#metal bed frame for hotels

[officefurnitureindia01]

Managing Space: Embracing Simplicity with Metal Bed Frame

In today's fast-paced world, simplicity is often the key to efficiently managing our living spaces. Among the many furniture options available, metal bed frames are notable for their sleek style, durability, and versatility. Whether you want to tidy your bedroom or maximize space in a tiny flat, metal bed frames provide a solution that combines usefulness and design.

Simplifying the Bedroom Space

Finding the right combination of practicality and beauty is one of the most difficult aspects of room management. Metal bed frames excel in both areas, with clean lines and a simple design that immediately provides a sense of spaciousness. Unlike bulkier timber frames, metal bed frames are lightweight, which visually opens up the room, making it appear larger and more inviting.

Read more about our website: https://officefurnitureindia.in/bed-frame/

Durability for Long-term Management

Managing a room requires investing in durable furnishings. Metal bed frames are known for their durability, making them ideal for long-term use. These frames, made of durable materials such as steel or iron, are designed to withstand regular wear and tear, ensuring that your bedroom stays a refuge for years to come. With proper care, a metal bed frame can last a lifetime, providing dependable support for your mattress and assuring a good night's rest.

Flexibility in Design and Function

Metal bed frames also have the advantage of being versatile in terms of design and functionality. Metal frames come in a range of styles, ranging from classic to contemporary, and can match any bedroom decor. Whether you want a minimalist Scandinavian appearance or a more industrial aesthetic, there is a metal bed frame to suit your needs. Furthermore, many metal bed frames include built-in storage alternatives such as under-bed drawers or headboard shelves, which provide additional space-saving solutions for effectively managing your home.

Simple Maintenance For Hassle-Free Management

Managing a room becomes much easier when furniture maintenance is hassle-free. Metal bed frames require little maintenance, making them an excellent alternative for busy folks. Unlike wooden frames, which may require regular polishing or refinishing, metal frames may be cleaned with a moist cloth and mild detergent. Their non-porous surface also makes them resistant to dust mites and allergies, resulting in a cleaner interior environment.

Conclusion

In conclusion,managing a room can be difficult, but with the correct furniture, the process becomes lot easier. Metal bed frames provide the ideal balance of simplicity, durability, and versatility, making them a great choice for any bedroom. A metal bed frame is the right choice for decluttering your space or maximizing storage. Metal bed frames, with its elegant form and ease of maintenance, make room management a breeze, allowing you to focus on creating a calm and welcoming environment for rest and relaxation.

Source URL: https://officefurniturein.wordpress.com/2024/02/19/managing-space-embracing-simplicity-with-metal-bed-frame/

[hotelsupplier]

16" king Size Metal Bed Frame | Platform Metal Bed Base | AGH Supply

Looking for a sturdy and reliable bed frame for your hotel or  guest rooms? Our King Size Metal Bed Frame is heavy-duty and built to  last.

Made from high-quality materials,  this bed frame is strong enough to support even the heaviest of  mattresses and can withstand frequent use without losing its shape or  stability.

With its sleek and modern  design, this bed frame is the perfect addition to any hotel or guest  room. It is easy to assemble and comes with all the necessary hardware,  making it a hassle-free option for busy businesses.

Order your King Size Metal Bed Frame today and give your guests a comfortable and reliable sleeping experience.

[scealaiscoite]

⋆˚࿔ one hundred paired prompts 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

¹⁾ a pot of fresh coffee and split knuckles

²⁾ orange peels and a car battery

³⁾ sand dunes and leather boots

⁴⁾ a printer and a knife

⁵⁾ incense and handcuffs

⁶⁾ a crushed velvet sofa and a video camera

⁷⁾ stale cigarettes and cotton candy

⁸⁾ loose change and headlights

⁹⁾ grey hairs and a gold belt buckle

¹⁰⁾ burnt coffee and grass stains

¹¹⁾ cherry cola and blue jeans

¹²⁾ chipped green nail polish and an empty dinner table

¹³⁾ a stack of paperwork and metal music

¹⁴⁾ a patchwork quilt and sweet tea

¹⁵⁾ a hockey sweater and a two-seater sofa

¹⁶⁾ perfume oil and rolled up shirtsleeves

¹⁷⁾ fallen leaves and guilt

¹⁸⁾ radio channels and a birthday card

¹⁹⁾ ravens and meadowsweet

²⁰⁾ apologies and bitter red wine

²¹⁾ library books and pouring rain

²²⁾ a breathalyser and popcorn

²³⁾ princess plasters and iodine

²⁴⁾ a tote bag with one broken strap and a winding staircase

²⁵⁾ a parasol and a tumbler of straight whiskey

²⁶⁾ fresh honey and a cult

²⁷⁾ wisdom teeth and blue eyes

²⁸⁾ sour cherries and a stolen hoodie

²⁹⁾ the flu and a heatwave

³⁰⁾ a boonie hat and a sunset

³¹⁾ vanilla perfume and a kitchen counter

³²⁾ a buffalo skull and a leather armchair

³³⁾ a throw pillow and a doorway

³⁴⁾ pink fluffy handcuffs and an unexpected guest

³⁶⁾ a package and a divorce

³⁷⁾ a stripper pole and a hangover

³⁸⁾ familiar cologne and a black eye

³⁹⁾ a lit candle and a snowstorm

⁴⁰⁾ an unsealed letter and a fallen pine tree

⁴¹⁾ headlights and footprints

⁴²⁾ a blocked number and traffic lights

⁴³⁾ a racesuit and a countdown

⁴⁴⁾ a butcher’s apron and a phonecall

⁴⁵⁾ battered comic books and a broken window

⁴⁶⁾ cold floorboards and a roommate

⁴⁷⁾ smooth vermouth and gold rings

⁴⁸⁾ a lip piercing and a rough hand

⁴⁹⁾ someone’s spare room and an eclipse

⁵⁰⁾ a game of mahjong and bad jazz music

⁵¹⁾ a jigsaw puzzle and a mortuary

⁵²⁾ a broke-up sidewalk and a knitted scarf

⁵³⁾ a poundshop wig and broken glass

⁵⁴⁾ a bunk bed and a crush

⁵⁵⁾ a red ink tattoo and a dinner gone cold

⁵⁶⁾ a warm palm and a flannel shirt

⁵⁷⁾ fresh basil and a half-empty bottle of arrack

⁵⁸⁾ a nightclub bathroom and smeared eyeliner

⁵⁹⁾ a busted lip and strawberry icecream

⁶⁰⁾ a floral-patterned dress and a looming balcony

⁶¹⁾ peach pits and a pressed shirt collar

⁶²⁾ a white mercedes and cheap perfume

⁶³⁾ a fwb and a housekey

⁶⁴⁾ a blue sarong and a fingertip tracing over a scar

⁶⁵⁾ a sauna room and a terse exchange

⁶⁶⁾ fried plantains and a briefcase

⁶⁷⁾ dried lavender and a tiled bathtub

⁶⁸⁾ a hotel room and a bouquet of lilies

⁶⁹⁾ sweet mango lassi and a suitcase

⁷⁰⁾ orange streetlights and a nightmare

⁷¹⁾ a crucifix and a thigh tattoo

⁷²⁾ a palm tattoo and the thrum of a heartbeat

⁷³⁾ a champagne room and a police siren

⁷⁴⁾ blue nitrile gloves and a hickey

⁷⁵⁾ a double-wide trailer and shotgun shells

⁷⁶⁾ stitches and pyjama shorts

⁷⁷⁾ karaoke and a snowdrift

⁷⁸⁾ an older man and a twin bed

⁷⁹⁾ chinese takeout and a graveyard

⁸⁰⁾ wet clothes and ambulance sirens

⁸¹⁾ carbolic soap and a creaking staircase

⁸²⁾ an undercover assignment and wrung hands

⁸³⁾ the back seat of a limousine and bustling night streets

⁸⁴⁾ a steamed-up bathroom and cold floorboards

⁸⁵⁾ a grand prix and a breakup

⁸⁶⁾ a third place trophy and a picture frame

⁸⁷⁾ the last slice of birthday cake and crossed legs

⁸⁸⁾ squashed raspberries and heated cheeks

⁸⁹⁾ pink lipgloss and brass knuckles

⁹⁰⁾ a ghost mask and a late visit

⁹¹⁾ loose bullets and slashed tires

⁹²⁾ a tactical belt and patterned bedsheets

⁹³⁾ a goaltender’s stick and a lonely walk home

⁹⁴⁾ a dog bed and a migraine

⁹⁵⁾ lit billboards and a floor-length gown

⁹⁶⁾ a divebar negroni and a game of pool

⁹⁷⁾ olive trees at harvest time and divorce papers

⁹⁸⁾ a caviar bump and vanilla coke

⁹⁹⁾ a whale tail and pantsuit

¹⁰⁰⁾ legs thrown into a lap and calloused hands

[some-bunniii]

ayo some luci angst just popped into my head, like….

imagine Lucifer falling in love with an employee at the hotel but their soul is owned by alastor and like?? luci is not happy about that.

*slams google docs on table, opens random 1.2k wrd snippet #234* behold…

x: GN!reader, no use of y/n

EDIT: read the full fic here

“What is this?” 

Lucifer had asked suddenly, his pupils dilated, trained on something against your throat. 

You sat on the edge of your bed, thumbs rubbing together in a soothing motion as you watched him move closer to you. Gulping, you parted your lips to speak.

You didn’t get a chance to say anything, before his hand gingerly lifted towards you. His nail grazed against your collarbone, and heat blossomed underneath your skin from his touch. 

‘Please, just stop here,’ you silently begged, eyes squeezing shut as his finger rested against your figure, ‘don’t ruin this moment by digging any farther.’

Your reaction only spurred him, however. Lucifer’s eyes narrowed, his pupils thin slits now as he watched you.

Slowly, his finger trailed upward, skin brushing softly against yours as he traced the invisible force only a powerful demon could see. Your heart beat rapidly in your chest, every movement of his only quickening its pace. 

Until his hand stopped, right in the middle of your neck, and you felt a sizzling against your skin. The heat was becoming too much, and you wanted to pull away from his touch. You didn’t, instead, you tensed, deathly still before him.

A soft golden light illuminated from Lucifer’s palm, as his fingers wrapped around an invisible object. A shadow formed in his grip, and he tugged at it, that glow in his palm growing stronger.

Backing away, he pulled a long, thin chain from your figure, it snaked from your throat as it followed his grasp.

He yanked it harshly, as if trying to free you of a parasite that found a home deep in your bones. But it only dragged across the floor, refusing to dislodge itself from your body.

A thick, metal collar snuggly encompassed your throat. The chain locked tightly against it, a vivid reminder of your poor decisions.

Lucifer’s palm slid across the cold, metal links. Eldritch magic seeped from its form in the shroud of thick fog. Archaic symbols danced at the edge of your vision as its glow illuminated Lucifer’s unreadable expression.

The chain was a sickly green, its harsh glow an annoyance to his eyes. It was embedded with a dark, chilling magic. Whispers of untold horrors and ancient curses coiling around you, promises of a fate worse than death. 

Lucifer could practically smell it, that red demon's aura as it encircled around your frame. A twisted signature, practically scrawled across your forehead like a stamp of ownership.

Oh, the audacity of a person to take such a kind, selfless soul and rip it away from its owner. 

You weren’t some dog to be beckoned at the flick of a wrist. You were so much more than that, you deserved so much more than that. 

Yet here you were, the clasp around your neck like a shadowed hand, softly squeezing the life out of your eyes. He could see it, clear as day.

Small, white horns protruded from his head as he clenched the chain tighter. He tugged it once, twice, as if testing its durability. You leaned back slightly, the chain becoming taught between the two of you.

That collar around your throat kept you locked in place, as you watched him turn the chain in his hands. For a moment, Lucifer’s figure melded into the horrid shadow of your owner, and your eyes widened in fear at your delusion.

You could see it, feel it. Your stomach brushing the stained carpet beneath you with that haunting figure bent in a sickly, twisted angle in front you. That chain wrapped around the radio demon’s hand as he threatened you with terrible acts if you failed to stay in line.

Seeing your face contort into pained anguish only caused Lucifer to bare his teeth slightly, the sharp edges glinting in the light.

Seeing it so deeply entwined with your very being only further spurred the king’s anger. It seeped quietly from him, his grip tight against the chains as if trying to snap them with his bare hands.

“Who did this?” He hissed, his gaze boring into yours. He wanted to hear you say that demon’s name, wanted to hear you confirm the truth that was so obvious in front of him. 

You knew he wasn’t angry at you, but still you bowed your head slightly. Averting your gaze from his pleading eyes, shame slowly clawing at your stomach. For a moment, you felt like throwing up. Wanting to rid yourself of the terrible feeling that was seeping into your skin.

You felt like crying, or throwing yourself into his arms. Wanting to melt into his hold, and be told again and again that everything would be alright. That the most powerful man in hell would come to your rescue.

But, deals that bartered in souls are a much more difficult magic to conquer.

Fighting the urge to collapse into his embrace, you steeled yourself. Hands planted against your knees, back straight in a pathetic attempt to have some kind of power in this moment. 

Your eyes sullenly traced across the harsh links of the chain, its form all too familiar by now. Yet, it still caused such grief in your bones no matter how many times you looked upon it over the years.

Slowly, your eyes shifted to meet his gaze. Your lips curved into a frown at his expression, and your predicament.

How were you supposed to tell the love of your life your soul didn’t belong to you? That you were trapped in a deal of your own making? 

Curse that little fine line in your deal that kept your mouth sealed shut, that prevented you from uttering his name.

“I-I..” You desperately tried to speak, to tell him the truth, but that invisible hand that pulled at your tongue forced your silence. Tears pricked at your eyes, the desperation in them evident as your attempts to explain only died behind those pretty lips of yours.

As your mouth shut in frustration, Lucifer’s anger only heightened. His eyes flared into a blood-red glow, a harsh change from that soft yellow radiance you often found yourself lost in.

He pivoted harshly away, his voice contorting into a snarl as he stalked out of the room. His overcoat appeared atop his shoulders, and it swished behind him as he moved. 

Lucifer’s thoughts were too tangled with the images of his claws wrapping around the deal-makers throat to sit there and console you.

The tears that had threatened to spill finally rolled down your cheeks, your lip quivering as your eyes lingered on the doorway he had just exited. His thoughts too mangled with the image of his claws wrapping around the deal-makers throat to sit there and console you.

Placing your face into your hands, you sobbed quietly. 

Oh, how that regret had begun to consume you as you continued to wallow in your self-pity. 

Regret, for thinking that giving away your soul was a simple feat. That somehow, you’d still be happy after the fact. 

Regret, for falling in love when you knew the deal that kept you to that deer demon’s side would never allow you to enjoy such a fleeting emotion. No matter how hard you clawed to Lucifer’s soft embrace, that chain would always be there to drag you back. 

Those soft whispers of affections, of promises you couldn’t keep. Knowing, one day, that constant-smiling demon could play his little games and tear you away from your lover’s hold forever.

Oh, what a lovestruck idiot you are. 

thoughts?? this is just an interesting concept to me and i rlly wanted to share it with you guys! i woke up at like 4:30 am today and was like ‘what if..’ and this is what came of it haha

and mmm alastor makes a such a good bad guy too depending on the context x)

[mariahcarreyyy]

i hear u are looking for landoscar x reader smut ideas, and i raise you oscar domming tf out of lando and reader!!

CAUGHT ORANGE-HANDED, ln4 [+ op81 ]

pairing lando norris x fem!reader x oscar piastri

plot oscar catches you and lando touching each other without permission

wc 2.6k

warning(s) smut 18+, dry humping, brat!lando and brat!reader, brat-tamer!oscar 😉, caught in the act, male masturbation, cock denial (?), orgasm control, cumming in pants, lan and reader r obsessed with oscar's cock, mutual oral sex (m!recieving), lando gets a facial😵‍💫, degradation kink (slut & brat), and lots of swearing

“I'm home!” Oscar’s voice echoes along the long, carpeted hallway of his shared hotel room.

He frowns at the response, or lack thereof. Shrugging his midnight blue puffer jacket off his shoulder, the younger Mclaren driver toes out of his shoes and scopes out the miniature living room in search of his two lovers.

When he reaches the end of the hall, he’d half-expected you and Lando to be lazily splayed against the couch, legs entangled with one another while watching your latest Netflix obsession.

But you two aren't.

Oscar had come ‘home’ aggravated and sweaty and in some serious need of a long, warm cuddle with the two people he knows he could unconditionally count on, and you two aren't fucking here. 

He lifts his hand to thread his fingers through his hair, tugging on it out of frustration, before pulling out his phone to text, Where are you?, to either one of you.

And then he ascertains his answer without needing to ask.

A string of desperate moans and whines, a man’s and a woman’s, slide through the cracks of his bedroom door and slowly fill the air around him. Oscar scoffs; they really can’t spend a second together without needing their cocks wet and pussy stuffed to the brim, huh?

Somewhere amidst the non-existent space between your covered, wet pussy and the bulge in Lando’s tight boxers, the fear of Oscar catching you looms over the lust-filled haze enveloping the room.

“Osc’s s'posed to be on his way, baby,” Lando manages to gasp out like he wants you to stop, but his hands’ metal grip on your waist never falters and his green eyes never leave yours.

It was a weak warning; Lando was aware, but the sight of you on top of him, steadying yourself with your palms flat against his stomach to move your hips fervently against his crotch—fuck, it made him even weaker.

You hum nonchalantly in response, eyes rolling to the back of your head when his trapped cock nudges at your neglected clit again, “Don’t care, need you, Lan.”

The curly-haired boy groans at that, planting his feet on the bed to meet your languid movements. The friction was so much and still so little, so far from what you two truly wanted.

“Fuck, me neither.”

When you double over and pucker your lips slightly above Lando’s, he can’t help but grin into the kiss. It’s desperate, laced with unimaginable hornyness and clashing teeth, and Lando can’t fucking stop.

“Pathetic, honestly, y’sluts couldn’t even wait a couple hours for me?”

You gasp into your boyfriend's lips, halting every one of your movements (much to the displeasure of the stirring pit in your lower stomach). Lando pinches your waist, resulting in you scrambling to sit upright and crane your head back to look at a very beautiful, very angry-looking Australian standing in the doorway.

“Hiya,” Lan smirks mischievously at the muscular frame of his boyfriend behind you, lifting his head slightly to do so.

You mentally palm your forehead.

“Hiya?” Oscar furrows his brows, advancing towards the edge of the bed. “That all you got f’me? C’mon, Lan, you wanna come tonight or not?”

Your eyes roll back, this time in annoyance rather than pleasure. “Knock it off, Oscar, it’s not that big of a deal. We were horny, so what?”

Oscar’s big brown eyes meet yours for the first time since he’d arrived, and you fight the urge to crawl in a hole and die because, judging by his glare, he’d murder you instead. The paler boy raises a questioning brow, his eyes flitting between you and Lando, never leaving your curious glances when he begins ripping every piece of clothing adorning his body off.

And fuck, his body was something to gawk at. Oscar’s abs are still tense and sweaty from the workout his trainer put him through earlier, but the real sight for sore eyes was his thick, hardening dick between his even thicker thighs.

Evident with the hopeless roll of Lando’s hips, Oscar had the same effect on him as well.

“Oscahhh, c’mere,” the man underneath you demands, one of his big palms leaving your waist to make grabby hands at the paler man standing beside you.

Much to your surprise, Oscar complies. Big, stoic, text-book-dom Oscar Piastri fucking crawls up the mattress from behind you—his breath tickles your neck and a pathetic whimper slips from your lips—reaches over your shoulder to tug Lando up forcefully from his hair and starts noisily kissing him.

Right over your shoulder, beside your face.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. They had no right to look that good, like they were carefully sculpted by the Greek gods themselves, made for each other. Made for you, too.

Lando presses himself impossibly closer to Oscar's lips, his chest flush against your perky tits and Oscar’s against your arched back—you are sandwiched between them, and it does nothing to help the growing dampness on your panties.

A minute passes. Somehow, neither of them has lost their breath, and you want to absolutely sob because the ache between your thighs is screaming for relief. Huffing at the lack of attention, you grind your hips: first, downward against Lando, and then, grinding your ass against Osc’s heavy cock.

“Oscar, come on!" You whine, tilting your head back to bury it in the crook of his neck.

Like a light switch flipped, Oscar rips his tongue out of Lando’s mouth and nudges his shoulder to push you off of him before whispering hotly, “It’s not that big of a deal, y/n.”

There it was. The big, stoic, text-book dom places his hands under Lando’s on your hips, squeezing painfully at the itchy lace of your panties. Also making you so fucking horny.

“Osc, c’mon, y’know she didn’t mean it li-,” Lando’s words die in his throat at the sharp glare Oscar shot at him.

“A slut defending a slut? Hm, nothing’s changed, I see." Oscar trails his palms up the sides of your frame, passing over Lando’s darker hand as he continues. “I really don’t get why you guys didn’t just wait for me, would've given one of you m’cock.”

You and Lando whine in unison, and it's music to Oscar’s fucking ears.

Jutting your bottom lip out, you counter, “You still can, Osc.”

Oscar's lips twitch upwards, grabbing Lando’s hand and placing his index and thumb on your tits, tweaking at the nub through Lando’s long fingers. A needy moan escapes your lips, grinding on Lando’s covered dick and shit, you need it now.

Your fingers glide downward through the hardness of Lando’s abs, tugging desperately at the hem of his boxers.

Oscar tuts disapprovingly, dropping Lando’s hand from your tits—you and the pleasure pooling in your stomach whine in protest—before ordering, “Y’two can grind on each other till you come, but the underwear stays on.”

Lando pouts, his hands moving up to palm your hardened nipples, flicking at the nub, and talks to Oscar behind you like you aren't writhing on his lap.

“Lan,” you gasp when his squeezes escalate faster and rougher, the hint of pain overshadowed by the pleasure coursing through your body.

They both ignore you.

“Osc, please,” Lando begs, helpless at this point, tears brimming at his waterline because, my god, his boxers were about to fucking rip open at the sheer size of his hard cock.

You want it stuffed inside you so bad.

You can’t see it, but you feel like you can when Oscar grins behind you, pulling his heated body away from the curve of your back and crawling up to the bedpost beside Lan.

Now, you could see both of their faces clearly: horny, hot, and flushed. The younger driver places one arm behind his head, his bicep bulging to the size of your head, while the other grips at the base of his throbbing cock.

Holy shit, your panties were absolutely soaked, seeping through their seams and wiping the slick of your pussy onto Lando’s boxers.

“C’mon,” Oscar urges, lazily stroking his precum around the length of his cock. “I wanna watch.”

Lando lets out a low groan before his hands leave your tortured tits to cup your cheeks and press his lips against yours. It was messy and a bit awkward, and you couldn’t care less. When Lando slides his crotch against the dampness of your underwear, you're powerless to resist a loud moan.

“Fuck,” you whine against his pillowy lips, meeting Lando’s desperate ruts and arching your back when the head of his cock nudged at your swollen clit. 

When you detach from him for air and glance at Oscar, you finally register the loud wetness of him fucking his dick into the circle of his fingers. And shit, the thought of him getting off on the sight of you and Lando desperately humping each other makes you way hornier than it should.

“Fuck, baby,” Lando moans, eyebrows furrowed, and mouth caught in a permanent ‘o’. “Y’so good, so good, y/n, fuck, I’m close.”

You whimper, head hazy at the sound of the three of you getting off to one another, and your thighs burn at the erratic movements of your hips. That doesn't deter your hips from moving frantically as you get drunk on Lando’s mewls and Oscar’s raspy groans.

So, when Lan’s rugged fingertips brush against your sensitive nipples once more, you can’t help yourself when it throws you off the edge; your back arches almost uncomfortably with your head thrown back and bottom lip between your teeth, filling the room with a symphony of high-pitched moans.

“Shit, shit, shit." Lando throws his head back against the pillow, and you bend to place your wet lips against his wide neck.

You nibble, kiss, and suck the canvas of his neck, muffling the sound of your overstimulated moans as Lando chases his high against you.

“Fuckk, you two’re so fucking hot,” Oscar groans, hastily sitting up on his calves to jerk his dick off beside Lando’s face. Lan instinctively opens his mouth, tongue poking out slightly and hips stuttering, when Oscar paints his face with beads of milky cum.

Naturally, you whimper—both at the sight of your boyfriends and the feel of Lando’s boxers dampening more when the mix of his own cum and yours stain the cotton.

Fuck, you'd be inexplicably horny right now if you hadn't just come. Oscar’s still kneeling beside Lando, frozen and wide-eyed and panting for air. And, even after reaching his high, Lando’s hips slow but do not stop from under you, like he can’t fucking help but grind against you.

The last thing your eyes registered before falling pliant against your boyfriend's chest was Oscar gathering his cum on Lando’s face with his thumb. Lando’s lips part, and he obediently sucks on Oscar’s thumb with a muffled moan.

You could die happily like this, you think, sinking further into the bed when the warmth of both your lovers arms encircles your frame.

“You two still aren’t getting my cock for a week, by the way, serves you brats right.”

And Lando, because he can't take a fucking hint, grins at Oscar and asks, "Can I suck you off?"

You start, "Lan, you dumbass-"

"M'kay," Oscar cuts you off, retracting his arm from around your waist and scooching up the bed to lay his head on the bedpost.

The grin etched onto Lando's face only widens, his big hands hauling you off of him before crawling into the V of his boyfriend's legs. Oscar, despite having come a few short minutes ago, is already half-hardened at the sight of Lando gazing dumbly at his cock.

"Desperate much?" you coo from beside him, although you too felt the pit in your stomach stirring again.

Not so pleased, Oscar extends his arm to the space between his legs and motions you towards Lando. You don't blink before obeying him. In fact, if it meant touching or feeling his cock in any way, shape, or form, you think you'd do anything he'd ask of you right now.

You mimic Lando's position: lying down beside him on your chest with your face millimetres away from Oscar's dick. A familiar fire courses through your abdomen as Oscar shoves his hands into your and Lando's locks.

"How 'bout whoever sucks me off best gets my cock, hm?" Oscar says it like a question, but you and Lando know better than to reply. "That sound good for you brats?"

The two faces behind his cock nod frantically with a newborn competitive glint in their eyes. At the confirmation, Oscar wastes not a second before tugging on Lando's roots to wrap the elders' lips around the head of his cock.

You bite your bottom lip, rubbing your thighs to try and ease your pussy screaming for attention—it does fuck all. Oscar has his head thrown back, silent moans escaping his parted lips as his boyfriend lapped at the underside of his length.

"Shit, Lan, just like that, fuck," his hips buck uncontrollably, lifting Lando's head off his cock—who only whined at the loss—and pulling you down onto him instead.

With a slight jerk of your head, your hot mouth closes around his cock, hollowing out your cheeks to suck more of him. You swallow the gag threatening to leave your mouth when his length hits the back of your throat, the hand on your hair clenching painfully but oh-so-beautifully.

Oscar's groans bounce off the walls, nearly overpowered by the lewd slurps and gags from his cock in your mouth, "Holy shit, oh fuck, Lan, fuck, yes, yes."

Your brows furrow, gazing up at Oscar's fucked-out face, before the realization that Lando had managed to sneak a hand around the base of Oscar's cock, mouthing desperately at his balls, dawns on you.

You pull off Oscar with a cough. "Lan, fuck off, j's lemme have this, Jesus."

With a fond mix of a chuckle and a moan, Oscar hesitantly bats Lando's hands and mouth off of him, motioning for you to continue. So, you do. You clasp your fingers around the parts of Oscar's cock that your throat couldn't reach and cup his balls with your other hand, bobbing your head mercilessly up and down his length.

Lando whines (he doesn't know if he wants to be Oscar or you, but he pouts anyway), and you continue absolutely wrecking Oscar.

"You're so good, y/n, fuck! So good, so," Oscar groans, his chest rising and falling rapidly; his sweaty abs contracted ethereally, one of the few indications that he was close.

Humming around his cock, you pull off reluctantly for breath, and Lando, that sly bastard, takes it as his cue to replace you. Your throats' fucked raw and the exhausted flush on your face trails over your entire body, so you tiredly rest your forehead on Oscar's inner thigh, occasionally kissing and mouthing at the flesh.

Oscar's hand leaves your hair and places both of his palms on Lando's bobbing head, fucking up once, twice into his boyfriend's throat before groaning loudly, "Fuck, shit, holy shit, I'm coming, I'm co-."

Ropes of hot cum dribble down Lando's chin when he hauls himself off of Oscar's length, and you have to resist the urge to lick it clean. A loud exhale leaves Oscar's lips, his dick slowly softening and his hand returning to the top of your head to stroke your hair fondly.

"So?" you question, your voice raspy and lust-filled.

"Lando won," the younger man grins hazily, chuckling when Lando lets out a proud 'hmmph' directed at you.

You gasp, "Liar!"

"Y'can't tell the guy who just came from my mouth a liar, baby," Lando quips, nudging your shoulder with his.

"I can when he's a liar," you mutter bitterly before your eyes light up. "I call for a rematch!"

authors notes thank you @ashiekins ur request was also inspo for this fic and to @cafekitsune + @saradika for the dividers xx

lemme know how you liked this story or give me some feedback in the comments or my inbox! 💬🌷

taglist @lorssworld @multifandomwhore-003 @lewislcver @millinorrizz @starz4me1 @uniquesludgeoperabonk @cinnamongirlontv @avngrsz @sydneyxposts @annahowardsworld @eternally-writing-main @leeangelis @i-wish-this-was-me @elisim @forza-dolce @serenity-contreras @tiredallthetimex @golden-flora @landosgirl @beyond-the-ashes @simple-soul-searcher @formulahuh @piastrification @topguncultleader @peachyplumsss @jenniferrvsesi @lonely92world @ashes2ashesweallfall @d4mi3nn @babyblue-99s-blog @poppyr22ussell @crimeshowjunkie @simpingcorner @aexitizen-ln4 @danielmarie @2412kcal2000 @eddiesbitch83 @sigistarkstrom @cassielikereading @tsukishimawhore

p.s reblogs and likes are always appreciated 💕💕

[eroselless]

PATO - FOUR

series masterlist | part 2 | part 3

[charles leclerc x reader, carlos sainz x reader]

warnings: pregnancy, insecurities, mentions of sex

note: part 4! We’re jumping back this time! Some more backstory is developed here. I thought I was going to be able to put in some sexy time for you guys but it kept getting longer and longer and I didn’t want it to drag on for too long. Hopefully soon though! Happy reading <3

SPAIN, MAY 2023

2nd trimester/month 6/week 24

You stare at your phone, a sour look on your face. It feels like he is doing it on purpose. Or at least, it seems like the universe has it out for you. You hold your breath as you look through the photos, gnawing at your lip as you do so. Their blissed-out faces are so obvious, creating a sinking feeling in your stomach. Charles and Alexandra are on his boat in Italy, captured by the paparazzi. In the first picture, Alexandra lies on her back, her head turned to the side, while Charles hovers over her, placing a kiss on her lips as he grips the side of her face. You see that he is wearing the shorts you gifted him for a trip you took long before everything began to fall apart. Like turning on a movie, you see the memory playing behind your closing eyelids. You trace your fingers over the bow of your lips as if to further summon the scene from the back of your mind.

You see yourself tangled in the hotel sheets one bright morning, gasping as Charles loses himself between your thighs. His striped bathing suit is in your line of view as you writhe under his touch. It's strung up just beyond the open bathroom door, still wet. You still feel the ghost of his touch embedded in your skin as if the healed marks left behind by his lips are still fresh. Purple and red, his tongue tracing over his work, soothing your aching flesh. Your eyes snap open, halting the memory from continuing.

Your eyes float back down to your screen, looking at the next picture. The next image shows Alexandra standing, lips pursed and pressed tightly against Charles, her hands gripping the robe he wears. She is clad in a sleek swimsuit that further accentuates her slim frame, dipping low in the back to reveal smooth, flawless skin, and cutting high at the hips to emphasize her long, toned legs. You turn to the mirror that stands a few feet away from your bed, your phone suddenly forgotten on the sheets.

Letting out a shaky breath, you swing your legs over the side of the bed and pull yourself to your feet. You tug lightly at the t-shirt you wear, your tummy protruding out a little more. Your hands smooth over it, caressing it tenderly. Rubbing at the fabric, another memory illuminates your mind.

“Have you seen my –” Charles freezes in his tracks as he moves into your shared kitchen, clad in only a pair of shorts. His eyes travel over your frame as you turn from your spot at the fridge, hands full of ingredients for breakfast. Your hair is tousled and pulled into a loose bun. “Your what, mon coeur?” you ask, cracking some eggs into a metal bowl.

He shakes his head, a smirk playing on his lips. “Never mind,” he chuckles, circling the kitchen island that separates you to plant a heated kiss on your lips. You lean into him, pressing yourself to his chest as he pulls the air from your lungs. Hands moving over his shoulders, you fiddle with the hair at the base of his neck. Tugging teasingly at the hem of the shirt, he pulls away, a smirk still evident on his face.

“It looks better on you anyway.”

You pull it off in frustration, tossing it to the other side of the room. Leaving you standing in small shorts and a sports bra, you examine yourself in the mirror.

You had noticed the changes before, but the increasing volume of photos of Charles and the very beautiful Alexandra couldn’t help but make your skin crawl and feel uncomfortable. It was a feeling you couldn’t quite place, bubbling deep within you. Those stretch marks used to be smaller; you could fit into those jeans a week ago; why can’t I fucking tie my shoes?

The door creaks open before the tears threaten to spill over, Ines peeking in. “Mamita, pensé que todavía estabas tomando tu siesta,” she says, her expression puzzled. I thought you were still taking your nap. You shakily inhale while pulling a discarded sweater over your head.

“I just have a lot on my mind,” you reply, dismissing the worry in her voice. She wraps her arms around you, rocking slightly as she does. She pulls away, giving you a dopey smile. “Come, let's have a little bocadito before lunch," she suggests softly, not prying but offering comfort through her presence. Snack. You nod, wiping at your waterline as she guides you out of your bedroom and into the kitchen.

You settle at the table, mind trying to swat away the thoughts still buzzing in your head.

“You know, querida,” she begins, glancing over at you as she lifts mugs of coffee from the counter and brings them to the table. “You haven’t been out in a few days. Didn’t you mention running into an old friend the other day?”

You glance up, meeting her eyes, and a gentle smile plays on her lips. “Oh, you mean Carlos? Yeah, while getting your groceries.”

She nods, smile widening. “You should give him a call and see what he’s up to.” She shrugs, a glint in her eye you don’t yet recognize. “It’d be nice to catch up and have some fun while you’re at it.”

You hesitate for a moment, suddenly not sure if you should take him up on his offer and ask to see him. You chew at the side of your cheek before sighing and giving in. Nodding, you reach for your phone. “Alright, I’ll call him.”

Your finger hovers over his contact number as nerves seem to ripple through your body. When you press it, it rings a few times before he picks up, answering. His voice is gruff like he had only just woken up from a nap, just like the one you’d been trying to take. It sounds cheerful nonetheless, warm and inviting.

“Hey! How are you?” He greets. You can’t help the soft smile that blooms on your face.

“Hola, tú. Are you busy today? Maybe you could show me around? I’ve been in this town for a while, but I still don’t know much about where to go to have fun here.” You’re picking at your nails as you wait for him to speak, anticipation building in you. Hey, you.

It’s like you can hear his smile from his voice as it sounds through your phone. Carlos chuckles. “Claro que sí. How about I come to pick you up, and we can spend the afternoon together? I know just the place.” Of course.

He gives you an hour to get ready before he arrives at your aunt’s house. He comes to the door, greeting her with a kiss on each cheek and a bear hug. When you go to leave, she raises one eyebrow at you, that twinkle in her eye returning. You smile, as you close the door behind you and make your way to Carlos’s awaiting car.

He opens the door for you, waits for you to buckle in, and the two of you make your way down the road with the promise of a quick walk and a picnic.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

The sun hangs lower in the sky, casting a warm golden glow over the path you trudge on. You feel yourself growing warm as you walk next to Carlos.

“You said this would be an easy walk,” you tease, sweat beginning to bead on your forehead. “I think your definition of easy and mine are very different.”

He lets out a chuckle, nudging you playfully. “Ya vamos a llegar, no te preocupes.” We’re almost there, don’t worry.

You crinkle your face at him, letting out a huff, and he sticks out his tongue teasingly. He’s right though, as not fifteen steps later, he pulls off the path into a wide glade. The view is breathtaking as you wander further into the green grass. There are clusters of flowers spread out through the glade and tall trees that provide shade from the sun. “Look at this place, though. Totally worth it, right?”

Carlos throws a blanket over a spot under a tree before placing the basket on the ground. He hesitates as he goes to sit down, spotting you struggling to sit on your own.

“Espera, espera,” he says, clambering over to you. Wait, wait. He links his fingers with yours, gesturing for you to start sinking down to the ground. You do as he says and settle comfortably on your spot on the blanket. “There we go,” you mumble quietly, a little breathless.

Sitting down, Carlos begins pulling out an assortment of sandwiches, fruits, and a bottle of water. He extends his arm toward you, a sandwich sitting in his hand. You accept it with a smile, biting into it.

“So,” he begins, following your lead and taking a bite of his sandwich, “how have you been adjusting to life here?”

You take a moment to chew and swallow before replying, almost timidly. “It’s been…interesting,” you say, leaning back on your free hand. “It's so different from what I’m used to but in a good way. Sometimes I find myself missing the constant movement of Monaco, the noise, the rush. But it’s nice to hear the silence. There are things I miss more than others, some I don’t so much.”

“¿Como qué?” he asks, the question slipping out before he can really think it through. Like what? He regrets it as soon as he lets it slip from his lips as if he already knows exactly what you’re going to say. His eyes soften at you before speaking again. “You don’t have to share if you don’t want to. I’m just curious, that’s all."

You hesitate for a moment, your gaze shifting to the blanket beneath you. There's a sudden feeling of nervousness that settles over you. You’re unsure about opening up to Carlos. He wasn’t a stranger but he wasn’t someone you were used to confiding in regularly either. You remembered the times you’d seen him at the garage, your casual conversations, the friendly banter. He had always been kind, approachable. But this was different.

“No, it’s okay,” you reassure him. “I guess it’s a little complicated,” you say slowly. “Sure, there were many times when I was by myself, but being in Monaco felt like Charles was anchored to me, that he would eventually miss me and come home. I miss that.” You can feel a lump in your throat as you explain. “When the times were good, we could do anything and be content with simply each other’s presence. I thought we were happy.”

Carlos watches as you swallow thickly, his big brown eyes offering an understanding gaze. He’d always seen you as a strong woman, standing by Charles’s side as a pillar; someone calm and quiet. But here he could see a different side, tender and chipped, broken in some spots. He reaches for your arm, squeezing gently. “It sounds like you miss that connection then, the innocent intimacy.”

You nod, eyes glazed over slightly. “Yeah, I guess I do. It’s hard to let go of something that was such a big part of my life. Especially when I see... when I see Charles moving on so easily. It makes me question a lot of things." Your hand goes to your belly, fingers rubbing at it tenderly. There’s that feeling again, from earlier when you stood face-to-face with yourself.

Carlos’s hand still sits on your arm, his touch reassuring. “And that’s completely normal, you went through so much together. But that doesn’t mean you aren’t allowed to move on and find your own happiness.”

You bring your eyes up to his, locking with his warm brown eyes. There’s a sparkle in them that makes you feel seen and understood. Something that seemed to fade between you and Charles as you neared the end of your relationship. “Thanks, Carlito,” you say, teasing him with a nickname you’d come to hear from his father once or twice in the garage.

You smile at him, suddenly noticing how good he looks under the light of the setting sun. Just like how he's seeing a new side of you, you can see a different side to him. He looks relaxed as he sits under the tree with you. He's not as stoic as he looked all those times you saw him before every race, and his smile is more genuine than the one he uses with most of the general public. His hair is messy, falling over his forehead and curling upwards behind his ears. He’s wearing a loose white T-shirt that only pulls tight over his wide shoulders. You meet his eyes, cheeks feeling hot as he catches you shamelessly looking him over. You clear your throat, tearing your eyes away from him.

“Enough about me, what about you? Your love life is probably more interesting than mine.” Carlos shifts lightly, his tone turning contemplative. “Well, there is this one girl,” he begins. “She's great, really. Attractive, smart, we get along really well…” his voice trails off slightly. “But I don't know. It feels like there's something missing, we don't quite have that deep connection, that spark.”

You nod, understanding. “It can be hard to find that connection. Sometimes it's there and sometimes it's not.”

Carlos nods, his gaze thoughtful, and you recognize the way his eyes look forward, not looking at anything in particular, just lost. “I want something more, something real. Someone who really understands me, that I can truly connect with.”

You feel a slight flutter in your chest, a feeling you haven’t felt in a long time. You push it aside, a tingle of guilt shooting down your spine. Too complicated, too soon, you think. Instead, you find yourself absent-mindedly nodding, understanding what he means instantly. "Sometimes it just takes time to figure out if someone is right for you," you offer. "Or maybe you just haven't met the right person yet."

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

The hour passes quickly, with chatter and laughter being tossed between the two of you. There’s bittersweet reminiscing of old times and sharing stories of before your timelines came together in the Ferrari garage. As the hour passes, Carlos can’t help but steal glances at you, noticing how your eyes sparkle when telling different stories or how the wind pushes your scent his way whenever it dances through your hair. 

He lets himself unabashedly drink in every curve of your silhouette, every crinkle in your laughing face, and all the little gestures you make with your hands as you speak. He lets himself revel in your presence, something he couldn’t do when you were with Charles. It was a longing he had been suppressing out of respect for his teammate.

Eventually, you sigh, rubbing your lower back. "Carlos, I think I need to lie down," you say, your voice suddenly exhausted. “This little one is slowly starting to make things a little difficult.”  

Carlos nods immediately, starting to pack up your picnic. "Of course. Let’s get you home." You walk slowly to the car, the sun beginning to dip under the horizon as you climb into the passenger seat.  

The drive home is quiet, the atmosphere charged with unspoken words. The air feels heavier, the silence more meaningful. Carlos occasionally glances at you, his eyes searching for something, but the silence remains.

When you reach Ines’s house, Carlos gets out and walks over to your side. You smile sleepily as he reaches for your hand, helping you out. You ignore your quickening heartbeat as your hand links with his.

"Thanks for today, Carlos," you say softly, looking up at him.

He smiles warmly. “Anytime, I enjoyed it.”

At the front step, you hesitate, nerves suddenly overwhelming you. Carlos turns to you, the setting sun casting a warm glow over your features. He can’t help but admire how beautiful you look, your eyes reflecting a depth of emotion he hasn’t seen before.

You rise on your toes and press a gentle kiss to his cheek, your hand resting on his bicep for support. Carlos's breath hitches at the touch of your lips, his heart pounding. As you step back, your eyes lock for a moment, saying so much yet so little. You turn and open the door, warmth escaping into the chilled night. With your hand on the doorknob, you pause and look back at him one last time. “Buenas noches, Carlos.”

“Buenas noches,” he echoes.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

The days slip by seamlessly, and it seems Carlos is becoming a fixture on your doorstep. Often, he arrives with arms laden with fresh ingredients. He often loses himself in the kitchen’s warmth, occasionally offering you a spoonful of whatever he’s been cooking up, a playful dance of tastes and laughter filling the air.

One evening, as Carlos savours a spoonful of sauce, his approval spills forth. “Te quedó esta salsa bien rica,” he praises, stirring the pot with a satisfied grin. Your sauce here is very delicious.

You chuckle, shooting him a sidelong glance. “Me enseñaron bien,” you nudge him playfully, shoulders brushing. I was taught well.

In subtle ways, Carlos begins to make himself indispensable around the house. He tackles Aunt Ines’s unreachable sink leak, banishes the wobble from a chair deemed off-limits, and even lends a hand in her garden. Aunt Ines finds herself gazing at him with admiration, not just for his handy skills but also for the way he lifts you from your melancholy and paints a smile on your face.

You walk together one evening, a gentle breeze caressing your skin. Carlos swiftly sheds his jacket, draping it over your shoulders. Despite your attempts to suppress the fluttering butterflies that erupt in your tummy, your cheeks betray your feelings with a rosy hue as you look up at him.

"You didn't have to do that," you murmur, fingers fidgeting with the zipper.

"I wanted to," Carlos replies simply, his gaze lingering on yours a moment longer than necessary. Pausing in the middle of the street, you stand still, your breath catching as his fingers brush away a stray hair from the jacket's neckline. Your eyes fall away, a quiet anticipation hanging between you.

“Helado?” you exclaim, breaking the spell he has you under and dart towards an ice cream parlour nearby. "I'll have two scoops of chocolate, please," you request from the server, fingers drumming on the counter.

"Make that three," Carlos chimes in, flashing a grin at you. He pays for the ice cream and follows behind you as you gleefully find your spot at a table. 

As you lounge at the small table, you bask in the warm sun. There’s a mischievous glint in his eyes, like fireflies in the dimming light of dusk. Swiftly he dips his finger into the creamy confection, tracing a delicate line across the tip of your nose.

You gasp at the cold substance, a symphony of laughter escaping your lips. “Carlos!” you exclaim. He can’t help but laugh as you scramble to wipe it off, holding the napkins just out of your grasp. You narrow your eyes at him, angling your cone towards his face. Yet like the fast cars he drives, he moves, leaving a delicate smear of cream on his cheek. 

He freezes, jaw hanging open. You go to smear more over his other cheek as he pushes the ice cream away, shaking his head in playful amusement. You relent, letting out a chuckle as you plop back into your seat. 

"Nice try," he quips, his voice a soft melody in the evening air, as he reaches for a napkin to wipe away the cream.

The moment seems to slow, the world around you seemingly holding its breath as Carlos’s eyes flicker up to meet yours. With a gentle movement, he reaches out towards you, thumb tracing a soft arc over the tip of your nose. With a tender reverence, he brings his finger to his lips, tongue poking out and dragging over the pad of his digit, eyes never leaving yours. It sends a rush down your body, igniting something in your gut that is almost unrecognizable. 

You get pulled from your stupor as laughter rings through your ears. Your eyes land on a group of women, arms linked as they approach you. One of them speaks up as they pass by. "You two make such a lovely couple," she says, her voice soft but full of warmth.

You feel your cheeks flush with embarrassment, feeling like a deer in the headlights being caught doing something she shouldn’t be. Carlos grins at the woman, amusement dancing in his eyes. "Thank you," he replies graciously, arms swinging over to rest on the back of your chair. His gaze lingers on your warm cheeks before winking at the woman, sending her away with his signature smile.

a/n: Thank you to everyone for tuning in, any feedback, reblogs and likes are very much appreciated, I love seeing your reactions and notes! Love you guys lots!

tags: @kravitzwhore @janeh22 @apollosfavkiddo @leah-also-known-as-creatoronwp @tremendousstarlighttragedy @sltwins @bwormie @marshmummy@honethatty12 @staplerrrr @smithieandy @loloekie @musicheaux @jeondeluxe111 @dessxoxsworld @xoscar03 @emryb @yl90

[minniesmutt]

Lee know + human x grim reaper + 34) “Strung up with a spreader bar is a good look for you.”

☾ ━━━ PAIRING: LEE KNOW X READER ☾ ━━━ PROMPT: 34 "Strung up with a spreader bar is a good look for you." ☾ ━━━ CONTENT: GRIM REAPER!LEE KNOW, HUMAN!READER, SPREADER BAR, BONDAGE, MENTIONS OD AND DEATH, FINGERING, UNPROTECTED SEX, BEGGING, TEASING, DOM!LEE KNOW, EMOTIONAL IF YOU SQUINT ☾ ━━━ WC: 0.8K ☾ ━━━ if anyone remembers that grim reaper!lee know angsty smut one-shot I wrote on jonespicy, consider this a little part two (I'll transfer that fic another day) ☾ ━━━ 18+ work!! minors and ageless/blank blogs DNI! you will be blocked, put an indicator on your blog somewhere that you are 18+ before interacting with this work/blog

     Y/n looked at the stuff on her bed. Stood up by her hook-up that was so desperate to fuck her just to go back to his ex. Fuck her plans. Now she had nothing to do. She laid back on her bed, careful not to hit the spreader bar as she groaned. She was still getting off whether some dick head showed up or not. 

     After her overdose a few months ago, she’d been trying to live life to its almost fullest. Though she always felt like something was missing. No matter what she did, or who she hung out with; nothing seemed right. She just couldn’t put a finger on what she was missing.

     With a sigh, she sat up and grabbed the bar. Turning it in her hands, and Minho watched her from his corner. He wasn’t unaware of what she was in this hotel room for. But note he felt bad because she’d been let down by another person. 

     ‘Fuck it’ he thought “Need help?” he voiced 

     Y/n perked her head up and joked around, “Hello?” she asked 

     She scanned the room again before finally seeing the man in the corner. She jumped in shock, “How did you get in here? Who are you?” she questioned

     “Came in with you, kitten.”

     It was like deja vu. A whole other life replayed in her mind. She died, Minho let her live with him instead of crossing over, the hospital staff revived her and she completely forgot everything. ”Minho…”

     “Im hurt you didn’t remember me.” He scuffed and walked closer to her 

     “Am I dying again and I’m just unaware?” she asked 

     “No. I just got tired of hiding and watching you,” He said and leaned over her

     “Can I even touch you?” Y/n asked, dropping the bar and tentatively reaching for him

     Minho grabbed her hand and kissed her wrists. “Yeah. We can.” 

     Y/n smiled and grabbed his shirt, pulling him on top of her as she laid back. Minho caught himself just before crashing into her. “I do want help,” Y/n smiled 

     Minho smiled and pressed his lips to hers. Y/n moaned into the kiss as their hands fell into a frenzy. Pulling the other’s clothes off as quickly as possible. It wasn’t long before everything was gone and on the floor. Minho grabbed her legs and pushed them up towards her chest, pulling away from the kiss. 

     Y/n whined and tried reaching for him as he grabbed the bar she tossed aside earlier. Y/n watched him attach the cuffs to her ankles and then her wrists. “Everything feels okay?” He asked

     “Yes,” Y/n confirmed. 

     Minho also grabbed the rope she brought and secured her restraints to the metal frame behind her. The reaper smiled at the handy work

     "Strung up with a spreader bar is a good look for you," He joked

     “Are you going to keep starting or are going to fucking me?” Y/n asked 

     “Someone’s bratty,” Minho scoffed as he slipped two fingers into her, pumping the digits in and out of her

     “Min,” Y/n moaned

     “Maybe I’ll keep you like this the next time you die. Does that sound nice? Keep you tied up for me to use every day, whenever I want?” 

     “Please Min. Need you to fuck me,” Y/n whined as she nodded in agreement to his teasing. 

     “Yeah? No one felt like I did?”

     “No, no one felt good,” Y/n agreed as Minho pulled his fingers out of her.

     Y/n watched as grabbed his cock and then lined himself up at her at her entrance. Both of them moaning as he pushed into her. That’s what Y/n was missing. She was missing Minho. The reaper sank deep into her, his hands resting on the backs of her thighs before he started thrusting into her. Y/n knew nothing but his name at this point. He had barely done anything to her yet he had the effect of her. She had to die once to get it then forget about him.

     “You’re not leaving me again kitten. Can’t go that long without you anymore,” Minho groaned

     “Min,” Y/n whined as his thumb rolled over her clit. Digging her head back into the pillow and bit her tongue.

     “You’re all mine,” Minho groaned as he picked up his pace. Knocking the air out of her as she tugged against the restraints.

      “‘M gonna cum,” Y/n moaned

      “Go ahead. Mark me with your cum Kitten.”

     Minho fucked her at the same pace till she was shaking as she cane on his dick. The reaper groaned as she clenched around him tight. Fuck he missed her. He wasn’t far behind either, not when she was cumming for him and no one else— not than anyone else had made her cum since she was revived.

     He buried himself into her as his seman painted her walls. Both taking a moment to come down from their highs once they had finished. Minho slowly pulled out of her much to her disapproval. Minho smiled at her and undid her restraints before laying down next to her and pulling her onto him.

     “How long can you be like this?” Y/n asked

     “Probably not much longer,” Minho sighed, “I’ll always be around though. Until it’s your time again.”

☾ ━━━━━━ M.LIST    TIP JAR

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[apomaro-mellow]

Every Baby Needs a Daddy 5

Part 4

to tboyeddie and kas-eddie-munson: yall are on the right track ;)

to a-blog-of-negotiable-affections: i hope this part makes your brain just as goopy as the last.

Steve closed the door to the hotel bedroom. He thought about how he'd already been fucked in this bed. Then he wondered how much longer Eddie would be in town and what sort of bed he'd be taken in next. He went to the bathroom first, checking himself over. Eddie hadn't marked him up yet. But from the way he used his teeth, Steve could tell he wanted to.

He decided to give Eddie a few more minutes to get wherever he was going. In the meantime, he undressed, got comfortable on the bed and checked his socials before getting started.

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

Leaving Steve behind was probably the most difficult thing he had to do. But there was no getting out of it when his manager called a meeting like this. But he literally had a hot and ready omega waiting for him. So he was going to be diligent and knock this out so he could get back.

"Alright, I'm here", he announced, using both hands to thrust open the doors of the conference room. "You can all calm down now."

"About time." His manager had her arms crossed. Chrissy looked small and cute but Eddie only let that fool him once. She'd taken their band out of dive bars and brought them into relevance. The rest of his band was there as well, sitting around a table.

From how urgent it sounded, Eddie had a hunch this was about a future venture. Now whether it was a tour or a new album or something like that, Eddie was all for, and glad that they wanted him present for the strategy meeting. But Steve...

His phone buzzed with a text notification and he opened it, eyes bulging and closing it, looking around to see if anyone saw. Gareth was too his left, but with enough distance that he'd have to crane his neck to see his phone. Cautiously, Eddie opened it up again and swallowed.

Steve: Daddy left me all alone guess I have to play with myself Steve: image.jpeg

The picture was of Steve's mouth, his lips shiny with two fingers dipped down to the first knuckle. Eddie could tell from the framing that Steve was in bed, and at the very least shirtless. He put his phone face down but the image was burned in his head. Steve was naked in the hotel room, pleasuring himself, hopefully to the thought of Eddie.

"Got something on your mind, Eds?", Jeff asked when he noticed his strange look.

"Uh, just thinking about covers, you know, covers could be cool it's been a minute since we performed covers."

Gareth perked up. "What if we did a metal cover of a non-metal song? Those are always a hit."

Eddie smiled. They'd only done that live a couple of times but they did it a lot more before they got discovered. Between the four of them, they had varied music tastes and it was always a great creative exercise to change them to fit the new genre.

Then his phone buzzed again.

Eddie bit his lip and peeked at the new picture. This time it was of Steve playing with his chest, nipple pinched between two fingers. The last time they were together, he'd only gotten a taste of him. Eddie wanted more time to explore everything Steve had to offer. He needed more time.

The next picture came more quickly. This time it was of Steve's lower half. It started from his belly button to the very top of his crotch, those dark curls tempting before disappearing under the covers.

Eddie: Tease Eddie: I thought you said you were gonna be good Steve: I never said that

The next picture was of Steve's hand dipping under the blanket. Eddie turned his phone face down on the table again as he let his imaginations run wild. He tamped it down when Chrissy gave him a worried look. He really didn't need his pheromones stinking up the joint. If the boys knew he was mooning over the same omega as before, he'd never hear the end of it. They'd probably meet Steve soon enough anyway.

Steve: You're the one who said to keep it warm

The next image popped up but Eddie put his phone down before it could fully load, sure that it would be the end of him. Grant and Jeff were having a friendly debate on their outfits for the next show and Eddie couldn't hold back anymore. He opened up the image and was blessed with Steve's glorious, sopping cunt, spread out on white sheets.

Eddie bit so deep into his knuckle he would've tasted blood had Gareth not slammed his hands down onto the table. Eddie was glad that his friends were always so passionate about whatever adventure they were on. At times like these, it freed him from having to be an active participant.

Eddie: Behave

He tried paying attention after that. It was bad form to pop a boner and he'd get to sink into that sweet heat soon enough. He was going to knot Steve this time. He deserved it, his pussy was desperate for him and Eddie wasn't so unkind to deny him.

Now Chrissy was asking them about venues and Eddie was attentive and alert and had his head in the game and-

buzz

It was a video. Sent from Steve. Eddie sucked in a breath and quickly excused himself to go to the bathroom. Taking no chances, he plugged his headphones into the jack and locked the door to the stall. He saw thick, hairy legs that he was already familiar with but wanted to get to know even better. Steve sighed straight into his ears as he straddled one of the hotel's pillows.

"Wish it was you, alpha." He let out a small whine as he started to grind, no doubt getting the pillow wet.

Eddie palmed himself as he watched, wishing the same with all his might. Steve moaned, unbidden as he got himself off on the softness between his legs. Eddie pulled out his cock and it wasn't hard to imagine Steve sliding his pussy on it like he'd been trying to do to his leg earlier. He could tell by the panting that Steve was getting close and his hips moved quicker.

He moaned Eddie's name and collapsed, face still out of frame while his hips stuttered. Fuck, that pillow must be soaked. Eddie pumped his cock, just the thought of getting it wet with Steve's juices enough to push him over the edge.

After cleaning himself up, he locked the video. It was for his eyes only. He returned to the meeting, secret safe except it wasn't.

"Dude, you reek", Jeff said the moment he walked in.

"Yeah, does planning really get you that hard?", Grant teased.

"You know it does, Grant-master Flash", Eddie beamed. He shot off a quick message to Steve.

Eddie: Baby likes to put on a show hope you're ready for an encore later

Steve: 🩷

About an hour later, the meeting ended and Eddie was able to get back to Steve. He called out his name when he got to the hotel room and when he didn't get an answer, he went to the bedroom. There was his latest obsession, sleeping like an angel. Eddie walked over quietly, his nose catching the scent of the pillow Steve had used, lying next to him. Eddie buried his face in it, his tongue coming out to lick whatever was left.

Then he turned his attention to Steve. He was lying on his side, blanket only covering him from the hips down. It must have been very purposeful, because Eddie was able to see something peeking out. He pulled the cover down a bit to see a little sticky note attached to his pelvis. There was a little message, with an arrow pointing downwards.

Play with me until I wake up

Eddie could have thrown his hands up in praise. But instead, he would partake in the communion Steve was giving him.

Steve woke up from his nap to someone kissing his neck and kneading his chest. He let out a soft sigh when one of his nipples was pinched. The spicy musk of aroused alpha filled his senses.

"Eddie~", he breathed out as a hand trailed down his torso.

"I see you kept it warm for me", Eddie murmured, letting his fingers slip between his folds.

Steve was still half asleep and it made everything move like syrup in his mind. It was like an amazing dream that he didn't want to wake from. He spread himself as best as he could on his side and that gave Eddie room to start slipping his fingers inside.

"Daddy....Daddy..."

"I've gotchu, baby." Eddie started nibbling at his shoulder. "Think you can take my knot like this?"

"Yes", Steve answered right away, the remnants of sleep knocked from him at the thought of being filled like that. "Yes", he repeated, hoping it would spur Eddie on.

It got the desired result because he felt the tip of his cock rubbing up against him. Steve pushed back and Eddie pulled his fingers out, quickly replacing it with something better. Eddie meant to go slow, let them take their time because they had time. But Steve rocked back and Eddie pressed his forehead to his shoulder as he slid inside.

"Mmmmfuck, feel so good baby. So perfect for me."

"Only the best-ah-for my alpha."

Eddie couldn't let him get away. Not when he drove him wild like this. Even when he was done with this town and onto the next, he had to take Steve with him.

"Need you with me, need your sweetness. You'll want for nothing, baby, I'll give you anything."

For a split second, Steve wondered if his pussy was really that good to make Eddie babble things like that but the next moment he was certain that Eddie's dick was really that good. As it thrust into him, making wet noises in the room, Steve wanted to follow it around the world. If Eddie wanted to take him to the Arctic, Steve would be there, ready to sit on his face.

It was just as good as before, then Steve felt that knot pop in and he saw stars. Eddie bit into his shoulder as he felt Steve milking his cock. All that was missing was the feeling of actually cumming inside of him. Eddie always wrapped it up, obsessed with Steve or not. Until such a time that Steve confessed that he wanted Eddie's seed coating his insides then-

"Hey, you remember how you said we're exclusive?", Steve asked through pants.

"Yeah?"

"I'm thinking..." He craned his neck to meet Eddie's gaze from behind him. "I'm thinking maybe that means you can go without the condom."

Eddie's dick twitched from inside Steve. This man would be the death of him.

Too spent to go out, Eddie ordered them room service and Steve spent the night there again. Back at home, Steve contemplated looking up Eddie's band and learning more about them. He debated simply because he didn't know how much of it would come up. Eddie was taking him to a party. Would he be expected to know their hits? Or how respected they were in the business? Or their rivals were if they had any?

Steve couldn't help but compare this to the life he'd left behind. Being told to smile prettily while the alphas talked business. Eddie probably wasn't expecting him to know much about anything. He'd bought him a nice suit and would have something pretty to show off for the evening. That was Steve's job.

He let out a sigh and opened up his laptop. He searched up 'corroded coffin' and strapped in for the evening.

Part 6

I realized that while i've been tagging the a/b/o stuff, I never really put up a warning for the daddy kink stuff but like...yall read the title LOL

Tag Team

@awkotaco24 @lingeringmirth @littlewildflowerkitten @estrellami-1 @tartarusknight @velocitytimes2 @mrsjellymunson @trashcanniballecter @marklee-blackmore @dragonmama76 @paintsplatteredandimperfect @a-little-unsteddie @sllooney @starman-jpg @oxidantdreamboat @xxbottlecapx @chaosgremlinmunson @newtstabber @tiny-enthusiast @desidrarry-wolfstarshipper @y4r3luv @hello-fellow-nerds @anonymousbandgirl @alyelf @potato-of-the-lord @beckkthewreck @greatwerewolfbeliever @croatoan-like-its-hot @pluto-pepsi @abstractnaturaldisaster @ellietheasexylibrarian

[the-faceless-bride]

Pretty piggy in a cage...

Summary➡ Being Asa's newest and precious little butterfly, he feels the need to show his good friend Jesse... Only things quickly backfire as Jesse takes interest in his friend's little piggy...

Tags: @gothmothsiren @frostbitefae @wallywaffle @brwnicons

Warnings: Dark Content, sexual implications, Objectification, infantilization, marking, forced touching, forced kissing, body horror, some violence to reader, kidnapping, name calling, mentions of cannibalism, attempts of escape, Starvation, reader is described as having long hair at least shoulder length

You put yourself in his box. You had nothing left, nothing but the money you had saved, the clothes on your back, and those sweet eyes the strange Masked man seemed to enjoy so much.

You have never seen his face, and you honestly didn't care. All you knew was when he saw you he held your face in such a gentle manner, his gloved hand was gentle and held you softer than anyone ever had. His blacked-out eyes just stared into yours with such an enamored and curious look like you were the only thing in this world he wanted.

So when he picked you up and tried to lower you into the red box you didn't struggle, you tucked yourself into the box curling into yourself as much as you could to fit as comfortably as you could.

He seemed to enjoy that, he patted your head before stroking down to your cheek before slowly closing the box.

And once the box reopened, he held your shoulder moving you around the broken-down building that looked like it used to be a hotel.

The art around the building was... Interesting, the more you looked at it the more the stranger rubbed your shoulder. And once he lead you through a hall full of pounding locked doors, yelling, and people in cages the stranger held you to his chest.

He brought you into a bathroom and sat you on the plush pink stool. He picked up a soft-bristled brush and carefully brushed your hair, you sat there for a long time before he stopped and moved to open a wooden box painted with butterflies and lined with gems, pulling out pink and blue ribbons, sectioning your hair before trying the ribbons, looking at you in the mirror before reaching back into the wooden box and pulling out a gloss; squishing your cheeks making your lips pucker before smearing the glittery pink gloss across your lips.

He admired you for a moment before pulling a knife from a holder on his waist and using it to slice down your clothes, your shirt was first; he pulled the shirt off your shoulders from your front your best exposed to the cold air, you closed your eyes feeling the strangers gloved hands felt below your chest and felt around your ribs before moving to your hips and ripping your pants.

The strange man put you in a soft white dress, it fell to your knees in layers, a silk ribbon in the middle of your chest, soft long puffed sleeves felt smooth along your arms.

You hang your head as he presses what you think is a kiss you the side of your temple, putting a gloved hand on the small of your back and leading you through the building, he had to guide you around to not step in a trap or get glass stuck in your bare foot.

He picked you up, carrying you up the long flights of stairs before opening a heavily bolted metal door that had hanging flowers around the door; some were dead, and others seemed fake.

Upon entering the room, a large bed covered in ruffled sheets and fluffy pillows, a sheer curtain of some kind hung around the tall wooden frames around the bed. A pink fluffy carpet was placed on the oddly clean floor, the vanity mirror had a single crack running through it, and the large dresser doors were open exposing the hanging frilly dresses similar to the one you were currently wearing.

You're his butterfly; the pretty little thing he likes to observe and touches with such soft hands, showed off to the others who could only wish not to be in chains like you, to be able to wander around, to be able to speak without being beaten.

One day he seemed extra touchy with you, he put in extra effort to make you look the way he wanted perfect you didn't know what you had done to deserve the extra treatment but it was better than what anyone else was getting in this depressing hotel.

He braided your hair; intricately placing flowers in it, he put you in a bodysuit made of silk that showed more of your chest, around your waist he tied a wispy skirt that reached the floor; it was slightly sheer and also had flowers embroidered giving it a very whimsical look, finally, he actually put you in shoes; they seemed like warn down ballerina shoes, elegant and gold the flowers were delicate.

After giving you one last look before running a hand down your neck moving in close and pressing his masked nose to your hair taking a long breath.

He placed you back in your room, sitting you down on the fluffy rug and making a 'stay' motion before leaving the room; you didn't know how long he was gone for, but when he came back he wasn't alone...

A man walked in with him, he was tall very tall...strong and wore a sharp black suit, and a chrome skull mask.

The chrome stranger looked to the man who kept you in this room, getting a single nod from your kidnapper and he started moving towards you; you whimpered and slightly moved back, but when the black-masked man hushed you and the chrome stranger reached out to you, his hand ghosting over your braided hair moving to brush a finger under your eyelids and moving to your neck giving a small squeeze before continuing his journey, gloved hand moving down your chest across your stomach to your legs squeezing your inner thigh.

He was inspecting you...

He caught you by surprise when he lifted his finger to your nose and gave it a little flick before teasingly pitching your cheek.

What a pretty little piggy. What a Fine Catch Asa Found; Jesse thought. Looking up at him with those sweet pretty eyes of yours. Almost tempted to think of you as less of a piggy and more of a doe... A sweet fawn. Jesse stopped squeezing your cheek and moved behind you leaning to push his mask against your soft hair. What a sweet thing.

Asa and Jesse both take one of your hands and take you out into a separate area you've never been to before. The room had two comfy-looking chairs, plane walls, and a small fluffy 'rug' just to the right of one of the chairs, the room also had something you found interesting. It had camera monitors, and you really wish you could just look away.

The horrors of what you saw.

You knew to some degree that there were poor souls in this place and that something terrible was happening to them. But you couldn't imagine what was on the screens. Rows and rows of people that... Weren't even people anymore... Monsters. Real-life horror movie monsters. Body's mutilated some with multiple limbs, some blind, some with jaws broken and modified to be long and odd-shaped, some of them seemed to be in a room with other monsters and they were... Eating each other.. God. What is this place? Why? Why was this something that never crossed your mind before.? Was... Was this going to happen to you?... Was this his plan? Will this happen to you when he gets bored of you?!

You slowly sat on the small rug where you were told, your eyes never leaving the monsters on the screen.

The two masked men were signing at each other, communicating about something. You couldn't understand them, but you truly couldn't care.

And you felt an itch. An itch to run. An itch to get away. Not wanting to be the next monster...

You would've been fine... You could've ignored the itch... If it wasn't for that one moment. Where one of the monsters that was cannibalizing the other turned. And look right into the camera.... Right.

At.

You.

And you ran. And you seemed to catch both men off guard. As they had yet to catch you.

That monster... That thing...

The blood fell from its odd crooked mouth. It's red bloodshot eyes staring at you.

And it only got worse.

Along the walls of the hotel, bodies ripped open. Displayed like art. No. No. No. Please. You don't want this. You just wanted to be taken away from the mean world. And now you were stuck in an even crueler one.

Loud footsteps could be heard down the halls, you look and your eyes meet the ones of the masked man. The one who took you... The Master...

You started hyperventilating as you tripped over your own feet. One of your feet getting locked in a trap. You let out a yelp of pain. Almost sounding like a kicked puppy, as you fell to the hard cold ground.

You try and yank your foot out, but that only makes the trap worse. Making you cry out. The skull masked on being the tallest and taking the longest strides gets to you first. Shaking his head and wagging his finger at you in a moving way, before giving you a little tap, bad.

You shink in on yourself. "please. Don't let the monsters get me. Don't let me be one of them..." You whimper into his shoulder. he brushes your hair from your face. And uses his loose hand to unlock the trap.

Asa truly was a lucky man. A lucky man indeed... He wouldn't mind if he... Borrowed you... For a while would he? Of course not. What else are friends for? Right?

[https-furina]

✎ when you love someone. ft. lyney x fem!reader content: heavy angst, death/murder, fontaine archon quest spoilers, detail to injury, ooc lyney while i’m practising. not proofread. w.c. tba.

there's a melancholic harmony that comes with dating that infamous, ash blond magician who's name is uttered from every fontainian's mouth across the country. 'he's miraculous!' they exclaim, eyes glittering like stars as they leave the opera epiclese, grins wide on their faces. he truly is, you think to yourself as you follow the crowds out on some evenings after witnessing your boyfriend's abilities for the nth time. yet you also know better than this. the lies intertwined between soft kisses shared in the moonlight and the forced smiles he'll throw in anyone's direction.

lyney knows better too when he fumbles for his house key, a gloved hand fishing into his pockets to pull out the cold metal. a prospect he never thought he'd grasp when he devoted himself to the orphanage beside his sister, starved and defensive. there's almost a pained smile on his face when he calls out to you that he's home. at this hour of the night, the court of fontaine is a quiet city, especially in this quarter. the night life clings to the hotels that bustle with activity, drinks and other numerous acts that people indulge themselves in to drown their pains out - but he knows that the house he'd made a home with you was never this quiet.

it's a strange thought to him that you'd ever go to bed without waiting up for him first - that was your favourite routine, curled up on the couch with a plate of fresh conch madeleines you'd baked earlier in the day. a crocheted blanket would be draped over your bare legs, one of lyney's own white dress shirts hanging flimsily from your frame with the buttons done up. he would grin at the imagery if only it wasn't for the slow, tense anxiety creeping up his spine, leaving a trail of hairs standing on edge at the silence you'd left him with.

"ma chérie?" he calls out again, that sweet nickname rolls from his tongue like it has a thousand times before since you started dating. it's familiar, it tastes warm and like your homemade cooking you'll bring to him before his shows - a comfort he'll cherish no matter how much his acts crumble him.

you knew months into speaking with lyney that he worked for the fatui behind that whimsical act of a magician. you remember that tight feeling that choked your lungs for breath, you remember the vivid way the corners of your vision darkened and his words echoed in your head. he looked so pitiful, his brows knit together and a beautiful glitter to his lilac eyes when he's on the brink of tears from your lack of response.

growing up, you recall the stories your parents and elders had spat in distaste regarding the fatui - snezhnayan scum, good-for-nothings, troublemakers that cause nought but harm wherever they go. you truly believed that lyney was none of these, how could he be? he'd swooned you so lovingly after one of his shows on a starry night, having caught your eyes in his audience. he claims it was love at first sight, the cheesy phrase making you giggle whenever he'd reference it. he'd whispered sweet nothings in your ear the first night you'd shared a bed together, fingers dusting down your body in feather light touches like he considered you porcelain.

surely these were things that proved his innocence? that proved the truth in his words when he first mumbled 'i love you' against your soft lips midway through a kiss? you gave him his chance and lyney was determined to not let his affairs as a fatui member ruin what he had with you. things were perfect for the upcoming year, even if that smile he flashed to anyone who looked in his direction was so fake that you could almost grimace.

it is not lyney that anyone should have doubted the faithfulness of - the safety that his arms brought you. it is the fatui, the harbingers, the organisation that tears lives apart for their personal gains. it's the promises to protect their members' families and loved ones that fall on deaf ears yet feed their members' minds with relief and keeps that every faltering loyalty in check. they have them wrapped around gloved fingers that are ready to snap at any moment.

lyney kicks off his boots by the front door, twirling his hat as he hangs it next to your coat. in his younger years, he'd debated what the meaning of love was. he'd thought over the concept of a home - of four walls that were safe and permanent. every time something took a wrong turn in his life, he considered if he was capable of being loved, perhaps if he was even capable of loving too. if there was one thing he was certain from his time with you, it was that you'd proved him wrong.

his legs carry him tiredly up the staircase, his footsteps light as he steps over a particular floorboard he has memorised that creaks - just in case you'd truly gone to sleep without him tonight. the silence is deafening, he can't even hear the faint sounds of your breathing from your shared bedroom where the door is cracked open and the moonlight floods out like a liquid river. he glimpses red through the crack and his brow furrows in concern, picking up the pace of his steps.

the world you'd built with lyney crashes down the moment his hand - free of its glove - pushes the bedroom door further open and his eyes fall onto your body. you're limp on the floor, laid on the soft, fur rug you'd begged lyney to buy when you were furnishing your first home together. he still vividly remembers the beam you gave him when he caved and agreed. there's a pool of blood around you, drenching that cream fur and seeping into the floorboards beneath you. it's oxidising, darkening - how long had you been here like this?

lyney falls to his knees beside you, your blood soaking through his stockings and wetting his skin but he shrugs the uncomfortable feeling away when his hands push you onto your back, your head rolling to the side limply. your eyes are white, rolled back but there's a look of fear written across your face and lyney's eyes begin to sting with the idea that you'd been scared in your final moments; no, he refuses to accept that you're dead. you're simply injured, passed out - he'll get you to a doctor and he'll never let you out of his sight again.

but the waterfall of red that decorates your neck and stains his white shirt he knew you'd be wearing tell him otherwise. his hands clasp at your cheeks, cupping the cold skin as his thumbs desperately rub at you in hopes that you'll come to, smiling and reassuring him. he blinks the tears in his eyes away but all they do is fall down his pale cheeks in precious streams of emotion when he doesn't wake up. he doesn't open his eyes again to see sunlight streaming through the light fabric of your bedroom curtains. he doesn't hear his favourite laugh in the whole of teyvat when you notice he's woke up. the silent atmosphere is still very much present, tense and ready to be sliced with a knife.

the only sounds are lyney's jagged breaths, desperate as he starts to hyperventilate to get air into his lungs. he presses his ear to your chest, not caring if his blond locks fall into your blood as he frantically searches for your pulse, a sign of life. there is not even a shallow breath that falls from your chapped lips.

you had taught lyney many things in the time you'd devoted at his side, things that the fatui could never teach him. you taught him how it feels when you love someone but as he releases a pained cry into the night, you'd also taught him the anguish that comes from the decision of trusting the fatui the way he had before.

© https-heizou 2023.

[merakiui]

YOUR DISCORD MOD SCARA...I am thinking about him so hard. I've never even considered becoming someone's discord kitten before but I'd do it for him (even if he's terrible). SO... could I get a layered cake and sweet lollipops (him and his kitten not long post-abduction) from the miscellaneous menu, along with lemon squares and sea salt caramels from the midnight menu, all with my babygirl discord mod scara?

yandere!scaramouche x (gender neutral) reader cw: yandere, modern au, nsfw, dub-con, unhealthy behaviors/relationship, kidnapping/captivity, restraints, drugging, obsession, loss of virginity, alcohol/intoxication, force-feeding, brief use & threat of knife, coercion, scaramouche calls you kitten a few times, implied stockholm syndrome note - thank you for checking in, dearest guest! enjoy your order! [lunar love hotel]

There’s a warm meal waiting for you on the foldable table, its delectable aroma enticing you to eat despite your apprehensions. You lift your head from where it once rested on your knees, staring at it from where you remain huddled in the corner on a certain someone’s bed. A metal cuff clings to your ankle, and from it a chain extends to connect to one of the metal bed frame poles, only going far enough to let you walk into the adjacent bathroom. You’ve tried to squeeze your foot out, but doing so has only succeeded in chafing and tearing your skin; and so now you sit against the wall and sulk in defeat. 

Scaramouche—at least that’s his Teyvatcord alias; he’s yet to tell you his real name—plops down in his gaming chair, running his hand through his hair and exhaling a slow, measured breath. His kitchen apron matches the color scheme in his room, making him seem like a chameleon in a space composed of reds and violets. His three monitors are alight behind him, framing his face in a halo of light. One of them is open to Teyvatcord, displaying the chat log of a server you were once part of—and still are if you haven’t yet been kicked for prolonged inactivity. You think it’s been a few weeks since your kidnapping, but at this point time doesn’t serve any purpose here. It’s all the same within this room, blending together like pastel watercolors on canvas. 

“I didn’t know you could cook. You’ve only ever served me the bare minimum, so this is new. Feels fancy.”

“Shocker, right? Be grateful I’ve gone to the trouble.” You peer at the meal that sits before you, brows furrowed. Scaramouche rolls his eyes, scoffing noisily. “Don’t tell me you actually thought I eat all that gross instant shit.”

You shrug. “Dunno. It suits you. Shitty diet for a shitty person.”

“You…” His eye twitches and his hands curl into fists. “Whatever. Either eat or starve.” He swivels around in his chair with a huff. “Not like I care either way.”

But you do, you think, looking back towards the food, steam rising in wispy curls. If you didn’t, you wouldn’t have spent so much money on me. You wouldn’t have told me to go to sleep early, to eat three meals every day, to drink enough water, to continue living.

“This isn’t going to kill me if I eat it, right?”

“Relax. I’m not a murderer.”

“Oh, so you draw the line there?”

Scaramouche whirls to face you, his pierced features twisted in a nasty scowl. Your eyes are drawn to the snake bite piercing on his bottom lip, and for a minute it stuns you that such a pretty face could be so vile both online and offline. Perhaps it would be best if he didn’t talk at all. Maybe then you could appreciate him from afar, never having to confront all of the bitter hatred he seems to harbor. 

“You’re even more unbearable in person. I can’t believe I let someone like you kick my ass one-hundred-something times during every game we’ve ever played.”

“One-hundred and sixty-eight to be exact,” you correct, scooting closer towards the tray to inspect the rice dish one final time. “Someone had to humble you. For a mod, you’re awfully full of yourself. They don’t pay you to collect kittens and police VCs, you know.”

“Well, they should.”

You fail to contain your laughter. “That was…actually kind of funny.”

A thought flutters into your head: I’m losing my mind. Since when was he ever funny?

His stare is fixated on you when you gather a bite on your spoon and bring it to your lips. As criminal as he is, he’s been surprisingly tame in the time following your captivity. You suppose you just haven’t seen the worst of him yet and that these civil moments are merely the result of his desire to connect with you. Before you found yourself on the sixth floor, tucked away in his apartment, you spent most weekends talking to him through games. You’d chat about your character builds, swap tips on strategies for certain FPS games, spend hours constructing towns in creative open-world games, and even laugh about the placements in the tier lists you’d compile.

You could call what the two of you had a competitive companionship (or if you wanted to get technical: a Teyvatcord mod who was spoiling his kitten outside of the competitions), where both of you were constantly trying to best the other. If it was a matter of money, Scaramouche always had you beat; he’d emptied plenty of that into his favorite games to amass a vast collection of rare gear and resources so that he could claw his way to the top of the weekly leaderboards.

If anything, you admired his determination. Beyond games, you only knew that he lived alone and had a few piercings and liked to wear chains and rings. He’d talked about it before when the both of you had strayed from gaming and had discussed fashion styles and aesthetics late into the night. He appeared normal beyond the bratty attitude he often displayed during rematches. You even found yourself wanting to know more when he’d divulge little facts about himself on occasion. 

But now that you’re sitting in front of him, entirely against your will, you realize this relationship should have remained in Teyvatcord. 

Underneath your artfully crafted bravado and sarcasm, you’re absolutely horrified that he had found your address so easily and had been able to pull off such a clean kidnapping. He’d pulled you into the darkness of his car while you were on your way home, pressing a knife to your throat and insisting you stay perfectly quiet otherwise your neck would be mired in red. At the time you were too overwhelmed with raw panic to even consider the familiar intonation of the man who had so suddenly stolen you from your peaceful life. But it became clear when he’d forced you into his apartment after a long drive, and you’d finally gotten a look at him in the light when he shed his disguise. 

An introduction wasn’t necessary; you recognized him, and he seemed to know everything about you.

Now it’s almost humorous to consider that a Teyvatcord mod actually went outside, touched grass, and collected a captive all in one night. And you never suspected a thing, completely oblivious to his mounting obsession. Although how could you have ever noticed it when he was so intent on masking infatuation with hatred?

You wonder if things would have transpired differently if you hadn’t been living within the same city. Perhaps he wouldn’t have been tempted to take you away from your life and confine you to a single room where the sun never breaks through the curtains and you’re constantly bathed in the sensual hues from the LED lights that border the room. Maybe he would have lost interest and you could have continued your one-sided rivalry without any unhealthy attachments. 

Those what-ifs don’t quite matter anymore, though, do they?

Flavor explodes on your tongue when you sample his cooking, and you hastily gather a second bite and then a third. Scaramouche watches from his chair, looking quite satisfied with your submission. Foregoing etiquette altogether, you eat as if this is the last meal you’ll ever have the pleasure of enjoying, so fulfilled by the fluffy rice and bitter tea that tears gather in your eyes. You stop halfway to wipe at your glassy eyes, sniffling pitifully. 

You’ve forgotten the joy that accompanies homemade meals.

“It’s okay,” you mutter around another mouthful. “Better than convenience store snacks.”

Scaramouche chuckles. “For something that was just ‘okay,’ you had no problem getting your tears in the bowl.”

You bark out a laugh, but it comes out strained and sad. “Lay off, will you? I haven’t had a home-cooked meal in forever. It was a little nostalgic, even if it’s coming from you.”

Scaramouche stares at you, his cheeks tinged the softest shade of pink, before he turns in his chair. “Whatever. Don’t get used to it.”

“Wasn’t planning to.”

You set the now empty bowl back on the tray and retreat to your corner, observing Scaramouche as he clicks through various tabs before he returns to Teyvatcord. His fingers, adorned with sterling silver rings, fly across the keyboard to respond to some user you can’t quite see from where you sit. Noisy click-clacks fill the air, and it’s a sound that pulls you closer towards sleep. By the time Scaramouche has swapped to his second monitor to play a game—the very game that got you into this nightmare to begin with—you’re already falling into the void of unconsciousness, tugged under by drowsy tendrils. 

It’s the soft thump that alerts Scaramouche, who turns slowly in his chair to see you slumped over on his bed. He rises to his feet, crossing the distance to gather the bowl and accompanying utensils. Before he departs from his bedroom, he leans over to press a lingering kiss to your cheek.

“Dummy,” he mutters, rolling his eyes at you. “Never eating proper meals… Honestly, what would you do without me?”

Though he told you not to get accustomed to homemade meals, Scaramouche has presented you with breakfast, lunch, and dinner every single day, all prepared by his generous hand. It’s a luxury to be served food that has been assembled out of some form of crooked love—Scaramouche claims he’s only keeping you well-fed so you won’t die and rot away on his bed; the smell would be horrendous, so he claims. There’s one meal that always manages to put you to sleep. Whether it’s just the result of a satisfied stomach or your own frazzled nerves in desperate need of sleep, you always slip away shortly after finishing it. As childish as it sounds, you often wonder if he’s put a spell on it. 

Or maybe you’re just always hungry, craving his cooking because he’s the only one capable of feeding you when you’re stuck in chains. And luckily for you he’s memorized all of your gastronomic preferences. 

You’re not sure if you’ve surpassed a month’s time, but when you wake up one morning to Scaramouche slamming his cat ear headphones down on his desk, which is followed by a foul tirade of grumbled curses, you feel as if it’s already been a year spent in his room. To think that you’re starting to find it normal, as if waking up to him is to be expected in this situation. 

You must be losing your mind. 

“Rough match?” 

Okay, you’re really losing your mind if you can be so casual with your kidnapper. 

Scaramouche deflates in his seat, groaning at the ceiling. “More like a rough team. None of these idiots know how to play! I’d have better luck digging through the dirt and assembling a team of worms than continuing to rely on these guys.” 

“Then just leave and join a new lobby.” 

“‘Just leave and join a new lobby,’” he mocks in a high voice. “I can’t. These teams are locked in for the upcoming tournament. I’m stuck playing with a bunch of losers.” 

I’m more stuck than you, you almost blurt, but you hold your tongue. 

“Like?”

“Like Tartaglia, Dottore, Signora… They suck. I hate them. And they expect me to tolerate them for a bunch of rounds? That’s not even a good joke. We’ll just look like fools trying to force teamwork.”

You peer at his monitor. He’s muted himself, so they have no idea of the complaints he’s launching at you as if you’re a suitable outlet. 

“Sounds tough.”

“Believe me, it is.” 

“Have you tried reworking your strategy?”

“You’re asking me to kiss ass here.”

“Never said that.”

“You’re implying it.”

“Oh my—” You flop back onto his bed with a groan. “It’s not that serious!”

“It is when it’s a competition. You think I want to look stupid in front of the other teams? We’re up against some lame group that calls themselves the Knights of Favonius. I am not about to lose to them.”

“And what’s your group called?”

“The Harbingers.”

“You honestly think that sounds any better?” 

He turns in his chair to glare at you. Before he can retort, he’s fit his headphones back over his ears and unmuted himself to address the VC. “Can you stop spamming the chat for five seconds, Tartaglia? Damn!” There’s a brief silence and then he adds, in a low hiss, “I’m not running away! I muted for one minute! Come off it, Signora.”

Absorbed in the conversation, which sounds more like an argument that’s quickly boiling over, Scaramouche exhales slowly and resolves to try again through grit teeth. You can’t hear his teammates, but you think they all reach a mutual agreement because within the next few seconds you’re watching another practice match on his monitor. Your gaze slides away from him and centers on the posters and tapestries that adorn his walls. Some days, if you ignore the metal cuff on your ankle, you forget you’re a prisoner and he’s your warden. Some days, if you really force optimism, you picture him as a friend and a roommate. 

Most days you wonder if you’ll ever get outside. You miss the sun and the wind, lively aspects of nature that are nonexistent in this stifling cave of a bedroom. And, as odd as it may seem, you miss your old life, struggles and all. You miss ranting to your friends about finances or an empty refrigerator. You miss staying up late into the night playing games, laughing about casual enjoyments, and indulging in a freedom you took for granted. When you were struggling, you could be comforted knowing that there would be better days, even if those days only consisted of small joys—like feeding a stray cat or feeling the sun’s rays smile upon you with bright warmth. Now you live your days in a loop, waking and eating and sleeping, and this sort of cyclical madness is more entrapping than Scaramouche’s infatuation with you. 

Although perhaps it isn’t right to call it an infatuation when it feels so far from one. Aside from meal times, he hardly acknowledges you during the day, too swept up in a game to pay you any attention, and when he does speak to you you’ve already submitted to your dreams. He never touches you (at least not when you’re awake). In fact, he treats you more like an annoying pest rather than the person he supposedly loved enough to kidnap. Perhaps, instead of an infatuation, it is an obsession driven by greed and the twisted desire to control every inch of you, down to the very foods you ingest.

You know one thing is certain: He is the kidnapper and you are the kidnapped. 

You’ve sorted through all possible means of rebellion. You’d refused to eat anything the first week, which was why he chose to feed you cheap convenience store snacks out of pettiness, and by the end of the second week you were beyond starved. You’ve thought about destroying his monitors out of spiteful anger, but that wouldn’t accomplish much aside from satiating your hunger for revenge. You would remain shackled no matter how many things you trashed, which makes destruction a useless venture. All you can really do is feign friendship, if only to keep your current predicament peaceful. 

But lately you’ve wondered if there are other ways to get Scaramouche to trust you. It’s obvious he still has some level of distrust for you, evidenced by the terrible cuff attached to your ankle and the fact that he never leaves you alone in his room for more than five minutes. Perhaps there’s an easier way to shatter his defenses. 

After all, the reason you’re here is because he likes you so much. And if it really is a hidden infatuation, you plan to poke at it until it’s no longer his little secret veiled within manufactured hatred. 

Scaramouche is scolding Tartaglia for his “stupid, shitty aim” when you slither off of his bed, standing behind him with an expression so pensive it’s as if you’re considering life or death. Although perhaps this idea of yours really is akin to that. 

Briefly, while eyeing the headphones that rest on top of a head of midnight-hued hair, you wonder if you’d have the confidence to attack him while he’s distracted. Your arms reach out, readying to tear his headphones off and coil around his neck in a chokehold, but then it occurs to you that if you really do hurt him no one will be around to feed you. You’ll shrivel in his room, alone, cuffed, and cold. 

You decide, with mounting unease, that your original plan is much better (and safer) than murder. And so you lower your hands with a muted sigh. Even if he’s the worst person you’ve ever had the displeasure of meeting—even if he’s taken you from your life and forced you into his—you still couldn’t bring yourself to fatally injure him. 

But you can bring yourself to your knees, swallowing shame in order to survive. 

If Scaramouche realizes you’ve slipped under his desk, he doesn’t immediately acknowledge you, his eyes tracking his screen as he shouts into his mic for Dottore to cover him. You peer up at him from where you sit, studying his facial features as they morph into various expressions, all centered on frustration, impatience, and the occasional glare-frown. It’s your hand on his thigh that momentarily strays his focus, his eyes flitting down to you for a mere second, glazing over with an emotion you can’t quite place. Your lips quirk up in the beginnings of a sly smile, and he huffs, nudges your side with his foot, and returns to shouting orders at his teammates. 

Slowly, as if moving with weights attached to your wrist, you reach out to palm his flaccid cock through the fabric of his sweatpants. Scaramouche nearly flinches out of his chair, his head snapping down to look at you.

“W-What the hell are you—” He’s silenced when you squeeze just slightly, gazing up at him through your lashes. “N-Nothing. Just…talking to my cat. Shut up and focus on the match, losers,” he grumbles, not to you but to his teammates. 

You intend to draw away, thoroughly pleased after having gauged such an amusing reaction, but his fingers pursue your wrist, pinning your hand in place. He’s not looking at you, but his cheeks are warming considerably. 

“I’ll kill you if we lose,” he mutters, and this time you know the threat is meant for you. 

But, as you’ve come to learn, this is his own version of acceptance, however frigid it may have sounded. Scaramouche likes a good competition; that much is apparent from how engrossed he becomes when playing any type of game. Most importantly, you think he just enjoys the prideful satisfaction that comes with being labeled a winner. If you look at it from a gaming perspective, this is just another challenge—another rematch the both of you have agreed upon in order to determine who’s the best. 

And, like always, you’re certain victory will be yours. 

His hand slides away from yours, returning to its rightful place on his desktop, and it gives you the opportunity to continue your teasing touches. His stare hardens into something deadly when he attempts to retain his focus, his fingers mashing the keys in a loud cacophony of clacks, but within just a few minutes of experimental squeezes his cock is straining against his pants. You admire the outline for a brief moment, considering an approximation of his size just from the bulge alone. He’s definitely larger than any of the beginner dildos you’ve browsed online out of sheer boredom and curiosity, and the idea that you’re about to willingly subject yourself to this is enough to cow you into premature defeat. 

I won’t make any progress if he doesn’t trust me, you tell yourself, steeling your electrified nerves and reaching out to slide the waistband of his sweatpants and boxers down to free his cock. It springs out, pre-cum beading at the tip, and your eyes follow the curvature. For such an aggressively high-strung moderator, he’s surprisingly well-groomed. You wonder if he’s always lived a life so nicely assembled. Perhaps you’ve misjudged him entirely and he’s never been the stereotypical gross, smelly, hermit of a Teyvatcord mod everyone likes to think he is. Maybe it’s just his personality that’s so foul. 

You were confident before, but then he’s passing you a bottle of lube and now what little courage you could muster is beginning to ebb away, squeezed out of you much like the dollop of lubricant pushed from the tube. Your eyes flick to his. He holds your gaze for a minute before a sly smirk crawls across his face. 

Hope you like swallowing, he mouths, indigo irises flashing with arousal, because if you get a single drop on the floor I’ll end you.

Arrogant brat, you mouth back. 

You roll your eyes and wrap your slick fingers around the length of his cock. He sucks in a sharp breath at the contact, chewing his bottom lip bloody to muffle any suspicious sounds that are eager to slip out. You’ve only ever viewed handjobs in erotic films, and you’ve never given one to another person before. So you slide your fist up and down, mirroring the movements from memory, in hopes that the experimental pace you’ve set isn’t too awkwardly inexperienced. Scaramouche seems to pay it no mind, for his shoulders shudder with every exhalation, and he’s bent forwards, his elbows resting on his desk. 

There’s no way he’s this easy, but that thought quickly evaporates when you squeeze just a little tighter, and he whines through grit teeth. Your eyes snap up to find his foggy hues, which are clouded with lust and peering right through you rather than at you, and it becomes abundantly clear that perhaps he truly is simple to seduce. Or, at the very least, it’s only easy because he’s stressed and needs release; or maybe it’s because this is the first time you’re touching him of your own volition, stringing him along with every graceful pump of your hand. 

I’ll never understand him, you think, halting your movements once he’s been brought to the very edge, his cock flushed pink and leaking. 

The vicious, disapproving scowl he sends you is such a sight to behold! When you’re viewing him from below, it’s almost as if he’s a vindictive deity sitting pretty and untouchable on his throne and you’re the mere mortal granted permission to kneel before him, an amusing comparison considering he has, in a way, proven to be your saving grace on many occasions. Even riddled with impatience, he’s pleasant on the eyes. If only the same could be said for when he opens his mouth. 

“Did I give you permission to stop?” he hisses, humping into your hand to force friction. 

Your gaze strays to the cat ears on his headphones; you wonder if his teammates can pick up either of your hushed whispers. “What happened to your oh-so-important practice match?” 

He narrows his eyes at you and reaches to seize your chin in a vise-like hold, forcing you in close proximity with his cock. “You can do much better things than sit there and run your mouth, so finish what you started.”

“Anything for His Royal Highness,” you mutter and close your mouth around his tip. 

Scaramouche inhales sharply, his fingers ghosting over your head as if he intends to grip your hair and force you to take more of his size, but then you hear obnoxious keyboard clacks. He’s back to berating his teammates, albeit in a louder, higher voice than before, leaving you to your own pace. You pull away, tasting flavorless lubricant and pre-cum all at once, and lick a stripe up the underside, which has him humming through a clenched jaw. With your confidence restored, you lean in once more and, fingers wrapping around his length, slowly fit him in your mouth, only stopping at where your hand rests halfway.

Despite your initial unease, you manage to settle into the rhythm as naturally as you possibly can, bobbing your head back and forth in slow, even motions. Your other hand slithers up his leg, fingers creeping like spiders, and rests between his legs to fondle his balls, squeezing ever so slightly while your mouth works him towards the edge of ecstasy. It prompts a guttural groan from him, and your lips twitch around him, as if attempting to rise in an amused smile. He’s falling apart in his chair, shivering through every salacious sigh and curse, all produced in barely restrained hisses. He mutters something to his teammates, but the words hardly reach your ears when you’re so hyper-focused on pleasing him. 

You continue your careful ministrations, hollowing your cheeks in the same manner you’ve witnessed actors in films do, and at some point you’ve shut your eyes and have resigned yourself to the moment, relishing in every lewd sound. His reactions bolster your pride, feeding it as though it’s a ravenous monster, and you muster enough bravery, courtesy of your inflated ego, to peek at him through lidded eyes. 

Scaramouche is peering down at you once more, but this time his headphones are off and he seems to have ceased playing altogether. You attempt to pull off of him to ask, but his hand rests atop your head, mapping lazy patterns in your scalp in a way that’s almost reminiscent of petting, and that’s enough of a response for you. 

“I thought you’d be terrible at this, but it looks like you’re good at something after all,” he remarks with a mean smirk. “Or maybe...” He moans lowly. “Maybe you’ve had practice.” 

Or maybe your standards are low because no one’s ever touched your dick before, you think, closing your hand in a tight fist just to draw another pathetically desperate whimper from him. 

His fingers curl into your hair and he tugs you up to meet his haughty countenance. The head of his cock prods impatiently at the inside of your cheek and you narrow your eyes at him, drool running down your chin. His tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip, running over the piercings that reside there like twinkling stars. With a breathy chuckle, his other hand traces the bulge in your cheek and his lips only seem to widen with exhilaration. There’s a near-manic glint in his eyes now—an unhinged sort of sparkle that could only shine so brightly in the midst of pleasure. He’s a frightening sight, but then of course he’d be when he had so callously held you at knifepoint all those weeks—or has it been months?—ago. 

Now it makes sense—all of the mean jeers and insults. Scaramouche likes to see just how small he can make others when they’re caught in his shadow like vulnerable butterflies in a spider’s wicked web. And aren’t you just the most unlucky butterfly?

“This is a—haah—a good look for you.” 

You’d bite him if you were feeling particularly masochistic, but there’s no telling what he would do in retaliation. So instead you continue your pace, idly stroking him in time with the movements of your hollowed mouth, holding eye contact for the entirety of it. He keeps his hands on you the entire time, locking you in place between his legs, and your warm, wet mouth and tongue send delectable bolts of pleasure racing through him. It causes more delicious sounds to spill in plentiful amounts from his parted lips, enticing you to work more vigorously. He gasps through backhanded praises, each one meant to chisel you into something weak and self-conscious, but all it does is prove your previous observations. 

“Hey.” His knuckle is on your cheek again, and you blink tears away to look at him more clearly. “You haven’t done this with anyone else before, have you?”

You know it’s a trick question. No matter what answer you give, it’s going to prompt a visceral reaction either way. Rather than a clear, concise response—not that you could possibly give one when he’s stuffing your mouth full—you hum lowly, and the vibration has him twitching on your tongue. 

Scaramouche scoffs and attempts a glower, but it crumbles when he arches in his chair. “What… Whatever,” he manages through grit teeth, swallowing yet another sweet love cry. “Consider yourself lucky I’m here, otherwise—hah… Otherwise you’d have no one to practice your lousy, little technique on.”

This time, you’re afforded the chance to detach yourself and your mouth comes off of him with a wet smack, strands of saliva still connecting your lips to his cock. He peers at you, studying your face for a moment, and if it weren’t for the dim lighting in his room you’re certain his blush would be brighter than the sun. 

“You seem to enjoy my lousy, little technique,” you purr, leaning in to press your puckered lips to his tip. Your hand slows its once quick pace, and you watch miserable frustration stretch across his features. “If you’re going to be ungrateful, I’ll just stop and—”

But the rest of that sentence is shoved down your throat when he catches your head in resolute hands and forces you to take all of him in a rough thrust. The head of his cock hits the back of your throat, and you choke on it with a gagging cough. Your hands grasp his wrists in an attempt to steady yourself, but he pays it no mind as he continues to pound into your mouth, a string of filth falling from his parted lips like torrential rain. Tears prick your eyes, obscuring your vision and blurring reds and purples into a haze. 

It only takes a minute, but it feels like many when he eventually halts his erratic pace, his cock lodged in your mouth, and shoots his load down your throat. You have no choice but to force yourself to swallow, your eyes squeezed shut as you choke through the deed. Scaramouche laughs at you, a short, sudden sort of sound that’s more grating than nails on a chalkboard. And only after he’s shuddered through the aftermath of his ecstasy, heaving soft breaths as he settles from his orgasmic high, does he finally release you. 

You pull away with the residue of his spend sitting heavy on your tastebuds, sticky and bitter, and you’re only allowed a moment to catch your breath before he’s gripping your face with one strong hand, the cool metals of his rings digging into your cheeks. You stare at his sickly sweet smile and narrowed eyes, two indigo pools reflecting haughty victory, and your heart sinks with his next words. 

“Oh, and nice try.” His finger flicks your forehead, and a taunting smile darkens his features. “But I’m not taking the chains off, kitten.” 

It was worth a try, you think, swallowing a scoff and resolving to try again next time. You are nothing if not stubbornly resilient.

It’s a dangerous game, waiting and watching, hoping for a moment in which you can execute your plan. When Scaramouche isn’t glued to his monitors, when he isn’t feeding you meals that immediately send you to sleep, and when you aren’t on your knees satisfying him in the most carnal of ways, you’re wrapped in your thoughts like a mummy perfectly preserved. For a while you weren’t sure if it was worth the risk, nor were you sure if he could even come to trust you, if only slightly, but by some miracle you’ve sacrificed so much time tending to him and it has paid off handsomely.

Though the cuff remains, he’s grown to exercise some leniency, allowing you to sit on his lap while he browses online, his chin resting comfortably on your shoulder. Sometimes the two of you watch a movie; other times you play a game, gambling your dignity in exchange for a chance at victory. Lately Scaramouche has been on a winning streak—though you’re certain he’s just cheating, even if he claims it’s pure skill—and more than once have you found yourself at his mercy, submitting to wandering hands and lips, dutifully playing the role of his obedient prize. He always gloats, flashing his teeth at you in a cruel taunt, and you have no choice but to accept it. Everything you do is for the sake of survival; you’ve reminded yourself of this fact when you wrap your arms around him at night, pressing yourself against him and slowly slipping into sleep just as he cautiously returns your embrace. 

You usually fall unconscious after you’ve had lunch, condemned to sudden sleepy spells that are beginning to seem more drug-induced than natural, and this unfortunate happening leaves you completely gone for many hours into the afternoon and early evening. You’ve narrowed your options down after observing Scaramouche for so long, committing his cyclical ways to memory. Either you force yourself to wake at the crack of dawn and hope he isn’t still gaming, or you wait until he’s left the room to prepare your lunch. You’ve deliberated over both, almost acting on one when the opportunity presents itself, but you’re always stopped by the uncertainty. Will this work? Will you be fast enough? 

And if you aren’t successful, what will happen to you? Will he truly kill you like he claimed he would all those months ago when you first started living with him? You suppose there’s only one way to find out.

There’s a specific person you have in mind while you lie curled and comfortable in Scaramouche’s bed, feigning sleep to ward off the jittery sensation in your nerves. If he still exists within the server—and you’re hoping he does because your escape plan hinges on his presence within it—he will be your ticket to freedom. 

You almost flinch out of your skin when Scaramouche’s hand rests atop your head, stroking your skull so fondly. “I’ll wake you up for lunch,” he whispers to you, pressing his lips to your cheek. And then his hand is drawing away, and your pulse settles once more. You can feel his eyes pinned on you, and you picture him standing at the bedside, casting a terrifying shadow over your slumbering form.

“It’s too quiet when you sleep so many hours,” he mutters, and you strain to hear the rest of his complaint. You think he might be in the doorway because you can’t sense him near you anymore, and his voice is distant and soft, a strange contrast to the harshness in his usual intonation. “Regardless, I’m glad you’re here.” 

He says something else that doesn’t quite reach your ears, and you listen to his footsteps as he retreats to the hall and then the kitchen. You wait until you hear movement before slowly sitting up. Even though you’re alone and he’s a good distance from you, you fear he might hear your quick heartbeat. It pounds inside your rib cage, on and on like the loudest war drum, and you clutch at your chest with trembling hands. 

Without wasting another second, you slide off of the bed as carefully as possible, mindful of the noisy chain at your feet, and creep over to his desk. All of his monitors are on, each luminescent screen displaying something highly contrasting from the previous one. The screen on your left showcases an online shopping site (the page he’s currently on is new microphones, each more high-quality and expensive than the last). The screen on your right blinks back at you, and you spy a photo album of pictures screencapped from every social media connected to you. 

You’re not surprised, but that doesn’t mean you aren’t disgusted. Gross, you think, biting back a shiver. If he touched me with the same hand he used to—

But then your attention is stolen by the middle monitor and before you know it your fingers are gingerly tapping out keys one at a time, so agonizingly slow that you think your rapid pulse might give you away before the clacks do.

Alatus, you’re thinking, eyes skimming the member list. Alatus. Come on, Alatus. Where are you?

Miraculously, you spot his profile picture before his name—a cute, mint-colored bird with fluffy plumage and narrowed eyes. For such an adorable image, the one behind it is so silent and intimidating. You wonder how you even managed to befriend him when he’d been so terse in the early stages of your online friendship, but you’re glad to have this connection. 

Relief floods through your system when you notice the tell-tale green circle near his profile. He’s online! And with that, you pull up a private chat and begin to write to him, your heart skipping a beat with every word added to your desperate SOS message. 

this is gonna sound crazy but this is (name) from server need u to help me out ive been kidnapped by scaramouche call the authorities or someone just let them know i’m missing please believe me

You don’t have time to proofread it, nor can you even consider adding anything else in your frenzied panic, and so you hasten to send it. Your finger just brushes the Enter key when two arms coil around your waist, yanking you away from the desk with so much force that the horrified gasp sticks in your throat. Before you can register the danger, you’re on the floor, the chain rattling with the movement, as if foretelling of the threat that’s about to descend upon you like the Grim Reaper coming to capture a wayward soul, and Scaramouche stands over you, a kitchen knife held in a trembling fist. There is a foul tempest raging within those ominous eyes of his, each dilated pupil darkened with thick, syrupy betrayal. 

You attempt to sit up on your elbows, readying yourself to reason with him before he can slice your throat to ribbons, but then he’s pointing the knife directly at you, his face contorted into a glower so monstrous it has you flinching away. 

“You’re a special kind of stupid,” he snaps, and you press yourself into the floor as if you intend to melt into it. “Did you really think I wouldn’t notice? Did you think I was so foolish that I wouldn’t suspect the motive behind your little game?”

You open your mouth to profess faux innocence, but the words won’t come. They’ve dried up on your tongue, leaving you to wallow in silence. You’ve never been so obviously, painfully guilty before, and the evidence of your disobedience is printed blindingly bright on a screen for his perusal. Scaramouche gazes at his monitor, cold, cruel eyes taking in every word. Ice crackles through your veins, crystallizing your blood, and for a brief second you consider what might happen if you seize the knife while he’s distracted. Perhaps it works in your head and your attempt to force him to his knees with the threat of death is successful. But realistically you know it wouldn’t be that easy and he certainly wouldn’t give you the chance to one-up him like this, especially not when so much is at stake. 

For once, this has nothing to do with the childish concept of pride. 

“Alatus, huh?” he muses with a monosyllabic hum. “Is that your friend? Well, it’s not like it matters. You don’t need friends.” 

With a sunken heart, you watch as he deletes the message you mustered the courage to draft. Within seconds the faulty plan you’ve considered for months crumbles before your despairing stare. 

“I hate you,” you whisper. Brimming tears are on the verge of overflowing and you will them away with quick blinks. 

“Yeah? Not the first time someone’s told me that.” He turns to face you, and you follow the knife as it’s set delicately on his desktop. It’s an obvious trap, but even so your hand still tenses as if you intend to lunge for it. He bends down to where you remain on the floor, his elbows propped on his knees. “I should commend you for your bravery. Were you working yourself up to this? Were you counting down the days until the moment for rebellion arrived? I’m not sure I should even call it a rebellion. You’re not very smart. I mean, you had access to the internet! You had so many resources at your disposal and yet you chose to message some loser on Teyvatcord! Just how moronic can you possibly be?”

What irks you more than the degradation is the fact that, unfortunately, he’s right. 

He clicks his tongue at you, laughter in his tone. “I would’ve been in trouble if you actually used a sliver of your puny brain. Lucky me, huh?” His fingers cling to your chin, pulling your face closer to his. “I have the cutest, stupidest kitten.”

You narrow your eyes at him and, gathering your mounting revulsion, spit at him. It spatters on his cheek and he seems to pause momentarily, a tense beat stretching taut between the both of you, before he releases you with a huff. The next thing you feel is the harsh sting of his slap as it comes down upon your cheek. It’s more so the shock that has your head turning in time with the impact rather than the dull ache, and you lift your hand to feel raw skin beneath burning fingertips. The tears are now falling in silent streaks. 

It’s hopeless. You’re stuck here forever. 

Scaramouche swipes his thumb along his cheek and scrutinizes the saliva coating his finger with a frown. “Not fond of ‘kitten,’ huh?” 

“Of course not, you freak.” 

“Ouch. That smarts.” Feigning offense, he dries his thumb on his kitchen apron. “A shame. ‘Kitten’ suits you. They’re soft and clumsy and weak. Just like you.”

He retrieves the knife and, after admiring the red-and-purple lights that reflect off the silver blade, offers you a smile so sweet it contrasts his sour threats.

“But as cute as you are on the ground, looking oh-so-terrified, it’s not going to save you from your punishment.”

You watch him carefully, awaiting a catastrophic change in temperament. Despite how cheerily nonchalant he appears, you’re certain there is anger swelling within. It’s clear in his eyes; his glee stems from sadism.

“Should I even ask what your idea of a punishment is?” you venture. You intend to sound bold with your inquiry, but your heart is still stuttering with the aftermath of your failure and it causes you to trip over your tongue. “L-Living with you is punishment enough…”

Scaramouche hums, unfazed. “If you were in my position, what punishment would be most fitting?” 

You roll your eyes. “I’m not answering that. You just want me to list the worst possible things.” 

“Perhaps,” he drawls, tapping a fingernail along the blade. His gaze strays to his desk drawer and he opens it and withdraws something you can’t yet see. The jarring jangle of handcuffs alerts your keen ears, and your expression must have twisted into something akin to potent odium because he chuckles. “Wandering hands ought to be properly restrained, don’t you think?”

You hold his gaze for a long minute. “Why? What’re you going to do?” When he doesn’t reply, merely continuing to watch you with that deceptive smile of his, fear sizzles within your electrified nerves. He takes a step towards you and you scoot away instinctively. “Seriously, what is it? Don’t you dare put those cuffs on me.”

“And allow you to misbehave again? As if.” He stands over you, peering down at you with a mixture of disgust and distrust. His foot is pressing on your stomach before you can even think to grab at his ankles and force him to the floor. “In case you’ve forgotten, kitten, you’re mine from now on. So unless you’d like me to tear you a few extra holes with this knife, you’d better shut your mouth and let me put these cuffs on you.”

He seizes your forearm, yanking you up with surprising strength, and you squirm in his unyielding hold, kicking out uselessly. It does nothing to deter him, but it does spark a wrestling match between the both of you, in which you fight desperately to grab hold of the cuffs or the knife before either can find themselves on your person.

“Let go of me! You can’t put those on me!” You elbow him in his ribs and he responds by shoving you down onto his bed, slotting his knee between your legs. His fingers dig into your arms with a harshness that has you wincing. 

“Should’ve thought twice before you decided to act like a brat!” he hisses, squeezing tightly. 

The discomfort soon becomes the least of your worries when he pins your wrist to one of the metal bed frame posts, readying it for one of the cuffs.

“No! Let go of—”

The knife is at your throat next, promptly silencing your terrified protests, and you don’t dare open your mouth. 

“Try again.” 

It’s spoken like a demand or a particularly harsh dare, the ice in his voice a perfect match for his scary expression. For however long his eyes bore into yours, you return his ogling with the same amount of ferocity, challenging his overbearing aura despite the blade poised at your jugular. You’re not sure how sharp it is, but you aren’t intending to find out with misplaced disobedience. 

Eventually, the first cuff clicks around your wrist, and you watch warily as the next cuff attaches to the bedpost. Your arm hangs limply from where it’s been restrained, and the other receives the same attention shortly after he’s retrieved the second handcuff pair. While he’s fumbling one-handed with it, the knife is held in place in his white-knuckled grip. The cool metal kisses feverish skin; you can already smell the river of iron that will drool from a precise slice. After it’s closed around your wrist and the bedpost like its predecessor, you yank arms to test the resistance. Your wrists have been secured tightly, but it isn’t uncomfortable. Rather, it’s the uncertainty that settles under your skin, lighting your senses with raw anxiety. 

“Please don’t kill me,” you whisper, gazing at the handle of the knife. It’s close—too close. 

You think he lives to torment. He must, otherwise there would be no plausible explanation for why he presses the sharpened edge deeper into your neck, applying just enough pressure to break skin.

“I’ll make one thing clear, so listen and listen well.” His voice drops a few octaves, a perilous murmur. “Don’t ever touch things that aren’t yours again.”

You think he says something else along the lines of, “And don’t ever think you’ve earned a shred of leniency just because we’ve been intimate,” but the words sound far-off and muffled like they’ve been processed through a jar of cotton or an unfathomable depth of sea. Registering them doesn’t seem so important, though, not when the sting in your throat worsens and a thin rivulet of something slick trails its way down your neck, staining your T-shirt—Scaramouche’s shirt (but you refuse to dwell on that distinction). And this time you don’t need any laced meals to slip away. This time it’s the stressful threat of near-death that puts you to sleep.

With the world having slithered away, narrowed down to a singular point devoid of terror, you fall into a familiar darkness. 

At first you think you’ve woken enshrouded in muddy earth, buried alive in some forsaken place, but then the haze of LEDs is piercing through your eyelids and you know you’re not resting amongst soil. With an exhausted groan, you peel your eyes open, searching the room for a figure who is oddly absent. Intending to sit up, you’re stopped short when your wrists catch on the cuffs, the metal digging into sensitive skin, and there is a spreading stiffness in your outstretched arms that’s becoming more unbearable with every passing second.

Something soft and scratchy is wrapped snugly around your throat. A bandage, you think, and it brings forth the not-so-distant memory of the knife and the blood and the dazed look in Scaramouche’s stare. As if he was not entirely there when he was pushing, pushing, pushing the blade into your jugular

As if he intended to carefully saw through sinew as if cutting slices from a block of cheese. 

Inhaling a steadying breath, you consider your options. Escape has become a daunting challenge—an impossibility if you’ve ever known one—and with the way you’re so tightly restrained you’re certain you won’t get close to freedom anytime soon. After all you’ve endured, you’re not sure you want to fly close to that sun again. 

Is it even worth it? you catch yourself pondering. I’m under a roof. I’m fed. I’m washed. This isn’t any different from my usual routine, only I have a housemate now and I’m living here permanently. Right. He’s a housemate. A housemate. A housemate. 

He’s not a housemate. He’s a horror wound into human anatomy—a perfect shell for what you assumed was a normal person. But does the distinction truly matter now? Kidnapper. Housemate. The latter sounds much nicer, but then the latter is also a lie sweeter than caramel and it’s easier to swallow a delusion than confront the looming truth. 

You sigh, your gaze sliding towards the monitors. They’re off this time, three dark voids silenced in the corner in which they’re kept. You tug at your restraints even though you’re aware they won’t come off no matter how much you struggle. For however long it takes Scaramouche to return, you lie on your back, watching the ceiling and counting the tiny bulbs in the strand of LEDs. Finally, there’s movement beyond the room. He pushes the door open with his foot, carrying a tray of food and bringing with him all manner of kitchen scents.

“Wakey, wakey, sleepyhead,” he teases, and you muster your meanest scowl. He laughs. “You should eat something.”

“I’m not hungry.”

Scaramouche sets the tray on his desk, picks up the bowl of ochazuke, and gathers a bite between wooden chopsticks. “Don’t drag this out just to be a pain in the ass. Sit up and eat.”

Slowly, you manage to sit up, your wrists still confined. “I’m not eating unless you remove these cuffs.”

“Hm. Let me think about that.” Scaramouche drums his fingers along the ceramic bowl, considering. “Not a chance.”

“Looks like I’m going hungry.”

“You are so insufferable. You had no trouble eating yesterday.” He narrows his eyes. “Licked the bowl clean and everything.”

“That was before you decided to nearly kill me!”

“But I didn’t.” 

“You say that as if you’re proud! Eat your own food. I don’t want it.”

“Alas, I made it just for you,” he says with a dramatic sort of flair that does not fit the smug pride that drapes itself over him like a linen shroud. “With love and everything.” 

Your lip curls into a hostile sneer. “Let me think about that. Yeah, no. Not a chance.” 

“You do realize you’ll starve if not for me.” 

“I look forward to that.”

“You little—”

Scaramouche covers the distance with graceful strides. He sets the bowl on the bedside table and, much to your dismay, you can’t reach it with the position you’re stuck in, unable to swipe or kick at it. After pulling his gaming chair up to the bed, he lowers into it and takes the bowl in his hands, chopsticks poised. You turn your head away when he tries to feed you and the bite he’s gathered misses its mark, poking your cheek instead. Grains of sticky rice adhere to your skin like glitter. Despite your obvious refusal, Scaramouche persists, pushing another bite of ochazuke at your lips. He’s calm for all of three seconds before the thread of restraint snaps and he grabs your chin, yanking your head in his direction. 

“If you don’t want me to shove these chopsticks so far down your throat, then stop being difficult and open your mouth.”

Still, your lips remain sealed and he huffs indignantly, digging his nails into your skin in hopes of eliciting a reaction. You swallow the wince and frown instead. The next bite prods against your lips and you narrow your eyes, silently daring him to try again. And he does, his fingers tracing along your jaw to find your cheek. He pinches—ruthlessly, unforgivingly rough—and you open your mouth to snap at him. Knock it off, you intend to say, but the words never leave your mouth because the next thing you know you’re tasting a mouthful of fluffy rice flavored with bitter tea, strips of nori, and salmon flakes. 

You almost spit it out, but you’re already chewing, relieved to taste gastronomical goodness. Scaramouche smirks at you, his thumb rubbing circles against your cheek.

“I win.”

“Whatever,” you mutter, turning away, mouth ajar for another bite.

He feeds you with a hum. “That wasn't so hard, was it? It’s almost as if acting like an annoying baby made this entire thing more unbearable than it should be.” 

You scoff around a mouthful. “You’re the unbearable one.”

“And yet here we are.”

You don’t protest at that. What else can possibly be said? Instead, you resign yourself to the meal, finishing every bite he offers and clearing out the leftovers in the bowl. And, as usual, it’s delicious.

Scaramouche pats your head when you’ve finished, a smile sharpening on his lips. “Good job.”

You roll your eyes. “You could’ve been nicer about it.”

“I was very nice,” he says, his tone clipped, as he sets the bowl down and lifts a glass from the table. “See? I even brought you a drink. Aren’t I a portrait of magnanimity?”

He’s a pain in the ass, you conclude, but you allow him to bring the glass to your lips so you can drink. You expect a mouthful of water; what you don’t expect is the sheer burn that comes with swallowing, and your noise of surprise comes out as a cough. Scaramouche sits back in his seat while you stare at him, searching for any indication that he’s joking. 

“Scaramouche—”

“You’ll be a good kitten and drink it all, won’t you? I’d hate to waste something special I picked just for you.”

Your lip curls in abhorrence at his utterance of that dreadful name. “Maybe if you stop calling me ‘kitten.’”

“Not a chance.” 

He takes a sip from the glass and leans in until his face is centimeters from yours. Your eyes find his, and for a moment you’re connected only by this contact. But then, within the next second, he’s closing what little distance remains, pressing his lips to yours in a sloppy, sake-tinged kiss. His hand cradles the back of your head so that you’re pinned on his mouth as it molds against yours. His snake bite piercing pushes against your lips and when he licks into your mouth to savor the alcoholic notes on your tongue you think you taste the cold sterling silver of his tongue piercing. With mounting unease, you realize it’s not a terrible sensation. And though saliva and sake drip down your chin in a thin, sticky rivulet, it’s not the worst kiss you’ve ever had. 

It’s over before you can even think of reciprocating. Thankfully—otherwise you’re certain doing so would have been more sickening than a simple teasing nickname. 

He pulls away to observe your dazed expression, his dark eyes alight with manic glee. His laugh comes out breathless, almost like a gasp, and he touches two fingers to his lips. “Your lips are softer than I thought…” he mumbles, curling his fingers against his chin. 

Before you can retort, the glass is poised at your mouth again, enticing you to drink, and you struggle to swallow the amount that’s tipped onto your tongue. You taste tropical citrus this time, flavors reminiscent of sunny days and palm trees and sparkling seas, each one so out of reach in your current predicament. Things you might never see again. Scaramouche climbs onto the bed and sits between your legs, preventing you from shutting them. With your back pressed against the bed, wrists still bound, you have no choice but to remain where you are, entirely at his mercy. 

“That’s a good expression,” he purrs, reaching out to pet your cheek. You turn your head away with a scoff. “To think you could be so cute when you’re terrified of the unknown.”

“Not funny. Take off these cuffs and get me some water. My wrists hurt.”

“Oh, boo-hoo. Cry me an ocean.” His free hand splays across your stomach, applying just enough pressure to your pelvic bone, and a devious smirk twists his lips. “That’s not the only place that’ll hurt.”

The reality of his intentions—of why he has you restrained—dawns on you like a sun risen from the grave, blindingly, searingly hot. 

“You can’t be serious.”

You intend to squirm, to kick out at him with your legs, and push him as far from you as possible, but your legs just won’t move. It’s as if you’re attempting to tug yourself free from a pit of molasses, crushed under a new weight. You manage to lift your foot a mere centimeter from the bed before Scaramouche gingerly lowers it back onto the mattress, all the while clicking his tongue at you.

“No need to panic. I’ll take good care of you.” He glances at you, spidery digits tracing tantalizing lines along the length of your leg. “I always have.”

The grogginess spreads throughout the rest of your body like the thorny tendrils of vindictive vines, stifling all possible movements and replacing your usual taut, alert muscles with a sleepiness that's awfully familiar. It doesn’t take long for you to reach a harrowing conclusion: He’s drugged you. Again. You blink rapidly to gain your bearings, and it takes you a moment to recognize the glass that’s at your lips. Foolishly, you drink because he’s already tilting it and you’re not sure how many more sips you take, but by the end of it the glass is empty and your head is spinning, nerves buzzing with static. 

Scaramouche slips off the bed with graceful steps, practically floating about his room, to retrieve a bottle of lube and a pair of scissors. Your thoughts are a tangled mess, coming to you in nonsensical clumps as the alcohol thins your rationality, numbing you to the encroaching unease that so desperately wishes to fill your veins. Rather, you’re overwhelmed with a very pleasant, dizzying warmth. You peer at him from where you’re slumped against the headboard, and the red-and-purple lighting in his room paints him in hues so alluring you find yourself at a momentary loss, staring blankly at him like he’s a fascination you’ve only just fallen for. And then you’re reflecting on the way his lips fit against yours, soft and sweet and metallic…

The scissors run up the fabric of your shirt in a flawless snip. When the tattered material is pulled from you and you feel the rush of cold air upon bare skin, prickly realization manages to sober you.

“W-Wait…” You shake your head slowly, tongue heavy and clumsy just like the rest of your limbs. “I’ve never… N-Never done this before…”

He gazes at you, searching for a lie. Finding no such thing, he chuckles and leans in until you’re practically breathing him in. “I would’ve thought otherwise.”

“And I…” You try to narrow your eyes at him, but he’s placed his hands on your hips and so your gaze is inevitably drawn downwards. “And I would’ve thought you were letting me win all those times.”

“Not this time,” he promises, pressing his lips to the corner of your mouth. “If it means having you all to myself like this, I’ll gladly indulge in the pity prize.”

If your wrists weren’t bound to the bed, you may have pushed him away. Or perhaps you would have embraced him, tugging him closer against your chest so that you could feel his heartbeat, taste it on your lips, allow it to thrum between the both of you. The sake muddles your mind, aiding the muscle relaxant in soothing pre-sex jitters. As Scaramouche’s hands wander, fingers tracking up and down your waist, sliding across your bare stomach, climbing further upwards to pinch your nipples between dexterous digits, someone starts to whine, each faint gasp just barely slipping past lips that have been chewed bloody. 

You realize, when he pulls away to grab at the waistband of your sweatpants, that you’re the one producing such sinful sounds. 

“Wait,” you whisper when he’s yanked it down to your knees. He peers at you with glazed eyes, and you’re certain you’re looking back with the same amount of lustful ferocity. “S-Scara, I don’t know if… Don’t know if we should…”

You shake your head, utter a frustrated curse, and squeeze your eyes shut. What do you truly wish to tell him? You wonder if it even matters anymore. He has you right where he wants you and, frighteningly enough, this is exactly where you’d like to stay. You have to remind yourself it’s the alcohol and the drugs and the sensual lighting that twist your reasonable senses. Even so, your fear trumps any lust that might have been simmering under heated skin.

But before you can verbalize these anxieties, he’s tugged your sweatpants down with ease. Your underwear goes next, leaving you utterly, humanly bare. Scaramouche stares for a moment, taking in the sight of you, and his licentious ogling is enough to send a bolt of embarrassment rushing through you. Avoiding his eyes, you manage to shut your legs, which earns you a breathy chuckle from him. Scaramouche lifts his shirt over his head next, casting it aside without hesitation. You’re treated to the view of his chest, porcelain-pale, creamy skin aglow under the dimmed lights, and upon noting your wide-eyed stare an easy smirk sprawls across his pierced lips. When he cocks his head to the side, you follow the way the tiny chains on his ear cuffs tilt with the movement, star and moon charms jingling faintly. He’s touched by the very cosmos above, shaded in light so beauteous he’s seraphic. 

“There’s no need to be so nervous,” he whispers, drumming his fingers along your knees. “You’re in good hands.”

You open your mouth to object—I don’t want this; I’ve never done this before—but his hands part your legs, spreading them agonizingly slowly as if the universe has benevolently graced him with all the hours in the world. You watch him consider your nude form splayed before him, and the temporary stillness is interrupted when he reaches for the bottle of lube sitting so patiently on his bedside table. 

It’s a chore to follow his hands as they uncap the bottle and squeeze a generous amount onto his fingers. Everything spins and blurs into a messy portrait of colors and shapes. You taste the raw acidity of bile in your throat and promptly swallow it and the rest of your apprehensions, forcing yourself to turn off what’s left of logical thinking and submit to the moment—to allow yourself to be fondled by such good hands.

The slick index prodding curiously at your unrelenting hole tightens the tangle of nerves in your stomach and has you squirming once more. 

“W-Wait! Wait, wait…”

“It’s only my finger, scaredy-cat.” He laughs and lies beside you, one hand between your legs and the other curled under your chin. He moves your head until you’re looking right at him, and he’s already moving in, lips ghosting over yours. “Unless you’d rather take it raw without any prep. That can be arranged…”

With a half-lidded stare, you spy his lips rather than his eyes as they capture yours in a sloppy smooch. He chases after your breath, swallowing reedy, needy gasps, and traces a circle along your hole before sinking his finger inside. You choke on a whine and wriggle your hips in discomfort. He pulls away only for a brief respite, soon reclaiming your mouth in his greedy pursuit, experimentally curling the lone finger inside you. You’re on fire, burning up with sheer desire and shame and a dizzying intoxication, and everything tangles into a mess fueled only by mounting lust. Fears shrugged away like worthless fabrics, you melt into the mattress’s cushiony embrace, lashes fluttering against your cheeks, as Scaramouche draws little gasps and groans from you, each one spilling out in between kisses. 

The hand on your chin falls away to grasp your nipple between cold fingers, and the chill slithers through your flushed form. You whine a pitiful sound. 

“Look at you, falling apart on one measly finger.” His voice, hushed and husky, wraps around your head like the softest scarf. “Am I the first to touch you down here?”

Foolishly, you try to nod and shake your head all at once, but he seems to catch the truth veiled in your response, for he hums into your mouth again. You kiss back with more desperation this time, chasing his tongue with a delightful fervor. He pushes a second finger in, slick enough as to not cause discomfort, and it soon finds residence with the other digit curled within. 

“No wonder why you’re so easy. It’s almost cute.” Scaramouche lazily works you open with the two digits thrust up inside you. Lewd squelching permeates the otherwise quiet room, and it spurs you into submission. Instinctively, you arch your back when he pinches your nipple harder than before, rolling it between the pads of his fingers. “See? Isn’t it better when you’re enjoying yourself? And all it takes is a little reciprocation.” 

“I… I’d never��mmh—never reciprocate,” you mumble, but the words are spoken in a gasp.

“It’s a little too late for delusions and denial, kitten,” he says, practically singing the sardonically spoken pet name. 

You grit your teeth in an effort to stifle your sounds, turning your head away when he tries to steal a quick kiss. “Hate you,” you mutter, jaw clenched. 

Scaramouche barks out a disbelieving laugh. The finger that had been toying with your puffy nipple traces an invisible pattern along the expanse of your chest, sliding further down under he’s gracing your privates with feather-light touches. A moan hums low in your throat, betraying your poor attempt at defiance. 

“That’s not what your body’s telling me.”

He scissors his fingers, stretching you wide enough so he can slide a third in. You hardly feel the pain when you dig your nails into your palms. It’s so fierce you think you might break skin, and if you do the muscle relaxant prevents you from truly feeling it. You peer at his sly smirk, but the disgust melts away when, combined with the fingers working you open and the hand petting your sex, you find yourself shuddering through a sudden climax. Scaramouche marvels at the way you clench around his fingers, and before you can even try to avoid him he’s pressing a fleeting kiss to your temple. 

“Look at you, cumming from three fingers.” He removes each finger one by one just to watch you writhe bonelessly beneath him. He presses two slick fingers against your lips, tilting his head as if you’re a morbid curiosity he spies through the bars of an invisible cage. “My cute, pathetic, virgin kitten. I quite like that dazed look in your eyes. Perhaps you should look at me like that more often…”

You manage to roll your eyes, unamused. “You had your fun. Now take the cuffs off.” You fix him with a pout. “Please?”

“I couldn’t possibly when we’re just getting started.”

There’s a playful lilt in his voice, and your eyes follow his hands as they grasp the waistband of his boxers. It’s only then when you realize he’s painfully hard in his underwear, his cock outlined so starkly against the constrictive material, and your heart plummets into your stomach. 

“Hold on. Wait. H-Hold on…” You try to shut your legs, but the sedative in your system has you reacting as if you’re pulling your limbs through unforgiving tar. Every inch of you craves the comforting release of a long slumber, but the alcohol keeps your nerves sparking with a fiery need that greatly outweighs any languor. “N-Not inside…”

“Why not? We’ll be closer this way.” He wipes the cold sweat from your forehead before placing a gentle kiss upon it. The look in his indigo hues is lionizing, and when he cradles your cheek in a warm hand he is uncharacteristically fond. But then of course he’d be; he likes you, after all. For all of the cruelty, you forget he does this out of love. “Don’t you want to be closer—to find all of the right spots together? We’ll fit together so perfectly…”

He’s already squirted lube onto his hand, and he runs it up the length of his erection, all the while holding smoldering eye contact with you. You swallow dread so thick it almost lodges itself in your throat, mumbling a slew of slurred protests that fall upon deaf ears. 

Scaramouche forces you to look at him next, his hand still on your face, and you lean into it out of emotional instinct. He smiles—it’s tender this time, almost welcoming—and strokes your cheek with his thumb. “You’re okay,” he whispers, sincerity weaved into the promise. You blink tears away and your breath hitches when the soft, fleshy head of his cock kisses your puckered hole. His fingers trail along the bandage secured around your throat, and his eyes glaze over with an unknown emotion. “You’ll be okay.”

And hearing it twice has you believing it with a mindless nod of your head. 

If your hands were free, you’d reach out to touch him, run your fingers along his porcelain chest, loop your arms around his neck to pull him into you so that your puzzle could be complete. Instead, you look up at him with pleading eyes as he cages you between his arms. 

“Please be gentle.”

He noses the crook of your neck. “We’ll see.” 

But his words are warm and inviting. And—oh. Oh, he cares for you! Scaramouche, the one who’d ensure you were always fed, who’d go out of his way to check in at night after a long day, who’d entertain you with an argumentative back-and-forth regarding his favorite games, who’d let you win every single match just to be able to spend more quality time with you...

Who loves you more than he loves himself, relying entirely on you in order to fill the cavernous void in his heart with sugar and sincerity and serenity. 

He cares for you, and no one has ever quite cared for you in the way he does, as sickly obsessive as he may be. Knowing that someone likes you enough to look after you is more saccharine than honey.

Illuminated in red-and-purple luminosities, you shimmer beneath him, a lone star plucked from a dark, desolate sky. His hand falls from your face, finding your hip instead, and he rubs soothing circles into it as he presses in, the head of his cock pushing past rings of tight, lubricated muscle. It doesn’t hurt nearly as much as you thought it would, but then the relaxant and the alcohol have you at ease. His brows are knit in concentration, breath hot and wet on your bare skin, as he slots himself inside inch by inch. 

A shaky groan spills from his lips. “(Name)...” Your name is candied ambrosia in his mouth, the sweetest song. “(Name), (Name), (Name)...”

He exhales slowly, tears glimmering in glassy eyes, and locates your lips in the gloom, drawn in like a fool blinded by the deceptive light of an anglerfish. You kiss back as if this is the last time you’ll ever have the chance to do so, pursuing his whimpers in the same fashion he seeks your keening cries. And when he snaps his hips forwards to fill you completely, joining your bodies in unholy communion, you throw your head back and sob like you’ve never sobbed before. It’s a wonderful fit, snug and tight, and he rocks in experimentally. You shiver under him, crying out a string of incoherent phrases. 

“Scara… Scaraaa,” you sigh dreamily, and his hands brace themselves on either side of you so that he won’t crumple when he thrusts in, settling into the rhythm, following the thrum of your conjoined heartbeats. “Aah… Don’t stop. Please, Scara, I want it deeper… Haah… Please don’t stop.”

“Kuni,” he corrects, breathing it into you in an open-mouthed kiss. “My name. Kunikuzushi.”

It’s lovely. It’s everything. It’s your own heavenly delicacy. 

“Kuni. Kuni. Oh, Kuni…” you parrot, voice thick with need.

He’s moving in and out gradually, savoring each time he thrusts up into you and your bodies meet in a perfect connection, slowly rolling his hips into you as if he’s too fearful to destroy something so fragile. Or perhaps he wishes to keep himself intact—to prevent himself from crumbling into a love-drunk mess. When he kisses you, it’s flavorful passion, and the both of you exchange saliva and breath as if you’re each other’s lifelines. You’re not sure what you’re saying anymore, or whether any of it makes sense, but then he’s murmuring all manner of things into your skin as if every admission will tattoo itself upon your very being, engraved into your soul. 

Though it’s spoken in a voice barely above a whisper, you catch it. Faintly, like flickering candlelight, admitted like prayer, he says, “I love you.” 

And with that you fall, vision whiting out as your orgasm seizes you, and you whine your relief when he fucks you through the highs and lows of it. Your chest is heaving when you return, and you bury your face in his shoulder, wanting to feel all of him, to have his warmth affixed to you.

In that moment, there is no such thing as hatred or revulsion. There are no drug- and alcohol-induced feelings. No handcuffs or shackles. There is only love. Lots of it—all of it—filling you to the brim entirely. 

The shadowed space you’ve been confined to is slightly brighter now that you’ve found a star for yourself, and he is a celestial comfort crafted by the threads of fate—for it’s handcrafted destiny that brought the two of you together in a virtual world. Regardless of what awaits you when you’re shaken from this inebriated fantasy, you hope it is just as bewitchingly dazzling as the puzzle you make with Scaramouche. 

“I love you… Kuni, I love you.” 

He’s crying then, tears falling in twin rivulets, and in response he drives his cock in so deeply it has you arching your back, the motions coaxing precious love cries from the depths of your very heart. Sealing what’s left unsaid in a final kiss—every other emotion, all of the twisted obsession and the horrors of the past month—he empties his load inside, moaning into your mouth. Like a lotus at midnight, you open so obediently for him, your legs wrapped around his waist to pin his body to yours like butterflies spread on an entomologist’s board. 

Of course you love him. After all, there’s no one else for you to adore in this vast, lonesome outer space.

[officefurnitureindia01]

Metal Bed Frames in Home Decor: Sleeping in Style

The choice of a bed frame in the field of home décor is a defining aspect in determining the tone of your bedroom. While wood has long been a popular material, the development of metal bed frames adds a contemporary touch to the art of sleeping in elegance. Let's explore the fascination of metal bed frames and see how they may change your sleeping room into a stylish refuge of comfort and attractiveness.

Accepting Metallic Elegance

Metal Bed Frame provides a sleek and stylish look that compliments a wide range of decor styles. Metal frames' adaptability allows smooth integration into any design scheme, whether you choose contemporary, industrial, or minimalist decor. Metal bed frames have a timeless appeal due to their clean lines and understated elegance, making them a popular choice for people looking for a bedroom that emanates both comfort and style.

Find out more about our website here: https://officefurnitureindia.in/bed-frame/

A Design Spectrum: From Classic to Modern

One of the most attractive parts of metal bed frames is their variety of designs. The selections range from traditional wrought iron to sleek, futuristic designs. Classic designs with complex features might have a vintage feel, whereas minimalist frames have a more modern feel. Metal bed frames' design range allows homeowners to construct a bedroom that matches their personal taste, whether it's a dramatic statement or a subtle backdrop for other decor pieces.

Beyond Aesthetics, Durability

Metal bed frames have exceptional durability in addition to its visual appeal. These sturdy and powerful frames provide long-lasting support for your mattress, ensuring a comfortable and secure sleeping environment. The longevity of metal bed frames is especially helpful for individuals who appreciate both beauty and substance, appreciating furniture that not only looks excellent but also stands the test of time.

Individualization and Customization

Metal bed frames are highly customizable. Metal frames can be easily customized to match your vision, whether you like a matte black finish for an industrial design or a brushed nickel look for a touch of luxury. Furthermore, many metal bed frames include ornamental components such as finials or distinctive headboard designs, allowing you a personalized touch that adds personality to your sleeping environment.

Practical Advantages: Storage and Upkeep

Metal bed frames frequently provide practical advantages that improve your whole bedroom experience. Many metal frames provide abundant storage space beneath due to their intrinsic construction, making them ideal for people looking for smart storage options. Furthermore, because metal is low-maintenance, cleaning is a snap, ensuring that your bedroom remains both attractive and readily organized.

Using Metal to Make a Statement

In conclusion, incorporating metal bed frames into your home design is a decision that extends beyond function. It's all about making a statement, expressing yourself, and creating a location where every night's sleep seems like a stylish vacation. Sleeping in elegance with metal bed frames is an investment in both comfort and beauty, proving that nighttime can be the most fashionable part of your day, whether you choose a vintage-inspired iron frame or a sleek modern design.

Source URL: https://officefurniturein.wordpress.com/2024/01/02/metal-bed-frames-in-home-decor-sleeping-in-style/

[alltheworldsinmyhead]

Summary:

Inej decides to teach Kaz a thing or two about work ethic

Or: Kaz is abhorrently Kerch and Inej won't have it

read on ao3

To her great displeasure but no surprise whatsoever, Inej wakes up alone.

In a vast expanse of the bed, she sleepily pries her eyes open, squinting at the harsh sunlight, only to find no trace of her husband. The other side of the mattress is cold to the touch, the pillow nice and fluffed, the edges of the comforter tucked underneath the bed frame to keep it flat. While she is tangled in messed-up sheets, cotton smooth and warm against her bare legs and stray hairs clinging to her cheeks.

She would very much like to linger some more. Maybe do more than just linger - the bed is very nice and she is feeling very indulgent and lazy. But apparently, Kaz decided to be annoyingly Kerch this morning.

With a grumble, she slips from underneath the covers, sliding onto the floor and reaching for her dressing robe. In the mirror, her reflection blinks at her; she spares it just a glance, busy with undoing her braid but then her eyes come back for a double take. There is a dark bruise of a love bite blooming on her neck, right underneath her ear. It makes her feel hot and clammy in her own skin, to look at it.

She traces it lightly, with her very fingertips, and the smallest of shivers runs down her spine.

Some sounds are coming from the parlor adjacent to the bedroom and she pays a bit more attention to them now, cataloging them one by one. A faint scratch of a pen nib against the paper. A slight clatter of porcelain. A muffled cough. She thought Kaz went out on business, or to his office possibly - but, evidently, he's still right here, behind the door. Left her to have a lie-in while he's doing his work, because duty before pleasure, always.

She smiles at the thought. But aren't marital duties the most important ones of all?

She decides to stay in her nightgown. Decides not to tie her robe at the waist either; it is pretty blue, like the sky in the countryside, like little meadow flowers that Kaz, in an uncharacteristic bout of sentimentalism, once sent her pressed between the pages of his letter. She tilts her head just slightly and the garment slips, silk sliding down her skin like water and exposing the curve of her shoulder.

She lets it be as well.

The carpet is rich, thick underneath her bare feet; the air smells of flowers and wood polish. Not home, but nice. Very nice. She dares even say fancy. A fancy, upscale hotel room in a fancy part of Ketterdam where they had dinner the night before and then decided to book a room.

Just another of these little luxuries Kaz showers her with when she's back from the sea, hoping, possibly, to entice her to stay longer and longer. He thinks he's being sneaky when he's transparent like glass and she indulges him in his efforts. But it's all so silly, really. There is only one luxury that can manage to keep Inej ashore and it is right behind the door - the door that she opens soundlessly into another sunny room wallpapered in cream and filled with elegant furniture of cherry oak. There is a chaise lounge, a small table with a vase of red tulips on it. An armchair with some strategically placed fluffy pillows.

And, of course, a round breakfast table, set with two plates, two porcelain cups. Two platters of food, one empty save for some crumbs and one hidden underneath a metal cover, to keep it warm. And there’s her husband, already dressed sharp in his suit and tie and with his hair neatly slicked back at eight in the morning, writing something on pages neatly laid out in front of him, a cup of steaming coffee in his free hand.

His eyes find her seconds after she steps into the room, sliding over her body absent-mindedly before they lock with hers.

“Did you sleep well?” He asks, one corner of his mouth rising just slightly when she crosses the floor towards him.

He's already clean shaved and she tries not to make a face at that. She decides to make her displeasure known through not leaning down to kiss him. Instead, she drops on her chair and reaches for the teapot.

“Yes,” she pours in the tea, then adds some milk from a charming porcelain creamer. Swirls the spoon inside the cup and then licks it clean. “Did you?”

Kaz taps his pen against the wood. “Yes.”

“Good,” she smiles. Stretches her legs out underneath the table, feeling how her nightgown slips up. The table is small: he must feel the warmth of her, the proximity of her, like a phantom touch. “What are you writing?”

***read more on ao3***

[misterblanc]

react (pt. I)

toto wolff x fem!reader

summary: a gift from toto leads to unfortunate consequences

warnings: mature language, smut (sex toys, humiliation kink, slight coercion, mean!toto, daddy kink), german google translate, not beta'd so possible errors [18+ MINORS D.N.I.]

notes: i need this man six ways from sunday and i need him to be mean doing it. anyways, this one goes out to my old man fuckers 💕 considering this a TBC that I'll hopefully extend sometime this week with some more lewis interaction 👀!

words: 1,695

❣️ dirty thangs under the cut ❣️

"You want me to what?" you asked incredulously, looking back and forth from Toto to the small black box in your lap.

"I want you to wear it tonight, liebling." Toto smiled down at you, his large tuxedo-clad frame standing in front of where you sat on your hotel bed.

You gulped, fingering the black satin ribbon that you had discarded next to you in your eagerness to unwrap your gift... if that was what you could call this.

Tonight you had planned to attend another one of the many motorsport racing ceremonies that you had accompanied Toto to since your marriage several months previously. Dressed in a long silk gown (which was actually a gift from Toto) that wrapped deliciously around the curves of your body, you had begun to slide on your high heels for the night when he approached you with the box.

Inside was a small, baby-pink length of silicone. There was no label or instructions accompanying it, but the burning heat that was growing in the pit of your stomach told you exactly what it was.

"Mmm, I don't know Toto...what if people can tell? What if they can hear?" You began blushing at the thought of George and Lewis and...oh God, Lewis...knowing you were getting off mere feet away from them.

"Sweet girl, no one will be able to tell. It's quiet - I promise," Toto reassured. "Just listen."

With a click of the tiny black remote he held in his hand, the vibrator buzzed to life, jumping around the box. You immediately started giggling at how innocent the movement made the toy seem.

"See, I told you. Think of it as a fun little game - you know how boring these award ceremonies can be. Besides, don't you want to make Daddy proud?" he asked, cupping your face gently and dragging the soft pad of his thumb over your bottom lip.

At the sound of that special nickname, you knew you had no choice. And c'mon, who were you to say no to the man?

"Yes, Daddy." you cooed. "Of course, I want to make you proud."

"That's my good girl," he praised, smiling down at you. "I promise I'll be nice."

++++++++

It started in the elevator.

After some adjusting in the hotel room bathroom, you walked out and gave expectant Toto a shy nod. You had felt yourself growing wet during your conversation with Toto, and the toy had slid easily into your pussy where it fit snugly.

"Shall we?" he asked, holding out his elbow to lead you out the door and to the elevator outside.

Once the metal doors had shut, he eyed your figure hungrily.

"Absolutely gorgeous, schatzi," he purred, slipping his hands around your waist. He turned you against his chest so that you both looked into the mirror that served as the back wall of the elevator. "I can't believe I get to call you mine. Are you Daddy's girl?"

Before you could respond, he pushed your hair aside to expose your neck and began gently nipping at the delicate expanse of skin where it met your collarbone.

"Daddy, please," you gasped at the image of his large hands starting to wander down your dress, squeezing the tops of your thighs near your apex. Only then did you notice the robotic audio of the elevator counting the floor numbers as the elevator descended. "It's gonna stop somewhere else..."

He broke away from you, but not before digging his fingers into the soft flesh of your ass.

"Jesus, I can't wait to get you under me."

Then, the elevator sounded a sharp ding, and the doors opened to let an older man and woman in, both nodding politely at you both.

That's when you felt it. A sudden, low pulsating sensation inside of your core that warmed you up from the inside.

You inhaled sharply enough for the older man to glance at you, and you responded with a tight smile that you hoped masked any panic on your face. Your eyes flickered over to Toto, who stood staring straight ahead giving no indication that anything was out of the ordinary.

This was going to be a long, long night.

++++++++

"Are you feeling alright?" Lewis asked with a look of concern on his face.

"I'm feeling great, it's just a little w-warm in here." you stuttered as you picked up your place card and began to fan yourself with it.

The past hour had been absolute hell. Sitting next to you, Toto was taking pleasure in controlling the vibrator inside of you, the small remote now tucked inside the pocket of his tuxedo.

He kept the toy at a consistent level that kept you just shy of the peak you so desperately wanted. You grew wetter and wetter by the minute, and you were nervous to move in your chair for fear that the silicone would hit that perfect spot, and you wouldn't be able to control yourself. Even worse, you couldn't stand up, lest Lewis and the other members of the table see your arousal possibly staining your dress.

"It's been a while since she's been to one of these events - it's a little overwhelming for her," Toto smiled handsomely at Lewis. " You know how she gets. Here, liebling, maybe some champagne will help."

His large hand grasped your champagne glass as he leaned over and placed it in your hand - you were so worked up that just the feeling of his strong, capable fingers grazing against your smaller delicate ones was enough to make your thighs clench together. Then, his lips brushed the shell of your ear.

"You can pretend all you want, schatzi, I can see the fucking mess you're making of yourself," Toto whispered, his breath tickling your neck. "I wonder if anyone else at this table knows that you're dripping for me right now under that dress, hmm? Do you think they know that all you want is to be stuffed full of my cock? Try not to embarrass yourself further."

As he pulled away, you hurriedly brought the glass of champagne in your hand to your lips to muffle the quiet whimper that threatened to escape your throat.

Suddenly, the vibration increased tenfold inside your aching cunt. Your body spasmed in shock, and as your hand reflexively shot out to grip the table in support, you knocked your champagne glass back onto yourself, the sparkling liquid spilling down the thin material of your dress.

"Oh my god, I'm so s-sorry," you stammered, quickly grabbing your white linen table napkin to blot at the expanding stain that covered your chest. At the feeling of the fabric rubbing against your pebbling nipples, you knew you had had enough. With rushed apologies to the other partygoers at the table, you stood up and rapidly began walking out of the hotel ballroom. The blush across your cheeks deepened with heat as you felt their eyes trailing your movements, and you could faintly hear Toto echoing your apologies for your behavior.

The hallway to the elevators was empty and dim, and you were grateful for the isolation when you realized that your arousal had begun dripping through your panties and down your inner thighs.

God, you could practically smell yourself.

You took a shaky breath and began a trembling walk down the long corridor to the elevator bank, supporting yourself against the wall with one hand as the toy buried inside of you continued buzzing.

You hadn't taken 5 steps when the muffled music inside the ballroom became crisp as the doors opened and you heard heavy footsteps echoing behind you on the marble floor.

Please don't be him, please don't be him, for fuck's sake, let me-

"Schatzi, where do you think you're going?" Toto called out, his deep, accented voice bouncing off the walls of the deserted corridor. You didn't even need to bother looking over your shoulder to know he was smirking at the sight of you stumbling down the hallway.

With a few long strides, he had caught up with you. Grabbing your wrist, he stopped you in your tracks and pushed you against the wall, his other hand coming to grasp your waist.

"A-are you p-pleased with yourself?" you choked out, tears prickling in the corners of your eyes as you tried in vain to squirm out of his firm grip, gaze falling anywhere but his face.

"You're m-mean!" you cried, weakly hitting his solid chest with a balled fist.

"Oh, schatzi," he murmured, a teasing laugh on the edge of his voice. "If I wanted to be mean I would have made you squirt under that table. And then how would I explain your mess? How would I tell Lewis that my wife just came all over those nice shoes of his?"

The hand gripping your wrist came up to grasp your quivering chin as Toto tilted your face up. His dark brown eyes met yours and then raked hungrily over your glistening, heaving chest. Gaze flickering back up to your eyes, he slowly slid the hand on your waist along the damp silk of your dress. His soft fingertips brushed the curves of your breasts before finding a hard nipple and gently pinching it.

The dam broke and your sniffling became quiet sobs.

"Please, Toto, please, I can't take this anymore!" you hiccuped. "I need to, I need... please just fucking touch-"

"Shh, you don't want the others to hear, do you?" he said sternly. "Or maybe that is what you want - want me to fuck you and fill you up right here where anyone could walk in and see what a slut you are for Daddy?"

Your brain had stopped all functioning and all you could do was shake your head weakly, your hips rolling forward to rub against his growing bulge.

"Did you need to cum that badly that you couldn't wait until we got back to the room, baby?” Toto clicked his tongue. "You're so fucking needy it's almost pathetic. I'd feel sorry for you if fucking your brains out wasn't going to be the highlight of my evening."

To be continued...

[krahk]

Blood for Ruin

Part One : Part Two : Part Three : Part Four : Part Five : Part Six : Part Seven

Master list

Alastor x OFC/Reader V(No use of Y/N)

Part Eight

(Or, Alastor and reader have a serious, non-physical church appropriate conversation in the woods that results in no action whatsoever and this author is a liar)

Minors DNI, 18+ below

“-just like her lack of tits?” Well, what a sentence to get you back into a conversation. You clued into the group in the sitting room, the corner having had most of your attention since Alastor had joined. Waking up this morning alone wasn’t a real surprise, but there was a small part of you that was more than a little disappointed he didn’t stick around. Then again, if he did, what the hell would that situation have played out? So, as expected, you got out of bed, dressed yourself and joined everyone downstairs for the morning discussion.

Vaggie had tried to convince everyone that Charlie was alright, just ‘thinking’ upstairs, however it was no secret that with only a month to go, the hotel was fractured. You kept zoning in and out of all the talking, mind constantly drifting to the night prior. Out of the corner of your eye you saw Alastor fade rapidly into shadows and you cursed yourself for not paying attention to what caused him to leave in such a rush - and with such a maniacal look on his face to boot.

The imaginary pressure of awkwardness having left the room with Alastor, you finally joined in and said your piece about what was happening before the air felt sucked out of your chest. Something hurt - bad - and it caught you by surprise. There was a massive force building inside of you, and you managed to escape the room without any protest from the paranoid residents. You hauled yourself into the little library, the deceptive metal sign still up from Lucifer's visit, and you kneeled down on the ground while the pressure continued. Suddenly the room was growing in shadows, and you could see a bright green haze illuminate the space.

The light appeared to be coming from your hands, but the room's static that was increasing in spades had no known origin. Your head was filled with loud static and intense pressure, and somewhere in the background you heard Vaggie yell out ‘No!’ Before it sounded like a herd of elephants running upstairs. You had been lowered to all fours now, your head slack on your shoulders, hands and knees pressed into the ground. After what had felt like the fasted working Tylenol your body’s tense state lessened. What the actual fuck was that all about?

You took your time settling your nerves, a full body shiver taking over you. It felt like your skin wanted to crawl off of itself, like you stuck a fork in a light socket or you were an over changed battery. The pressure that was sticking around felt as if it were moving around your own soul. It felt like you were almost seasick without the nausea. It was a strange sensation overall. Outside of the library you could hear a string of angry Spanish, and Angel calling out your name. You opened the door and poked your head out, answering his call.

Vaggie had continued out the hotel's main door, slamming it behind her. You made eye contact with the tall demon and both of you were quite perplexed at whatever was happening. Angel shrugged, answering the silent question, “Charlie and Alastor left in a hurry and Vaggie is either tailing after them or doing her own thing - I dunno, my Spanish ain’t too impressive. I only know sexual words and curse words.”

You frowned, “Why did Charlie and Alastor leave? Did they say where they were going?” You leaned on the door frame to give Angel your full attention.

“Alastor n’Charlie made a deal, toots.” He said, almost grimly as his face cringed.

A deal? Was that always a bad thing? Come to think of it, you didn’t really know too much about demon deals, even though you had been here for a couple of months. Staying in the hotel was contributing to your naivety of Hell. You were still unsure how hell politics worked with Overlords, the ‘Royal’ family of Hell, and the other Lords like Sloth or Gluttony. Not to mention the mystical god-like beings that reigned in their own manner, generally staying away from the Pride district as Sinners were not able to leave this realm at all. You nodded at Angel’s statement, and made a mental note to read up on deals in hell. Some things still embarrassed you to have to ask. As the youngest person in the group in every sense you found yourself constantly asking questions that were very second nature to everyone else.

”Oof. I gotta…I gotta call Cherri or something. I’m gonna grab a bottle, sit my skinny ass in bed and hope I forget what’s coming…” Angel spun on his heel to walk towards the bar and waved at you without looking back. A soft goodbye left your lips as a habit, but the library door was closing behind you before you finished the 2-syllable word. You hustled over to a particular section that you had reorganised what felt like ages ago - Demonology…Sinners & You…What to Expect when Eternal Damnation sets in - Hmm. You hadn’t really looked too hard at the titles before but some of them were pretty ridiculous, even for hell.

“I need a book on Deals, what would that even be called?” You questioned no one in particular out loud. In your peripherals you noticed a bright green-yellow light pulsing from a shelf. Frowning, you approached it with slight hesitation, squinting through the light and noticed it was coming from a book. The book was named “Demons, Deals, and Divine Intervention : Getting the Most out of Your Soul Pacts.” - Okay, a little on the nose. Why did the book glow?

“Did you glow because I talked out loud?” Nothing. Then what…Maybe it was the way you structured the question? You threw out a couple of silly questions with no other lights appearing. Weird. This hotel was getting stranger by the day. “I need to know how you glowed, is this normal?” Another light appeared, highlighting a book in a stack that was still being worked through. You dug through the pile and read the title through the cracked and well read book as best as you could:

“Voodoo & You! A guide on Gris-gris, Summoning, and Souls.”

Hmmm. Interesting. You tried another question with the same lead - “I need a place to sit.” Scraping across the floor had you turned around to notice your preferred sofa chair moving towards you, seemingly pulled by large shadows. They wisped away once the chair was in place near you but you felt as if they might have been lingering around.

What. The fuck.

You stuttered for a second, concerned at the new development - “Wuh-what? Why is this happening?” The brightest glow yet appeared. This one came from a book that was rather large, and made you groan not only because of the lame title, but because your evening just became a complete write-off.

“An idiot's Guide to the Occult: A Phenomenon.”

Fuck.

No more questions, Idiot. You thought as you sat down and opened the first title.

Half a day and a pot of coffee later, you felt pretty well-read on ‘deals’. Charlie and Alastor were still not back from whatever quest they were, neither Angel nor Vaggie had come downstairs, and Husk was never a bit seeker for conversation so getting through the books took no time at all. Your only company were the shadows that took shape on the walls, smiles occasionally present. It reminded you of the first one you saw back in your motel room before you died.

Deals were made on a sinner soul. Hellborn, The Lords of the Rings, and the Goetia were not involved in selling or generally ‘buying’ souls. Souls were a form of currency, and Overlords were such because of the high quantity of souls acquired. The more deals one makes, the stronger they become. If a soul has a higher value, for instance if one Overlord gains another Overlord's soul the power is increased even more so. If one consumes a soul, the power is exponentially increased. Which from what you recalled, was what Alastor did. So it made sense to you why he was so powerful , because you had been told he did just that when he arrived in Hell.

The only thing you were having difficulty with was understanding where exactly you fit in with all this deal nonsense. Technically Alastor and yourself had made a deal about not speaking on your situation, but no further. But that did not involve a transfer in souls. He had mentioned that the two of you were akin to ‘soulmates’, as whatever awry magic you accidentally manipulated linking the two of you together. And if the soul link the two of you had did not have glowing objects and lingering, tangible shadows handing you things before today.

Could it be that whatever deal Alastor had made with Charlie had increased his power so much that there was a spillover onto you? You had been allowing the shadows to wrap around your legs and shoulders, occasionally playing with your hair. It wasn’t much of a bother, however it was more the fact you didn’t quite know how to get rid of them. Suddenly the door slammed open and Angel burst in, tossing something at you. you dropped your book on the floor and caught the item, a hammer.

“Jesus Angel! A hammer?” You exclaimed.

“Arm ya’self toots, we’re renovating.” He said with an enormous smile. A couple of Pentious’ egg boys had gathered around the tall man's legs chattering about reinforcement and boss’ plans, etc. They generally spoke nonsense as it was but this was more confusing than usual.

Unfortunately for you Angel didn’t give you much time to recover and grabbed you by an arm to drag you out into what could only be described as disorganised chaos. Windows were being boarded up, Pentious was strategically bracing the walls and furniture - honestly it was so chaotic it was hard to focus on a single thing.

Angel broke it down to you that Vaggie was on a mission to deal with Carmilla Carmine, some weapons overlord, Charlie and Alastor had gone to recruit sinners to defend the hotel and in that interim Angel had managed to gather the remain hotel tenants to build defences of the hotel so the others had something promising to return home to. And that was, in fact, how they found the group.

Trying their best against all odds, prepared to defend the only home they had.

____

Later in the evening, chewing on your cuticles as you stared at your bedroom door, you tried to work up the courage to deal with the knowledge you had and ask Alastor about the deal he had made with Charlie. Would it be worth telling him? the idea of telling him that with every deal he made was possibly pouring over into you scared you. Not just because of Alastors pride, but you had no idea how to handle the changes. Even now, with the simple addition of these strange shadows you couldn’t control them. Or the glowing aid that appeared when you asked a question the right way.

You had a lingering suspicion that you could also detect lies as well - earlier Pentious told you he had no feelings for Cherri and the static sensation that ran over your tongue caught you off guard. It happened again when his egg boys told a few known half truths. Everyone else had headed to their rooms before you could prove this theory but again - this was just another thing that had you on edge.

Deciding that if he found out later that you held information from him would be far scarier than just facing it head on, you decided to pay the demon a visit. Barefoot, you crossed over the hall and hovered for a moment before knocking softly on the door, shadows through the crack near the floor flickering at the sound. The door cracked open and your new shadow friends seemed to merge with the shadows that erupted from Alastors room. Still creaking open, you peered in through the open door. Expecting to see Alastor inside, but other than the crackling fireplace and the soft music coming from one of the many present radios, he wasn’t there.

Your eyes drifted over to the strange forest landscape, the bayou-like bog habitat seemed eerier than usual. There was a hazy mist present, and you could hear the ambient sounds from the shadows within the forest. Present but unseen.

“A-Alastor?” A chill had overcome you despite the fire roaring close by, and you shivered away the first feeling of being scared. Crossing the threshold lightly, you glanced all around, hoping to catch a glimpse of him somewhere. When you got about 4 steps in, the fire went out, enveloping you in darkness. The shadowy figures around you grew to the ceiling, eyes and mouths present and illuminated.

Scared stiff, you froze in place for a moment before taking a step back. One step and the door slammed shut. You could hear something new coming from the bayou, and it seemed like there was a growing glow from deep within it, pulsing like a heartbeat might. In the depths you could almost hear your name, softly making its way to your ears. Shadows licked at your arms and legs, causing you to shake slightly. You still walked backwards to the door, blindly grabbing for the handle when your back hit the wall. The handle wouldn’t turn and you made a noise of distress.

Suddenly, you heard laughter. Deep and dark, emanating from the trees. It was distorted from static and the creaking of branches and leaves crunching started to get closer and closer. Your eyes had adjusted to the dark slightly, and a figure was almost visible coming out of the tree line. Long, contorted limbs, a massively arched back, tentacles sprouting from it. A large, demented head sat upon a thin, stretched neck and in its massively large toothed mouth was a dead deer. Blood dripped from the lips of this creature, and the only reason you could tell that was the blood, like the eyes of the creature, glowed a steady red colour.

The beast was breathing heavily, and when the eyes locked on you, fainting seemed close by. Your breathing started to stutter, and your eyes welled up with tears. The demon beast dropped the deer, bright red saliva pooling out of its mouth onto the ground, and it began to approach you. The handle in your grip was still not turning, and your free hand began to lift as to prevent the beast from inching closer. A loud hum started to grow in your skull as the gap closed between you. You shut your eyes, a tear falling down your face to fall off your chin as you started to duck your head into your shoulder, hoping whatever was coming wouldn’t hurt.

Suddenly there was a hand on your chin, a thumb wiping away your tear. The hum had stopped, and the strange noise you heard from the forest had stopped. The only thing you could hear now was your beating heart. Your eyes flickered open, shooting over to catch eyes with Alastor. Dressed with a closed lip smile, his eyes were heavy lidded and softly glowing red. You stared in awe, confused, and Alastors thumb continued to rub the edge of your chin, using his fingers to move your head and face him more head on. Thumb grazing your lips, he used it to pull your bottom lip down, cold air drying out the small amount of naked gums. You instinctively tried to lick away the dry sensation and your tongue nicked the edge of his finger, causing him to grip your chin harder.

You attempted to utter his name, but as you started he pressed your lips closed with his thumb as he hummed a sound to keep you silent. His hand freed your chin, and he turned his hand to graze your cheek with his knuckles, and you leaned into his hand when he reached the side of your eyes, and your eyelids fluttered closed, and you made a soft sound of approval. He wasn’t usually gentle, or fond of touching, so the way he was behaving now made your bones melt. You had stopped shaking from fear, but your body still had a massive chill as you started to feel a familiar burn in your stomach.

Suddenly a soft kiss was placed upon your lips, and for a few moments you were unsure of what to do - your eyes had remained closed. Alastor bit your bottom lip in encouragement and you met him with a similar voracity. Very quickly it was if the two of you were trying to consume one another. His hands had drifted to your waist, yours to his jacket, pulling him in close. He was pulling you in return, lifting you up against the wall to have your face closer to his own.

As he lifted you slightly, you wrapped your legs around his waist, the two of you almost trying to become one person with the force you were placing on one another. The sucking sounds of hot, wet mouths meeting and periodic gasps for air had both of your blood burning. He started to roll slightly against your core, and you moaned in return, breaking the kiss and hitting your head against the wall. He started kissing your neck, sucking and biting his way around as he ground against you, eliciting more cries of pleasure from you. Your hands were in his hair now, and your nails raked against the part of his ear that met his scalp, resulting in a moaning growl from the demon, who responded with a bite to your shoulder that had you groaning his name and jerking your hips in tandem with his.

You could feel him smile against your neck, and he pulled back suddenly, causing you to look at him. A thin line of saliva connected the two of you together, and the lustful gaze he was giving you shot an electric sensation down your body. He pulled you away from the wall and spun your bodies around, lips back on yours as he walked with frantic purpose. When he finally stopped he started to bend down, and your ass made connection with the ground as he laid the two of you down onto the grassy marshland that was in his bedroom.

Crickets could be heard again, and the air was no longer chilly, the mist wrapping around the both of you and blanketing you in a subtle warmth. Your legs unravelled around Alastor, your feet coming to either side of him as your knees were bent, enveloping him in your person. His arms were bent at the elbow, and he rested on them as a hand played with one of your ears and the other had a knuckle rubbing your chin, nearly overstimulating you with contact.

At some moment, he raised up and was kneeling in between your legs, having made his jacket disappear in a flash of black shadows, and he was reaching for your top, grabbing the bottom hem of it and dragging it up until you raised yourself up slightly to allow him to pull it off of you. His eyes feasted on your body, your breasts still hiding behind your bra. His thin smile stretched further up his face as a finger went from your navel to your bra, and before you could utter a complaint about him using his claws to sever the middle of your bra, breaking it, his lips were back on yours working in tandem with the hand that was now firmly gripping a naked breast. You moaned in his mouth and he took advantage of your opening, his tongue fiercely fighting against yours.

At this point your pleasure had built so intensely you could nearly feel your eyes build with tears, desperate for more. His hands alternated to either breast, making sure to spread the sensation out evenly, pinching a nipple to have it pebble between his fingers as his tongue dominated your own. Somewhere along the line you attempted to unbutton his shirt, but getting caught up on his bow tie almost immediately. You broke your kiss to utter a firm, “Off.” As you pulled at the fabric around his neck. He chuckled darkly, as he replied with a crisp “Yes dear”, chuckling at your immediate frown at his terrible pun.

He swiftly removed the offending article, and unbuttoned his top two buttons of his shirt before moving his hands out of the way when you started to reach up to finish the job. Lips united once more, he was soon shrugging out of his shirt as your hands went from his shoulders to his waist and back up again. Revelling in the sensation you got from his skin, which was slightly furred - just barely, he gave a stuttered groan as you raked your nails down his back at the sides of his ribs.

His teeth grazed from your neck to your shoulder as the both of you roamed hands freely over one another, revelling in the sensations the two of you were giving one another. Your hands drifted to his belt, and he froze for a moment, mouth hesitating above your collarbone, and a quick glance had you notice the slight tension in his face. He rested his forehead on you, controlling his breathing, and he raised himself up on his hinds to take over where your hands had started. You pulled back, letting him gather control over the situation and he pulled his belt out from their loops, casting it aside. He popped the button off his trousers, and like true 30s fashion, they were without a zipper - simply built with a wide waistline to accommodate wear.

Trousers loose, he directed his hands to your own pyjama bottoms, and fingered the top of them gently. Your hips raised, and the pair of you worked to shimmy them off, you folding your knees to your chest quickly to pull them off your legs before putting them back on either side of him. Clad only in a modest pair of black underwear, Alastor visibly fed on your form, the hunger in his eyes unlike anything you had seen from him before. Arms coming up to cover your breasts from shyness, he dipped down to interrupt your action with a kiss to your sternum that lingered. The hum he gave rumbled on your chest and you released a soft sigh at the tender action. His hands swept over your body, as if memorising it by touch. You yanked at his waistband of his pants and grumbled something about it being unfair he was more clothed, and he responded by gracefully removing his pants and whatever undergarments he was wearing with minor lack of contact between the two of you.

Looking down it was clear he was painfully hard, the throbbing in your head and blood understanding the cause. His tip was glossy with pre-cum, and as he rested above you again, with his hands coming to rest on the ground on either side of your shoulders, the hard length ran against the inner section of your thigh, making you gasp in response. A snarky grin flashed upon his face, barely visible with the lurking soft light as if moonlight was kissing the two of you.

His eyes were bright red at the iris, his pupils blown out. One hand drifted back to your panties, finger folding in between the skin and hemline, and you silently consented with a nod, raising yourself onto your elbows to meet his lips in a chaste kiss. He responded by tearing off the underwear in a swift pull, the tension causing a moment of pain that was replaced with the ferocity of his desire in a kiss.

Pain forgotten, the two of you again attempted to devour one another, the push and pull sensations that the two of you had been resisting for the better part of a month coming to an impasse. His knee moved your own over, and he grabbed your other leg to hoist up and put on his shoulder. Now he was in the prime position to enter you without interference. His tip settled outside your wet cunt and prodded slightly, earning another moan from you. He hissed at the sensation, and your eyes connected again, nearly pleading for permission. You nodded again, but he softly responded -

“Out loud, chère.” Filter free and French had you sighing a soft “Yes,” much to his pleasure.

He entered slowly, the friction of the stretch causing both of you to groan harmoniously. Inch by inch, he took his time, his intense focus clear on his face. You winced at one moment, but urged him to continue when he hesitated. Both new to this experience, taking it slow was no issue. You were eager to take your time having your body clearly worshipped by him, and he was ready to finally consume another human in such a manner. The connection that the two of you shared had complicated his life massively, but he couldn’t remember why he was ever angry about it. The sensations that you were giving him were otherworldly, and the irony that he could perhaps taste a bit of heaven after nearly a century of being in hell made him inhale sharply to withhold a chuckle of laughter.

Below him you were shifting to help with comfort, and he responded by following your body’s lead and moving his own hips. Before long, he managed to fully hilt himself within your willing pussy. He pulled out an inch before jutting back in, causing you to groan in pleasure. He did it again, intent on memorising the face you were making in response to his actions, as it was definitely a face he had not been responsible for before. Your hips attempted to roll, or shift, to meet him and start a new tempo. The throbbing nature of his cock picking up speed, pumping slowly at first before both of you snapped like an elastic band and feverishly met one another, was causing a familiar buildup of burning pleasure within both of your bodies.

His movements became more desperate, and your hands connected with his body however you could reach with the position you were in.

“Alastor,” you started breathlessly, “I’m s-soo, close, I need-” You reached down to your clit, eager to assist with the endgame, but one hand of his swatted at your own and replaced it, his thumb pressing down hard and starting a quick circle around it. You slammed your head into the ground, letting out a strangled wail of pleasure, and started to knead your breasts in tandem with his movements. The two of you for a moment were the only beings in hell, completely oblivious to any goals, or responsibilities expected from the two of you - the only mission at this moment was to come together, in this strange bayou environment, completing this ancient ritual between two restless souls.

A few sharp pumps paired with his thumb picking up speed on your clit had him slamming into your cunt as you lost control and came to orgasm, him meeting your own with a quick uncontrolled jerking of his hips, both of you riding it out together. His hot release was filling you up, and your inner walls were clenching around him, sucking out the final moments of his orgasm. He moved your leg back to the ground and collapsed beside you, pulling out during the movement, and the emptiness was immediate and almost upsetting. You were unsure if it was just the normal action of sex or the unbreaking bond the two of you shared that made you feel like a whole person with him inside of you, but you missed his presence internally already.

Both of you laid in silence, the air hitting your sweaty bodies and reminding you that whatever just happened had, in fact, just happened. You were both getting control of your breathing, and you shivered at the loss of adrenaline and movement, teeth slightly clattering. You laughed sharply at your embarrassing sounds, and covered your face with your hands, apologising for the noise.

He chuckled in response, and came to embrace you, pulling you close to him, enveloping you within himself and holding your head to his chest where you could meet his rapid heartbeat. He covered the two of you with a blanket conjured from who cared where, and the two of you laid comfortably within each other's arms on the bayou earth, breathing together until sleep overtook you.

Whatever you came to him for could wait, not that you could remember anyway. This evening certainly took a strange turn for the better, for neither of you had felt such a sense of completeness since you arrived. Both were eager to revel in it before everything went to shit.

___________

Guess how many times I read this to make sure it wasn’t a complete dumpster fire. So many.

Be prepared, the next chapter is like 7k of just smutty goodness because I figured I owed it to everyone.

Taglist:

@queermaxwooo @drawings-by-meh @sirens-and-moonflowers @looking1016 @mo-0-o @blakeaha @mutifandomkid @ministarheaven @nightingale0603 @loadedwafflefries @rizzscary @bishiglomper @vividachromatic @fluffy-koalala @mkaella @readergirlstuff @xalygatorx @phisen @rukkshevahna @hazbin-hoetel @white-00-7 @iheartalastor @littlebluefishtail @little-slyvixen @bishiglomper @catticora @alastorssimp @midorichoco @garfieldthomas @spottypug

[deadly-omen]

My Wincest head canon? Sam listens to ASMR every night to fall asleep. Dean doesn’t understand how listening to someone tap and scratch can be soothing. If anything, he finds it irritating and annoying and almost immediately after Sam falls asleep, Dean is turning off Sam’s phone to get some peace and quiet. But when the boys are working a case in the middle of nowhere with no Internet connection and Sammy just can’t seem to fall asleep, Dean takes matters into his own hands.

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The neon sign outside the hotel flickered erratically, casting an eerie glow through the dust-covered window of their dingy room. Sam tossed and turned on the creaky bed, his eyes glued to the stained ceiling above him. The persistent buzz of a distant highway did little to dull the sound of his racing thoughts. Despite the weariness weighing down his eyelids, sleep remained an elusive guest, teasing him with brief moments of silence before retreating into the shadows once more.

Dean, ever the night owl, sat in a chair by the window, his attention divided between his phone and the dark parking lot beyond. The screen's glow illuminated his worried expression as he scrolled through various articles and forums, searching for anything that might help Sam relax. He knew his brother's insomnia was more than just a restless night; it was a window into the turmoil churning within him. With a sigh, he pocketed the device and pushed himself up from his seat. "Alright, Sammy," he announced, his voice a low rumble in the quiet room. "I've got an idea."

Sam rolled over, hope flickering in his eyes. "What's up?"

"I'm gonna go out to Baby and record some ASMR," Dean said, a hint of excitement in his voice. "Some engine purrs, a little road noise, maybe some rain on the roof if it starts up again. Might do the trick."

Sam managed a smile, the corners of his eyes crinkling with the beginnings of a laugh. "Seriously?"

Dean nodded, his grin growing. "Yeah, why not? It's all the rage these days. And it's not like we don't have the perfect setup." He jerked his thumb over his shoulder towards the window, where the Impala sat gleaming under the intermittent neon light.

Sam's smile grew into a chuckle. "Okay, go for it." He propped himself up on an elbow, watching as Dean grabbed Baby’s keys from his duffel bag and headed for the door.

Dean stepped out into the humid night, the cool air a stark contrast to the stale hotel room. The Impala's chrome gleamed under the neon light, looking almost alive despite its age. He slid into the driver's seat and closed the door with a soft thud. The engine rumbled to life, purring like a contented cat. He leaned back, his palms resting on the wheel, and took a moment to appreciate the familiar scent of leather and gasoline that surrounded him.

He adjusted the recorder's settings, ensuring the microphone was sensitive enough to capture the subtle sounds. Raindrops had started to patter on the roof, a rhythmic symphony that grew louder as the storm approached. He leaned closer to the microphone, speaking in a hushed tone. "This is Dean Winchester, bringing you a little slice of tranquility in the one and only Baby."

With deliberate slowness, he began to tap the steering wheel with his fingertips. Each tap resonated in the cabin, echoing the rhythm of a gentle heartbeat. He varied the intensity and speed slightly, creating a calming melody. Then, with equal care, he moved to the windows, tracing the edges with the pads of his fingers. The glass was cool to the touch, and the taps against the metal frame sent a soothing vibration through his hand and into the microphone.

Next, he shifted his attention to the leather seats. Running his palms along the smooth, worn material, he felt the years of use and countless battles won and lost within the car's confines. He knew every groove and indent, every memory stitched into the very fabric of the upholstery. He focused on the steady beat of rain droplets striking the car's roof, letting it guide his movements as he gently massaged the leather, the sound of his touch melding with the percussion of the storm.

The glove box clicked open with a familiar sound, revealing an assortment of travel essentials: a map, a pack of beef jerky, and several glass bottles filled with holy water. He picked one up, the weight comforting in his hand. The clear liquid sloshed gently against the sides as he held it up to the microphone, the faint smell of incense wafting from the cap. He tapped the bottle softly, the glass resonating with a clear, bell-like tone. The sound was soothing, almost mesmerizing, and he could see in his mind's eye the ripples spreading out in perfect circles across the water's surface.

Setting the bottle aside, Dean reached into the back seat, his hand brushing against the cold metal of the shotgun. He chuckled to himself, knowing that Sam would never forgive him if he turned their peaceful ASMR session into an impromptu firearm showcase. Instead, he found what he was looking for: a well-worn flannel shirt.

He held it up, the fabric feeling coarse and familiar. The scent of dirt and smoke clung to it, a testament to the countless salt and burns it had been on. He brought it closer to the microphone, his fingernails running along the soft threads.

The sound was surprisingly comforting. A gentle, rustling whisper, reminiscent of leaves in a breeze or a quiet campfire crackling in the night. The scratch of blunt nails against fabric sent a shiver down Dean's spine. He continued, varying the pressure and speed of his nails, creating a soothing symphony of textures. The shirt's collar, the tight weave of the sleeve, the worn elbow patches – each section of fabric offering a unique sound.

Unable to resist, Dean put the shirt down and grabbed the shotgun in the back. It was a sawed off ithaca 37, a relic from a time when their battles were simpler and their hearts less scarred. He held the cold, metal barrel to the microphone, the rain's patter a backdrop to his actions. He began to tap the metal gently, letting the sound resonate through Baby’s quiet cabin.

The taps grew rhythmic, a pattern of comfort he'd found in countless moments of danger. Each strike echoed in the confined space, the vibrations traveling through his palm and up his arm. The sound was soothing, a metronome of protection that had seen them through so much. He moved to the wooden stock, running his thumb along the grain, feeling the smoothness of it from years of use. The taps grew more complex, mimicking the steady beat of their never-ending hunt.

As he tapped, he couldn't help but think of all the times the shotgun had saved their lives. The battles they'd won, the monsters they'd sent back to hell. It was a part of their story, a silent companion in the fight against the dark. He paused, his hand hovering over the recorder, contemplating if this was the right sound to send Sam off to sleep. Then, with a shake of his head, he decided it was. It was as much a part of their lives as Baby herself.

The rain had intensified in the time Dean had been recording, the droplets now drumming an insistent tattoo on the metal roof. The wind picked up, whipping around the car, sending leaves scurrying across the pavement. Thunder rumbled in the distance, a deep bass that resonated through his chest.

He glanced at the dashboard clock, realizing he'd been out there for over an hour. He hit the stop button on the recorder, the cabin falling into a sudden quiet. The rain was a cacophony outside, a stark contrast to the soothing sounds he'd been trying to create.

Dean knew it was time to get back to Sam before the storm reached its peak. He killed the engine, letting the rain wash over the car as he stepped out into the downpour. Water soaked through his shirt almost immediately, the cold bite of the rain made him shiver. He pocketed the recorder to protect it from the rain as he sprinted to the hotel room.

Inside the room, the air was dry and warm, a welcomed change after the cool embrace of the storm. Sam was still awake, his eyes glued to the TV, though the volume was turned down so low that only the flicker of the screen gave it away. "How'd it go?" Sam asked, not taking his eyes from the flickering images.

"Got some good stuff," Dean said, a grin playing on his lips as he held up the recorder. He could feel the chill of the rainwater seeping into his skin, but he was too excited to care. "Some engine purrs, taps on the steering wheel, and even a little shotgun ASMR."

Sam raised an eyebrow, amusement lighting up his eyes. "Shotgun ASMR?"

"Yeah," Dean said with a smirk, "thought it might help you drift off, given all the good memories we've got with it." He took a step towards the bed, the water dripping from his hair and clothes, forming a small puddle on the stained carpet.

Sam couldn't help but laugh. "You're something else, Dean." He said, tossing Dean a towel and dry clothing. After hearing the rain against the hotel window, he decided to prepare for Dean’s return, knowing his older brother would be soaked on his walk back to the hotel.

Dean caught the items that were thrown at him. "You're one to talk, Mr. 'I need ASMR to sleep.'" He peeled off his wet clothes, revealing a well-defined torso that gleamed with moisture. Sam didn’t even have time to marvel at the sight before Dean was scrubbing himself down with the thread bare towel.

He stepped into the dry pajama bottoms and pulled the oversized shirt over his head. It was one of Sam's, the fabric smelling faintly of laundry detergent and something else that was uniquely Sammy. It was a comforting scent, one that filled the car when they drove for hours on end, one that was as much a part of this life as the smell of leather and gunpowder.

Dean climbed into the bed with Sam, the mattress groaning in protest beneath his weight.

He handed Sam the recorder, his eyes shining with excitement. "Give it a listen," he urged. "I think it'll do the trick."

Sam took the device, his curiosity piqued despite his skepticism. He shifted around in the bed until he was comfortable and hit play, closing his eyes as the sound of the engine's purr filled his ears. The gentle tapping grew louder, the rhythm of the rain on the roof soon joining in. He felt his muscles start to relax, the tension of the day slowly unwinding. The sound of the fabric was surprisingly soothing, and he couldn’t help but smile at the thought of Dean, his tough exterior giving way to such a tender act of care.

The taps grew more complex, and he could almost feel the weight of the shotgun in his own hand, the familiar grip bringing a sense of comfort that was hard to explain. The thunder in the background added an unexpected layer of serenity, a reminder that even in the harshest of storms, they had each other. He felt his breathing deepen, the steady sounds of the car and the rain lulling him into a state of peace.

Dean's voice, low and reassuring, filled the space between the sounds. "Sammy, you're safe," he murmured. "I got you." And for the first time in what felt like an eternity, Sam believed it. He let the rhythmic taps and the soothing whispers of Dean’s voice carry him away from his fears and into the quiet sanctuary of sleep.

Outside, the storm raged on, but inside the hotel room, the only sounds were the faint noises of Dean's recording and Sam's even breathing. The thunder rumbled closer, and the rain grew more insistent as it pounded against the window.

Dean couldn't help but smile to himself as he pulled Sam closer, nestling his face between Sam's shoulder blades. He took a deep breath, sighing contently against the soft fabric of Sam’s sleep shirt.

The rain grew louder, the thunder closer, but the sounds of the engine and the tapping remained steady, a metronome of comfort that seemed to sync with Sam's breathing. The storm outside was a stark contrast to the calmness that had settled over Sam. He was finally getting some rest and that was all that mattered to Dean.

As the recording went on, Dean found himself drifting off as well. The rain's rhythm grew softer, the taps on the steering wheel more distant, but the feeling of peace remained. He didn't bother to turn the ASMR off, letting the soothing sounds wash over them both. He figured if it was helping Sam, it couldn't hurt him either. And truth be told, he enjoyed the quiet moments of tenderness between the two of them, even if they were wrapped in the guise of something as peculiar as ASMR.

-