eyes, fluid movements as he once again presses a digit where you want him, his whole servo manhandles you and pressed over pliable flesh, his digits leave a path that makes him repeat the action as many times he desires. “My spark, you will understand your magic once I'm done”

In between ragged breathing, the realization made you laugh and look at him, perplexed, “Did you just rephrase The Police?!”, Soundwave hums, pleased by your good taste, as always, as his forehelm presses against your head to make you lay relaxed over the mattress once again, digit dangerously playing with your port, coating himself in your desire before he is sure to make it as comfortable as possible.

You sing for him, a lustful symphony as he pumps into your body, every fraction and movement engraved in his memory, every fall and rise of your chest, every tremble streaming across your body from head to toe, the warmth is enough to suffocate as Soundwave presses his battle mask once again over your middle, optics capturing every detail and keeping it for his own, a pleased grin is all you can see as he tunes up more vibration in his voice, his sole digit still mimicking what he could do to you if the opportunity to get his servos over a mass displacement mod were real, but he can't, so all he has to do is make reach your limit with passion overwhelming your incipient electric field, make you fall apart, sing a designation taught to you after long nights of the shared company as he can only grit denta and snarl a deep growl by the pressure over his spike as his valve can only clench over nothing as your little hands come to hold him in place as tremors take over and he indulges you if only a little more, if only a little longer, as his battle mask finally recesses and gives you full access to kiss him all you desire as his designation blooms breathlessly from your lips and dies with his derma over your now frail body, a perfect angle to show your exhausted yet pleased face that makes his engines purr at the sight, trying to snuggle you with the side of his helm as he can hear the thundering of your little heart.

You fall apart, and Soundwave shows you later on, how beautifully you did so, he has just cleaned your body of any body fluid in excess and your breathing is only increasing once again as he projects the recording, the way you unravel in his hold, leaves you speechless, and your face reaches a new level of glow and warmth, it makes him feel proud, finally able to silence the lies in your head, showing you the most obvious and beautiful truth.

As you walked over to him, there was no need for words, he lowered himself to your level, who gently traced fingers over his audial receptor, prompting him to sing, your smile and the warmth in your body signaled another intimate moment.

You brought him close before whispering, "It's time to wake up, big guy."

Back on Cybertron, the planet nearly conquered by invaders, Soundwave is jolted back to reality, away from the recording of a better time, a happy memory, as he takes in the devastation, a moment passes before he fully comprehends the gravity of the situation, and overwhelmed by a mix of sorrow and anger he admonishes himself to pull it together before focusing on the task at hand as Hot Rod calls out to him.

.

Yeah, hand me the prompt of Kinktober and, somehow, I'll make it steamy and sad at the same time, make it longer than I wished for but still believe it's good.

Also, finally settled into working with different continuities.

@tf-kinktober2024

[ahsokaismyqueen]

The Evolution of Friendship Pairing - Steve Harrington x HendersonSister!Reader Summary - After Steve is attacked by Billy Hargrove, you're shocked to find the guy still attempting to protect you as you two go into the hub to try and buy Eleven some more time. It makes you wonder. Are you and Steve Harrington actually . . . friends? Word Count - 3.3k Warnings - Language and canon typical violence Steve Harrington x HendersonSister!Reader Masterlist

Things started to come back to you slowly. Like the fact that the kids were arguing, the world seemed to be moving underneath you, you were leaning against something solid, and your head hurt like hell. 

Then the memories hit. Billy showing up at Will’s. Steve defending you and the kids, and then Steve getting the shit beat out of him. You remembered thinking Billy was going to kill him if he kept going. You remembered thinking that couldn’t happen. You remembered doing a lot of not thinking as you jumped on Billy’s back and tried to strangle him to get him off Steve. 

You couldn’t remember much after that, but you were distracted from your thoughts by a voice that was very near to your ear, groaning, “Nancy?” 

Your eyes opened, and everything was a bit of a blur for a moment. It wasn't until you felt a body shifting underneath you that you realized the something you had been leaning against had been a person. When you forced yourself up, you realized that person you had been leaning against was Steve Harrington. 

Or at least you were 95% sure it was Steve Harrington. 

God he looked terrible. His face was swollen in several different places, blood still stained his skin, and he looked out of it. You watched as he reached up to touch a part of his face, and your brother, who was now also coming into focus, said “no, don’t touch it,” and tugged his hand away. 

You took that moment to look around you, and suddenly realized why it felt like the world was moving underneath you. It’s because it was. “Dustin, what the fuck?” You said, an edge of panic creeping into your voice. 

“You’re going to keep straight for half a mile, then make a left on Mount Sinai.” Lucas told Max from the passenger seat. 

From the passenger seat because Max was driving. 

“What’s going on?” You heard Steve’s groggy voice say. 

Max looked back at you, and that’s when he seemed to realize what was going on. “Woah, oh my God!” 

“Just relax,” Dustin tried to speak in a calming voice, but it freaked you out more. “She’s driven before.” 

“Yeah, in a parking lot.” Mike spoke up. 

Your heart started pounding in your chest as you flew down the road. Flashbacks flew by in your mind of another dark road, the screeching of tires, the crash of metal ripping . . . 

“They were going to leave the two of you behind, but I promised you’d be cool.” It was Dustin’s voice, but it sounded far, far away. All you could hear echoing in your mind were the ghosts of your screams for your dad and for help. 

“Stop the car! Slow down!” Steve said as Max pressed down on the gas. 

You couldn’t breathe. Your hand slid up and down your chest, rubbing the skin and trying to somehow get some air in your lungs. The car was going too fast. It was too dark. Max was going to get you all killed. “S-Stop the car.” You managed to gasp out. 

“I told you they were going to freak out.” Mike told Dustin. 

“Everybody shut up! I’m trying to focus!” Max yelled. 

A hand gripped your wrist, and you snapped your gaze over to the man sitting beside you. Steve caught one look at your face and started yelling. “Stop the damn car!” 

Faintly you could hear them yelling at Max to make a turn, but your gaze was flickering from the road back to Steve. You couldn’t tell if you were yelling or everyone else was. You couldn’t even tell what was real anymore. Your vision was flashing in and out. One second it would be Max driving the car, next it would be your dad, smiling back at you as headlights flared in the front windshield. Your heart was pounding so hard in your chest you felt like at any moment it would explode and kill you too. 

Then the car turned to the left, the tires screeched, and you couldn’t take it. You squeezed your eyes shut tight and clawed at your chest. 

“It looks great sweetheart.” 

“Dadddddd . . .” You whined. “You didn’t even look.” 

“That’s because I know without looking it’s going to be amazing.” 

You smiled, but then it turned back into a pout. “But I’ve gotta know if it’ll match Dustin’s nursery or not.” 

Your dad sighed, and took his eyes off the road glancing back at the picture you were holding up. When he saw what it was, he started to smile. “It looks as amazing as I pictured it.” 

But something else had caught your attention. A truck, heading straight for you guys which normally wouldn’t have been a concern, but . . . It was on the wrong side of the road. “Dad!” You screamed. 

But it was too late. The sound of glass shattering, tires screeching and metal crunching filled your ears. Your dad was groaning, then he was screaming. He was screaming your name, and you were pressed against something hard - 

Except that wasn’t your dad’s voice, and the something hard you were pressed against wasn’t the car. It was moving, rising and falling, and a hand held your head against it. As your senses started to flood back into your body, you realized there was another hand pressed against your back. You let out a gasp of air as the hand stroked down your back. “Jesus Christ, Dustin! Your dad died in a car crash with your sister, and you thought it’d be a good idea to drag her into a car unconscious with a kid driving?!” 

You weren’t in the car with you Dad. You were with the kids and Steve. You took another gasping breath and inhaled a woodsy and metallic scent. Steve’s cologne and blood. You were pressed against Steve’s chest and any other time you would have been embarrassed, but you were still too panicked to be thinking clearly. Your fingers curled into fists at his chest, gripping his shirt, and you grounded yourself to him. It was the present, you were not in that car anymore. You repeated the words in your mind as Dustin and Steve kept arguing. 

“I didn’t - I didn’t know that would happen. When she drives at night she’s fine.” Dustin sounded upset, and you felt a flash of guilt for how long you had kept this bottled up. 

You remembered the first time it had happened, and how it had flipped Eddie, who was already a terrible driver, out. He had pulled over and had to spend fifteen minutes calming you down. Driving wasn’t the problem. If you were driving, you were in control. You were the one who could keep everyone safe, but when someone else was driving, if they got distracted, it could mean another death. “It-it’s okay,” you gasped out, and you knew you should pull yourself away from Steve, but you didn’t want to. He was your anchor, and you were scared if you pushed yourself away you’d be thrown right back in that memory. You realized how pathetic you must look though, and loosened your grip on his shirt. “I-I I’m sorry.” You whispered.

Steve’s hand grabbed one of yours. It was swollen and bloody, but you didn’t care. It was something else to keep you in this moment. “It’s okay, stay here until we stop all right? Then we can murder these shitheads together.” 

You let out a shaky laugh, and let yourself rest back against his chest. Keeping your eyes closed, you tried to make yourself concentrate on lining your breaths up with Steve’s and not how fast the car was going. When it screeched to a halt, you let out another gasp and Steve squeezed your hand. You heard the kids moving out of the car, and then you allowed yourself to look up at Steve, who hadn’t moved. “I’m sorry I freaked out.” You told him, embarrassment heating up your cheeks. 

He was shaking his head before you could even finish. “You don’t have to apologize for that. It’s those assholes who should be apologizing.” 

A weak smile formed on your face. “I know you didn’t get to meet her, but El is pretty awesome. They want to help her.” 

“So what you’re saying is, they’re not gonna give up.” Steve said, watching them out the open door as they all ran around to gather supplies. 

You shook your head. 

Steve groaned. “Shit, shit, shit.” You watched as he climbed, well stumbled is probably a better word, out of the car.

You were still shaking, but nowhere near as bad as earlier. The car had stopped, and you were back on solid ground. You knew if you and Steve were going to keep these kids from killing themselves, you were going to have to get it together. So you took what felt like your first deep breath in years, and climbed out after him, grabbing a hold of the door when you had a momentary dizzy spell. 

“Get me my shit Henderson.” Steve said to your brother as he made his way to the back of the trunk. “I’m not going to have all of you die on my conscience.” 

Moments later Dustin was handing Steve a backpack and his bat, and handing you a flashlight and a bag of who knows what. You followed the kids to a hole that Mike and Lucas had already jumped in. Steve stumbled down before you, and once again, you found yourself worried about his injuries, and if he could even handle this. You didn’t say anything though, just let out a sigh and jumped down. 

You hadn’t even noticed Steve was waiting there to catch you, and heat rushed to your face as he put you on the ground, your faces inches apart. “Uh- thanks.” You said, your voice still a little breathless, but this time you didn’t think it was because of the panic attack. 

Steve nodded, and you took a step back, turning your attention to the tunnel around you. 

You’d never seen anything like it. It was covered in black vines with white particles floating in the air that you were sure weren’t supposed to be inhaled. There was something so . . . Uneasy about it. You couldn’t ever recall feeling so unsettled. 

“Holy shit.” You heard Steve murmur behind you. 

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure it’s this way!” Mike yelled, pulling you out of your thoughts. 

“You’re pretty sure, or you’re certain?” Dustin called from behind you. 

“I’m 100% sure! Just follow me and you’ll know!” Mike called back frustrated. 

“Woah, woah, woah, hey!” Steve rushed forward, and you grabbed his arm to help steady him when he stumbled. “I don’t think so. Any of you little shits die down here, we’re getting the blame.” He gestured towards the two of you. “Got it dipshit?” Steve told Mike, snatching the map from him. 

As you looked forward a little bit of panic made you bite your lip. You really weren’t sure if Steve was physically capable of this right now. “Steve . . . Maybe you should let me take the lead on this.” You said, giving his arm a squeeze. 

Steve turned to you, but you couldn’t read his expression with how covered up his face was. “If I’m not letting them lead, what the hell makes you think I’d let you?” 

Irritation, and you were surprised it took you this long to feel it, flooded your body, and every bit of worry about his state left your body. Did he not think you were capable of handling this? Much less that he could control you if you decided to? “Let me?” You said, the tone in your voice telling him to reconsider his words. 

He held his hands up defensively in front of him. “Yes, yes, I know you’re a badass, but that doesn’t mean I’m not going to try and protect you.” Steve said, and started walking forward and gesturing to the kids to follow him as if his words hadn’t stopped you in your tracks. 

Steve Harrington, the most popular boy at Hawkins High, wanted to protect the nerdy school slut. If you had told yourself this a year ago, you would’ve thought you were out of your mind. He meant it though, you could sense how genuine he was with his words. A warm feeling settled in your chest to replace the irritation, and you were too stunned to even argue anymore. 

“Are you sure the two of you aren’t dating?” A muffled voice said, and you turned around to see Max, and below her googles you could see a raised eyebrow. 

Her words startled you so much you stumbled back from the force of them. “W-What?” 

She shrugged. “He seems to care about you a lot. Just an observation.” She said, before following after the others as if she hadn’t rocked your world either. 

When Dustin stopped in front of you, you were already rubbing your forehead, nervous about what other thing was going to be revealed to you. “What?” You groaned. 

“I’m sorry- About the car.” He continued when you looked confused. “I didn’t - I didn’t think about Dad. I just didn’t want to leave you there in case Billy woke up-”

You felt bad, reaching out to wrap an arm around your little brother’s shoulders. “It’s okay, Dustin. You didn’t know.” You started to lead him towards the others. “We can talk about it after we save Will and Eleven, okay?” 

Dustin nodded, but still looked upset. 

After what seemed like miles, and a slight scare when Dustin inhaled some of the dust things that were flying around, all of you entered a chamber. A chamber where multiple tunnels seemed to meet. “All right Wheeler,” Steve said, taking a look around. “I think we found your hub.” 

“Drench it.” Mike said. 

You all ended up covering as much as you could of the place in gasoline, and then all gathered back in the way you came, Steve in front with the lighter, and you right behind him with the rest of the kids all gathered around you. “You guys ready?” Steve asked. 

After everyone affirmed, Steve looked at you. 

You nodded. 

It didn’t take long for everything to catch fire, and your hand reached for Steve’s jacket, almost absentmindedly clutching the fabric in your fists as the tunnels seemed to come alive. The vines flew up into the air, tangling around each other. It was almost as if they were . . . Screaming. 

“Let’s go!” Steve yelled, and took off at a run back through the tunnels. 

As you had before, you took up the rear, letting all the kids ahead of you and making sure no one was left behind. In fact, you kept such a close eye on them, you didn’t see the vine until it was too late. 

Once you hit the ground, you watched in horror as it wrapped around your leg, crawling up your body and pinning you to the ground. You let out a scream, attempting to kick it off of you, but it was no use. It had you in too tight of a grip, and terror filled your body as you felt one of them wrap around your neck. You heard Dustin scream your name, and everybody started running back, Mike and Dustin grabbing a hold of one arm each and trying to tug you out of the vines’ grip. 

“Back up!” You watched with wide eyes as Steve ran towards you, and swung his bat down on top of the vines, making them almost screech and let you go. You let out a gasp of relief, and Dustin and Mike let go of your arms as Steve held one out to you. 

You took it without hesitation, and let him help pull you up. When you were standing, he didn’t let go of your hand, giving it a squeeze.

“You okay?” He asked, and the concern in his eyes was clear. 

Your heart was still pumping fast, but you weren’t so sure it was the vines anymore. Afraid to speak, you nodded, giving his hand a returning squeeze. 

That’s when you guys heard the growl. 

Steve’s reaction was immediate. He used his grip on your hand to tug you behind him, and the rest of the kids hurried behind the two of you, except for Dustin who was staring at the demodog. “Dustin! Get away from that!” You hissed. 

Dustin held up a hand to all of you. “Trust me. Please.” 

“I absolutely do not trust you right now. What the fuck-” You tried to go to him, but Steve kept you behind him, his eyes locked on Dustin and the demodog who you now realized was Dart. “Is this shit working?” You whispered to Steve as Dustin began to get some candy out of his backpack. 

“Looks like it.” Steve said, sounding as confused as you felt, but nevertheless, when Dustin gestured for you all to run past Dart, you did. It wasn’t until you heard the growling again, this time way more than just Dart’s, that you started running again. You helped Steve get the kids back up the rope, Dustin making it through when shadows started appearing on the wall. “Come on! I’ll hoist you up!” Steve yelled at you. 

You looked up at the hole where the kids were screaming at the two of you to hurry, but you knew it was too late. You’d never both get up in time, and the thought of leaving Steve down here wasn’t an option. Especially not after what he’d done for you in the car. “I’m not going without you Harrington.” You told him. 

The only part of him you could see was his eyes, darkening slightly as they looked at you. He didn’t have the chance to say anything as the first creatures appeared around the corner. You let out a noise of surprise as your back was pressed against Steve’s chest with his arm around you in an iron grip, his bat at the ready in the other. 

But they ran right past you. 

You heard Mike say Eleven’s name, and realized that she must be closing the gate. You looked up at Steve, who still had you pressed against him even though the dogs were long gone. He seemed to be in another world, staring at the spot the dogs had disappeared to. You knew you should say something, but you couldn’t help but take a second and absorb how it felt to be held so tightly. Somehow Steve felt . . . safe. It was like nothing could touch you because you knew he was going to protect you. Not to mention how it almost seemed like you just . . . fit against him so well. 

Oh god you could not be having those kinds of thoughts about Steve Harrington. That wouldn’t turn out well for anyone. 

Your hand reached up, grabbing his arm that was still around you and giving it a squeeze. “Hey. You okay?” 

The words seemed to shake him out of his thoughts, and he looked down at you, his voice a little breathless when he responded. “Yeah, you?” 

You shrugged. “I guess I’ve been worse.” You admitted. “Now, can you help me get out of here?” You asked, nodding towards the hole. 

“Next time would you just listen to me and go when I tell you?” Steve asked, letting go of you. 

He didn’t take a step back though, and you didn’t either. Instead you turned your body to face him, shaking your head. “Sorry, I won't abandon my friends to their certain death. You’re going to have to get used to it.” You said with a shrug.

You couldn’t see his face still because of the handkerchief, but there was a note of amusement in his tone when he replied. “We friends now, Henderson?” 

A smile formed on your face as you looked at him. You hadn’t even had a second thought about the words before they left your lips, and you were startled to realize that they were true. “Yeah, Harrington, I think we are.” The two of you were friends. You could share more with him than most now. 

So why did the word friend still feel weird on your lips?

[odditycircus-2002]

Scorpion loves and is protective of his two girls, Quan Chi’s Daughter and Granddaughter, so much! Being protective and caring towards them, he wouldn’t allow anyone to harm them, so interactions with other characters about his love and protectiveness towards them? Especially fierce one towards villains who may potentially lust after his new wife for power, beauty, etc?

Scorpion Speaking About His Family Intros

A/N: Luckily for you, thy muses and hyperfixation speak to me today! And if you'd like context for what they're talking about, click here and here.

Sub-Zero

Sub-Zero: Your second chance at life has been most fortuitous, Hanzo.

Hanzo: I never expected to marry or be a father once more.

Sub-Zero: May there be no mercy toward anyone who would dare go after them.

/

Hanzo: Y/N is truly my better half.

Sub-Zero: Then let her patience and wisdom continue to guide you.

Hanzo: How else do you think the Shirai Ryu became stronger again?

/

Night Wolf:

Hanzo: It's because of Y/N that I learned to let go of my rage long ago.

Night Wolf: Yet, you almost killed your wife because of your need for vengeance.

Hanzo: I need no reminder, Night Wolf.

/

Night Wolf: I remember first seeing Y/N on Shang Tsung's island.

Hanzo: She accompanied me to see if her training was fruitful.

Night Wolf: She seemed too fond of you even then to just be your instructor.

/

Jax Briggs:

Hanzo: Before Y/N, I never thought I would give my heart to another woman.

Jax: Much less a demoness related to Quan-chi?

Hanzo assertively: My wife is nothing like that sorcerer.

/

Jax: How do you not worry so much when D/N is off on missions?

Hanzo: I fear for my daughter's safety, but I trust her training will serve her well.

Jax: There's only so much you can prepare them for.

/

Frost:

Hanzo: Sub-Zero would've benefited more if he had a student like my daughter.

Frost: Why would I want to be anything like Miss Nepotism?

Hanzo: It's not nepotism that made you lose to D/N repeatedly.

/

Frost: To kill you, I'll kill your wife and daughter first.

Hanzo: Lay so much as a cold finger, and my fire won't even leave ashes behind!

Frost: They make your fire weak.

/

Shang Tsung:

Hanzo: Y/N helped me kill Quan-chi.

Shang Tsung: I always knew Quan-chi couldn't keep control of his spawn.

Hanzo: Perhaps I shall give her the honor of beheading you.

/

Shang Tsung: Your wife is quite the rare gem.

Hanzo: You will not lay a single claw on her, Shang Tsung.

Shang Tsung: I'll have both her beauty AND her power.

/

Shao Khan:

Hanzo: Why do you question my wife's realm of origin?

Shao Khan: I see none of its fire burning within such a pathetic excuse for a demon.

Hanzo: Only because you're fortunate has none of that fire been directed towards you.

/

Shao Khan: Your wife would do better as one of my assassins.

Hanzo: As if Y/N would ever let herself be subjugated again.

Shao Khan ominously: She will if she ever wants to see her husband and clan again...

/

Noob Siabot:

Hanzo: For some reason, that's beyond me, Y/N pities you.

Noob Saibot: The shadows do not NEED her pity.

Hanzo: Then by some miracle, we are of the same mind.

/

Noob Saibot: Y/N wastes her potential with the Shirai Ryu.

Hanzo: She realized her true strength with her real family.

Noob Saibot: What strength can be gained from an inferior clan?

/

Kano:

Hanzo testily: Why such a keen interest in my daughter?

Kano: She got all her mum's finest features and less demonic drama.

Hanzo: Then I'll send you to the Netherrealm myself.

/

Kano: I can't decide who's more of a beaut, your wife or your Sheila.

Hanzo: You are not worthy to even lay an eye on them!

Kano: I'll send them my regards after I deliver them your eyes then.

[sissylittlefeather]

Kinktober Day 5: Orgasm Control

Tease

Warnings: 18+ minors DNI, cussing, kissing, fingering, oral sex (f receiving), mention of squirting, teasing, public play

Word count: ~1.5k

Elvis catches your eye across the party and winks. You should roll your eyes, but you can't. Instead you blush and look down at your drink. He wore that damn leather outfit without a shirt underneath it even when you'd begged him not to. He'd originally had a shirt under it, but you had ruined it when he threw you on the bed and licked your pussy until you squirted all over him. You apologized profusely, but he just laughed and pulled it off, putting the jacket back on and zipping it a couple of inches.

"Baby, no, you have to wear a shirt. Or at least zip it."

"Why?" He looked at you mischievously. "This gonna drive you crazy?"

"You know it will! The black leather was bad enough!" He just laughed and slapped your ass.

You know he loves to torture you like this, especially when you're out and about and desperately need to keep your cool. Tonight you're at an after party for his opening show in Vegas and you suspect he's just getting started. You watch as he tries to refocus on his conversation, but a few seconds later, he excuses himself and walks over to you.

"You alright, honey?" You look up at him not amused.

"No. You know exactly what you're doing."

"Awww, hon, I ain't doin' shit. Yet." He grabs your hand and drags you out of the party to the bathroom just down the hall.

"Elvis? What are you-?"

"Take your panties off."

"What?"

"You gonna argue with me?" He gives you a stern look and you know better than to say no. That'll just make it worse. You shimmy out of your panties and let them hit the top of your shoes. He bends over and picks up each foot, pocketing your panties. Then, he starts pressing soft kisses to your thighs and you realize where this is going.

"Elvis, I've already cum three times tonight. You think you're gonna-OH." He's spread your thighs and has his tongue shoved inside you. You whimper as he pushes it in and out and then moves up to your clit. It's still a little swollen and sensitive from your activity before the party, but he doesn't care. He goes to work licking over and around your hardened bud and you start to sweat. "Elvisssss"

You feel him smile as you hiss and start to lose control. Yet another orgasm starts to gather in your hips and just before you cum, he pulls back and stands up, rearranging your skirt.

"What? Why?"

"Oh, I'm not anywhere near finished with you tonight." Your pussy clenches around nothing and you almost slap him.

"I'm gonna kill you."

"Not before you cum, you won't." He smirks and pats your ass. "Let's get back out there."

You groan loudly and follow him out of the bathroom and back to the party, hoping your arousal doesn't run down your leg since he's stolen your panties. He gets you another drink and then starts to move about the room talking to people. You try to focus on talking to people, but your clit is positively throbbing from being so close to an orgasm. Finally, you start to calm down a bit, but it's like he can sense it. He shows up behind you and wraps his arms around your waist. You can feel where he's got his erection tucked up under the waistband of his leather pants and start to get wet again. He whispers in your ear.

"You're dying for daddy to fuck you, aren't you little one?" Your breathing picks up and he lets out a small laugh. "My girl is so bad."

He leads you over to a chair and then sits down, pulling you into his lap. You're not sure how he manages it, but he gets his hand up between your thighs without anyone noticing. Or if they notice, they don't act like it. He starts to move his thumb over your pulsing clit and growls in your ear again.

"Oh, baby, this pussy is so needy." He slides his long middle finger inside you and you have to work to contain the yelp of pleasure that threatens to escape. You whisper through gritted teeth.

"You're really gonna do this now?"

"You belong to me, honey. I'll do whatever I want, whenever I want. You really complainin'?" He leans in and kisses your neck as he continues to finger-fuck you under your skirt.

"No." It comes out as a half-moan. He feels your walls start to flutter around him as your climax approaches and pulls his hand back quickly. You turn and look at him with a shocked look on your face, nostrils flaring as you try to control your breathing.

"What? I need to talk to more people." He pats your bottom to indicate that you should get up and you almost scream at him, but you know you can't. You stumble to your feet and press your thighs together to keep from dripping. "I'll be back, baby."

He walks away from you and goes back to chatting with the other guests. You try to make small talk, but your pussy is aching for him and you start to consider going to the bathroom and finishing yourself. When you decide you can't stand it anymore, you excuse yourself and head towards the door. Of course he notices.

"Where ya goin' honey?" You get out to the hallway and turn to him.

"I'm going to finish what you started before I drip on the floor."

"Aw, doll, you know I can't let you do that."

"You're not the boss of me!" You shriek at him frantically. He laughs and walks towards you until your back is pressed up against the wall.

"Oh, but I think I am."

"Daddy, please, I gotta cum or I might die."

"You're not gonna die, little one." He gently kisses your lips and then your neck and collarbone. He grinds his hips against you, pressing his dick against your center. You moan loudly, almost completely losing control. His hand trails up your thigh, grazing your clit lightly.

"Fuck!" You whimper. He grins against your skin and nips you with his teeth.

"Does my baby wanna cum?"

"Yes, daddy, please." His fingertips find your clit and he rubs over it hard.

"Oh, God." You hold onto his shoulders as he flicks your button and you're damn near there when the door opens and Charlie pokes his head out. You groan loudly as he pulls his hand back again.

"Boss, the camera guys are looking for you." Charlie realizes what is happening and clears his throat awkwardly. "Fuck, I'm sorry, boss."

"She's the one you need to apologize to." You glare at Charlie.

"Sorry, y/n. They just told me to come get him." Elvis kisses your forehead.

"I'll be back, honey. Don't touch yourself. I will not be pleased." He looks at you sternly again and you nod reluctantly. You take his hand and let him lead you back into the party once more.

Another 20 minutes pass as he walks around the party. This time he keeps glancing at you, though, and you can tell he's eager to get back to you and let you finish. You make eye contact across the room and bite your bottom lip, rubbing your thighs together. He notices what you're doing and inhales sharply, excusing himself from the conversation.

You don't even wait for him, you just head to the bathroom. In the hallway, though, he grabs you and directs you towards the elevator. The doors slide open and he pushes you into the small car, barely waiting for the doors to close before he's on his knees with his tongue in your pussy. He grabs your thigh and puts it on his shoulder to give him better access and licks you like his life depends on it. You're so turned on from all his teasing that you cum within seconds, one hand tangled in his hair as you moan and cuss loudly. He tongues you through your orgasm and then pulls back, leaning his forehead against your abdomen.

"Is the party over?" You ask tentatively. You've got what you wanted, so now you can think about other things. He looks up at you from where he's on his knees.

"It is for me, baby. If I don't fuck you soon, I might die." You cup his cheek with your hand.

"You won't die, baby."

"Oh, don't you dare be like that." He stands up and grabs the back of your hair, kissing you deeply.

"Like what?" You look up at him innocently. The elevator doors slide open and he doesn't even think. He throws you over his shoulder and carries you into his suite. You giggle and squeal and he slaps your ass.

"You're gonna let daddy fuck you, little one." He grunts.

"We'll see." You say, teasingly.

But you know you will. You always do. And it's worth it every time.

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

@ccab @atleastpleasetelephone @deltafalax @msamarican @angschrof @lustnhim @jhoneybees @polksaladava @searchingforgravity @librababe99 @hooked-on-elvis @peaceloveelvis @your-nanas-house @makethemorning @theelvisprincess

Anyone else want a Kinktober tag everyday?

[snowshowerwriting]

Whumptober Day 2: Trust issues | Role Reversal

It's 11:59 Wednesday somewhere in the world still...

TW: Post-battle/fight disaster, off screen death, hints towards abusive dynamics

The Villain couldn't breathe. Debris crashed all around them, and the air was filled with dust and ash. It took the villain a few seconds to orient themselves upright again, knees shaking as they stared at the wreckage ahead of them. When the reality set in, their heart sank.

Everything was ruined. The lair was broken and bent beyond recognition. The home they had once shared with friends, with people who were like family to them was gone within seconds. The Villain took one shaky step forward, and then another before breaking out into a run towards where the piles of wall and debris sat.

They kneeled on the rubble and began to dig through it. There was only one thing in their mind right now- to find the Supervillain, to know that he hadn't died. The only sounds were the fragments of brick being tossed to the side and the ringing in the Villain's ears. Although they were calling out for the Supervillain's name, they could barely hear their own voice beyond their panicked thoughts. They couldn't take in a proper breath between heaving sobs.

"Villain!"

Very vaguely, the Villain recognized the voice of the Hero far behind them in the aftermath of the battle. This wasn't supposed to happen, the Hero wasn't supposed to take it this far, and the Supervillain wasn't supposed to be hurt, he wasn't supposed to be dead.

"Villain!" This time, a strong grip had taken hold of their arms and spun them around. Villain's breath hitched as the shock began settling, and the numbness in their hands went away. They hadn't realized how badly their body was scrapped up until the Hero squeezed their hands. Every little mark lit on fire.

"Gods, are you okay? What are you doing there?" The questions were accompanied by gentle hands brushing the villain's bangs back. Villain recoiled at the touch, almost stumbling back at the unsteady ground. "Don't you dare fucking touch me!" The venom in the Villain's voice had caught both the hero and themself by surprise.

The Hero stared at the Villain, confused at first and then they tried to approach the Villain again. The shock had left the Villain now, and anger began brewing anew within their veins. "Don't you dare take another step to me," they seethed. Between the blurred vision and the anger and panic buzzing in their body, the villain didn't notice the hero's expression darken. They didn't notice the change in the hero as the reality of the Supervillain's death settled in. What would they do now? Their home was wrecked and their one true friend was gone and-

The villain was forced to look up, their face being held in the sharp claws of their enemy. They couldn't help the choked-up sob as the Hero kneeled down to meet them on the ground. All the kindness in their eyes disappeared, replaced with the cruelty the villain had seen during the making of this destruction.

"Get yourself together, Ok?" The Hero's voice was low. Quiet, and yet, the Villain could still feel the goosebumps rise on their arms and the hair on the back of their neck rise. They tried to get themselves together, through their trembling hands and relentless tears and all. "You're ok," the hero told them, and the villain could only nod yes. "You'll be fine with me, if not better." The soft voice did nothing to hide the threat.

The Hero's nails dug into their cheeks, a subtle warning before they stood up. "See?" the hero sighed, and rested their hand on the villain's shoulder. "Come on, let's go see the rest of my team. We'll get you back in the base and into the right shape." The villain bit their lips to hold back another outburst and nodded. As the hero led them out of the rubble, they couldn't help but look back. Their home was gone now. What safety existed has been destroyed. Where would they go now?

aaaa not the proudest of this honestly. Maybe I'll rewrite it someday? Anyway, I'm starting to get back into writing after, what? 2 years? This snippet is honestly not the best work but.. hopefully, by the end of October, I develop into a better writer? Idk, we'll find out