#n you know damn well i made you too much money to have been bad at my job

[peachdues]

COMPASS

bad boy!Sanemi • gang AU • NSFW

A/N: Peach?? Not having any self control when it comes to writing a fic?? It’s more likely than you think.

This was supposed to be a bad boy!Sanemi takes your virginity drabble that spiraled into a meta-analysis of Sanemi’s self hatred that then blew up into a fic with plot. All of those elements are still present but surprise!! Enjoy 24k words of my brain rot.

Inspired by @homo-homini-lupus-est-1701 ‘s wonderful meta analysis of Sanemi’s self hatred and his scars.

CW: 24k • explicit sexual content • MDNI • gang-related violence • mentions of blood and broken bones • mentions of murder/death • loss of virginity • creampie • vaginal fingering • some angst

I have plenty more of this AU written, so if y’all want more, just let me know 🫡

MASTERLIST HERE

There are three rules to surviving life in the Corps.

The first is simple: once you’re in, you’re in.

Never outwardly confirm or deny rumors; let others talk, but don’t even think about opening your fucking mouth about the things you see or the whispers you hear.

And don’t be stupid enough to think you can cling onto any vestiges of your old life. There’s no splicing your life within the Corps with the one you’d had before. No separation. You’ve whored yourself to their cause, and for better or worse, you’re there until either someone important says otherwise or you end up in a morgue.

This is especially true for someone like Sanemi, so hopelessly entrenched within the organization that he’d allowed himself to be branded at the age of seventeen upon his ascension from rank-and-file street member to full-blown Hashira — the elite of the Corps, just short of the higher-ups who ran it.

The hot sear of iron between his shoulder blades had hurt like hell, but it was a welcome pain. A reminder that he’d not only outlived his father, but had actually made an impact, enough to be noticed and entrusted with more strenuous duties.

Each Hashira is assigned to a particular field. Uzui, silver haired, boisterous and extravagant, deals in bodies — mostly women, but men too, and he runs all of the strip clubs and escort services west of center city. Kocho, a child prodigy in chemistry, leads an intricate narcotics network.

And then there’s Sanemi: the debt collector.

Largely monetary debts — collecting on behalf of loan sharks, gambling debts, or that which is owed to his fellow Hashira, when their customers forget that there are no friends in business.

But the brand seared into his flesh has nothing to do with money — it is a reminder that above all, he is to ensure debts of another kind are paid.

Life debts.

In the three years since his initiation, Sanemi has only had to carry out this oath twice. Both had been scum, responsible for the deaths of innocents.

Their executions had been quick and without fuss — or much mess. A quick trip to an overpass abridging the Wisteria River. A march to the barrier in the dead of night, when no other cars were out and about to see or hear pleading sobs and bargains for their pathetic lives. A bullet to the head would quiet them, and Sanemi would let the rapids below take care of the clean up for him. Job done.

But even though the spray of their brains hadn’t touched him, their blood still stains Sanemi’s hands.

He will never be able to wash them clean.

But this is the life he chose, so Sanemi will endure the consequences — for the sake of his brother, the only living person on earth he gives a damn about. For whom he’ll do anything — be anyone — if it means Genya does not have to pick up a gun and sell himself to the very gang that owns his elder brother.

The second rule is simpler: no patterns. Patterns signal comfort and comfort may as well be a target on your back, begging for someone to come and take their shot (or several).

And finally, the third and arguably the most important rule, is don’t get attached. Keep your circle small so there’s less collateral to be used against you — against the organization that owns you.

This rule applies to both Corps members and civilians alike.

For the longest time, Sanemi Shinazugawa found Rule Three to be the easiest one to follow. He has his brother and no one else. His parents are dead; he has no friends beyond those in the Corps with him, and he knows better than to get overly invested in any of them. His inner circle is as tight as it can get.

But then he’d chosen your bookstore to hide in and that’s when everything falls apart.

“Fuckin’ Christ,” Sanemi mutters, anxious eyes tracking the large hand on his watch as it ticks the seconds by.

They were late.

The job was simple, and well within Sanemi’s capabilities. Maeda, a local dealer in stolen goods, had run up a sizeable bill at one of Uzui’s joints that he’d yet to pay. And while the slippery lech was quick to come sniffing whenever news spread that Iguro, a fellow Hashira, had managed to hijack a semi-truck full of luxury items, he was surprisingly difficult to connect with when it came time for him to pay for company he couldn’t get elsewhere.

He glanced down at his bruised, swollen knuckles and smirked. Sanemi couldn’t say he loved that his worth was measured in the number of bones he could break, or the amount of teeth he could punch out, but he’d be lying if he said he didn’t relish the chance to smash the pervert’s face in whenever the opportunity arose. Nor could he deny the rush of satisfaction he’d felt when he’d thrown open the steel door of the Maeda’s small office, crowbar in hand, and watched the snot-nosed pervert piss himself, stumbling over his words as he’d begged for mercy Sanemi hadn’t been hired to give.

The stupid, greasy fuck.

By the time he’d finished, Maeda had been little more than a quivering, helpless lump curled in on himself on the sticky, slate floor. His office had been left in shambles, drawers yanked out and emptied, only to be thrown aside (or cracked over the vermin’s back as he sobbed). But he’d had found the money, right down to the last dollar, just as he knew he would.

And that’s how Sanemi finds himself standing in the alley tucked behind Maeda’s small warehouse, Uzui’s payment split into two rolls that he’d shoved down into boots. All that was left was for the two junior Corps members he’d brought along for watch to bring the car around, and then they’d return to the abandoned factory that served as their headquarters.

Normally, this would have been a solo job, and Sanemi would already be on his bike, speeding off to safety. But he’d received an order to take along two, new Hinoe so they could get experience with higher level jobs.

Conveniently, his instructions had omitted the part the fact that the two lugs were utterly useless, bumbling idiots, contrary to what their recent promotions otherwise suggested.

Because neither of the two juniors are anywhere to be found. Nor is there any sound signaling that his getaway ride is approaching.

Sharp, lavender eyes scan the alley before him, but to his dismay, it remains empty — disquietingly so.

Leave it to a couple of rookies to set his teeth on edge.

Sanemi’s eyes drop down to follow the large hand of his watch as yet another minute ticks by. It’s been six minutes and their window had only allowed for four.

He knows how to be patient when the circumstances call for it, but now is not one of those times.

One minute, he decides, shifting his weight between his feet. They get one more fucking minute and then he splits —

A sudden screech of tires at the opposite end of the alley makes his stomach flip. Sanemi looks up just in time to see his escape car grind to a sharp halt, its rear jolting up as the driver slams on the brakes.

The passenger door flings open, and one of the Hinoe stumbles out, his feet barely connecting with the pavement before the car guns away, the side door flapping open.

The familiar howl of police sirens accompanied by distant shouts is enough for Sanemi to know this simple little debt collection has now gone tits-up.

“Pigs!” The Hinoe who stumbled out of the getaway car calls to him. “Pigs!”

“Shit,” Sanemi growls. No doubt Maeda’s bruised ego sold them out. He should’ve taken the time to smash the asshole’s phone.

He’ll be dealt with later — and with relish. But right now, Sanemi needs to get the fuck away.

Part of following Rule Three means not worrying about your fellow comrades when the cops come. None of them are stupid enough to actually risk talking to law enforcement about the Corps’ operations, but the fewer of them who get caught, the better.

So Sanemi takes off, adrenaline pumping fast and jot in his veins as he hears the swine behind him split off. He can’t be sure, but he can make out two, maybe three pairs of footsteps trailing behind him.

He scowls; shaking one cop is a breeze; having to shake off three is a bitch.

He hurtles over a pile of wooden crates and shoves a stack of delivery pallets over behind him as he runs, darting down random alleys and side streets that he knows will eventually lead him to a safe house.

The backstreet he shoots down is a fork, but only the path straight through will lead him to a rust yard of abandoned warehouses and shipping containers that Sanemi knows like the back of his hand. He could lose them there, could vanish between freights and wait the bastards out, and once clear, he could slip back into the district marking the outer territory of the Silo and get back home.

Iron pumps hotly in his veins. Almost there, almost there —

A car skids to a stop at the end of the middle ting of the alley, police lights flashing and alarms blaring.

No good.

“Fuck.” It isn’t the end of the world, but the blocking of the alley meant he had to reevaluate his escape. While he’s familiar with the path now obstructed by the police cruiser ahead, he hadn’t the chance to fully scope out his only other two options — the side streets to the left and right.

Without much thought, Sanemi darts sharply left and prays to whatever deity is listening that he hasn’t fully fucked himself.

Only one shop remains open; a tiny hole in the wall, tucked in between two old apartment buildings at the end of the street — one that borders the city’s western wing.

It’ll have to do, he decides, especially as the police sirens grow louder with each passing second.

He explodes through the front door, wide eyed and panting. Vaguely, it registers to him that this is a bookshop — a thankfully empty, cluttered bookshop.

But his abrupt arrival does reveal that the shop is not totally empty. There is one other — the store’s lone employee, who startles out of her seat behind the clerk’s counter, nearly knocking over a small cup of coffee.

He regards her for a moment, and she him, with matching expressions of wariness and shock at the presence of the other.

Behind him, the police sirens grow louder; more urgent.

It’s now or never. And, because he’s desperate enough to try, he risks a move he knows better than to take.

“You got someplace I can hide?”

——-

You blink, stunned as you stare at the frantic, pleading man anxiously looking between you and the door behind him.

His name registers dimly in the back of your mind. Here. In your store. And, evidently, on the run, if the distant echoes of police sirens growing steadily closer to your store is any indication.

Sanemi Shinazugawa.

You know him; you’d known him most of your life, even if you’d never spoken to him. You’d gone to the same school in your youth — all thirteen years of it, in fact. He’d been an abrasive loudmouth in the hallways, but a quiet, even polite boy in the classroom.

You know he’s from the Silo — a worn down, derelict part of the City that housed only the poorest residents. A cruel nickname meant to mock the poverty of its population.

But the Silo was also well known for being the epicenter of operations for the notorious group known only as the Corps.

It was the Corps who owned a majority of the City, its reach extending from the Silo, through the West and East wings, and all the way into Midtown. And, as was the case with most leeches, the Corps relied on the most desperate and hungry to carry out its biddings, offering some level of protection and security for the poor souls who needed it most.

Hence, its presence in the Silo.

So you hadn’t been surprised when you’d heard Sanemi had joined the Corps. Most kids from the Silo did; what had surprised you were the rumors that he became a high-rank member by the ripe age of seventeen, before he’d even graduated high school.

You shudder to think what he had to have done — what he’d become — in order to achieve such status and notoriety.

If he’d been anyone else, you wouldn’t have helped; you would’ve screamed, alerted the police to his presence, maybe even outed him as a suspected Hashira.

But you owed him.

Years ago, before either you or your siblings could drive, you all relied on the city bus to get to and from school.

But one afternoon, when you’d had to stay late for a club meeting, your little sister accidentally got on the wrong bus. Rather than being dropped safe and sound a block away from home, she’d ended up in a bad part of town that just so happened to have been the stomping grounds of the scowling delinquent now shoved under your cabinet, contorted between boxes of blank receipt rolls and stacks of returns.

Had anyone else found your sister, there would be no telling what would have happened to her. The Silo was not a place known to be kind to lost little girls.

But it was Sanemi who discovered her, sniffling and red-faced at the dilapidated bus stop. And though he’d been nothing more than a scrawny ten year old, he’d put your sister on his back and carried her not just the six miles back to safe part of town, but the additional two that led right to the front doorstep of your parents’ home.

You’d watched him curiously from the stairs as your parents profusely thanked your sister’s white-haired savior. They’d offered Sanemi dinner, or at least some sort of reward for his efforts, but he’d only waved them off, briskly telling them it was “no big deal.” As though carrying a six-year-old nearly eight miles was par for the course, as far as he was concerned.

His eyes had flitted over to you once during the exchange, briefly lingering before he turned and left, a single hand held up in casual farewell.

You’d been ten at the time. And now, here you are, twenty years old, running a shabby bookstore, and the opportunity to pay him back has finally arrived. The chance to show your gratitude for sparing your sister of a fate he himself, had not been able to escape.

Quickly, you motion him to you and without explanation, you cram him under the clerk’s counter, holding the cabinet door shut with your knee just as the police burst through the store entrance.

There are three of them, and they do not bother announcing themselves to you. Instead, they begin to prowl through your aisles, flashlights out and guns drawn while they comb the quiet corners of the store, searching for signs of anything that did not belong; anything misplaced.

A bead of sweat slides down the back of your neck, but you keep your face and your stance casual. Below the counter you cross your fingers, hoping and praying that the criminal stuffed inside your cabinet isn’t stupid enough to try and shift.

One officer rounds back into the main part of the store and locks in on you, stiff and anxious behind the counter.“You haven’t seen anything suspicious?”

“I’m sorry, sir. I don’t know what you mean.”

The cop grimaces. “You haven’t seen anyone who looks out of place? Maybe seems like they’re running?”

You feign an easy, sweet smile, even as the leg holding the cabinet door shut begins to tremble. “I’m afraid you’re my first customer of the day, sir.”

The officer grumbles under his breath something along the lines of not your customer, but he questions you no further. He only waves to his comrades and the three of them shuffle out through the door, one muttering into the walkie strapped to his shoulder.

Several moments pass, tense and thick. The silence is broken only by the sound of your heart hammering against your sternum. You remain still, fingers curled tight against the counter’s edge listening for any sound signaling the cops have returned, that their stiff departure had been a ruse to lull you into a false sense of security, as they waited for you to reveal your deception.

But all remains quiet. And you cannot stomach the silence any longer.

“They’re gone,” you mutter, finally moving aside to let the cabinet door below you swing open.

There’s a faint thumping and a few, muffled curses as the scar-speckled fugitive unfolds himself and spills free from the under-cabinet.

In a way, Sanemi still resembles the boy of your memories. His eyes and hair have always been distinctive: a shocking contrast of violet framed by thick, dark lashes that do not match the mop of silvery-white atop his head. But it’s the faint scowl he wears as he stands, the tinge of annoyance that tugs at the corners of his mouth, that scrunches his pale eyebrows, that feels familiar.

That expression, a portrait of vague irritation with the world around him, was one you came to know well — at least, at a distance. One that remained constant even as you grew; his default.

However, it is still not nearly as memorable as the shy embarrassment that had turned his cheeks slightly pink, had made him cast his eyes down as your parents showered him with gratitude.

But that earnest bashfulness is nowhere to be found now.

He wears a patterned, short-sleeved button down. Though rumpled and a tad dirty, you suspect the top three buttons were left open intentionally, rather than being the product of whatever scuffle he’d found himself in before he decided to make it your problem.

You try not to linger on the very obvious hint of the well-defined muscles revealed by his open collar. Nor do you let yourself consider the bulging mass of his biceps as he runs a hand through his cornsilk hair.

He has scars he’d not had in your youth — jagged, silvery lines that cut halfway across his cheek and forehead. Yet their presence does not dull his good looks.

A scrawny ten year old no longer; Sanemi Shinazugawa is now tall and roguishly handsome. But his infuriating good looks aside, your debt to him has been repaid; now, he needs to get the fuck away.

“Can’t thank ya enough,” he shoots you a devilish smile as he straightens his shirt. “You really saved my ass —“

“Get out of my store.” You order, your voice hard. “Take your trouble somewhere else and leave me out of it.”

Sanemi’s eyes narrow at your use of the word trouble, but he says nothing. Instead, he only rounds the counter with a loping, infuriating swagger, his hands shoved in his pockets.

“As you wish, Princess,” and you bristle at the sarcasm dropping from the word. He pauses to scan the shelf marked New Releases. “Just need somethin’ for the road.”

He snags a small novel — a fantasy story, judging by the cover - and he tucks it under his arm.

“Later,” he calls, waving a lazy hand over his shoulder.

You stare after him, slack-jawed and incensed. “You have to pay for —“

But the door bangs shut behind him, and Sanemi Shinazugawa disappears into the night.

—-

By the time Sanemi returns to his shabby apartment, it is well after midnight. He’d met up with Uzui and forked over Maeda’s payment. Though, the Corp’s head pimp hadn’t been particularly pleased that his money rolls had been shoved deep down in his boots, his nose wrinkling as Sanemi dropped the crumpled, slightly damp wads of cash into his waiting, magenta-nailed hands.

As it turned out, Maeda hadn’t sold them out. Rather, one of the Hinoe had stupidly gotten into a scuffle with some brash, young teenager and in his anger, pulled his gun on the kid.

Right in front of two, marked cop cars.

One of the idiots had been caught and cuffed, and was now spending his evening locked in the damp, cold jailhouse pending bond. The other — the driver — had managed to escape, though he’d been carted off to Iguro for punishment.

There’s a reason he prefers working alone, he thinks bitterly as he kicks his boots off. He fucking loathes incompetence.

He pulls his gun free from its place in his waistband and sets it gently atop his ratty kitchen table. Sanemi then trudges over to his futon, collapsing heavily on it with a groan. A shit day, he decides, pulling the stack of cash he’d received as his cut for the job free from his pocket, thumbing through it. A shit day with shit juniors.

He shifts against a lump that sits under his ass. Frowning, he reaches into his back pocket and pulls out the book he’d swiped from your store and turns it over in his hands. Surprisingly, it has managed to remain in pristine condition despite its rather unceremonious storage in his pocket.

Your face flashes in his mind, but before he can fully appreciate it, your words echo in his ears.

Take your trouble somewhere else.

Sanemi scowls, tossing the book onto his coffee table, annoyed. The implication underlying your use of trouble and the venom with which you’d spoken it is a thorn in his side he cannot ignore.

You know what — who — he is. In Sanemi’s world, that’s a liability.

Though, in fairness, he can’t really be surprised that you do. Gossip is a free commodity in this town, and it’s a coveted one. It wouldn’t be a stretch to conclude that you’d overheard one of the rumors about him and his ties to the Corps.

What concerns him is he doesn’t know what your connection is, if any, to his world. Maybe you’re really just a girl in a bookshop who paid back a decade-old favor.

Or maybe you’ve got an in with them.

The Corps isn’t the only gang operating within the city; there is another, crueler and far more violent that had arisen west of the Silo.

The Kizuki.

In the last six months, the Kizuki have managed to overtake the Western Wing, nearly expanding their reach into center city.

Their takeover had been swift; practically achieved overnight, following the systematic execution of every known Corps members in the area. And their violence hadn’t been limited to active members; the Kizuki had brutally maimed and murdered anyone tangentially connected to those Corps members.

Neither women nor their children were spared. And now, it seemed the Kizuki had set their sights on the Silo.

There are whispers that they’ve expanded into their operations into the neighborhood adjacent to the one in which the bookstore sits. That alone is enough to make Sanemi suspicious — perhaps you’re in league with them, and you’ll hand him over the moment it’s most convenient for you to do so.

Admittedly, that theory seems doubtful. You’re a bookseller. Not the kind of girl he knows is prone to becoming involved with the seedy underground world of organized crime. And your apparent disdain for him and his trouble only supports that theory.

But that’s an assumption, and in his line of work, assumptions are precarious; risky. Too much so for comfort.

Either way, he doesn’t know, and that uncertainty is a breeding ground for the parasite that is doubt. Toxic enough that were it to take root in his brain, his judgment could be compromised, leading him to mistakes he can’t afford to make.

Sanemi doesn’t tolerate blind spots. He will keep you on his radar until he determines the threat you pose and once he knows its severity, he’ll decide how to proceed.

He eyes the book he’d swiped from your store. He likes reading, though he hasn’t had much time for it lately (or, ever). But, if he’s going to hang around you while trying to identify the threat you pose, he might as well have a strategy for getting you to talk.

Sighing, he grabs the novel from his table and thumbs to the first page as he pads into his kitchen, in search of something to quell the grumble in his stomach.

—

His inquiries into you and your life reveal shockingly little.

You work at a bookstore. Your parents sold off your childhood home and retired to some beach down south. Your siblings are spread out across other cities and don’t visit home often, if ever.

Only you remain, abandoned by your family to fend for yourself in a crumbling city with only a shabby bookshop that sits on the furthest end of an otherwise safe street to keep you busy.

Truthfully, the bookstore probably is more interesting than you, at least on paper. But it’s that dirge of information that piques his interest; makes him look at you more as a mystery worth unraveling.

Besides, the smart thing for him would be to keep a tab on you until he can confirm you are in fact, as boring as you appear.

Or so he tells himself.

The image of a ten-year-old you peering at him from your parents’ stairwell flashes through his mind once more.

He’d felt your gaze burning a hole into his head, and shyly, he’d looked back at you, only to find himself unable to look away. Only your mother’s prodding about him joining your family for dinner had broken your temporary enchantment over him.

The memory of how you’d looked at him — a mixture of curiosity and awe highlighted by a faint blush in your cheeks when he’d met your stare head on — remained fixed in his brain for years after.

And though the two of you never spoke, you always smiled at him whenever you locked eyes in the school hallway or cafeteria. A real, genuine smile.

He wonders if he ever smiled back and finds himself irritated that he can’t remember if he had. He should’ve; especially now when it seems as though he’s unlikely to ever see that gentle, radiant smile again.

Sanemi’s phone pings and all thoughts of you come to a screeching halt. The message that flashes on his screen — instructions, only by way of an address and an amount — chase away the images of you and your sweet smile, like a hand scattering smoke.

With a sigh, Sanemi dials the number for two, lower-ranked Corps members to serve as scouts. With watch secured, he shoves his phone into his pocket and runs a tired hand over his face.

He wonders what will kill him first — whether it will be a bullet or whether it will be because there’s nothing left of him to whore out on the Corp’s behalf.

Ultimately, he knows it doesn’t really matter. He won’t die as himself; as Sanemi, the boy from the Silo who wants a life that’s anything but this. He’ll die only as Shinazugawa the Hashira. He’ll die under the mask he’s forced to wear so often, he wonders if it hasn’t yet bonded with his skin.

But as long as he remains in one piece, he must continue on as a puppet in this this tedious show. So, Sanemi grabs his gun from where he’d placed it on atop the cheap plastic of his kitchen table and he tucks it into his waistband.

And by the time his apartment door slams shut behind him, Sanemi has slipped the mask down over his face, and he is Shinazugawa once more.

—

Two weeks pass before he ends up back in front of your bookstore.

Sanemi doesn’t really remember how he got here. He awoke well before sunrise to his phone chiming with orders that he go collect on a sizeable gambling debt owed by one of Iguro’s regulars, an owner of some pawn shop.

The sun was already high overhead when he finally left the pawn shop, knuckles bruised and arm aching. He’d kicked his bike into gear in a familiar daze, one that always slipped over him after he completed a job. A kind of numb quiet that settled into his bones, a dull static in his brain that did not fade until the tremor in his hands subsided.

That paralysis needs to be broken. Contrary to popular belief, desensitization was not an ideal state of being for someone like him. It made him apathetic and careless to the world around him, and that was little better than painting a giant target on his back, begging his enemies to come and do their worst.

So, when the numbness still lingered by the time his bike roars past a rusted water tower that marks the outer limit of the Silo, Sanemi knows of only one cure. His go-to.

His bike is still hot by the time he lifts his phone to his ear, just outside his shithole of an apartment.

He doesn’t know her by name — only by description, as told by the series of emojis that accompany her number on his phone. But it’s surprisingly easy to charm her, though perhaps that’s because she’s looking for an escape just as much as he is.

Less than ten minutes later, the girl pulls up beside him in the parking lot.

Her hands are already roaming down his chest and playing with the buckle on his belt as Sanemi unlocks his door and pushes her inside.

At some point between the front door and his bedroom, the girl has stripped herself of her outer clothing, leaving her only in her undergarments as she tugs Sanemi down by his neck and into her kiss. She’s licking and nipping at his lips in a way he’s not sure he likes, but he allows it because his cock is painfully hard and throbbing where it strains against his pants.

And, after all, he’s the one desperate for relief.

“I’ve only got ten minutes,” she warns, kicking off her underwear as she falls back onto his bed. Sanemi only smirks as he slides his hand down the length of her leg, gripping her by the ankle and flipping her to her stomach.

He shifts away long enough to quickly wiggle free of his pants. He grabs a condom from his nightstand and rips the foil with his teeth. Fingers toying with the girl’s clit as she moans into his mattress, Sanemi rolls the latex down his cock. Protection secured, he reaches for her again, yanking her by her hips until her backside is flush against him. One hand pushes down between her shoulder blades while the other snakes up her neck, and Sanemi nudges the tip of his cock up against her entrance.

“Don’t worry, darlin’,” he winds the long tresses of her hair around his fist and gives her a sharp tug. “We’ll be done in five.”

—-

Even an hour after he tossed the girl her clothing and not so casually suggested she leave his apartment, Sanemi still feels restless.

He cannot shake the images of the afternoon from his mind, and so, Sanemi resorts to walking.

He does so without thought as to destination or the rapidly setting sun. Sanemi only focuses on the activity itself. One foot in front of the other; pace even and quick, each step accompanied by a flash of that day’s sins.

The crash of a garage door as it slammed back against the wall. Wide eyes that quickly filled with panic at the sight of him and the flash of metal tucked against his hip.

Step.

A plea; a desperate promise to pay, one that he’d heard a thousand times from a thousand different mouths. None of them ever seemed to understand their word wasn’t worth shit when they’d already defaulted on their obligations. Yet still, they begged.

Step.

The breaking of teeth beneath his fists.

Step.

The crush of bone under the iron pipe he’d found discarded on the garage floor. The agonized futility of trying to scoot back and away from him, despite a shattered leg.

Green; the color of the money he’d found stashed in a duffel, the debtor’s desperate attempt to hoard the wealth owed to the Corps.

Step. Step. Step. All the way down the street leading until he finds himself on a distantly familiar stretch of pavement that ends at the bookstore’s front steps.

For a moment, he lingers outside the shop, hesitant. He should turn around; there is no reason for him to be here. His investigation into you is not a priority by any means, especially where whatever poking he has done has revealed so little.

The book he lifted from the New Releases shelf is tucked carefully in his jacket pocket. He doesn’t know why he’s carried it around with him, all this time. Sanemi finished the novel the very night you’d helped hide him from the cops.

He should leave; but then his feet carry him up the walk leading to the store, and he’s pushing the door open.

His arrival is punctuated by a cheerful ring of the old bell nailed above the door. At first, the store appears deserted; but then you pop up from under the counter, surprise coloring your features.

That surprise melts quickly into cold disdain that makes something in his chest flutter as he strolls toward you. With every step, that numb haze of his disperses and instead, Sanemi feels himself returning to normal the closer he brings himself to you.

“This isn’t a library,” you chide when he plops his borrowed novel back down on your counter. “You have to pay for the books here.”

It’s incredible how easily he is able to slip back into the skin of the suave, smug playboy, and your adorable glare only makes him smirk. “I brought it back, didn’t I? Look — didn’t even crack the spine.”

“It doesn’t matter,” you reply coolly, snatching the book up and tossing it on a small cart marked Restock. “That loss came out of my paycheck — which is scant enough.”

That piques his attention. “Didn’t you say this was your store?”

His question makes you turn pink, and you’re quick to put your back to him, pretending to shuffle through new releases waiting to be shelved. “I work here,” you mutter quietly, but when you turn back around, you stick your chin out, defiant. “But I am the only employee, so it is my store, in a sense. The owner doesn’t ever come by.”

You wrinkle your nose. “So yes, lost profits affect me, and me alone, you thief.”

Sanemi cocks his head, his eyes running over you in consideration.

You’re beautiful; he’s always found you cute, even as a kid, but the transition between your teen years and adulthood have been kind. Even if you’re glaring at him like you would a crushed bug stuck to the bottom of your shoe.

But your words strike a chord in him. His job is to collect money from those greedy lowlifes who waste it; who use money to carry out their bad deeds, who use it to fuck over others.

He doesn’t take it from those who need it; from those who are barely scraping. by. Sanemi knows the agony of having to choose between keeping the lights on or feeding a hungry stomach far, far too well.

“Fine, here,” he tosses a random novel on your counter and a crumpled twenty dollar note. You ring him up, eyes flicking up to glare at him every so often as you count out his change.

He only continues to watch you, the heat of his stare ignites an itch under your skin that makes you squirm.

Your restlessness boils over. “What?”

“Nothin,” he shrugs. “Just think it’s interesting that you of all people are still lingering in this shit hole.”

Your head snaps up, your task of totaling out his change forgotten. “I live here, idiot.”

He snorts. “Didn’t you want outta here? Do somethin’ different?” He leans forward, elbows propped on your counter as he rests his chin on his fist.

“I don’t see how that’s any of your business.” He’s dancing dangerously close to a sore spot of yours — that you are alone in your hometown, working at a failing bookshop, with no one and nothing to justify your stagnancy.

“This can’t be your dream life.”

You don’t have to answer; you know that. But his line of questioning is puzzling. Because, no matter how casual he manages to keep his tone, his nonchalance is betrayed by his eyes, sharp and inquisitive.

Like he’s waiting to dissect whatever answer you give him.

Sanemi continues. “It’s strange for people not to want for more — to not dream about somethin’ different.”

“And who are you to say I don’t?” You bristle, slamming your cash drawer shut with more force than necessary. “I have a dream of my own. Just because it’s not one you would pick for yourself doesn’t mean it’s wrong.”

He blinks, taken aback. “Woah, woah, I never meant any offense.” He pushes back from the counter. “My bad.”

His response feels genuine but your ego is already bruised. Stiffly, you finish counting out his change and drop it into his waiting palm.

You slide his book across the counter. “Have the day you deserve.”

His surprise morphs into amusement at your iciness. So haughty, he winks. “You too, Princess.”

You turn aside in clear dismissal. He makes a show of taking out his wallet and stuffing his change inside, but your pointed ignorance of him means you don’t see him toss another note on the counter.

He’s already halfway out the door when you call after him, urgent. “Sir, you dropped your —“

“Nah, I didn’t,” he raises his hand in farewell as the bookstore door bangs shut behind him, leaving you to stare open-mouthed after him.

Clutched tightly in your hand is his crisp, one hundred dollar note.

—

His next visit is unplanned, but not in the way that Sanemi avoids routine. It’s unplanned in that he’s annoyed and it’s partially your fault, so that means the onus is on you to fix it.

You’re in the process of double checking delivery logs to ensure all your new inventory has arrived when a large thud against the clerk’s counter startles you.

You frown. It’s him again — all ivory hair and silvery facial scars that somehow are less imposing than the irritated scowl he wears.

“This book was shit,” he scoots the novel across the counter to you with distaste. “I want a refund.”

You level his pout with a frosty glare of your own. Wordlessly, you lean over the counter and tap a single finger against a laminated sign duck-taped to its edge.

Return-exchange only. No refunds.

“But it was shit,” he repeats, as though that will somehow spur you to change a policy you didn’t create. “You let me waste twenty bucks.”

“I did nothing,” you rustle the pages of your delivery log in pointed dismissal. “You’re the one who decided to buy a book before checking it out.”

You glance down at the discarded novel. “Figures,” you scoff. “He’s not even an author. He uses ghost writers and takes all the credit.”

“Woulda been nice if you’d told me that before you let me give him my money.”

You hum idly as you cross off the log’s boxes for new releases. “I suppose I was too stunned that you even knew how to read. Guess I wasn’t really paying attention to your shit choices.”

“Oh?” And you glance up to see Sanemi smirking at you. “The Princess has claws, does she?” He leans against the counter, propping his cheek under a loose fist. “So, what are your recommendations, gorgeous?”

“I’m not your Princess,” you snap imbuing the nickname with as much venom as you can muster. “Call me by my name or call me nothing at all.”

His eyes drop to your name-tag, pinned neatly on the front of your sweater. That insufferable smirk of his only widens. “Alright, alright. What are your recommendations, Y/N?”

The syllables sound rich and honeyed and suddenly, you wish you’d let him stick with Princess, as grating as it was.

Because your name should not sound so sweet, should not roll off his tongue so seamlessly, as it just did.

You’ve never been one to indulge in rumors. But in this city, as economically fractured as it is, gossip is a currency everyone keeps in their back pocket. And though you keep your head down and mind your own business, even you have heard the rumors swirling around town about the eldest Shinazugawa child.

Rumors that he has ascended the ranks of the same Mob that claimed the life of his deadbeat father long before the bastard was shived in the back for a debt he’d owed (their words, never yours).

Rumors that he holds a unique position within the gang, known clandestinely only as the Corps, and that position requires him to do things most won’t speak about.

But the rumor that screeches to the forefront of your mind has nothing to do with his alleged status with the Corps. It’s his reputation as a flirt; a rumored womanizer, through and through, that is a splinter under your skin.

Determined to pick him out, a wicked idea blossoms. “Fine, here.” You stalk purposefully to the section marked Literature. Your finger drags down a line of titles before finally settling on one. You pull it free with a soft grunt, the book sitting thick and heavy in your hand as you dump it into Sanemi’s.

“Read that.”

His eyes flick between its cover and you, incredulous. “This ain’t a book; it’s a brick.”

“It’s a classic,” you counter. “One that examines age-old question of destiny versus free will, generational curses.” Your head cocks to the side, a challenging smirk tugging at the corner of your mouth. “Love and lust.”

His eyebrow raises and you cross your fingers. If he falls for it and ultimately ends up hating the book, then perhaps he’ll decide your taste in reading material is indeed shit, and maybe then he’ll leave you alone.

Sanemi considers you for a moment but then he takes the bait. “If you say so,” he sighs. “But if it’s shit, I’m taking my refund.” And then he leans in close, so close that you can feel the warmth radiating off his body.

His breath is hot against your ear. “Regardless of your shitty little policy.”

You refuse to let him see how much he’s knocked you off-kilter. “So I can expect to be robbed? Will it be at gun or knifepoint? Just so I’m prepared.”

His chuckle, low and dark sends goosebumps skittering down your arms. “Worse,” he promises before he draws back. His grin is wolfish, all teeth and feral hunger. “You’ll owe me a date.”

He looses a low, appreciate whistle as he steps back and takes his eyes over your rigid form. “Though, I might just take you out anyway.”

“You assume I’ll say yes — or are you planning on kidnapping me? I’m sure you’re rather proficient at it, given your occupation.”

Something dark flashes across his face, and it’s enough to make you step back, a sudden fear creeping up the back of your spine.

Stupid, you chastise yourself. You never know when to keep your mouth shut.

But the shadows in his features recede as quickly as they appeared, and Sanemi’s mouth eases back into that same, cocky smile.

“You’ll say yes, Princess. You won’t be able to resist the temptation.”

“Temptation?” You force out a laugh. “And what makes you think I can’t?”

Sanemi’s eyes find your current read, open flipped over on the counter, marking your current page.

It’s a mystery novel. Your third of the month, born of a new hyperfixation on the genre.

You want nothing more than to wipe that smug grin of his clean from his face. He gives an affectionate snake of his head as he turns and makes his way toward the door. “Habits, Y/N. It all comes down to habits.”

You should throw it at his head, but Sanemi exits the store before your hand can find its spine.

——-

Over two weeks pass without so much as a whisper from the enigma that is Sanemi Shinazugawa.

Loath though you are to give him that sort of credit, you cannot deny that he utterly confounds you. He is everything you expected while simultaneously nothing at all what you’d imagined. He is brash and cocky, and he struts around with an insufferable self-importance that can only come from years of being at the top of his game (no matter how he got there).

Yet, he also reads. Enough to have opinions, even decent ones, about certain authors, and he’s open minded enough to accept your recommendation even if it feels as though he has an ulterior motive for doing so.

And, he’d been bothered by the dock in your pay as a result of his mischief; so much so, that he’d slipped you more than enough to make up the loss. That is the action that puzzles you the most, even weeks later. You’d assumed that someone like him, so used to ensnaring people into various schemes, wouldn’t have given two shits if he’d stolen money from some broke girl at a bookstore. After all, his business was all about money — and the lengths some would go to keep it.

Yet he’d paid you back — paid you more than you needed, if you were honest.

Since that day, you’ve had your ears tuned to any mention of his name, any whispers of the mysterious, scarred gang-member who has occupied nearly all the open space in your head. You’ve managed to glean small things here and there. That he’s a Hashira, and Hashira means he’s only one step below what is known ominously as the Master Family — the heads of the entire organization.

That he’s rather feared, even among seasoned Corps members; that he’s known for his swift brutality.

That he’s more than just a flirt; he’s a virile lover. Not picky in the slightest about who warms his bed, though no one has ever been able to pin him down longer than a handful of one-night stands.

You stop poking around after that particular revelation, embarrassed that you now know exactly what makes him so popular.

Apparently, his flexibility pairs well with his near inhuman stamina. And he’s said to be very well-endowed.

It’s more information than you care to know, but you can’t deny that your curiosity lingers.

You brush aside your inquisitiveness as nothing more than a natural side effect of your own inexperience. And you’ll be damned before admitting that your interest in Sanemi Shinazugawa isn’t limited to rumors of how good he is in bed. That, perhaps your curiosity stems from something deeper, from a desire to know if that bad boy persona is authentic or a mere facade, and boy on the stoop still lurks somewhere beneath his mask.

—

“You look like shit.”

You startle up from where you’d been resting your head on your arm, wavering between consciousness and sleep.

You know that gravelly voice before you lay your eyes on him, and your irritation is quick to flicker to life.

Nearly a month has passed since your last encounter, and for a moment, you’d thought you’d been freed from his nuisance. But now, Sanemi stands in your store, wearing a half-amused expression on his stupidly handsome face.

“Is that the only descriptor you know?” You ask miserably, hands working quickly to smooth down your mused hair. “Is everything either shit or not-shit to you?”

Sanemi shrugs. “Pretty much,” and he holds something out to you, waiting. “Here.”

It’s a to-go bag from a cafe two blocks away. One known for their almond croissants, for which you have a particular penchant.

Your stomach grumbles fiercely. You’d foregone eating breakfast when you realized you’d overslept your alarm, and had to rush out of your apartment to ensure you’d be here in time for the weekly delivery truck.

The sweet scent of butter and sugar wafting from the bag makes your mouth water.

But this is Sanemi Shinazugawa, and you should think to know better. “Is it poisoned?”

He rolls his eyes. “If I wanted to drug you, sweetheart, I’d pick a far more convenient way to do it — and one that didn’t involve me getting up at the ass crack of dawn for some overpriced pastries.”

Warily, you accept the paper bag, and Sanemi surprises you again by handing you a to-go cup of coffee. He watches as you, ever the dramatic, sniff tentatively at the lid and frown, apparently dissatisfied that you can discern nothing but the rich, aromatic scent of espresso.

Sanemi takes a deep drink from his own cup. “It’s a thank you. For that book you recommended,” He smirks. “It wasn’t shit. It was good.”

You fish a pastry out of the bag, and nearly drool as you behold its buttery, flaky goodness. “You sound surprised.”

“Maybe I was. Your success rate was only fifty-fifty. I had every right to be skeptical.”

“You’re the one who grabbed that last book,” you take a large bite out of your croissant and you fight to keep yourself from moaning. “That had nothing to do with me.” You swallow thickly before taking a large sip of coffee to wash down the pastry. “So, no date, then?”

The smile he gives you is almost apologetic. “Sorry, beautiful. I don’t actually date.” And you nearly double over at the bewildering taste of disappointment creeping sourly up the back of your throat. “Gotta keep things casual in my world.”

The once-over he gives you is razor-sharp. “And you don’t look like a casual girl.”

You resist the urge to cross your arms. “You seem awfully certain, Shinazugawa.”

“Experience,” he offers easily. “I know casual women.” He turns his head away before quietly adding, “And you ain’t one of ‘em.”

It’s odd; you know of his rather wild reputation among women, and yet he seems almost embarrassed by its acknowledgment. But as you’re slowly learning, Sanemi Shinazugawa is a conundrum you haven’t yet been able to pick apart.

You could throw it in his face; you could spew some barb about his experience, rub your salt right into his obvious wound. You have no reason to spare his feelings, not when he’s been such a consistent pain in your ass.

Your eyes drift to the empty pastry bag and coffee cup before they find him again, and suddenly, you don’t see the swaggering, cocky Corps member with a reputation for being just as dangerous and violent as he is flirtatious.

You see only the boy on your stoop; the one who’d gently removed your sister from her place on his back and handed her back to your tearful, relieved parents.

And it’s because you cannot stop seeing that boy, that you offer before you lose the courage to ask, “So, friends, then?”

Sanemi whips back to you, surprise coloring his features that quickly melts into a smile — a real, genuine smile.

And thus, Sanemi Shinazugawa, ruthless member of the Corps and a ranked Hashira, befriends a girl who runs a bookshop.

—-

In retrospect, Sanemi knows he’s probably fucked himself.

His only intention in visiting your shop after that first day had been to discern what level of threat you posed to him, if any, and to address it accordingly. Befriending you was never his goal. After all, he prided himself on his staunch ability in following the unspoken Rules of the Corps — number Three, in particular.

But he has always interpreted Three has a warning against forming bonds within the Corps. And though he knows it’s good practice to keep his circle outside its operations small as well, he rations he’s entitled to indulge his curiosity in you. He doesn’t have friends, not really. Just Genya, and his little brother lives well over an hour away, enrolled in a school in a far better — far safer — city.

It would be nice to have someone a little closer to home that he could relax around.

Yet, he can’t recall whether Rule Three would bar him from associating you outside work hours. Caution would dictate he shouldn’t, but Sanemi never claimed to be a careful man.

He never visits the same day or at the same time. Rule Two says no patterns, and though he’s steadily blurring the lines of Rule Three with each passing day, he convinces himself that as long as he abides by the first two, he won’t be in as deep shit as he, in theory, could be.

It starts out slow; tentative. Despite what he’d thought otherwise, you’re not nearly as prim and haughty as you’d tried to make him believe.

You’re sweet. Genuine, in a way that’s rare for him to encounter in his world.

Gradually, he begins spending more time with you. At first, your relationship is confined strictly to discussions of books. You swap favorites, debate which author is at the top of their genre, and you occasionally needle each other over your respective guilty pleasure: yours, bodice rippers. His, fairytales.

He spends a great deal of his free time at the bookstore, though he’s never consistent with his visits. You never ask him about it, and for that, he’s grateful. But eventually, your conversation turns to other interests — movies, shows, music — and each new mutual interest only further enamors him with you.

And when you invite him over one day after you close the shop to watch an old movie you’d swiped from the store’s limited collection, he can’t find it in him to tell you no.

The first time he visits your apartment, he is appalled.

For starters, the neighborhood you live in isn’t the safest. It’s not the Silo, by any means, but it’s an area he frequents as part of his job and that fact alone sets him on edge. He knows what kind of people linger here; knows that they tend to borrow cash that ends up in Uzui’s business — another Hashira.

And when he sees the shoebox you live in (a studio, you’d proudly boasted, as though the distraction of exposed brick and industrial piping made up for its shit location and shit security), Sanemi finds himself clutching his proverbial pearls.

He supposes he can see its appeal — you’ve certainly turned it into a home.

You’ve made a small living room out of a single couch, thrifted coffee table, and a faintly stained rug. Your TV is laughably small, but he supposes it gets the job done.

A small kitchen stands to the right of the entryway, and there is a bathroom to the left. You have a wall of closets with folding doors, and the wall directly opposite of him boasts three large, arched windows. Sanemi supposes during the day, they provide enough natural sunlight to negate any need for any overhead lighting, of which you have none. But he can’t tell if they open from the outside, so he resolves to furtively check once you’re distracted.

Your bed stands on the furthest wall, tucked into a corner and laden heavy with colorful pillows and plush throws. Books are stacked everywhere — in shelves, in corners, by plants and furniture. All well-worn and loved, their spines cracked and covers stained.

It’s lively; warm. And it has you written all over it. That alone is enough to slightly endear the place to him.

But it’s still a shit apartment in a shit neighborhood.

Worse, your door is little more than a flimsy piece of wood that latches with a single turn lock — the easiest to break, if someone was determined enough to try. He tells you as much and you roll your eyes, brushing aside his concerns as though he’s not precisely aware of what kind of filth might linger around the corner.

The next day, he brings over a deadbolt, a chain, and a drill. He bats off your indignant protests as he installs it on your door. And, because he’s petty, he forces you to sit through a painfully detailed demonstration of how to properly latch and unlatch the chain once he’s finished.

The weeks blend seamlessly into months, and Sanemi finds himself spending more and more of his free time with you. It doesn’t matter whether you’re working at the bookstore or enjoying a night of brain-rotting entertainment on your shitty little television. He just wants to be near you, and he finds himself unable to stay away.

Four months into your friendship, you start a weekly movie night, though the date is always subject to change. Still, Sanemi finds himself craving more of that precious time with you. The hours spent in your store or at your apartment fill a void in his chest he hadn’t realized he’d been harboring, and it’s a fullness he quickly becomes addicted to.

It is an odd thing, this new ritual (never routine) of his. The alternation between visiting the scum indebted to the Corps, to feel bones crush and snap beneath his hands or the iron of a spare crowbar, or blood griming to his knuckles, only to return to your bookshop or apartment, cheap beer and greasy takeout in hand, isn’t the kind of switch he imagined he’d ever make. But you make taking off his Hashira mask so damn easy, and every time he leaves he finds it more difficult to slip back on.

With each passing day, he learns you more and more. He gathers information like a dragon hoards its jewels, each new tidbit a precious gem that he tucks safely away in a mental box labeled with your name.

He learns that, while he prefers tea, you prefer coffee, but you’re picky about your order. If it’s hot, you want it black or with only the faintest splash of cream. If it’s cold, however, you want every sweet syrup and topping known to man, even though it only makes you crash like a freight train once the sugar high wears off.

He learns you think cooking means pouring yourself a bowl of cereal and calling it a day, and it’s a revelation that makes him have to walk away and collect himself, lest he start lecturing you on the importance of proper nutrition, just as he does with his brother.

In exchange, he opens up about the more sacred aspects of his life — namely, Genya. He confides in you the great pride and adoration he has for his little brother, and admits his deep-seated fear that Genya will somehow be pulled into his violent, hostile world of his. And each time Sanemi begins to feel that anxiety rear its ugly head, threaten to settle into the marrow of his bones and send him into a spiral, you’re always there to pull him back.

Sometimes you ask questions, and Sanemi tries to answer them as best he can. But there are some subjects he can never touch. Never wants to.

He can’t tell you whose blood stains his knuckles or is splattered across his shoes. He can’t tell you where he goes when his phone vibrates late at night or at random during the day. He can’t tell you what his fellow Hashira do; the specialties they oversee.

Sanemi does make a point to assure you there is one sacred creed by which they all abide: no kids. This seems to put you at ease, as though this tepid moral line somehow absolves him of the other shit he’s guilty for.

It’s selfish, this thing he has created with you. He knows that. And his blossoming friendship with you likely breaks more than one of the sacred precepts of the Corps. But you’re the first person he’s met since his initiation who knows what he is and doesn’t cower in fear, and that makes him desperate to cling onto you. You know what an ugly, beastly creature he is, and yet you do not run away from him. Even when you probably should.

So, he makes a promise. He won’t show you the Shinazugawa who belongs to the Corps; a formidable member of the Hashira, known because of the things he can do to others to make sure they pay their debts. What he does to them when they don’t.

With you, he wants to be Sanemi; only Sanemi.

And so it goes, for the better part of a year, the two of you learning one another, pretending the ease you feel in the company of the other is merely the product of two people relieved to find a friend in a city that cautions against such ties, and not something in danger of becoming more.

As though the metamorphosis hasn’t already set in.

—

“You never told me what your dream was, y’know.” Sanemi says one night while you finish up inventory at the store.

“What dream?” You hum as you scan the shelves reserved for non-fiction releases, your lips pressed into a firm line as you run your pen down the entries of your log.

He leans against the bookshelf, arms folded across the considerable mass of his chest. “Your big dream — the one you bit my head off for insulting that one time.”

You look up long enough to roll your eyes at him. “Where’s this coming from?”

“Dunno. Curious.”

“Thought you’re not supposed to ask questions in your line of work.” And you shoot him a sly grin. “You ought to be careful.”

Sanemi snorts but he nudges your foot with his. “I’m serious.”

Your eyes dance back and forth between him and the log before you. There’s no real harm in it, you decide. After all, he’s the only friend you have. “I want my own bookstore.”

“Yeah?” He raises a pale brow and waves his hand vaguely around behind him. “Aren’t you practically running this one? That ain’t enough?”

“I don’t own it, though.” You frown, setting your clipboard down. “I just work here. You’ve seen my paycheck.”

And he had, having found a paystub when he’d gone snooping under your counter. You would’ve been furious at his invasion of your privacy had you not been so mortified at the way he’d stared in horror at the pitiful figure reflecting your earnings after two, grueling weeks of work.

His insistence on bringing you meals at any and every opportunity afterward only compounded your embarrassment.

“I want something that’s mine — that I own.” You continue. “I’ve begged the owner to let me organize author meet-and-greets as a way to promote the store for months, and he always says no. If I owned my own store, I wouldn’t need anyone’s permission.”

You pull your bottom lip between your teeth. “I wouldn’t have to live under anyone’s thumb.”

Something shifts in the way Sanemi watches you, a certain profundity creeping into his eyes.

Your cheeks heat. “I know it sounds stupid —“

“It doesn’t,” Sanemi says earnestly. “Wanting your freedom can never be stupid.”

You soften then, as understanding passes between you. Of course he would know all about that — arguably better than anyone you know.

Sanemi clears his throat. “So, a bookstore?” And he gives you a broad smile as he pulls out his wallet and tosses you a twenty dollar note. “Consider me your first investor.”

—

Sanemi spends the rest of the evening watching you work, fascinated by the way you meticulously organize your store shelves, and count the cash in your register. When it comes time for you to heave boxes of excess inventory to the back storeroom so they can be shipped back to their distributors, Sanemi plucks them from your hands, batting off your protests as he carries them for you.

By the time closing arrives, every new shipment has been unpacked and its contents have been shelved.

You flick off the overhead lights in the main store, relying on the backlight of the exit door to light your way out. You tug on your coat and find him watching you, expectantly. “Are you walking me home?”

“Tch. Don’t I always, when I can?”

You grin and it’s enough to chase away some of the sourness twisting in his gut. He shouldn’t do it, as often as he does. He’s risking enough as it is by constantly redrawing the lines around Rule Three to justify the way he’s beginning to bend the parameters around the rule against patterns. But it’s dark and late, and you don’t have a car, and he’ll be damned if he lets you brave the walk home alone.

Better he’s there to protect you from the dangers he can anticipate and see than to stick to his code and risk your harm from those he cannot.

Thankfully, the journey back to your apartment takes no more than fifteen minutes, even when he stops to thumb free a cigarette from the spare carton he keeps tucked in his jacket. You wrinkle your nose at him in mock-disgust as he lights it, the smoke curling out of his mouth reminiscent of a fire-breathing dragon.

He wouldn’t do it if he knew it truly bothered you. But you’d once shyly confessed you liked the faint smell of tobacco that clung to his jacket, especially in cold air like this. So he only shoots you a wink as he brings it to his lips and takes a long drag.

Besides, he thinks as he looses a slow exhale. He needs something to help him take the edge off; to guide him in making that transition between Hashira and Sanemi.

He escorts you all the way to your front door, the two of you trading quips and jokes. And Sanemi savors how utterly extraordinary something as ordinary as walking you to your door feels. Almost as if he’s ordinary, the way he so desperately wishes he could be.

You fidget with your keys, sliding them into your lock. “Did you finish that series I recommended?”

Sanemi grins. “Last night. I think it was your best suggestion yet.”

You duck your head, a bashful smile spreading across your pretty lips and its sight fills him with a golden warmth.

Your door gives way and you turn back to him. “‘Til next time?”

It was what you always said; you never asked him when you could expect to see him again, and he appreciated it. Appreciated not having to explain himself, when most outside his world would likely demand he try.

“‘Til next time,” he confirms, returning your smile with one of his own.

You hover in your doorway, fingers drumming on the frame, eyes roaming his.

“You never told me yours — what your dream is.”

He should leave. You’re treading in murky waters, ones made dangerous because he almost wants to tell you — tell you the truth, at that.

That he dreams of more. More life. More stability. More everything. He’d settle for anything, really; anything at all.

As long as it was more than this.

But Sanemi only responds with a wry grin. “To wake up in the morning, Princess. That’s all I can ask for.”

———

Sanemi’s answer lingers with you long after you emerge from your shower, warm and toweling your damp hair.

To wake up in the morning, Princess.

He’s full of shit and you know it.

Over the course of the last year, you’ve learned a handful of crucial details that make up Sanemi Shinazugawa.

You’ve learned he loves matcha, but he really loves the expensive kind. While you can’t afford to buy the high quality powder, you make do with what you can afford at the grocery, and you make it for him as often as you can.

He drinks it every time, bitter dregs and all.

More importantly, you’ve learned what it means to have a friend involved in the Corps. Not that he’s merely involved with the notorious gang — at least, not any more than the two of you are just “friends.”

Town gossip aside, Sanemi’s affiliation with the Corps is made obvious by his own actions. Like the way the two of you only ever hang out at the bookstore or your apartment; how he never invites you to visit his place, over in the Silo.

Or how he insists on scoping out your apartment every time he comes over, his eyes alert and sharp as his hand lingers at his hip, ready to pull out the gun you know he keeps tucked into his waistband at all times.

It’s evident in the way Sanemi never sticks to a consistent schedule. He varies the days and times of his visits at random, never allowing himself to settle into a routine, even if that means going an entire week or longer without seeing you.

But perhaps the most significant detail you’ve learned about Sanemi over the year of your friendship is this:

He wants out. Dreams of it, even.

This revelation does not come from the scarred Hashira himself. It is the product of months of observation, of studying how his face darkens when his phone pings! while you’re watching some sitcom on television, or when he sees a familiar face pass by your shop window, and suddenly he has to leave because he must be Shinazugawa again, and you won’t see him for the rest of the day.

It is evident in the way he talks of his younger brother, who, by all accounts is a star student and athlete, with a promising future in collegiate archery.

Sanemi is saving every penny he can to send his brother — Genya — to school, far, far away from the Silo. The conviction with which he speaks of Genya’s future, full of college and internships and promise, breaks your heart, because you know Sanemi hadn’t anyone to want those things for him.

Sanemi does not speak of any future of his. You suspect it’s because he doesn’t believe he will have one.

That has to be why he answered your question with his vague desire to wake up every morning. It was an easy answer. One that relied on you making certain connections between his life and his words and deduce that he truly had nothing more to live for other than life itself.

A cop-out, is what it is.

But his reading habits betray his darkest secret — betray the truth — and that’s exactly how you know his flippant answer is utter bullshit.

The book Sanemi carries around the most is a series of classic fairy tales, bought off your sale table a few months back. He’s read the whole thing cover to cover, but he keeps a bookmark on one specific page, and periodically, you catch him flipping back to it.

He made the mistake of leaving the book on your coffee table one night when he excused himself to use your bathroom. Realistically, you knew it was no big deal to flip through it, but somehow, the thought still felt like an invasion of his privacy.

But your curiosity got the better of you so you snatched it up, and thumb quickly to the bookmarked page, desperate to know which story has so captivated him.

You opened to the first page of of a tale — an old French story, about the daughter of a merchant who is sent to life with a beast in a distant castle, as penance for his theft of the beast’s rose.

You smiled to yourself; you were familiar with the story. You know how it goes — the beast everyone believes to be the villain is saved by the woman, and revealed to be a handsome prince. And the two live happily ever after.

Your smile faded as you recalled how the woman saved her Beast. True love’s kiss, or something along those lines.

True love.

And as Sanemi returned from the bathroom and plopped down next to you on your couch to watch a rerun of some old sitcom before he has to leave for the night, you mulled over Sanemi’s apparent fascination with the tale of the beast and the beauty.

And that’s how you drew the series of conclusions which enabled you to see right through his thin facade.

He wants out.

He wants a happily ever after. He doesn’t think he’ll get it.

And, above all, he dreams of love.

—

If any doubt lingered as to the magnitude of his ties to the Corps, it disintegrates one night, about eight months after he’d first burst into your bookstore.

It is well after midnight, but you are still awake, too engrossed in a new fantasy novel to pay particular attention to the lateness of the hour when your phone buzzes on your bedside table.

Sanemi’s name lingers above the notification, which reads simply, Outside.

You untangle yourself from your blankets and pad over to your front door, hastily tugging on a pair of sleep boxers over your underwear.

You open the door and the flutter of excitement you’d felt upon seeing his text is chased away by shock at the sight before you.

There is a bruise forming along Sanemi’s cheek that you almost would have mistaken for dirt if not for the swelling. His hair is rumpled, his clothes in disarray. Though it winks away the second he sets his gaze on you, you swear you were able a cold fury in his eyes; foreign, and violent.

The fury that belongs to a Hashira, not to the friend you know.

Wordlessly, you step back and allow him to limp past you.

“You got liniment?” He rasps, plopping heavily down in your kitchen chair. “And water?”

“You mean icy-hot?” You’re already filling a glass from the tap that you set on the table next to him before you retreat to your bathroom to rummage the cabinets.

You return a few moments later, tub of minty topical gel clutched in hand. You nearly drop it when you realize that Sanemi has stripped himself of his shirt already and is now bare from the waist-up, his forehead resting against his arms where they’re propped up on the back of your chair.

You’ve known for a long while that Sanemi is well-built (obscenely so).

Once, in the early days of your friendship, you’d snapped at him to button his shirt properly if he insisted on hanging around your store, dramatizing over how obscene it was for him to prance around with his chest half-exposed.

Sanemi had only grinned at you before he unbuttoned two more, revealing a generous glimpse of infuriatingly toned abs. Your open-mouthed, scandalized stare was met only with a wink.

He kept his shirt like that for the remainder of the day. You’d hardly been able to look at him without flushing a deep scarlet that only seemed to inflate his already generous ego even further.

But, you’re only human. And as the months passed by, and your friendship with the scarred mobster grew, you found yourself sneaking the odd peek every now and then. A glimpse of pectoral here; a hint of his rigid v-line when he stretched his arms over his head there.

And now, here he is, sitting in your small kitchen area awaiting the relief of the icy hot clutched in the tub that grew more slippery between your rapidly sweaty palms, every mouth watering inch of his upper body on display.

Beautiful. Your mouth goes dry at the sight of him. Sanemi is unbelievably beautiful.

“Need ya to rub it into my shoulder, if you don’t mind,” his voice is muffled against his arm. “I hate asking, but I dislocated the damn thing and had to reset it — fuckin’ hurts, now.”

You know better than to suggest he go get an x-ray. No hospitals, he’d once explained. Not unless you’re bleeding out.

You also know better than to ask how he dislocated it, and so you only pad silently over to him, grateful he’s turned away from you so he cannot see the tremble in your hands or the blush creeping across your cheeks.

Eager to give yourself something to do besides ogling, you focus on unscrewing the lid on the jar of liniment, your nose wrinkling under the burn of its stringent odor. You scoop a generous amount of the salve into your palms and warm it between your hands.

“Motherfucker,” Sanemi hisses as your hands spread gently across his shoulder, your fingers gingerly massaging the topical into his swollen joint. “Shit stings.”

“You’re lucky it’s not broken,” you chide, carefully prodding along the joint in search of anything that may be amiss — an odd lump or gap, signaling something hasn’t been reset properly. “At least, I don’t think it is.”

“Your medical expertise is astounding,” Sanemi drolls, but he winces again as your fingers press against a particularly tender spot. You step away from him with a huff and fish your phone out of your pocket, hands still slathered with ointment.

“I’m not a doctor,” you shoot back. “And since you refuse to go see one, the best I can do it give you the advice of the internet.”

You ignore his grumblings as you search for treatments for dislocated joints. You tap on the first link that appears and scroll, eyes narrowed as you read.

“You’re in luck. It seems like you won’t die,” you say dryly. “But you’re going to have a nasty bruise.” You purse your lips, eyes scanning the article on your phone. “And this says you’re supposed to rest — not overexert the joint.” You reach to tug playfully on a lock of his hair. “I don’t suppose you’re actually going to do that, though.”

He twists and flashes you a mischievous smirk over his shoulder. “You know me too well, Princess.”

You roll your eyes and snort, tossing your phone onto your table in favor of reaching for a discarded kitchen towel to wipe off the excess icy hot from your hands.

You’re about to tell him to put his shirt back on and stop flaunting the muscles he just can’t seem to help but show everyone he has when your eyes snag on a mark that rests squarely between his shoulder blades.

You wouldn’t have noticed it but for the shiny redness surrounding it, a clear contrast to the rest of his skin. But the longer your stare at it, the more clear its abnormality. The mark is puffy and raised, but there’s a distinct pattern to it that makes the hair on the back of your neck curl.

A brand, you realize with horror. Someone has branded him like cattle.

Your finger reaches to trace over the ridges seared into his skin before you can think the better of it. Sanemi twitches under your touch, a small shudder skirting down his spine as he tilts his head back toward you.

“Ugly, ain’t it?” His tone is unreadable. “Like a collar, ‘cept it’s permanent.”

Though he tends to err on the side of caution when it comes to discussing the Corps, you at least know what is role is within it. He told you: debt collector. Mostly monetary debts.

But the brand has nothing to do with money. No, the symbol burned into his skin — the one that stands for Kill — is a neon sign of a reminder that Sanemi’s duties can and do entail another kind of collection.

A chill snakes down your spine. You’d had your suspicions, of course, you’re not stupid. But seeing it confirmed by a brand of all things is a lightning rod through your chest.

Sanemi must sense your stare against his back, and you hear his rueful smile though you can’t see his face. “Guess it’s fitting, since I’m their dog.”

There it is; confirmation of what he is, as though it were possible to forget. You don’t know why you’d held out in letting its weight settle over you. Nor do you know why your brain had refused, for a moment, to reconcile the Sanemi who brought cheap beer and greasy fast food to your apartment for a night of trash television and book reviews with the one before you now, branded with inexorable reminder of what his duties are when he steps outside and debts go unpaid; when scores go uneven.

Your eyes slide to his gun, resting atop your table. It may has well have been smoking.

“It’s barbaric,” you murmur. You never offer much of an opinion on the tidbits of information about his life he shares with you, unwilling to make him feel as though you aren’t someone he can confide in.

But the sight of the brand scorched between his shoulder blades stokes something ugly and angry within you. You’re grateful his back is to you so you can furtively rub your hand over your prickling eyes before he can see you do something stupid, like cry.

He tilts his head back until it rests against your abdomen. “Thank you,” he murmurs, his eyes drifting shut.

You freeze for a moment, your anger temporarily suspended against your uncertainty of whether you should step back or remain. You’ve touched Sanemi a thousand different ways — you’ve grabbed his arm, smacked him upside his thick head, and elbowed him more times than you can count.

But this; this is something far different from your teasing nudges of the past. This small gesture feels infinitely more tender. Gentle.

Intimate.

Sanemi has never not been the picture of cocky brashness, especially around you. His priggish smirk was a constant, only ever dampened by the occasional alert on his phone — the one that meant he had to stop being yours for the night, and go be theirs.

But this Sanemi? This peaceful, eased, vulnerable version of your best friend is wholly uncharted territory. And perhaps it’s because he looks so unguarded this way, his face relaxed and his eyes closed, that you feel so flustered.

You brush his hair away from his forehead. At the first graze of your fingers along his scalp, Sanemi leans further into you with something akin to a moan.

Hot; everything feels so damn hot, the air in your apartment suddenly too thick. Too oppressive.

Yet, you don’t stop; your fingers keep raking through his hair, surprisingly silky.

You think he may have fallen asleep in your chair, but after another moment of your hands carding through his hair, Sanemi stands. You step away instantly, and you avert your eyes while he pulls his shirt back over his head, cursing softly as he works it over his injured shoulder.

Sanemi turns to you and clears his throat roughly. “Thanks again. Don’t know what I would’ve done without ya.”

You wave him off with an exaggerated eye roll, eager to conceal the redness in your cheeks. “Oh please, I’m just your neighborhood book supplier and occasional first aid nurse.”

A sudden sobriety passes over his features, clouding over that all too familiar smirk with something heavier.

“No,” he murmurs and his hand absently lifts to tuck a stray lock of hair behind your ear. “No, you’re more than that.” His palm lingers against your cheek and his voice quiets to a hoarse whisper. “Much more.”

For a moment, you wonder if he’ll lean in; if he’ll show you whether his lips are as warm as his touch.

His eyes drop briefly to your mouth and your stomach somersaults at the thought he might be considering it, too. But the clouds part and Sanemi withdraws from you with an affection flick against the tip of your nose.

And then he turns and leaves.

You sink back against your door after you close it behind him and slide to your floor. You remain there for a long while after, your mind little more than a gnarled tangle of brambles you can’t begin to pick through. But even despite the complicated mess of thoughts and emotions knotted together in your head, one thing stands clear: you’d wanted to kiss him.

And for a moment, you swear he’d wanted to, as well.

An old rumor, one you hadn’t considered since your very first interaction with him, resurfaces in your mind. The one that had less to do with him in the Corps, and more so involved his activities outside of it.

The rumor that he cycles through the bodies he uses to warm his bed more frequently than you change the sheets on yours.

Your cheeks heat, and you shake your head to clear away the sudden, intrusive images of Sanemi tangled in the throes of passion with some faceless stranger that fill your imagination. You don’t care what those blasted rumors claim; you know him. And what’s more, you know that what you feel for him is stronger than anything you’ve ever felt toward anyone.

You’re in love with Sanemi.

It is his face you see at night before you fall asleep; it’s his touch you imagine in those secret moments in your bed or in the shower, when you’re desperate and aching.

It’s he who makes you feel most at ease; the one person you feel truly sees you, thinks you’re actually worth something.

You’ve never really known love before. But it’s because you’re such a novice that you know your feelings are true; powerful. You know what he is — what he thinks he is. And you know that you will never want anyone else; you can’t.

You won’t.

—

Three rules. That’s all he had to do, was follow three simple fucking rules.

Don’t speak. No patterns. And don’t get overly attached.

It had been easy, so easy, to follow them. If there was one thing Sanemi believed he could pride himself on, it had been his steadfast adherence to the Corps’ rules. Number three, in particular.

Until you. Until the day he’d chosen your bookstore to hide in.

Because that was when Sanemi decided that those rules were really more like guidelines; malleable. He’d let himself cast them aside out of a desperation for human connection. And he’d justified his carelessness by convincing himself that as long as he maintained some semblance compliance with the unspoken code of the Corps.

Sanemi had built his own set of rules around the foundation of his friendship with you, a wall of stone around the glass castle meant to ensure you would not be cut by its shards should it ever shatter.

He would not be your liability, nor would you be his.

But now, he’s too deep; Sanemi knows he’s gotten in way too fucking deep with you.

Until this moment, he imagined he’d managed to toe the line of this internal code that applied only to his relationship with you, save a handful of instances when he’d let himself blur it.

As it turns out, he’d been dead fucking wrong. Because he’s pretty sure you just asked him to cross the last major boundary he’d set for himself when it came to you.

So, Sanemi only gapes at you. “What?”

You huff, impatient. “I want you to fuck me.”

You say it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world — as though you haven’t just ripped the floor out from beneath him and sent him falling directly on his ass.

If he didn’t know you were dead serious, he would’ve laughed in your face. And that’s how he knows he’s fucked.

You’re a virgin; he knows that, because you’d drunkenly confessed it to him two weeks prior, tipsy on the cheap beer he’d brought over for your weekly movie night together.

Admittedly, he’d been surprised. You were beautiful — not that beauty was a requirement for a good fuck, but you didn’t seem the type to go for random hookups, unlike him. Still, he would’ve thought you’d had some prior relationship where the opportunity would have arisen.

As it turned out, you’d never been in a relationship, either.

Between long gulps of your drink, you’d asked him to fix it and he’d turned you down — his tolerance for watery beer far surpassed your own, and Sanemi Shinazugawa wasn’t the type to sleep with someone who couldn’t fully consent.

So he’d let you down — but not before he kissed you. It was only once; soft, the way you deserved to be kissed. His lips met yours and suddenly, the gaping hole in his chest felt smaller; fuller. Kissing you felt like coming home, even though Sanemi was sure he’d never fully known what home truly felt like.

And then he parted from you with an affectionate flick on your nose to cover the way his heart clenched at the visible disappointment in your eyes.

He’d boldly kissed you twice more after that night — one a quick, cheeky peck when you went in to hug him, an act done more to fluster you than to sate any desire of his, no matter how he craved more of you.

The other happened only three nights prior, and it was anything but soft and sweet.

One of Sanemi’s fellow Hashira, Kanae, hadn’t been seen in several days, and no one had been able to get in touch with her. When she’d missed a scheduled patrol of one of the neighborhoods in the Silo, he and another member, Iguro, had been sent to check on her.

They’d found her in the kitchen of the small home she’d shared with her two sisters with a hole in her head and her brains splattered across the floor.

Curled under the protective stretch of her limp arms, had been her two sisters, both bearing matching bullet wounds to their skulls.

Kizuki, most likely. They were the only ones brave enough to target someone as high ranked as Kanae.

Their blood had still been fresh, and the stench of decay and rot hadn’t yet set in, which only told them that the girls had been held for several days, forced to endure unknown horrors at the hands of their murderers.

He hadn’t been particularly close with the woman, but as his rank equal, she’d had his respect. But now she and her adolescent sisters were nothing more than smears of brain matter and skull fragments to be scraped off the linoleum of their kitchen floor and quietly buried. Forgotten.

The hours passed by in a blur once Kocho’s death was called into the higher-ups, and Sanemi didn’t remember cleaning up the scene anymore than he remembered the solitary trek back. His mind and his body disconnected, and he only snapped back to reality when he realized he was standing in front of your apartment, unsure of how or when he’d begun walking in its direction.

He knew he should turn around and go home; there was nothing you could do for him right then, he shouldn’t bother you —

His fist was pounding on your door before he could think better of it.

Despite the late hour, you’d greeted him with a broad smile and a shy hi. Your hair had been damp, and he could smell the floral sweetness of your shampoo still mixed with the steam from your shower as it spilled into the hall.

Safe; you were safe.

Your door had still been hanging wide open as Sanemi surged forward, trapping your face in his hands to crash his lips down against yours, his kiss heavy and hot.

You’d broken away long enough to ask, “S-Sanemi — what —?”

“Shut up,” he’d snarled, slanting his mouth back over yours, his teeth nipping at your bottom lip. He’d half expected you to shove him away, perhaps to even aim a knee right at his crotch, yet you’d only buried your fingers in his hair and tugged him closer.

He backed you up against the wall opposite of your entryway, though he’d moved his hand to cup the back of your head to keep it from banging against the exposed brick.

You moaned into the kiss and Sanemi lost whatever shred of sense he’d managed to cling onto. His tongue swept along your bottom lip, and the hand cupping the back of your head loosely pulled at your hair, tugging your head to the side and signaling you to open up — to let him in.

And you did. And the first brush of his tongue against yours as he licked into your mouth ignited an inferno within him that he did not know how to tame.

His hands pushed under your sweatshirt, seeking out the comforting warmth of your skin. Higher and higher they rose, until they came to rest against your ribs, and Sanemi realized you were bare — completely bare — beneath your hoodie.

That you’d allowed him to toe so dangerously close to a line neither of you could cross had clouded every bit of his judgment. The thought that he’d only have to move his hands mere centimeters to touch you in a way no other had before had sent him reeling, and his hips were beyond his control when they pinned yours against the wall and ground into you.

But your single gasp into his mouth broke the spell, and with more regret than Sanemi knew he should feel, he broke away, leaving you both breathless and panting.

Without a word, he’d turned around and stalked right back out of your apartment, closing your door firmly behind him.

He’d sent a text only a few minutes later — a single, ominous reminder to you to lock your door, deadbolt and all.

He hadn’t the stomach to explain his cryptic warning; not as the sight of Kocho remained burned into his retinas.

So, yes, he’s blurred a few lines when it comes to you. But those had only been kisses; heavy touching aside, he’d never allowed himself to go further than that.

No matter how much he wanted to.

And it’s because he knows he can’t cross this last line — can’t open you up to risk more than he already has, that he meets your expectant stare with a rueful smile.

“You’re better off asking someone else, Princess. You don’t want to get tangled up with someone like me.”

Never mind that you’re already tangled up with him — but he’s managed to uphold this last boundary, and Sanemi has convinced himself that as long as it remains in place, he can’t ruin you the way Kocho and her young sisters were ruined.

“I don’t want to ask someone else,” you fold your arms across your chest and cock your hip out, defiant. Normally, Sanemi finds your stubbornness endearing, if not adorable, but not now; not when you should know better.

A low growl of your name is his warning. ���You don’t know what you’re asking —“

“It’s you I want. I don’t care what the rumors say, I don’t care what anyone thinks — including you.”

The sincerity in your eyes nearly scalds him. “And I am not asking as a friend. You and I both know this is more than that.”

He wants to throttle you. Not literally of course, he could never — but he wants to shake the sense you’re so clearly lacking back into you until you see; until you understand.

Of course he wants you. He has wanted you for months — so much so, he hardly can focus on anything else. And he’s pent up. He hasn’t had the stomach to fuck anyone else. Not since he began falling asleep and waking up to thoughts of you and your touch, of how you might look under or above him, wanton and desperate. Or how you might feel in his arms; on his tongue.

Really, it’s been quite a blow to his rather wild reputation throughout the Silo. But God knows he has tried to fill the you-shaped void in his heart, but nothing — no one — has come close.

More than anything, he wants you to be his, and for him to be yours. He longs to be the Sanemi who takes you out on dates, who kisses you freely without the compulsive need to check over his shoulder, to make sure there aren’t any enemies watching and plotting to strike him right where he’s weak. He wants to be the Sanemi you come home to after a long day at the bookstore. The one with whom you plan a future, utterly and completely yours.

But he can never be just Sanemi. He is nothing more than the property of the very organization he’s sworn allegiance to; the group whose brand he bears on his skin.

He is not good. He is a curse that will infect you, a poison to your life.

He will rot you from the inside, out.

His friendship with you is selfish. He knows that — he’s always known that, and yet he did not stop. It is selfish because he deluded himself into believing he could actually be someone else when he was with you. Someone worth befriending; perhaps someone worth a little more.

You were right to call him a thief, that day. All he does is take your time and affection when he knows damn well he won’t give you anything in return, no matter how he wishes he could.

Sanemi won’t label that thing he holds deep inside his heart which is formed in the shape of your name; not when it could so easily doom you both. But he knows his feelings for you are dangerous, and he cannot allow you to sniff them out.

Because if he does, then this only ends one or two ways: either he lets you in only for you to abandon him once you realize the truth of what he is, or you’re used as a weapon against him.

In either event, he loses you. So it is better to cut this off now, to force you away before either of you become more invested than you already are.

He will not hurt you, but neither will he allow himself to be hurt by you.

You take a step toward him, and the soft whisper of his name sounds like a holy prayer on your lips and that’s how he knows this is wrong.

Your obstinate refusal to recognize him for what he is is a needle digging into his skin, one that whittles away at every wall he has managed to build around his heart, that damnable, soft, dangerous thing that he will not allow you to find; he cannot.

You’re confusing your roles. He is the vulture and you are his prey, not the other way around. he is not here to give. He is here only to take, and you will let him and then he will leave.

And he will not be the carcass you pick clean only to discard once you’ve had your fill.

(A lie, but it’s one Sanemi almost believes. Almost.)

But Sanemi knows you; he knows you better than he knows anything else. You are a constant he has become far too dependent upon, and you are precious — far too precious to him to continue to indulging.

He knows you are too good, too loyal in your feelings to forget about him, even if he disappeared from your life entirely.

A clean break. it is the only thing that will force you to forget him and move on, find another, someone good and whole and not a broken, misshapen thing like him.

He will show you who he really is. He will show you that he could never be just Sanemi, and he sure as hell can’t ever be yours.

Better; you deserve better, so he will become worse.

He advances on you, his step heavy and imposing, and you have enough sense to scurry back from him. But he is too quick and soon he has you caged against the wall of your studio, literally backed into a corner.

“You want me?” He is scathing and he loathes himself for it, but he can’t stop. Not when he’s desperate to save you from the blight of himself.

You shouldn’t; you can’t.

But you nod, damn you. Wide-eyed, you nod and he resents the certainty reflected in your gaze.

His mouth twists into a cruel sneer. “You want to say you’ve had a taste of the lowlife, huh?“

Your eyebrows knit together. “Sanemi, that’s not —“

But he can’t stop his venom. “Bragging rights, that’s all you’re after, right? You want to be like one of the characters in your stories — the good girl who makes an honest man outta the good-for-nothing villain.”

“Stop it,” you bite, and your eyes harden. “You’re acting like an asshole.”

You’re angry. Good. Sanemi knows how to deal in anger.

“Hate to break it to ya, sweetheart, but I’m not acting like an asshole. I am one.”

Your hackles raise, and you step away from the wall and toward him, bold in your fury. “I know you want to believe you are, but you’re not —“

Sanemi’s hand shoots out to grab a fistful of your hair. “Is that so?” You yelp as he wrenches your head back, your neck straining. “Then maybe I oughta bend you over and fuck you like I would any other cheap whore. Then you can tell me what you think I am.”

Your eyes water as the grip in your hair tightens.

Good, he thinks savagely. Let you see the monster he truly was, let you know he was his bastard father’s son, and that he’d be no different, no different at all. He’s a brute, and you don’t want that, you don’t want him —

“You can do whatever it is you want,” you manage, you throat tight. And Sanemi’s eyes blow wide at the soft, watery smile that forms on your lips despite the tears that escape the corners of your eyes. “Do to me what you like; I don’t mind, as long as it’s you.”

All at once, his ire with you and your bewildering devotion to him melts away, leaving nothing behind but a deep well of guilt, bitter and acerbic.

It isn’t that you think he might take you forcefully and harshly; after all, he’s only shown you he’s entirely capable of doing so.

It’s that you would let him. Without a shred of doubt, he knows you would offer yourself to him to use however he wants, and that you’d do it with a smile not unlike the one you’re wearing right now, soft and earnest.

Fuck, you just did.

And it’s that realization that has Sanemi’s hand loosening from your hair, his eyes softening. An errant tear escapes down your cheek and he moves to brush it away, but you close your eyes the moment you spy his knuckle nearing your face.

You do not flinch, but you are steeling yourself in anticipation of expected cruelty, and the front he’s put forth crumbles to dust.

He is a monster, but not for the reasons he’s used to justify this ugly display of his. He’s a monster because he has made you believe that this treatment is acceptable — an unavoidable cost of intimacy, no matter how fleeting.

Worse, he’s done the one thing he’d sworn never to do to any woman, let alone someone as good and as dear as you.

He’d only wanted to disgust you; enrage you, so that you would kick him out of both your apartment and your life, right out on his sorry ass like he deserved.

But this is worse. He has frightened you.

He recoils from you like a kicked dog. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

He stands awkwardly as you stare at him, wide-eyed and uncertain, and each second that ticks silently by only amplifies the oily well of guilt in his stomach.

He clears his throat. “I’ll go,” he says roughly, too ashamed to meet your eyes. “‘M sorry, I didn’t —“

Your hand grabs his bicep, anchoring him in place. “I want you to stay.”

“You don’t owe me anything —“

“It’s not about owing you,” you interject, lifting your hands to take his face between your palms. “I want you. I want this.”

You prove your point by taking his hand and guiding it to your waist. You hold it there, mouth set in a determined line as you inch closer to him.

“You deserve someone else,” Sanemi can’t stop the admission from rolling off his tongue. “Better.”

But you’re already shaking your head, as though you somehow know different. “There is no one better; I only want you.”

Idiot, he thinks as you rise up on your tiptoes, your arms winding around his shoulders as the distance between your bodies grows narrower. You’re an idiot.

You can’t possibly believe he’s as good as it gets. He’s used you as a distraction this whole time, a chance to forget the things he’s done and what he’ll be required to do in the future. Surely, you must know that.

He will hurt you; it’s in his nature. It’s unavoidable. He can’t be what you deserve.

But then your lips brush gently against his and the last of his resolve crumbles.

Sanemi melts into your kiss. He brings one hand to cradle the side of your face as the one braced against your waist shorts, until he wraps his arms around you and tugs you closer to him.

This kiss is gentle in every way the last was not. Sanemi’s lips are soft moving against yours, his hands almost hesitant in how they hold you. For a moment, he imagines himself not as the selfish, hard brute he knows he is, but instead as the gentle, giving lover he wants so desperately to be. One who is worthy of someone as kind and vibrant as you, and not the trash you’d be better off leaving out on the street.

The tentativeness with which he kisses you tempers some as his tongue flicks out against your bottom lip. You answer his silent request with enthusiasm, your fingers burying themselves in his hair as you haul yourself closer. The moment Sanemi’s tongue sweeps into your waiting mouth, you buckle against him with the sweetest sigh he’s ever heard. One of pure relief, as though you’d been burning and he was your balm.

Ironic, considering he’s only adding gasoline to this fire between you.

But there’s nothing he can do now except allow the flames to consume you both.

Soon, the shy curiosity with which he explores your mouth gives way to a mutual hunger, evident by how he feels as though he’s boiling alive while you gasp and sigh into him, your fingers tugging pleadingly at his hair.

You want more, and he needs you, too.

His nose nuzzles against yours as he bends down, his hands running along the bare expanse of your legs. The ground beneath your feet disappears as Sanemi gathers you up easily into his arms.

One of your arms is looped around his neck while your other hand cups his face, turning it toward yours as he carries you to your bed. Your thumb smooths absently over the scar that cuts across his cheek and then your lips seek out his once more. His kiss is as gentle as the hand squeezing your waist, his fingers slotting into the gap between your sweatshirt and the top of your sleep shorts, stroking your skin.

He lays you out upon your mattress, grateful you’d at least purchased a full bed rather than some shitty twin. Your hands untangle themselves from his hair and instead seek out the waistband of your sleep shorts, but Sanemi covers them with his, halting you.

“Don’t,” he murmurs between quick, messy kisses. “Let me — please.”

Before you can respond, Sanemi sits back and grabs a fistful of his own shirt, yanking it over his head.

Your pupils blow wide at the sight of him and he feels himself hesitate. Sanemi has always felt an easy self confidence when it came to stripping in front of his partners for the night. He’d always been quite proud of his physique, relying on his considerable muscles to mask his deep loathing of his scars.

But in front of you, all sense of self-assuredness goes flying out the window, and suddenly he feels too exposed. His eyes drop to scour the planes of his chest — have his scars always been this prominent? This thick?

“Holy shit,” your soft sigh snaps his attention away from the howling inside his head. For one, petrifying moment, he thinks that you are as disgusted with his body as he is, but then he sees the pink flush staining your cheeks.

Your eyes roam hungrily over him and your tongue darts out to wet your lips. You meet his gaze and your pupils are blown wide with desire — rich, hot need for him.

Your voice is little more than a sultry whisper. “Come here.”

He moves eagerly to cover your body with his, his hair rumpled and his eyes bright as his lips press hurriedly against yours. Your hands smooth over his pectorals and tease down his abdomen until he’s panting, but the moment your nails rake along the skin on either side of his navel, Sanemi moans.

More. He needs more.

He hauls you up from the bed, straddling you across his lap, his hands notched behind your knees as they press into the mattress. You reconnect your lips in a heated kiss, one hand playing with the ends of his snowy hair, the other dropping down his back, settling over the brand seared between his shoulder blades. Covering it.

Yes, he thinks as he nips your bottom lip, urging your mouth to open so he can slide his tongue in to dance with yours. Yes, this is fitting. Because in his ideal world, his life with you would come before any other — including his with the Corps.

Sanemi’s lips begin trailing hotly down your jaw, pausing when he reaches your neck. He finds a particularly sensitive spot with a nip of his teeth that he soothes with his tongue, and he hums in approval at the faint, breathy whimpers that squeak past your lips as you tilt your head, offering more of yourself to him.

The ache burgeoning in his groin in response to your display is enough to drive him insane; he has never wanted anything in his life as badly as he wants this — you.

As his mouth continues its heated path, his hands find the hem of your hoodie. With a gentleness that surprises even him, Sanemi begins charting your skin with his fingers. With every new plane of your body he explores, he pushes your sweatshirt up, up, up, until he guides it over your head.

He tosses it to the side, not caring for where it lands. His attention is focused solely on you as you fall back against your bed, now bare from the waist up.

“Beautiful,” he marvels, eyes running over the slope of your shoulder and tracing the curve of your breasts. “So fuckin’ beautiful.”

He savors every hitched breath, every chill that ripples over your skin as he explores your body with his mouth and hands. Over the years, Sanemi has become well acquainted with the magic of the female body. He’s always liked how soft women were compared to him. He isn’t a picky man; he’ll celebrate them all, regardless of their shape or size.

But you? Celebration isn’t enough; you deserve nothing less than outright worship.

“You feel so damn good,” he mutters against your breast before closing his lips over your nipple and sucking hard. You bow off the bed with a keening moan that gutters out into something more ragged as his hand covers the other, pinching and rolling your stiffened bud between his fingers.

He could spend all night like this, lavishing your soft mounds with his mouth. But Sanemi knows that won’t be enough to satisfy the hunger gnawing at both of you, so with a tinge of regret, he forces himself to move on, descending your body in alternating kisses and nips.

He reaches the waistband of your shorts and his eyes flash to yours as he tugs on it with his teeth. The hot exhale of his breath below your navel sends goosebumps across your skin. Sanemi’s fingers inch below the hem of your shorts until he loops his hands around the waistband, and he yanks them down your legs in a single, fluid motion.

His eyes rake down your body, taking in every beautiful inch. A blush forms on his cheeks as he realizes all that separates you from him is your simple pair of black underwear.

He sits back, eager to join your near-nudity. His hands are quick, if not a little clumsy, as he finds his belt buckle. The instant the metal clicks and the leather around his hips loosens, Sanemi shoves off his pants, eagerly kicking them off your bed until he is left in nothing but his briefs.

Your eyes fall to where the evidence of his desire protrudes stiffly from between his legs. Sanemi watches your throat pulse as you try to stifle your small gulp, your thighs tensing beneath him in an effort to press together.

He can sense your nerves; can see by the way your eyes dart anxiously between his and the rigid tent in his briefs.

With a gentle smile, Sanemi leans in and soothes your unease with his lips. “We’ll take it as slow as you want. I’m not in any rush.”

“N-now?” You murmur between kisses, and he nearly seizes at the hesitant, questioning brush of your fingers against the underside of his shaft.

“Not yet,” he groans against your mouth. “I gotta make sure you’re ready first.”

“I am ready -“

“Not like that,” he cuts off your protest by ghosting his fingers up the covered seam of you. Sanemi circles his finger around where he thinks your clit is, and he smirks when your head tips back against your pillow, your mouth widening in a silent o.

“Found you,” he croons, repeating the movement again until your legs begin to twitch beneath him.

He makes quick work of your underwear, tossing them over the side of your bed without much thought. The sight of you bare beneath him nearly stops his heart dead in his chest. His eyes drop to the neat thatch of curls resting at the apex of your thighs, and his mouth waters.

You blush under the intensity of his appreciative stare, and your legs twitch, as though you mean to close them.

A hand sliding between your thighs restrains you from doing so. “Uh-uh,” he tuts. “Can’t hide from me now, sweetheart’.”

He smooths his hand down the length of your leg until it hovers just outside where he’s most eager to explore. The heat radiating from sends his pulse skyrocketing.

One, tentative finger circles your entrance, testing. Sanemi leans in to capture your lips with his as he pushes in, swallowing your soft gasp with his tongue that he slides into your parted mouth.

A moan vibrates in his chest in time with a faint whimper that sounds in the back of your throat as Sanemi begins exploring you. You’re tight; almost impossibly so, clenching and pulsing around the single finger he gradually sinks inside you, pushing deeper with every gentle pump of his hand.

The thought of your tight, wet heat constricting around the aching length of him just as you were around his finger makes him dizzy with want.

He won’t go down on you, he decides. Not tonight. Not when he’s throbbing this badly after just a couple of fingers; not when your breasts are so plush and soft pressed against his chest where you’re already arcing up into him, sending his mind wild with thoughts of how you’ll move under him; how you’ll moan.

His lips are hot against your neck, trailing down past your collarbone. Left behind are a series of purplish-maroon whorls blooming beneath his mouth, your skin quickly becoming a tapestry for him to display how badly he wants this. You.

You cling to him, one hand buried in his hair, pulling and tugging at him as the other clutches wildly at his shoulder, your fingers digging hard into his muscles. Your teeth are buried into your bottom lip in an effort to stifle your whimpers, but a needy whine slips out as Sanemi sucks one, soft breast into his mouth, his tongue flicking out across your pert nipple.

Another finger slides into your entrance as his thumb works your clit, and before long, you’re vibrating beneath him, unrestrained in how you moan and cry out for him so beautifully.

“Sanemi! I think — oh, I think I’m -“ but then he crooks his fingers, brushing against a rough spot deep within you that makes you writhe. You thrash back hard against the bed, your hips grinding against his hand with abandon.

He smothers a curse into your skin. You’re close and he knows it; can feel it in the way your walls flutter and pulse around him. And as desperate as he is to study how you fall apart, it’s too soon.

“Not yet,” he pants against your breast, circling your nipple with his tongue before imparting a final nip at the soft flesh and drawing back.

Remorseful, he pulls his fingers away from you, leaving you panting and flushed under him. But the hot, searing flames of desire burning beneath his skin intensify still, as he takes your hand and guides it between your legs.

“There. Feel how wet you are?” His voice is husky with want. You peer up at him through heavily lidded eyes as you nod, a whimper vibrating in your throat as Sanemi grinds your hand against your sensitive flesh.

“For you,” your voice is syrupy and warm, and damn if Sanemi doesn’t feel like he could get drunk on it. “It’s all for you.”

His tone sharpens into something possessive; hungry. “That’s right,” and he pushes your hand firmly against your clit and rotates it, eliciting a deep moan from you. “Because you’re mine.“

It’s not fair. But he wants to pretend like it’s true, if only for a while.

Once your fingers are sufficiently shiny with your own wetness, he brings your hand to his mouth, his tongue peeking out from between his lips. Slowly and languidly, he drags it up the side of your digits, and his eyes burn into yours as he slides your fingers into his mouth and sucks them clean.

It takes everything in him not to moan at the sweet taste of you that floods his tongue.

He’d made the right decision in not going down on you. If he had, he’d never be able to pull away; not until his face had become so adorned with your essence that he could not comprehend anything that wasn’t you. Not until you were trembling under him and begging for a break.

The first time you cum will be on him; with him. So as much as it pains him, he resists your temptation.

But not before you know; not before you understand exactly how wild you drive him. How much you threaten his sanity.

“Jesus Christ,” he rasps as he pulls your hand away from his mouth. “Here.”

His hand his gentle but firm as he grips your chin, squeezing your jaw until your mouth parts. The question in your gaze dissolves, your eyes instead rolling back into your head, as Sanemi slides the two fingers he’d just had between your thighs, still covered in your wetness, past your lips.

“Go on,” he orders, his other hand brushing your hair from your face. “Taste how fuckin’ perfect you are.”

The moan that slips free from your lips is one he wishes he could bottle up as your tongue caresses his fingers, your cheeks hollowing so fucking perfectly around him as you dutifully clean yourself from him.

Fuck, you’re trying to kill him.

But some of the burning he feels ebbs as the sobering weight of what’s to come settles over him; the magnitude of what he is about to do. Because no matter what happens after, nothing between you will be the same. Whatever else you are after tonight — whether that’s something or nothing — you will never be just friends again.

Sanemi supposes the punishment fits his crime; this is what he gets for getting in too deep with you, even if it means losing you entirely.

He chases away those thoughts by running his hands down your sides before he pulls back, leaving you in favor of shucking his briefs down his thighs.

Finally bare, he’s quick to drape his body over yours once more, his hands smoothing up and down your sides, unable to quench his need to feel your skin against his. But a foreign uncertainty stills him, and his eyes flash to yours, hesitant.

“Are you sure?”

You answer only by reaching to grip the back of his neck, tugging him down to meet your lips, your kiss feverish and urgent.

He doesn’t have a condom but he’s in too deep now to stop. In a way, what is about to happen is new to him as well. He’s never fucked anyone raw before. No matter who he’d had in his bed, no matter how much they begged him or assured him they were on birth control, he’d always been sure to have protection on hand.

Children are a gift, but he’d be damned if anyone tried to come after him and demand he raise one in his fucked up world. Either Sanemi got out or he never became a parent; there was no middle ground.

But once again, he is blurring boundaries where you were concerned, and Sanemi doesn’t think he knows how to stop himself from having the full taste in the indulgence that was you.

“It might hurt a moment,” he admits against your mouth, his voice raspy. “But I promise I’ll be gentle — as gentle as I can.”

You stretch to kiss him again, your lips soft and warm and everything he loves. “I trust you.”

You shouldn’t, he wants to say. You shouldn’t, and you should run far away from this — from me.

But Sanemi knows you won’t just as much as he knows he doesn’t have it in him to try and chase you away, and so he only kisses you back, slow and indulgent.

He breaks away from you with a soft groan and sits up on his knees. His back straight, Sanemi’s hands curl around your hips and he tugs you forward until your backside is flush against his thighs.

The heat radiating from you pulls him in like a magnet as he lines the tip of his cock up with your entrance. A vein above his brow ticks, the only outward sign of the battle raging within him as his self restraint wars with his tantalizing urge to impale you on the thick, throbbing length of him, desperate for the sweet relief only your body can give.

Every inch of him trembles as Sanemi presses his hips forward. “Fuck,” he exhales shakily, pushing his tip past your entrance. “Fuck.”

His head falls back and the muscles in his throat strain. Some small, needy sound leaves him and the fingers on your hip tighten nearly to the point of pain.

The noise registers in the back of your mind, and vaguely, you recognize it as a whimper. You wonder whether he makes that sound for the others; somehow you doubt it, given that he does it again, only now in the shape of your name.

The rumors always said he never asked for names; he was a one-and-done kind of man. A great fuck, but not someone to go to if you were looking for comfort; softness.

Once again, Sanemi is nothing but a collection of contradictions, especially where you’re concerned.

Sanemi hisses as he slowly eases into you. Despite your wetness, you’re impossibly tight, and your body is a live wire hell bent on pushing out his intrusion.

With a deep groan, he falls forward, one arm shooting out to land near your head to catch himself before he can crash into you. His weight carefully braced above you, Sanemi shifts, widening the stance of his knees. Your legs slide up his waist, locking at your ankles at the base of his spine.

His cock is barely a quarter of the way inside your heat when he pulls out. A whine of protest mounts in your throat, but it quickly flickers out when he presses his leaking tip to your clit and grinds. A soft moan slips out of you when he repeats the movement again, and your thighs widen, your hips tilting up to allow him easier access.

Sanemi circles the head of his cock once more against your sensitive nub, coating himself in more of your sticky wetness, before he slides back into your entrance. This time, your body parts more easily around him, sucking him in rather than trying to squeeze him out.

“There you go, that’s it,” his breath is hot against your ear, his lips trailing silkily across your jaw. “That’s my girl.”

Halfway in, Sanemi brushes against that thin barrier that separates him from the rest of you, and he stills.

He pulls his head back from your neck, and moves his hand out from between your legs to cup your cheek.

“Ready?” His thumb strokes over your cheekbone, tender and soft.

There is a tightness building in your abdomen, a foreign pressure that isn’t entirely unwelcome, but neither is it wholly comfortable. You brace a hand at your side, balling your sheets into your fist as you steady yourself, flushed and panting beneath the scar speckled man holding rigidly still above you.

Your eyes flick up once, and you see the tightness in his jaw; the tremble in his limbs as he fights against the urge to relief the friction mounting where you are joined.

You swallow around the lump of anticipation lodged in your throat. Your breath is shaky, but at last, you manage a single “Please.”

With a groan, he grips himself around his base and slowly, he presses forward. There is a sharp prick that shoots deep in your lower abdomen as Sanemi surges past that thin inner wall.

You cannot stop your cry of discomfort from ringing out anymore than you can stop the surprised tears which escape the corners of your eyes as the sharp pain between your legs intensifies.

But then Sanemi’s lips are there, kissing away your tears, and the hand he’d used to guide himself into your body skims along the outside of your thigh, hiking your leg higher up his waist before it drops to rub gentle circles into your hip.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs between soothing caresses of his lips against your cheeks and across your eyelids. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

He coos his string of apologies as his cock continues to push into you. On and on he sinks, his length endless, and you begin to think your body will split in two before you find the end of his.

Just before you reach your limit, Sanemi stills, fully embedded in your heat. He pants through gritted teeth, his jaw locked against the way you’re constricting around him so tightly it’s nearly painful.

It’s unreal; not only does Sanemi realize how much fucking better sex feels without the restriction of a condom, but he’s also bashed over the head with the realization that you were made for him. For nothing, no one has ever felt as incredible as you.

Nothing in his life has ever felt so right.

Sanemi has always been someone who fucks fast and hard. He’d had no objective other than to escape for a few, blissful moments in the body of another as he pretended not to feel the hollowness in his chest, or the throb of his own self-loathing.

With you, however, he wants nothing more than to relish every movement of your body against his, to savor your every gasp and sigh; to learn what makes you lose control.

You are no temporary distraction; he wants to know you.

He drops his forehead against yours and waits, allowing you to adjust to the intrusion of him.

He trails his lips across your collar bone and down to the twin swells of your breasts, sucking softly at your plush skin as you fidget and squirm beneath him. One broad hand skirts down the outside of your thigh until he finds your knee, and gently he guides your leg around his hips. The other he leaves relaxed against the bed, your foot resting somewhere against his calf.

When your eyes flutter open and find his, he knows you’re ready. So he moves his arm out from between your bodies and winds it instead around your waist, deepening the arch in your back until his chest is flush with yours.

His lips press to your forehead, a silent warning that he is about to move.

And then Sanemi begins molding your body to the shape of his.

He starts slow. He doesn’t withdraw far from you, instead focusing on rolling his hips against yours. Each churn of his groin pushes his cock deeper into your warmth, and soon, your timid whimpers melt into soft moans as your initial discomfort gives way to pleasure.

Encouraged by the way your body starts to relax in his embrace, Sanemi tests drawing his cock out a few inches before plunging back into you.

Before long, the room fills with the lewd sounds of skin slapping against skin, and Sanemi’s moans join yours as he rapidly becomes lost in the euphoria of your wet, tight heat.

One of your arms jumps to lock around his ribs, your nails sinking into his skin as you anchor yourself to him.

His hand snakes across the sheets in search of yours. When he finds it, fisted against your sheets, he pries your fingers loose, winding them with his and he wraps your arm around his shoulders.

“Tighter,” he gasps. “Hold me tighter. Please.”

Your fingers dig into the muscles of his back and Sanemi groans his approval.

And then he’s rolling to his side, pulling you along with him until you’re stretched out across the length of your mattress, chest to chest.

His hand grips under your thigh, tugging it over his hip as he rocks harder into you. “Talk to me, angel,” the hand under your thigh moves to splay across your rear, pushing and pulling your hips in time with his as he grinds. “Tell me how you feel — tell me what you want.”

You cry out, mournful, as Sanemi draws out his cock nearly to its tip before he plunges back into you.

The fullness you feel is overwhelming. You can’t stand that empty feeling, even for a moment. So you hitch your leg higher around his hip, and dig the heel of your foot into the firmness of his ass, limiting his movements.

“Closer!” You gasp. “I — I need you closer.”

He needs that too, he decides; craves it. He doesn’t want to feel any space between your bodies. He wants — he needs — to be so enraptured with you that there is no point in trying to separate. That way, he might get to keep you for just a little longer.

Sanemi’s hand massages your backside, his cock throbbing with every push into you. “Deeper,” he confirms between throaty groans. “You want me deeper?”

You bury your face into his shoulder. Your teeth sink into his skin and with a moan, you nod.

He can do that; is more than happy to, as a matter of fact.

So, with a faint snarl, Sanemi grips the fat of your ass and spreads you wide, and he begins thrusting, hard.

The new angle allows the tip of his cock to bump up against a sweet spot deep inside you. Sanemi’s eyes narrow at the way your head drops back, a loud cry tearing from your throat.

Determined to hit that point within you again and again, he shifts his hips under you while hiking your leg higher up his hip, his fingers digging into the curve of your ass.

It’s a success; soon, your wails echo throughout your studio, punctuated by every punishing slap of his skin against yours.

Really, he can’t give less of a damn at how thin your apartment walls are. The sounds pouring from your mouth are the prettiest fucking thing he’s ever heard.

Something hot and electric mounts quickly in your stomach with each of his frenetic movements. You’ve come before with your own hand, but this — this is something different. Something far more intense, something that threatens to rip you apart from your very sanity until you know nothing but him.

You try and tell him you’re losing control but all that comes out is a pitiful whimper.

But he knows; he knows exactly what you need.

“I’m here, baby, I’m here. I’ve got you.” And with that, Sanemi rolls you back underneath him, settling into the cradle of your thighs and pushing his cock faster and deeper into you. His arms gently unwind yours from his shoulders, and he brings them up over your head, one large hand pinning them down.

“I’ll take care of you, sweet girl,” he promises, and he weaves the fingers of the hand keeping you pressed against the mattress with your own. “Just keep your legs around me.”

Your thighs squeeze his waist in silent answer, your mind far too suspended in the throes of your pleasure to do anything else.

With his lips trailing along your neck leaving hot, open-mouthed kisses in its wake, his free hand slides between your sweat-slicked bodies. He wedges it between where his groin is pressed to yours, and he searches along your sensitive, swollen folds, seeking the spot between your thighs that made you tremble and whine for him earlier.

You jolt under him as his fingers find you again, that foreign, electric sensation sparking deep in your abdomen. “Sanemi —“

“It’s okay,” he murmurs sweetly, pressing down on your clit until you arch further into him with a gasp. “It’s gonna feel so good, baby, I promise. Just focus on me.”

Each rotation of his hand against your sensitive bead matched the deep, pointed roll of his groin, with Sanemi capping the end of every powerful thrust with alternating pulses of his thumb. The pressure he uses mounts with every churn of his hips, and the moan vibrating in your chest as another surge of sticky wetness gushes from your thighs is the sweetest sound he thinks he’s ever heard.

A broken chant of please please please stutters its way out of you, spurning him to go faster; hit deeper.

And Sanemi only knows how to oblige you.

“You’re doing so fucking good, sweetheart. Just keep letting me take care of you —- that’s it.” He curses as you clench down around him, crying out in approval at his praise. “Yeah, yeah. You’re my fuckin’ girl, aren’t you?”

A single wail of his name is your only response, but it’s enough of a confirmation to damn you both.

“You are,” he affirms, his voice taking on the timber of a growl. “Mine. You’re fuckin’ mine.”

His thrusts grow sloppier with every second, though each is punctuated by a silent, recurring chant of mine, mine, mine. Though your eyes are closed, Sanemi can spy a faint sliver of white peeking out from between your eyelids.

You’re close; he can feel it. And he knows, as the walls of your cunt flutter and tighten around him, that your climax will be his undoing.

The hands he has pinned against the mattress over your head flex as you twist and writhe beneath him. your head tosses from from side to side, and the vibrato of your cries rises octave by octave. Every muscle in your body is tense; you are a live wire thrumming with a need to come apart that he knows you do not fully understand.

Sanemi grunts as he fucks you harder into your bed, no longer concerned with keeping his weight off you. He will show you; he will show you how to shatter, and then he too, will break.

But he needs to see you, first.

“Look at me,” his voice beckons you back from the precipice of ruin. “Look at me, Y/N.”

Your eyes open to meet his and suddenly you’re right back at that edge, only this time, you’re falling freely over it, plummeting down a drop that has no end.

“S-Sanemi —!” It’s all you can manage before the knot steadily building in your stomach unravels. Your back arcs sharply away from your bed, and Sanemi ducks his head to smother his own cry against your breast as he takes its tip into his hot mouth.

Your hips jerk and twitch against his, your cunt seizing around him with force that threatens to squeeze the life out of him. Above you, your arms strain and pull against his grip as you writhe and sing for him.

“That’s it baby, that’s it,” Sanemi’s praise is muffled against your sternum, though it is strangled as he nears his own end. “Fuck!“

He’ll have to buy you the morning-after pill tomorrow, he realizes as you continue to come apart so beautifully on his cock, a soft chant of his name the only thing on your lips. He will not force you to bear the consequences of his own selfishness; he will not saddle you with his burden.

But he’s also not strong enough to pull out; not when your body feels like it was made for him, not when your sweet cunt is gripping him this hard, is this wet — all because of him.

He is selfish and he is weak; it’s a toxic combination, and yet he knows cannot stop.

Sanemi’s hips snap a final time against yours, pushing them up and away from the mattress, pressing deeper than he thought possible. His eyes roll back as his own orgasm rocks through him, powerful and blinding, and the growl that built in his throat melts into a strained groan.

He holds you in place, his cock pulsing in time with your cunt while the two of you ride out the waves of your climax together, his cum steadily filling you with his warmth. Your hands skirt down the length of his arms, blindly searching for his hips. When you find him, you pull and tug, a faint whine sounding from the back of your throat. Sanemi answers your plea with a broken moan of his own and he rocks against you, your hips circling with his until he finally lets you collapse against your mattress, limp-limbed and exhausted.

He follows you down, smothering you with his weight as he clings to you like a lifeline, his face buried in the crook of your neck.

“Fuck, you did so good, sweetheart. So fuckin’ good.” He moans into your ear before he pulls back, his eyes searching your face as he pants.

One hand cradles your jaw and his thumb strokes repeatedly over the flushed curve of your cheek. “You okay?”

You don’t answer right away, your eyes shut tight, and Sanemi feels panic bubble hot in his stomach. The hand cupping your face tightens with his worried call of your name, his fear rearing its ugly head, ready to rip him apart, to turn him into the horrid monster he’s always known he was —

“I love you,” and then you’re peering up at him, eyes round and shining with emotion he does not deserve to feel. “I love you, Sanemi.”

It would’ve hurt less if you’d shot him.

Whatever wall remained around his heart cracks and crumbles under the weight of your confession. Sanemi does not answer, cannot find the words to adequately capture the depth of his feelings.

Instead, he snatches you up into his arms, crushing your body against his.

He kisses your lips and then your cheek. One hand cups the back of your head, his fingers burying into your hair as he presses your face into his chest. His arms tremble as he holds you close, every hard ridge of him cradled against your soft curves. He feels your smile against his collarbone, and the way your fingers dance up and down his spine that makes him melt.

It hits him, then. You aren’t waiting for an answer — you said it only so he would know, and you’d not expected anything in return.

All you’d done was give while he took and took. Your body. Your love.

He doesn’t deserve any of it.

Whatever or whomever came after this would never compare to you. Truthfully, Sanemi doesn’t think it would be worth trying anything different. Everything now began and ended with you — including him.

He twists his head to kiss you again and again, your lips meeting his with a sleepy enthusiasm.

He pants as he breaks away. “‘M gonna pull out — might be uncomfortable for a second.”

You wince at the sudden stab of cold left behind by Sanemi’s retreating warmth. He shifts back onto his knees and slides his hands down your thighs, parting them.

A low whistle blows past his lips. “Damn, I made a mess outta you.”

For a moment, Sanemi can’t tear his eyes away from the sight between your legs; the sight of him trickling out you, staining the sheets below. But some of that hot, possessive pride that wells in his chest tempers at the small smear of blood staining your inner thigh.

His fingers massage your legs in silent apology. “Let me clean you up.”

Your hands shoot to grasp at his shoulders, a pleading whimper on your lips. “Don’t leave — not yet.” You bite your lip, your eyes wide and anxious. “Please, can you just hold me for a bit?”

Sanemi’s eyes soften and his heart throbs painfully in his chest. He can’t imagine leaving you; not now, not ever. No matter how stupid and selfish that makes him.

He’d be lying if he said he didn’t know the source of your anxiety — or that you didn’t have reason for it. Sanemi isn’t known for lingering.

But this is different — you’re different. You’re not some temporary distraction. You’re everything. His everything.

“Shhh,” he maneuvers you easily atop him, settling you in against the length of his torso, his hands smoothing up and down the column of your spine. “I’m staying right here, sweet girl. I’m not goin’ anywhere.”

He seals his promise with a gentle kiss against your forehead before laying his cheek against your temple, cradling you to his chest.

Finally, you relax against him, convinced. He lays with you for a long time after, one hand on the back of your head, his fingers rubbing against your scalp until you fall asleep on against him, safe and sound and warm.

Minutes pass, or maybe hours. But Sanemi’s head does not quiet, not even under the soothing sounds of your deep, slow breaths as you dream.

He must have lost his mind. There is no other explanation for the way he’s disregarded every rule, every boundary he’s ever made sense of, all in the name of you. In a single evening, you managed to obliterate every last defense, every barricade he’d safely cowered behind, and now that the castle has fallen, he isn’t quite sure what he’s supposed to do with the rubble.

What he does know is that there’s no putting things back to how they were.

His eyes search your sleeping face because if you were able to make him question nearly everything that made sense in his life, then surely you must also have the answers he needs to re-strike balance in his tilted world. Maybe they lie among the lashes that tickle your cheek, or in the occasional twitch of your mouth between your deep inhales.

But Sanemi is only left feeling more confused the longer he watches you. Because, despite the way he feels vulnerable and exposed at how easily he has been stripped of his guard, he can’t quite bring himself to believe it was entirely your doing.

His eyes widen. There’s his answer.

Perhaps you are not trying to sink your nails into his flesh to peel it back, to demand he be stripped to the bone for you to inspect, to scrutinize and use as you please.

Perhaps that is what you’ve done to yourself, and you’re waiting to see if you will join you; to know if he can volunteer his vulnerability, rather than wait for someone to come and force it from him.

He cannot make any promises. He has spent so much of his life cowering behind the armor he crafted out of his scars and his sneers and barks that were always more ferocious than his bite, that he does not know how to take it off. He does not know how to navigate the world without its weight, both his safety net and his chain. And there is an understanding in your eyes that signals you know that, too.

But he can try.

He mouths I love you against your hairline — he does not voice it, not yet, though it’s what he feels. But your love is a compass that just might point him down the road the leads to a life he so desperately wants; to you.

And he’ll get there, maybe.

In time.

LIKES, REBLOGS, COMMENTS APPRECIATED!

[kindacreepy-kindaugly]

Not Val bitching about me being "too passive"

I was tryin to be a team player to keep the peace or whatever but if that's is the thanks I get then alright! Guess you're not gettin any

[antiquarianfics]

Accidental pt. 4

What happens when you accidentally kidnap the exact man you were looking for?

pairing: mob!bucky x reader

warning(s): canon level violence, kidnapping, profanity

a/n: it’s my birthday, so let’s celebrate with their date 🤭

You do not have permission to copy, translate, or repost my work; however, feel free to like, comment, and reblog.

part 3

»»———-———-———-———-———-———-———-««

"Oh, and one more thing," you say, catching the man's attention before he gets back into the SUV. He raises an eyebrow, you smirk. "Tell James he better damn well bring flowers."

—

You sigh as you stare at your reflection in the mirror, smoothing out your blouse. You turn to the side to see the back of your outfit and straighten back out again.

“You’re wearing pants to a fancy date with a crime lord?” Ellie asks, judgement lacing her question. You turn and raise an eyebrow at her, crossing the room to find the loafers you planned to wear.

“Yeah. Problem?” You ask, not really caring about Ellie’s opinion of your date attire. After all, it’s really more of a business transaction than a date.

“Yes! He’s probably expecting a dress, heels! Something low cut! You’re supposed to look sexy! You,” she pauses, gesturing to your body with an exasperated hand motion, “look like a JCPenney commercial.”

You scoff, a smirk teasing your lips. “Ellie, I don’t care. First of all, I can run a hell of a lot easier in loafers than heels, in slacks than a dress. Second of all,” you pick up your handgun where it lie on your dresser and check the safety, “I can’t hide this as easily in a dress.” Once you’re satisfied the safety is on, you tuck the gun away in the back of your pants, pulling your blouse back down over it. You look in the mirror again and fiddle with the tucking.

“Should I French tuck this?”

“Yes,” Ellie says distractedly before continuing. “But, Y/N, this guy is dangerous. You should play it safe. It’s just a date, so be who he obviously wants you to be.”

You sigh, turning back around to look your sister in the eyes.

“Ellie,” you say, tone dead serious. “Why are you so afraid of him? What did he do to you?”

Ellie blanches and doesn’t say anything. You sigh again turning back around to the mirror to fiddle with your hair, making sure it’s out of your face.

“I never saw him,” Ellie says suddenly. You watch her through the mirror where she sits on your bed staring at her hands. “I never saw him,” she starts again, “but I don’t think I was important enough for him to spare me his attention.

“I was at home making dinner when his men came for me. There was knock on the door, and when I answered, they stuck a bag over my head. Next thing I knew, I was in a dank, small room. There was a mattress on the floor for me to sleep, a toilet. Nothing else. I was there for maybe two days before someone came for me. I was taken to a conference room. There was a man there. I forget his name, but he was tall. Blond. He asked if I knew why I was there, I said I did, and he asked if I had any way to repay what I owed.”

“What did you owe?”

“750,000 dollars.”

“Ellie! How do you—? What? How?” You’re shocked, unable to comprehend how your baby sister could owe anyone so much.

“I… I met this guy, Zemo. We were just friends, but he started taking me around his friends. His friends hung out in these speakeasy type clubs. They played poker and stuff. I don’t know. I usually just watched, but after a few times, they talked me into it. Told me it was easy money, and, Y/N, I needed the money! So, I played, and I was doing really well. So I kept playing long after Zemo and his buddies left. I made so much down there, but I got too cocky and I lost an all-or-nothing. I played again to try and win it back, but it was like I’d lost my mojo, like I’d been playing on beginner’s luck.”

“Ellie,” you say sympathetically.

“I was $750,000 in debt and I couldn’t pay it, but the man I’d lost to—I think he felt bad—he said I could have 72 hours to get him his money. If I didn’t get him the money in time…” She trails off and you realize you’re clenching your jaw. You consciously unclench it. Ellie takes in a deep breath and exhales slowly. “He said if I didn’t get the money to him in 72 hours he would just have to find another way for me to pay him back. I don’t really know what he meant by that.

Anyway, the blond man asked if I could repay the money. I said no. He looked… sympathetic? He told me I’d have to go back to the cell until they could find use for me. I was there until they brought me home.”

You sit next to her on the bed, circling your arm around her. “Elle, I’m so sorry. I wish you’d come to me for help. I would’ve helped.”

“You don’t have that money, either. Plus, you are helping.”

“I guess.”

“What time is it?”

“6:30.”

“Are you nervous?” Ellie asks.

“I accidentally kidnapped the most powerful man in the city and threatened his life, sis. I’m not nervous at all,” you say sarcastically.

Ellie opens her mouth to respond but is cut off by the ringing of your doorbell and a knock on the door. The two of you exchange a surprised look and you double check your watch: 6:34.

“He’s early,” you say, standing as you take a deep breath and try to swallow your nerves.

“Hey, you’ve got this. I know it,” Ellie reassures you, but she makes no move to follow you as you leave the room and go to make good on your end of yours and James’ bargain. You’re settling her debt and she makes no further move to support you.

You sigh as you reach the front door, swallowing your nerves and the tiny bit of resentment for your sister forming. Swinging the door open, you come face to face with the same man you had kidnapped and assaulted the day before: James Barnes.

James is looking around him when you open the door, but his attention is immediately on you as the door opens. His striking blue eyes meet yours, take in your person, and meet your eyes again. He grins.

“You look beautiful, Doll,” he says. He sounds breathless, completely blown away. You give him a questioning look, still so unsure of his motives.

“Thank you. You clean up nice. Not being tied up to a chair suits you,” you say. Your words come out funny. The ‘thank you’ sounds somewhat genuine but the compliment comes out somewhat strained, like you’re not sure you should be saying it.

James ignores your tone and lets his grin widen. He then takes a hand out from behind his back—you hadn’t even noticed his hand was behind his back—and hands you a bouquet of blue hyacinths. You just stare at them for a while as your brain attempts to catch up with your eyes.

“You actually brought flowers.”

“You threatened me again,” he teases.

“James, I…” You trail off, speechless. You wonder how you keep getting away with threatening him. Most people would be, at best, locked away, at worst, dead.

“Bucky.”

“What?”

“My name,” he says, “is Bucky.”

You let your eyes trail from the hyacinths up to his eyes (you can’t help but notice they’re the same color), and you think that he looks shy—timid. James—Bucky—looks like he is nervous to ask you to call him by this other name.

“Bucky?” You ask, and, against your better judgment, as you ask it, you pull back your front door and step aside, inviting him into your home. He looks equally surprised you’d do such a thing, but he enters, taking a few steps into the corridor before pausing to look around and to wait on you. You close the door behind you and lead him to the kitchen where you pull out a vase for the flowers.

“Yeah,” he says. “It’s—erm—a nickname. It’s what my friends call me.”

“We’re friends?” You ask skeptically.

“Well, no, but we’re going on a date. ‘James’ is just a little formal,” he says, wrinkling his nose at his own name.

You offer him a friendly smile (which surprises you). “Well, Bucky, you’re lucky I’m ready because you’re, like, half an hour early.”

Bucky has the decency to look embarrassed, but he ignores the accusation. “Well,” he says instead, “shall we go?”

You nod and follow him out to his car. Once you make it to the vehicle, Bucky opens the car door for you, carefully shutting it behind you. He takes his spot in the driver’s seat a moment later.

You let out a breathy laugh and he side eyes you as he starts the car.

“What?”

“Nothing! I just sort of expected you to have a driver. You’re just… surprising.”

He smiles at your admission. “Careful, Doll. Someone might think you like me.”

“Doubtful.”

It’s not a long drive to what is certainly a high class establishment—an establishment nicer than any you’ve been to before. Bucky gets out of the car, rushing to let you out. As you get out of the car, he offers his keys to the valet and his arm to you. You glance briefly at his arm and give him an annoyed look as you loop your arm through his.

Bucky escorts you to the double glass doors that lead to the restaurant where a doorman waits to open the door for you. You say “thank you” as you pass and Bucky gives you an unreadable look. Then, once inside the restaurant, Bucky whispers something to the host who nods and leads you towards the back and up some stairs that lead to a glass enclosed landing where two guards stand on either side of the door leading to the rooftop seating. Bucky lets go of your arm and steps forward as the male security guard mirrors him. The guard pats Bucky down, finds a handgun tucked away in a holster at his waist, takes it, and then allows him to step to the side so that you may take your turn.

Your breathing picks up ever so slightly as you watch Bucky get frisked, especially once you realize they’re going to frisk you, too. You start to worry when you realize they’re going to find a weapon on you—how is that going to play out? Will Bucky go back on his word? Will he kill you? Then, when they take away Bucky’s weapon, you remind yourself to breathe normally and regain some confidence. He brought a gun, too: he doesn’t trust you and you don’t trust him.

You step forward, making eye contact with Bucky the whole time. You hold your arms out ever so slightly as the female guard steps forward to frisk you. You raise an eyebrow—maybe you’re challenging him to do something—when the guard finds your gun and pulls it out of your waistband. She holds it up and offers you a “seriously?” look, which you see in your peripheral. You shrug at her, eyes still on Bucky. He’s smirking.

The two of you are then led by the host through the guarded door to a single table that sits on the balcony. The balcony has been well decorated with myriad plants and string lights. There’s soft music playing in the background. Bucky pulls out a chair for you and you sit, watching as he takes the seat across from you. The two of you just watch each other as the host offers you menus and promises a waiter will be with you soon. Once the host is gone, the two of you sit, watching, waiting.

“Lovely weather we’re having,” you finally say, picking up the menu. If he isn’t going to say anything, you decide, you’re going to play coy.

Bucky raises his eyebrows, letting out a laugh and looking away before returning is gaze to you.

“You brought a gun to our date,” he says.

“So did you,” you reply, still looking at the menu. “Is the chicken alfredo any good here?”

“What for?” He asks, ignoring the alfredo question.

You sigh, setting down the menu. “Why did you?”

“You held me at gunpoint the last time we met. How was I to know you wouldn’t try to finish the job?”

“I held you at gunpoint the last time we met, but I had you tied up. How was I to know you wouldn’t take the shot now that your hands aren’t tied?”

“We’re here because I already shot my shot.”

“Clever.”

“I’m not going to hurt you.”

“I’ve given you every reason to.”

He laughs humorlessly. “If I wanted to hurt you, don’t you think I would have done it already?”

“Why am I here, James? Why don’t you want to hurt me? Aren’t you supposed to be some big, scary crime lord? Because you’re not living up to your name.”

Bucky clenches his jaw and looks away. You think you’ve maybe finally struck a nerve, finally gone too far.

“Have you ever once considered, Y/N, that maybe—just maybe—I’m a person, too? Did you ever think you were capable of threatening someone’s life until necessity made you?” You flinch. He notices. “I have a shitty job. I do shitty things. I do even shittier things to even shittier people. But it’s the job I was given, the job I have, and the job I do. Maybe I’m a monster, a freak, an emotionless robot, but maybe that’s just what I have to be so I don’t go crazy. At the end of the day, I’m just a man who wants to live his life, so forgive me for wanting to do that.”

Bucky is breathing erratically. He’s worked up. You stare, mouth slightly agape, surprised. You have a feeling he’s felt this way a while and never had the chance to voice it, but you also realize that your existence in his life might be more to him than just some girl who wants her sister back, some girl who extorted him.

“You actually like me,” you say, genuinely surprised.

He looks at you, eyes softening and looking a little embarrassed.

“Yeah.”

“You’ve got terrible taste.”

He laughs. “That so?”

“I never even introduced myself. You clearly only know my name because you know who my sister is and put two and two together. I’ve been terrible to you. I mean, I have my totally logical and understandable reasons, but I’ve been terrible.”

“That’s true, but I was holding your sister hostage. Not the best conditions. I’m sure she’s thrilled about all this.” He gestures to the table in front of you, the two of you.

“She recognizes I’m cleaning up her mess.”

Bucky looks at you, expression sad.

“Cleaning up her mess,” he repeats quietly. “You don’t have to do this,” he says, louder, more confident.

“What?”

“This date. You don’t want to be here. You’re not interested. I get it. You’re cleaning up your sister’s mess. You can just go,” he says, looking far off onto the horizon. “Don’t worry about Ellie. Her debt’s forgotten.”

You don’t move. You sit, you stare, you chew your lip, and you consider the man in front of you. You consider the handsome, powerful, sad man in front of you who—to your surprise—is genuinely interested in you. You make a decision.

You hear your chair scrape against the floor as you stand up and start to walk back towards the door. You take a few steps past Bucky, turn around, and walk back to the table. You stop right beside Bucky and hold out your hand. Bucky looks at your hand outstretched to him and trails his eyes up to you, and you watch as he carefully searches your face.

“Hi,” you say, smiling. “I’m Y/N. Mind if I join you for dinner?”

Bucky’s face breaks out into a grin as he takes your hand, grasping it firmly as he shakes it. “Bucky,” he greets, playing along. “I wouldn’t mind at all.”

»»———-———-———-———-———-———-———-««

@cjand10 @vicmc624 @mostlymarvelgirl @livingoutsidethetardis @onceithough @thedonswife13 @kaithesimps-blog @buckitostan @julvrs @unaxv @searchn0tfound @10ava01

[theealbatross]

Sebastian x Reader: i love you, it's ruining my life (One Shot)

Plot | Sebastian has the worst insomnia known to man and you are not dating him. Tags | none, fluff, slytherin!reader, bad english accent attempt by me, repressed feelings, unhealthy attachment, codependency, teenagers trying to process trauma together, mentions of nightmares, they are both 17 years old [A/N : FUCK JK ROWLING!!!!!!! Also I just needed to write something and somehow a depressed Slytherin boy was just the one to cure my insane writer's block. Enjoy!]

I am not dating Sebastian Sallow, is what you kept saying yet no one seems to ever believe you. Even Natty, bless her kind soul, gave you a look so incredulous as the words went out of your mouth that you couldn’t help but be confused yourself -- were you dating Sebastian?

“I’m not trying to be nosy, my friend. I’m just concerned.”

“About what?” This has been the third person this month with that same irritating expression on their face. Pity.

“I thought … you were always together that I just assumed there was … something.”

You blinked, trying not to let your face slip, afraid that your ever observant friend would read too much into each emotion.

“Well, there’s nothing. So you and the others can –”

“There are others?!”

You widened her eyes, telling Natty to drop it and she wisely did. “The rest of you can stop reporting his rendezvous to me. Understood?”

“There you are!”

Merlin, will the cruel gods of fate ever give you a break?

The deep voice from the door cut through half of the conversations in your table as Sebastian jogged towards you. “Morning, pet.”

He casually grabbed your head gently, pressing a kiss on top of it, before settling down by straddling the chair so he was facing you. “Hey Natty, got lost?”

It wasn’t unheard of for students to not stick to the assigned tables on their houses but it was still odd, especially for someone like Natty who much preferred the company of like-minded people. Always said that the quiet and whispers in the Slytherin table made her uneasy.

Natty looked from you, to him, to the arms that was hidden under the table but was no doubt placed on your waist, subtly but insistently pulling you closer. You silently pleaded for her to ignore it which she thankfully did with a sigh.

“Not at all, Sebastian. Just trying to keep our friend company before you undoubtedly steal her away for the day.”

He didn’t even pretend to be offended by the accusation, only chuckling good-heartedly. “You can be welcome to tag along just for today.”

“Wouldn’t want to intrude. And with the trouble the two of you get into I’d be grounded by my mother for the rest of my life.”

The three of them laughed at that. The conversation thankfully flowing easier and away from the initial topic. Once Ominis arrived and Poppy was called over it was like fifth-year again. The initial circle you had formed has always been a source of comfort, no longer having to have your guard up all the time especially as easy conversation flowed between each other.

“I got some new books for you, just got delivered an hour ago. We should read it tonight.”

You fed him a piece of bread in your hands, knowing that his growing appetite has not been satiated by the plate he made for himself but he would be too lazy to make a new one and would just rather take bits and pieces from your own. “Just for me, huh?”

He grabbed a tuft of grapes before feeding you one as well before he demolished the entire thing. You couldn’t help but giggle when he spat out a small branch that managed to sneak into his mouth.

“It’s that new muggle series you love, paid off one of Ominis’ servant to line for it so you wouldn’t have to sneak out of Hogwarts like I know you had planned to tonight.”

You could feel your face heating up at the fact that he knew you too damn well. “You know I don’t like you spending money on me, Sebastian.”

“Well, you’re gonna be reading it to me so technically I’m spending money for me.”

You gave him a look but he quickly evaded it by feeding you another pair of grapes.

Sebastian had been haunted by nightmares after last year’s events. Ones so bad that the nurse feared he would be a bit too dependent on sleeping potions at such a young age. Thankfully, the two of you had found a solution together, after a late night studying in the Undercroft reading your notes aloud hoping it would stick into your head a bit better – you had turned to find your companion snoring away beside you.

At first, the two of you thought it was the history lesson that put him right to slumber so you borrowed tons of history books in the library for him to read before he slept but an enchanted note later and you were dragging your sleepy self and a blanket out of your chambers as you read about the History of Magic in his bed.

It was that night that you had been eternally grateful that he had no other roommate but Ominis. Especially when you found out that Sebastian was apparently a horrible koala when asleep.

“That’s just –”

“What are you two whispering about?”

You actually jumped, pushing Sebastian away as if the soft voice behind them reminded you of how they had actually drifted closer than what was appropriate.

“Arieta,” Sebastian greeted her with a raised brow, seemingly confused why the Ravenclaw was this far off the room not even all that affected that his new girlfriend just caught him being a bit too comfortable with another girl.

“Sebby!” she shrieked prettily, quickly recovering and pulling on his arm. “We have History of Magic together, remember? You know I can’t survive that class without your shoulder to sleep on.”

She can hear Ominis choke on a laugh yet Arieta shot you a look like it was your fault.

“I, uh,” Sebastian turned to your table, now fully aware that everyone was staring at him with various expression on their faces. “Right, let’s go.”

Ever the gentleman, Sebastian was quick to grab the books in Arieta’s arm as she held on to his hand and dragged him towards the doors.

“Arieta, huh, wouldn’t have pegged her as territorial one,” Natty chuckled, you chucked a grape at her. “What? I am only speaking my mind. Might have to watch out for that one or she might just drag poor Sebastian away from –”

Just before she finished her sentence Sebastian came bounding down the path once again stopping just beside you, catching his breath. “Hey, you’re mine tonight, okay? No adventures.”

His wording left so much to be misinterpreted that even Poppy’s eyes nearly popped out of her head, damn near resembling those mooncalfs she loves so much.

"I stand corrected," Natty muttered.

“Sebby!” Arieta screamed at the end of the hallway.

Merlin’s beard.

“I’m coming!” He threw her an impatient look before holding on to your chin so you were looking at him and forcing you to nod. “No adventures.”

This time the embarrassment of the absolute mess that was unfolding before your unfinished breakfast have overwhelmed your brain that you could only nod with him.

“No adventures.”

Sebastian smiled, one of those real, bright ones that makes your body malfunction and your heart to stop beating. Pressing one last kiss on the top of your head and managing to wave to your shared friends he was off and gone through the double doors.

The entire table was left in silence and you had hoped they would let this go but Natty couldn’t give you that mercy as she cleared her throat.

“Well, now I got even more questions.”

You’re not dating Sebastian Sallow you just think about him a lot.

You weren’t as daft as the rest of them have probably assumed. You did think there was a lot more than friendship between Sebastian and you. But with all the things that the two of you had been through it was difficult to pinpoint what it exactly was aside from their unusually intense loyalty to each other.

Was it a trauma bond? Was it just their kindred spirits refusing to let the one soul who understood them go? Did everything that they went through, the secrets they keep, the curses they threw to protect each other become the bloody ribbon that held the unhealthy attachment they had to each other? It could be love. But it could be a whole lot more complicated than that.

That’s what they were. They were complicated.

After the nightmare that was your fifth year the two of you had kept to yourselves with Ominis in tow, trying to keep as low as profile as possible and give your poor professors a break. With your newfound infamy as the ‘Hero of Hogwarts’ (blergh) and the dark secret you three were desperately keeping for Sebastian, the best you could hope for was to blend in with the rest of the nameless students in Hogwarts.

That agreement got shot into hell when your dear friend Sebastian Sallow proved to be one of the best beaters in Hogwarts’ long, long history. It was a dare that exploded in your own face to try out and irritate Imelda but when he had accidentally proven to be a bit too good at it their mutual friend clutched at him with her demanding claws and put him through the ringer until he got spat out decent enough to be one of the soldiers to secure the honor of their noble house and win the Quidditch cup this year.

Piled on top of that development was his connection to the Gaunt family, the Hero of Hogwarts, and the rumor of his hefty trust fund waiting for him the moment he turns 18 – Sebastian Sallow, just as the gods intended, became the most eligible bachelor of his age.

And thus your hell begun.

The silent charm he always had with him grew with his stature. He clearly enjoyed the attention after having hid his pretty bloody face behind dangerous books all year last year that it was almost like he was compensating for the hearts he could’ve broken. Every moon it was a different girl looped around his arms and every month it was a different friend reporting to you that your presumed ‘boyfriend’ was found snogging a goddamn Gryffindor in the Three Broomsticks.

It was annoying, confusing, and you were getting sick of it.

“Over here.”

Before you could find the source of the voice you knew all too well, a door had already opened and you were quickly pulled into an empty room – well, room was being generous as it was more of a storage space than anything.

“Sebastian!”

“Shh,” you gawked when his opened palm muffled your voice as he firmly presses it on your mouth. The unmistakable sounds of footsteps and a softer call of his name echoed the hallway outside the door. When the footsteps faded and disappeared, he had the nerve to give you a lopsided grin that turned your face red in irritation. Definitely in irritation.

Nothing quite like being forced to face the boy who had been running around your head all day.

“Sorry bout that, pet,” he chuckled, leaning on the wall an arms-length way from you. “I’m not too good with break-ups, especially when they say no.”

“Must be horrifying,” you sniped shortly, also pressing your back on the nearest wall to give you as much space as possible – it would just be absolutely mortifying to faint because your heart was beating too fast it was like it was trying to escape. “Are you gonna explain why you’ve kidnapped me in this dingy room?”

“Come on now, don’t be short with me. I just wanted to hang out with you ‘s all.”

“You want to hang out with me …. Inside a closet?”

He shrugged, “I never see you anymore these days.”

Ah, the nightmares must be back. She tries to swallow down the bitter taste in her mouth.

“That’s not my fault, Sebastian.”

At least he looked guilty. And absolutely miserable.

In the few weeks you had taken your eyes off him it would seem he had another growth spurt. Do boys just not stop growing ever? Looking up at him was starting to get painful. Plus, all those drills they run to prepare for every game had done nothing but well for his physique. You couldn’t help but run your eyes to his broad chest and shoulders before you caught yourself and nearly screamed in horror.

“Hey, I’m sorry,” Rough hands grabbed one of yours. He bent his knees so he could look in your eyes as you now outright refuse to meet his, in anger for the absolute shit friend he had been the past months or in embarrassment that you so casually checked him out you’re not quite sure. “I … I got distracted but I missed you. You know I prefer your company over any other.”

Those damned brown eyes, not even the poor light in the windowless room could dull its effect on you. “Flattery will get you nowhere.”

Your harsh words did not match with the growing smile on your face you failed to suppress. He mirrored your grin, “Do you still have classes?”

You shook your head.

He damn near vibrated in glee. Merlin, you did miss him.

“Let me steal you away.”

In a flash, Sebastian grabbed a hold of your hand to survey the hall one last time before dragging you out of the room and into the nearest Floo. You barely caught the surprise and anger in his ex-girlfriend’s eyes as she gawked by the stairs before you got swallowed up by a green flash of powder.

“Boathouse.”

You’re not dating Sebastian Sallow because this is definitely not a date.

You wouldn’t think the Boathouse would be a romantic place but with the lack of students, the dimming sun and a gorgeous boy leading you in the inside of it for privacy – you couldn’t help but think that anyone who would pass by would be well within their right to think you had become another notch in Sebastian Sallow’s belt.

You’re not sure how you feel about that. A greater witch would’ve been offended but maybe you’re no better than the knots in his belt.

“Sit here.”

Sebastian spread out a worn-out black robe on the ground, patting on it expectantly. Before you could do it yourself, he was already kneeling beside you and removing your shoes and socks. The intimate act forced you to hold your breath, making sure you controlled your face so your jaw doesn’t fall to the floor as he slowly pulled on your socks, gently plopping them on the edge and letting the Black Lake’s water tickle your feet as they dangled.

When you were settled, he nonchalantly laid his head down on your lap. Gods, help you.

“Comfortable, aren’t you?”

He made a dramatic noise of satisfaction, even wiggling in your lap to show his assent. A giggle slipped out of your mouth at the absolute gall of him, your hands naturally falling in his soft, thick, brown hair to play with it.

“What had you been up to, pet?” he mumbles, eyes never leaving your face although you find yourself unable to do the same as you opted to look around the architecture of the Boathouse you rarely visit.

“Nothing much,” you shrugged. “Although I did find that swimming in the Forbidden Forest’s Lake was surprisingly relaxing.”

He hummed, not even surprised at your little antics when you leave his line of sight. The boy had definitely pulled you out of worse situations than roaming around the Forbidden Forest. “You should take me some time. Merlin knows relaxing is what I need.”

A scoff escaped your mouth as you rolled your eyes.

“Yeah, right after I duel your newest girlfriend for the honor of getting to take you out.”

He poked your side at that, “As entertaining that would be you know all you have to do is send me an owl and I’d trek up to Maurenweem for you.”

Your face clearly showed you didn't believe him and he frowned. Carefully, you ran a finger in-between his brows where a frown formed to relax it.

At this angle you could see the toll the sleepless nights he must’ve been having had on him. If the bags on his eyes was any indication it must’ve been a few nights now. You ran your hands on his hair earning you a satisfied hum as he dangled his hand on the edge of the ledge to play with the water below.

“When was the last time you slept?”

He popped one eye open but your gentle touch proved too much as he closed it again with an even longer hum. “A few hours last night.”

“You should’ve woken me up.”

He gently shook his head, grabbing your free hand so he can hold it by his stomach.

“I didn’t wanna bother you.”

“Oh please, Sebastian.”

He chuckled at that, gripping on your hand tightly as he let out a heavy breath. “The nightmares … I thought it’s been better. Barely had any a few months ago. But now it’s just gotten worse.”

The confession broke your heart. Sebastian was not a vulnerable person; despite his usually easy and cheerful demeanor he was quick to wall himself in at the first sign of trouble. You would bet galleons of gold he still feels horrible of all the things he put you through and it was truly in desperation when he had called you over to help him through his insomnia. Which was also why you had welcomed the responsibility with open arms.

“Care to tell? Is it still about Anne?”

His estranged twin has been forefront of most of his darkest nightmares but he shook his head again and for that you were thankful he was spared that at least. “Solomon? Ominis?”

He opened his eyes; it was full of overflowing guilt and fear. And when it seemed he could no longer keep it to himself he sighed, “It’s about you. That’s the reason why I couldn’t …”

The revelation had your blood freezing. “What?”

He sat up, now facing you and taking both of your hands. “I’m only telling you this because you are my best friend and to remind you that none of this is ever your fault. You haven’t done a thing wrong, in fact, I can’t think how I would’ve gotten past any of this if it wasn’t for you.”

You held on to his hands tighter. “Sebastian, you’re scaring me.”

He shook his head, pulling you closer as if to comfort. Why was he comforting you when it was him who had been terrorized by this dream version of you. It was irrational to be mad but how could you not be when apparently you had become one of his problems while you were simultaneously desperately trying to fix it.

A palm on your cheeks pulled you out of your self-loathing.

“All of my dreams … it was of the people I love leaving me. Anne never forgiving me for the rest of my life, Ominis turning me in …”

“Oh, Sebastian,” you buried a sob on the crook of his neck, your hand roping around his back so you can rub on his back comfortingly while he lets everything out.

“And … and every time it happens my brain drives itself insane thinking of plans of what I would do if those nightmares came true. That’s the reason why I couldn’t sleep.” You looked up at him through your lashes but never leaving your spot even as he brings your legs out of the water and over his until you were in his lap.

“But then … they turned to you.” His voice dropped so low you almost shivered. “And for the life of me I just couldn’t … see an out of that. If I lost you – If you gave up on me I … I think I’d turn myself in Azkaban myself.”

“Sebastian I would never –”

“I know that,” he whispered. “But I still can’t – I can’t let it go. I can’t let go of these doubts and fear.”

This time he rubbed the back of his neck, embarrassed. “That’s why I keep hanging out with all those girls.”

You raised your head in confusion, taking a better look at him.

“I thought if I loved you less, my nightmares would be kinder.”

The breath got caught in your throat. What is he – does he mean –

“But I couldn’t do that either,” He sighed, rubbing a hand on his face, clearly frustrated. “So I’ve decided. I’d rather go insane, let the nightmares do their worst because I am done pretending I don’t love you. I’m done avoiding you, I’m done pretending you aren’t the only light in my life. I’m done. And I love you.”

A fully grown crying Mandrake could drop from the sky and you don’t think you would’ve heard it over your own heart. You could barely comprehend anything but that his grip on your waist was so tight it was almost painful and that his pleading, terrified eyes was in the perfect angle that the late dying sun made it look like it was in a golden fire.

And that Sebastian Sallow … is in love with you. Just as madly as you were with him.

“I’m not forcing you into anything. I needed to let it out. If you want, I fully intend to formally court you until –”

“I love you.” You could no longer bear to put him in such misery. As long as you were alive, he would not question the adoration you’ve felt for him that just kept growing since the first day he had taken you to Hogsmeade. “I love you, Sebastian.”

Just for a moment there was quiet then he burst out laughing. “Thank you, darling." His body visibly shuddered as he sighed in relief, burying his face in your chest. "I’ve already planned to throw myself off the highest cliff in Hogwarts if this had gone south.”

You wrapped your hands around his neck, accepting the gentlest kisses on your neck. “Don’t say that. I plan to be your girlfriend for a very long time.”

His body shook from laughing, this time a kiss under your jaw, “Not that long I hope?”

You frowned, pulling away from him, though his unrelenting hold prevented much space to be in between the two of you. “What do you mean?”

“Well,” his thumbs rubbed circles on your thigh, now seemingly shy. “If all goes well, I had hoped to be engaged by the time we graduate. You won’t be just my girlfriend then.”

"You bastard," You gawked, laughing at his proclamation. The happiness was overflowing in your chest that you couldn’t help but just squeeze him into you hoping maybe that your souls would fuse with each other.  “You haven’t even kissed me yet and you’re already pre-proposing?”

He licked his lips, his sleepless eyes now full of vigor. “Ah, we gotta fix that, don’t we, pet?”

“We’re dating.”

Natty sighed in relief.

Poppy clapped.

Garreth passed Imelda a silver coin.

"Excuse me," Ominis muttered, standing up. “I'm gonna request a room change to the Headmaster.”

[lovebugism]

Virgin!Eddie thoughts?

THE CUSTOMER'S ALWAYS RIGHT | quid pro quo

summary: eddie muson is a virgin and doesn't want anyone to know (because being an adult who's never fucked anyone is a total reputation ruiner). but you, his favorite customer, are more than willing to change that. pairing: eddie munson / f!reader word count: 6.5k (holy shit this was supposed to be a blurb) warnings: talks of virginity and masturbation, the word "tit" too many times, a handjob (sorta?) 18+ mdni a/n: you asked for thoughts but i had way too many of them for a single post so i might turn this into a whole virgin!eddie series that will only see the light of day if you guys are into this so... no pressure <3

( MASTERLIST ) | ( NEXT )

You were Eddie’s favorite customer, though that went without saying. It was something both of you were more than aware of. Albeit it, it was a little strange, since he — the supplier of your weed — was essentially paying for your high. He doesn’t mind it, though. He never did. You made it up for him in other ways; and, no, it’s not as perverted as it sounds.

It’s actually much, much weirder.

It was your fourth time meeting with him but your first time without any money to give him in exchange. You’re all pink and fidgeting and feeling like a total loser as you shift on the hard wooden bench across from him.

Your gaze is tilted away from his and down at your hands where you twist the rings on your fingers — “I was supposed to get paid last Friday, but my boss is paying me weekly now instead of every two weeks, so he completely changed my payday on me, and he swears he told me about it, but he totally didn’t— anyway, that’s beside the point. I don’t have any money to give you, or like, at all. Genuinely. I’m gonna be lucky if I get to eat anything other than top ramen for the next few days.”

“Damn,” he laughs, not in amusement at your situation but rather pitying you for it. “That sucks—”

“That sounds like I’m guilt-tripping you, doesn’t it?” you keep rambling. “I’m really not. I’m just trying to be honest. I’m not, like, trying to do you over or anything. I swear. You probably don’t even care. You’re my drug dealer, not my friend, I wouldn't blame you if you didn't— I’m making a total fool out of myself, aren’t I?”

“No, not at all,” Eddie assures sincerely, the hint of a smile curling at the corner of his lips. That’s all he can muster. He feels like the fool right about now because your words sting a little harder than intended. 

He always considered you a friend. Or, at least, a whole lot more than just a client. You’re the only customer he has fun with, who he can laugh with, who doesn’t just hang around long enough for him to hand you your drugs like everyone else does, who actually cares enough to make conversation with him.  

Maybe that’s why he chose to give it to you for free that day. 

Because he’s started to grow fond of you (and because he genuinely believes that you’re in a bad way and that money’s a little too tight for you right now. He knows all too well what that’s like.) 

But he asks you for a favor in return when you take the plastic baggie from him. It has him blushing with embarrassment like you’d been just minutes before. He can’t meet your gaze as he says the words, but he can feel the incredulous beam of it piercing holes into him.

“You, Eddie Munson, are willing to give me weed, for free, as long as I… help you pass your next English exam?”

You weren’t repeating it to mock him or to make him feel bad for being a third-year senior. You’re just actually shocked because you know a thing or two about the Munson’s. You know that his Uncle is working two jobs, and his nephew has resorted to drug dealing to compensate for their being strapped for cash. You also know that suppliers giving out anything for free is bad for business, so it’s essentially unheard of. 

And aside from all that, Eddie wanting to study — to want to try to be good at something rather than just winging it and hoping for the best — was almost as surprising as him wanting you to be the one to help him. You literally have Gareth, his best friend, in your English class, and he’s way better at it than you are.

You try to find what makes you somehow special but come up short.

“Is that, like, really weird?” he wonders meekly, scrunching his nose and peering at you through his lashes. His eyes are the color of chocolate syrup, you notice then. Like, exactly. And they have a sort of sheen to them beneath the sun, like he's trapped a star inside of them.

“Yes,” you answer with a laugh that's as light as air. “Considering you could’ve offered literally anything else. Like, I don’t know— groping my tits or something.”

It’s what you were half-expecting. Not because you thought Eddie was that kind of guy, but because that’s how it often went down, at least in porn. A busty (broke) blonde orders a pizza, a man with an enormous dick delivers it… It’s a tale as old as time, really.

Your words make him tense for the second time in five minutes. 

He almost wants to be offended that you’d think of him that way, but his yearning far overpowers his wounded ego.

He’s got a soft heart. That offer never would’ve crossed his mind, and even if it did, he’d never be stupid enough to say it out loud. But he didn’t realize how much he liked you until right then. It wasn’t just a friend caring for another friend, but a boy with a crush on a girl eons out of his league (with boobs he would happily touch if she’d let him).

He clears his throat and irrationally prays that you aren’t a mind reader.

“I’m down if you are,” he answers with a playful lilt to his voice that makes you giggle again. He’s happy to hear it. Your laugh is like being basked in sunshine. He wants to keep it in his pocket when he gets lost in the shade. 

That’s the moment that started it all — the strange friendship that formed out of practically nothing. Who knew what being poor, free weed, an historically low GPA, and a missed opportunity for tit-groping could do to two people?

From then on, all your weed was free. As long as you broke down all the themes in Of Mice and Men for him, of course. And then, when he ultimately aced that paper, he wanted to run his D&D campaign by you — “So, you know, it isn’t totally lame when I show it to the rest of Hellfire.”

“Of course, it’s gonna be lame,” you deadpan from across the rotting bench. “It’s Dungeons and Dragons.”

He goes red at that, a flash of pink blotched around his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. He glows cherry with embarrassment and smiles faintly as he looks down at his hand, fidgeting with his silver skull ring. It’s cute. Too cute. The kind of cute that makes you grin to yourself without even thinking about it.

“I’m kidding, Eds—”

Eds. That was new, the boy remarks to himself. Not the nickname itself, perhaps, but the fact that you were the one calling him by it. You’re getting more comfortable with him. He likes that. It gives him a false hope; that one day he’ll be a friend to you and not just your dealer.

“—It sounds really fun actually,” you assure him with nod and a twinkling gaze that proves you sincere. “As long as you’ll smoke with me during.”

“I don’t really like to use my own product…” That was a lie. Mostly. He didn’t like to smoke his own stuff because that burned a hole into his profits. But that didn’t mean he didn’t do it. It was far too tempting to have a tin full of so much weed never more than just a few inches away.

Now he’s got a pretty girl in front of him, wanting to smoke with him, wanting to spend time with him. Hell’s freezing over as they speak and that certainly calls for a celebratory smoke session.

A smirk pulls at his pink lips and he tilts his head, bringing his ear to his shoulder, as he looks at you with a glimmering umber gaze.

“But I’m willing to make an exception. Just for you.”

Eddie swears you blush at that, but he catches only the shortest glimpse of your crimson cheeks before you duck your gaze to the table. The beam on your face is only half-washed away, however, when you turn up to look at him again. You look shy, almost, as you peer at him through your lashes.

“You’ll basically have to start from scratch too, you know that, right? I don’t know anything about that shit.”

“Well, I’m glad I can be your first,” he quips.

You laugh again. It’s like the pinky-orange of a sunset. He could paint it if he had the right supplies. And a set of hands that were good for things other than rolling die and playing guitar.

It was his first time, really. In every aspect of the phrase.

It was the first time a girl’s ever offered to hang out with him and not the other way around. The first time a customer’s ever offered to share their weed with him. The first time someone’s ever wanted him to explain his favorite hobby and not care that he’s been rambling for the better part of an hour. 

He doesn’t even notice that he hasn’t shut up since he started talking, mostly because you aren’t giving him that look of annoyance people usually have when he hasn’t gotten the hint. Most couldn’t care less about goblins and villains and battles and knights and princesses — princess knights.

It’s more interesting than you ever hoped a board game could be, but less so as enchanting as the glow Eddie’s got about him as he rambles on and on about something that makes him so happy.

He’s beaming and he doesn’t even realize it. He has no idea he could light up an entire solar system with the smile on his face. You’d tell him if it didn’t feel totally inappropriate.

It takes two weeks to perfect the campaign, which isn’t at all long if you compare it to the year it took him to build it from scratch. When the Cult of Vecna (you pat yourself on the back for coming up with the name) is polished and Hellfire worthy, Eddie starts giving you weed... just because.

There’s nothing left for him to offer in exchange. And he isn’t going to turn his favorite customer down for anything.

“What? No tutoring? No D&D campaign?” you wonder with furrowed brows and a face contorted in confusion.

Eddie shrugs and swings the baggie full of greenery back and forth with the tip of his pointed finger. “Nope. I’m passing English and the campaign’s all finished — the guys love it, by the way. Thanks to you. You’ve helped me out with enough shit, so… just take it.”

“Well, now I just feel bad,” you reject with a scrunched nose, displeased at the idea of taking something and not doing anything for it in return. He can hardly afford it to begin with, much less without anything in exchange. “You're basically paying for my weed already. I can’t just take it.”

“You could,” the boy lilts with a sardonic nod. “My hand's getting a little tired here, sweetheart.”

You huff and reach across the bench for the plastic baggie. Your face is still twisted with an absentminded annoyance and your gaze still uncertain. “You sure it’s okay?”

“Yeah. Cross my heart.”

“Fine.”

“Unless groping your tits is still on the table, of course,” he squints playfully over at you and then smiles softly at the recollection of the conversation from many moons ago.

It was supposed to be a joke. But you’re not laughing.

And when you nod at him, he isn’t either.

It’s got him nearly choking on air and sputtering for a response. “No, I was— I was just— It was a joke. I was just kidding.”

“I know. But, I don’t know, I’m down if you are,” you shrug. “That’s what you said before, right?”

And Eddie has no idea what to say to that. Of course, he wants to. There are a billion things he wants to do. He wants to graduate, he wants to play a show at the Madison Square Garden with Corroded Coffin, he wants to bend you over this table and fuck you silly.

He could do all those things if he were a different person, but he wasn’t. He’s just some guy who can’t pass an English class he's already taken three times, with a mediocre band that plays in front of about five drunks (if they’re lucky), who has a crush on a girl who’s offering to let him feel her up for a short-lived high. 

He repeats that last part to himself in his head a couple times. It sounds like a dream he had once. He pinches the skin of his wrist, just to make sure, and winces when it starts to hurt.

It’s real, you’re real, and that’s the scariest part. 

Because he’s never actually seen boobs that weren’t projected from a television screen through the grainy film of a VHS tape, or pictured in a crinkled magazine he stole from a gas station — let alone touched one. And the second he puts his hands on you, and you feel him shaking like a leaf and totally unsure of what to do, you’ll know that. 

That is, if he doesn’t come in his pants first.

He’s terrified that when you do realize that he’s a complete and utter, absolute and proper virgin, you’ll think he’s significantly less cool. And he can’t have that.

It’s bad for clientele. They’ll stop seeing him as the mysterious metalhead from the wrong side of the tracks but rather as some teddy bear who’s never actually been inside a woman.

He could probably handle the potential drop in income and the talks around school. Hell, he could even handle all the shit Jason Carver would spew at him if he knew. But the idea that you’ll stop wanting to hang out with him — he isn’t sure if he could take that.

He doesn’t notice that he hasn’t said a word until you’re speaking again. And even then, it’s all muffled like he’s underwater. 

“I can come over tonight, if you want.”

No, he thinks to himself. That’s far too early. I have to lose my virginity and learn everything there is to possibly know about sex first.

“I... I can’t. Hellfire,” he answers, almost slurring, still caught in a stupor.

“Tomorrow, then,” you challenge at his rejection. You cross your arms and lean over the table as you squint at him. The wind rustling through the trees carries the warmth of your floral-vanilla scent over to him, like a lullaby, or a magic spell.

As though he needed something else to make him all stupid.

Suddenly you're ten feet tall. Eddie feels like an ant. You could crush him if you wanted. You have all the power and the look you give him tells him that you know that. He fidgets on the hard wooden seat but can’t seem to break your stare. His voice is tight and a few octaves higher as he answers — “Yeah. Tomorrow sounds good. Great, even.”

“Cool,” you’re suddenly beaming. You stand from the bench and saunter off, tossing a look and a wave over your shoulder as you shout, “See you tomorrow, Eds!”

He has to jerk off after that one. He counts himself lucky that he made it to his van before he exploded completely.

Eddie has to become a sex god in twenty-four hours and he doesn’t know where to start. 

So, like any master procrastinator, he doesn’t. He just worries about it all night and the following day. He turns himself into a big ball of anxiety (if you touched him, he'd probably shock you) and it’s left him in the sort of worry that doesn’t let him sit still for too long.

Wayne’s sitting in his recliner, trying to eat his late lunch before he heads off to work the graveyard shift. It’s hard to enjoy his sandwich or the latest episode of Miami Vice playing on the television ahead of him when his nephew keeps bouncing in and out of the room. Making brief conversation, rearranging the knickknacks on the coffee table, coming in just to stand in place for a few minutes before leaving again to rustle in other parts of the small trailer. 

At one point, he comes in with the fucking vacuum and nudges at the man’s work boots until he kicks his feet up. Wayne’s never seen him do a chore in his life.

“What the hell has gotten into you today, boy?” the man complains through turkey, cheese, and bread.

“Nothing. What are you talking about? I’m perfectly normal.”

He’s never been normal a day in his life either.

Eddie disappears out of the room a second later with the whirring of the vacuum in tow. Wayne shakes his head to himself. “Boy’s gonna be the death of me,” he mumbles and takes another too large bite.

It’s unlike Eddie not to tell his uncle things, especially things weighing so heavy on his chest that they're starting to feel like pure steel. But his uncle doesn’t ask any questions, and Eddie’s grateful.

How the hell is he supposed to tell Wayne that a cute girl is coming over and that he’s jacked off three times at the thought of her?

Once in his bed, the first thing he did that day when he woke up from a dream about you that felt a little too real; the second in the shower when the cold water wouldn’t kill the boner he’d gotten; and the third in his bedroom, in the shirt he’d peeled off hardly ten minutes beforehand when he got into a bath. It made him feel dirty again though his skin was perfectly clean.

Wayne would think he was joking. At least with the “cute girl” part. He’d probably pat him on the back for the second one — “oh, to be young again,” he'd mumble to himself while simultaneously deciding to leave well enough alone.

Eddie’s so nervous he doesn’t know what to do with himself. 

You’ve got him practicing what to do in the mirror, trying to plan the conversation, ironing out the wrinkles of what might happen. “Hi—” he starts but then shakes his head and clears his throat. His voice is deeper as he continues, “Hey, how are you doing? Oh, that’s cool, I’m good too— shit, this is so fucking lame.”

He wonders how you’ll go about it. If you’ll offer first, or if he needs to ask. If you’ll make small talk or if you’ll just straight up take off your shirt. He’d take either, honestly.

He jerks off one more time, just for good measure, after Wayne’s left for work. He’s already tired and his dick is practically raw with how much it’s been tugged at, but he hopes it’ll stop him from getting hard the second you walk through the door. And he figures with the amount he’s come that day, he’s a whole less likely to do it in his pants when he touches you.

You knock on the door at 7 o’clock sharp, like you planned it down to the minute.

He straightens out his leather jacket when he stands abruptly from the couch. He rushes to the door and then hesitates with his hand on the rusted brass handle — because he doesn’t want to seem too eager, right? 

He leans to the side to look in the dirty glass mirror hanging by the coat rack, brushing through his curly locks in attempts to tame them. Then he shakes his head so they’re wild again.

He finds you standing on his porch in a tight-black sweater that dips down at your chest; the pendant of your necklace sparkles under the yellow nightlight perched on the outside wall. It’s paired with a white nylon skirt that stops at your thigh.

He’s only seen girls on TV in the suede boots you’re wearing — the kind that’s tight up to your ankle with a short and chunky heel. They match the color of your skirt. He wonders if they were expensive and how much you’ve worn them; they look brand new, like you’ve brought them down from the top of your closet just for him.

You’ve got a stack of thick tapes in one hand and a brown paper bag of snacks in the other.

“What… What’s all this?” he wonders, not displeased at your effort but shocked by it nonetheless.

“Thought we could have a movie night,” you shrug then slide by him and into the trailer. He shuts the door behind you and watches from afar as you set the sack down. It’s not quite flat on the bottom so it topples over and spills some of its content onto the coffee table — red hot chips and sour gummy worms.

“You mentioned that you’d never seen Fast Times a couple weeks ago, so I decided to go rent a copy at Family Video, right? And then I started talking to Robin and she started showing me all the new movies that just came in, so I got a little carried away—”

You're rambling, he notices, almost like you’re nervous.

It makes him feel slightly better, knowing this obviously wasn’t your first time hanging out with a guy (or being touched by one, if he ever got to that part), but that you were nervous nonetheless. Like you wanted this — whatever this was — to go well just as much as he did.

Eddie puts the tape into the VHS player when you’re headed back from the kitchen with a bowl of popcorn in hand. You sit it on the table before plopping yourself in the middle of the couch — the boy across the living room has no idea you spent the two-and-a-half minutes it took to cook the snack debating on where to sit.

You feared sitting too far on one side might spook him from sitting next to you, that he’d think you didn’t want to sit next to him. So you place yourself snuggly in the middle of the decade-old sofa and hope you don’t seem too eager.

Your heart sinks to your ass when Eddie sits so far on the edge he’s practically sitting on the arm of it.

You muster a smile and try to make a joke of it. “I don’t have cooties or anything, Eds.”

“Promise?” he lilts. The way his voice shakes is purely for comedic effect. Obviously.

“Cross my heart.”

He hopes that by playing it off, you won’t notice how anxious he is about sitting next to you. But when he plants himself beside you, just close enough so that the rough fabric of his jeans scratches your knee every time he fidgets, it’s a little like sitting next to a rock. You spend the first half of the movie wondering if he’s nervous too or if he really just didn’t want to sit this close to you.

The film keeps playing and he keeps snacking — eating chips and Oreos and popcorn in a rotation before combining all three and marveling at the taste; “You’ve got to try this!” he exclaims to you with raised brows and wide eyes. He eventually forgets to be nervous.

That is, until Fast Times hits 53 minutes and 5 seconds.

The smooth bass of Moving in Stereo plays lowly in the background as Phoebe Cates rises from the pool water, clad in a small red bikini. The chlorine-laced drops of water glisten off of her tanned skin. “Hi, Brad. You know how cute I always thought you were,” you quote quietly along with her.

Your eyes are as glued to the television as Eddie’s when she starts to unlatch her top, like it’s the first time you’re seeing it too. You joked to Robin once that you couldn't wait until they made this movie in 3D.

Eddie gets hard as a rock, then. In every sense of the phrase.

“She’s hot, right?” you ask him.

“Yeah,” he answers. He clears his throat when the word comes out too tight. “Totally.”

“That’s how I knew Robin was gay, you know? We watched this when I slept over at her house one time and I woke up in the middle of the night and found her playing this scene over and over again,” you confess with a laugh and hope your best friend won’t be too angry you told him this. “She was sitting, like, two inches away from the screen.”

“Really?”

“Mhm. And when we made out afterward, that really sealed the deal—”

“Holy shit—” he sputters before he can stop it. “—Are you joking?”

Please, say yes before I come in my jeans, he thinks to himself.

“Why?” you challenge, shooting him an arched brow over your shoulder. “Does that change anything?”

“What? No! Of— Of course not!” It just makes you, like, ten times fucking hotter, that’s all.

“Good,” you nod and then turn back to the television. You move on quickly, and Eddie’s grateful. You keep telling the story like it’s one you tell all your friends.

“I asked her why she was watching it without me, and she said she got bored, but I already knew why she was watching it, you know? I guess I just wanted to hear her say it. So I just came out with it — ‘If you want to look at a pair of tits, I’m literally right here.’”

Eddie’s so entranced by your words it’s like you're telling him a bedtime story. He’s looking at you so intently, his gaze locked to your profile like he’s trying to commit it to memory. And when you finally turn to look at him again, he can’t seem to turn away, to even pretend like he wasn’t just hopelessly staring at you.

“So, then it became this whole thing, right? Like, I’ll show mine if you show yours. And then she got all awkward and nervous and lost in her head, kinda like you right now, and then I leaned in…” you trail off quietly, doing it in time as the words leave your mouth. So teasingly and breathtakingly slow. Eddie finds himself drifting closer to you, too, like a bayman to a siren’s call. “Just like this… And then I—”

You don’t have a chance to finish your sentence.

Eddie’s already kissing you before he realizes what he’s doing. Your noses knock together, the tip of his crushed against the side of yours. The sweet flavor of your strawberry chapstick evades his mouth when your lips press together.

He’s as shocked as you are.

He’s wanted to kiss many pretty girls in his life, but this was the first time he's actually ever done it.

You feel his face burn red against you when he realizes what he’s just done. He tries to pull away from you, but you keep him there with a hand on the back of his head; deepening the kiss and telling him that you want this — that you’ve always wanted this — without actually saying the words.

Refusing to separate from him, you maneuver yourself to face him more as press yourself against his side and tuck your knees beneath you. You caress the rough pad of his tongue with yours all the while, one hand balled in the shoulder of his t-shirt and the other anchoring itself to his curls.

You wait patiently for him to take action. To grip your waist. To lay you back on the couch. To climb over you and take what’s his.

He never does.

He hardly even touches you. He’s got one palm on your hip, but it’s so featherlight that it’s barely even there. His other hand is clutching the pillow on his lap with a white-knuckled grip, like he’s fighting to contain himself in some way. But you want him to let go. To lose himself with you.

The cushion had been there for most of the movie, something to keep in his absentminded hold and get crumbs all over. You wonder, now, if it’s a shield for something else.

Your lips click wetly when you part from him. A small smile forms on your mouth when you notice a string of spit threatening to connect the both of you. It breaks apart, landing cold below your mouth, and you wipe it away with the back of your hand.

“Are you hard?”’ you wonder through bated breaths, coming right and just saying it.

Eddie’s eyes go somehow wider and his mouth falls agape. “Uh… No?”

Giggling, you ask, “Is that a question?”

“Maybe.”

“So what’s the answer?” you pry.

“Honestly?” he starts with a heavy breath and heavier eyes, still trying to joke. “Whatever makes me sound super cool and mysterious and sexy.”

“I’ve always thought you were all those things,” you confess with a soft laugh, twisting a strand of his hair with the tip of your finger.

“…Really?” he can’t help but wonder. Those words are about the most shocking thing that’s happened so far this evening.

“Yeah,” you nod, then tease: “Because you've never lied to me.”

So tell me the truth, he can hear the words jumbling around in your head. So does. He swallows thickly and then admits, voice cracking halfway through his confession, “I’m so hard that it fucking hurts, sweetheart.”

You’re smiling like the Chesire Cat at that, big and sly and mischievous. You have all the power and you know it.

“Can I make you feel better?” you whisper to him, lilting like you're taunting him. You mean it, though, and he knows that because you’re already tugging at the pillow in his lap. You don’t fight to snatch it away completely. You leave just enough room to allow him to say no. But his grip on the thing relaxes and allows you to slide the cushion slowly from his crotch.

He can’t say the words because his tongue is suddenly heavy in his mouth and his throat is closing on him. So he just nods, peering at you with eyes hooded with ecstasy.

You go back to kissing him, then, unhurriedly this time. You allow yourself to feel all of him, to hold his face in your hands and explore all the bits of him you never got the chance to before now. You do it more so in an effort to get him to relax, to forget to be nervous, but it only half-works.

He gets more comfortable with himself with time. The hand on your waist finds a more confident purchase there and the other climbs up to your face, cradling your jaw while his ringed fingers get lost in the strands of your hair. Then he starts to kiss you back harder, more earnestly than before, like he’s trying to prove something. Trying to tell you everything like this than with words he can’t seem to say out loud.

He forgets to be nervous again when your lips fit together like pieces of a puzzle — the kind with the funky edges, the kind you know goes together because there’s only two in the whole bunch like it. He stops worrying if he’s doing it right.

His breath is warm and heavy as it fans against your cupid’s bow. He’d rather take in small pieces of oxygen like this than stop kissing you now. You feel the same way as you straddle his thigh, careful not to move with too much haste that it knocks your lips apart.

Eddie’s legs part for you on instinct. When you settle more comfortably against him, he can feel the warmth radiating between your thighs through the thick fabric of his jeans. He wishes he was naked right now, more so that you were, so he can feel all of you, bare against his skin.

But he takes what he can get for now. And tries not to burst completely at the thought that the only thing separating you from him was the thin layer of your cotton underwear.

It’s hard not to think about your own pleasure like this. You could so easily move your hips against his thigh, let the rugged fabric of his jeans and your panties do all the work against your clit and bring you to a swift release. You want to. You’re sure Eddie would want you to if you asked him. But it strangely seems less important now.

Because you know you’re minutes away from making Eddie come so hard his legs shake. And you always wanted to know what he looked like when he came.

Your hand worms out of his hair and down his neck. Your fingernails trail lightly over his skin, leaving visible chill bumps in their wake. Your palm falls down his chest and stomach, smooth like drops of summer rain. The print of his Def Leppard tee is rough and cracked with age. You wonder how long he’s had it, how often he’s worn it, as your hand settles again. This time on his belt.

For a split second, he’s anxious about you seeing his dick. What if you think it’s too small? He thinks to himself. What if you think it’s too ugly? But then he realizes you’re not even trying to take off his jeans. You just rest your palm over the rough material of the denim and grip him through it.

A groan crawls up his throat and out of his mouth. His head falls backward and lands against the back of the couch.

He’s bigger than you thought, and warm against the tender skin of your hand, even through his boxers and his pants. It’d be ever warmer if you were feeling the real thing, you discern, but you figure you’ll save that for another time. Because even though it’s not the real thing and there are so many layers separating your fingers from his cock, Eddie’s letting out small and breathy moans that tell you that you’re touching him just right. The more you squeeze, the louder he gets.

“Is this okay?” you whisper to him.

“Are you kidding?” he retorts with a breathless laugh. “I feel like I’m in heaven right now.”

“Just wait until you come,” you giggle. It makes him moan again. His eyes fall shut because he knows he’s moments away from feeling what it’s like — not to come, obviously, but for it to be from your hand and not his. 

You massage him through his jeans, feeling him grow somehow harder with each caress of your fingers. Peering down at him, you can see his jaw clenching, the way it moves his temples, and the muscles in his neck straining as he climbs the peak of pleasure.

“If you think this feels good now, just wait until you're inside me,” you purr to him.

“Oh, fuck,” he drawls shakily at your words. He doesn’t know if you’re being serious or not. He wants so much to believe that it’s a promise, though. The idea that he could unbuckle his belt right now, free his cock from its restraints and slip your panties to the side and take you, just like this, with you on top of him and riding him for all he’s worth, that nearly does him in.

But he’s fighting to keep it at bay. To let this moment last as long as he can. Because it’s entirely likely that he’ll come and you’ll never want to do this again. It’s even more likely that he’ll wake up from this way too vivid fantasy he’s concocted in his brain. How good can dreams get until they’re nightmares again?

The hand on your hip darts to wrap around your wrist.

“What’s wrong?” you ask him, gaze sober and sincere.

Eddie breathes out a tremble sigh of relief when you slow your motions against him. “I just…” he breathes heavily. And swallows. “I really don’t want to come in my jeans.”

You’re smiling again at that, pleased at how good you're making him feel. Like the pleasure is foreign to him. He can feel your grin as you lean down to kiss him. It’s a chaste peck, like you're just sprinkling yourself there so it can linger the rest of the night. 

Your kiss is far more fervent against his neck, wetter and more passionate. His skin has a faint taste of salt, like he’d been sweating. And he was, for the entire day that he anticipated your arrival, though there was never an ounce of him expecting this. You bite at the strained tendon and marvel as he shudders beneath you.

“It’s okay,” you leave your promise against his skin. “I’ll wash them for you after. Like a good little housewife—”

It was a joke and he knows it because you’re laughing at the absurdity of your words, at the reality of them. You’re probably the only person in the world giving your drug dealer a handjob for free weed and then offering to wash his damp bottoms when he comes in them — calling yourself his fucking housewife. But, for a reason he can’t explain, that’s what gets him.

Not marrying you, perhaps, but the idea that he could have this feeling forever. That you could bring him to complete and utter, blinding bliss and then take care of him while he comes back to earth. 

You give him an especially tough squeeze that sends a moan spilling roughly from his throat. His hips jerk up to their own according, his thigh jamming into your clothed pussy — he swears he hears you moan — and his toes curl in his boots.

He doesn’t let go of your hand as he comes. He grasps your wrist and presses you further against him. His grip is almost too tight but you don’t mind it, not when you can feel the denim growing damp with the evidence of his orgasm.

Eddie doesn’t feel anything for a while after that. It’s just pure pleasure for several long moments. The fuzziness of his climax, your hand pressed against him, your warmth still pressed against his thigh.

But then the high fades away like a rolling summer cloud and he starts to feel the wet patch forming in his clothes. The fabric of his thin boxer starts to stick to him and he almost feels gross, like he’s a teenager again who can’t so much as look at a woman with needing to come.

But then he sees the way you look at him, grinning like a cat who got the cream — because, in some ways, you are. You look like you're proud of him. Like you’re secretly wondering how many times you can do that before it’s too much. He wants to find out too.

You plant another kiss to his lips. Just because you can.

“Take your pants off, Munson,” you mumble against his mouth, kissing him one more time for good measure before pulling away again.

“Oh— shit— wait, really?” he sputters. “I thought you were joking about— about me being… I— I don’t know if I have any condoms.”

He totally does, in an unopened box under his bed, collecting dust. 

You don’t need to know that, though.

“I meant for washing them so you can change,” you laugh at his embarrassment. The sound somehow makes him feel better even though you’re slightly making fun of him. You shrug and arch a brow at him, lilting, “But… I’m down if you are.”

have any more virgin!eddie thoughts? or just thoughts about my writing/requests in general? leave them here if you want! ꒰◍ᐡᐤᐡ◍꒱

[lovezbrownies]

I will literally run over my dog (no I won’t I love her too much) for some more Lauren writing.

I NEED IT!!!!! 😭😭

-poopyhead🤪

Confessions after aggressions (Yan!Bully x GN!Reader.)

Hello dear poopyhead! hope you enjoy :3 this fic is almost 2.3k words! Sorry it took me a week to get this out! Blew my money on legos and I can only write when I have a drink in hand ;;

Masterlist

Synopsis: What happens when your lifetime bully who is madly in love with you catches someone trying to hit on you?

Bully Lauren McCanister x GN!Reader

WARNINGS: Bullying, verbal harassment, darling being hit on by a third party, threats, physical fight kinda!, darling's scared of Lauren, Lauren goes off, Lauren kisses darling without consent smh Lauren, fuck used a lot, degrading words against women used by Lauren, again smh Lauren, mildly cute at the end, No use of y/n

“Hey, if you don’t come to my game today I’ll make sure you regret it, and wear this. And you better fucking wear it. Either wear it once today or I’ll force it on you this entire month. Fucking weirdo.”

And that’s how you found yourself in this situation, out in the cold night, wearing your bully's jersey jacket she insists you wear, and watching that same bully carry her team to a win. It’s been going on for a while, you don’t know what the rules of football are, and you’ve never really been into many sports. Sure maybe you’ve watched a few games or liked a certain team but you never truly got into it, and you don’t think you ever will.

Lauren reserved you a seat at the very front of the school’s stadium, next to the team’s benches or whatever they call them. So whenever there’s a pause to the game Lauren can easily go up to the benches, rest, and talk with you. More like constantly begging you for praise.

“Look at that, the loser came, what did you think? Obviously, you thought I was cool, right? Well, that’s a no-brainer, you don’t know anything about football so you’d think anything I did was cool. Oh, you’re such a fucking freak! You want me so bad it makes you look stupid! You were staring at me sweating and heaving the entire time right you, weirdo?”

It’s always the same, she’s been participating in more sports lately since it’s her senior year but it was torture to attend every game of hers so she doesn’t give you hell later on. Lauren’s games never ceased to bore you, constantly watching her carry her team to a win every single damn game gets tiring fast. And if you dare look away to entertain yourself Lauren will purposefully fumble the game just so she can confront you for not paying attention to her faster. 

So when Lauren finally had the chance to take a break and take a sip from her water bottle you told her you’d be going to the bathroom, and her one response was “Don’t take too long.” Thank heavens. You couldn’t hold it anymore, and again if you left without telling her she would leave the field herself and chase after you, her team either winning by an inch or losing wholeheartedly.

Along the way, you saw many people skirt away from the stadium's seats to get food, and beverages, or to go to the bathroom. It was half-time, or whatever they call their little break, after all. You felt someone watch you as you walked to the bathrooms, but every time you looked around there wasn’t a single person looking in your direction, though your guts told you not to, you brushed it off and continued heading towards the gender-neutral bathroom the school’s stadium has. They mostly made it to save costs on individual bathrooms for specific genders.

You finished with your business in the stall, the moment you stepped out of said stall however a tall woman wearing the rival school’s merch stood right in front of you, blocking the way and effectively stopping you from moving anywhere.

You look up at the woman, she looks about your age with brown hair and eyes, nothing of note in her appearance. She looked down at you, smirking as if she were an almighty god. You raise a brow, trying to seem as uninterested as possible, to avoid giving her the wrong idea, “Can I help you?” Somehow the woman’s cocky smirk only widened as she reached a hand out to you, going out to grab your face.

“Was watchin’ ya earlier, wanted to ask if you’re singl-” Just as her hand grazed your chin you harshly slapped it away, grabbing a few people’s attention but no one wanted to anger the tall brunette. Yet the woman seemed to take your slap as an invitation, moving even closer almost pushing you back into the stall. And move back you did, trapping you with the woman in the cramped stall, with your legs pressing harshly onto the toilet seat and the woman’s arms reaching out to the stall’s walls.

She smiled so wide it resembled a horror character, her eyes filled with lust, the woman leaned down towards you, she was drunk you could tell from the overwhelming smell of her breath, “Hey! Back off! Get the fuck away from me!” You pushed and pushed as much as you could but that only enticed her, “Nah, need a cutie like you to hang off ma arm~” 

Just then the smell of alcohol and sweat disappeared and a loud crash was heard, “YOU GOT A DEATH WISH FRESHMAN?!?!” Is that Lauren? Oh, that definitely is Lauren, You peek out the stall to find the woman lying on the floor, looking up at Lauren, face full of fear, “Who the fuck are yo-” The lady couldn’t even finish her sentence as Lauren grabbed her by the hair, easily lifting the woman off the floor just by pulling at the hair of her scalp.

You couldn’t predict what had happened then, you heard Lauren threaten the woman, cussing her out in the most colorful ways with a low voice, “I’m going to fucking end your life, you fucking dickwad. You are nothing but a pile of shit compared to my baby, you don’t touch my sweetheart and think you can get away with it, fucking slut! You will pay for what you did. Keep one eye open when you’re sleeping, you dirty whore!” And much more that you missed. Lauren looked beyond angry, she looked like a feral rabid dog.

It was completely horrifying to witness the unbridled rage of Lauren McCanister. Your entire life you thought you’d been the only one to be relentlessly bullied by her, the only one who truly witnessed how insane she can get. But you were entirely incorrect, watching how tight Lauren’s grip is with the woman’s hair, how she yelled and spit on the woman, how she harshly pushed the woman against the floor, a loud crack came from the woman’s head making you cringe from how painful it sounded.

Lauren shifted her head towards you, staring at you like she was a predator in a horror movie before swiftly moving to you, taking two long strides to finally reach you, grabbing your hand she growled, “Good fucking thing you’re smart enough not to accept her shit. Else I’d make sure you never think of another woman ever again. Let’s get out of here, this place is full of morons anyway.” Lauren, with no regard to your own personal wishes, proceeded to pull you out of the bathrooms, people stared at the both of you as she led you to the underground car park.

You could barely breathe, fearful of what the monster would do to you. Will she hurt you? Are you done for? Should you quickly send a text to everyone you love? Was all that studying in vain? Are you already dead? Your thoughts were interrupted by the feeling of a cushy seat beneath you, the sound of a car door slamming, and then the roar of a car engine. Snapping out of your daydreams you look to the side, at Lauren. She still looked furious, though calmer than before. She was still muttering under her breath, her hands gripped at the steering wheel so hard her knuckles were entirely white.

“...ng loser, fucking idiot, fucking whore… Going after what’s mine? I’ll show her… my poor baby…” McCanister wouldn’t stop muttering, and you couldn’t stop shaking, she then drove the car off, you have no clue where you’re going. Maybe she’s already dug up your grave? Today really is your last day as a living person, maybe you can haunt this asshole in the afterlife? If there is one at least. It hit you that she will make sure you'll be in pain when she does kill you, there is no quick and painless with Lauren, only slow and torturous.

Suddenly you flinch at the hand that had grabbed your thigh, damn near screaming out in fear, “The fuck are you shivering for? Did that hillbilly bitch scare you that bad? God damn, I’m going to kill her for doing all that to you, my angel…” Angel? What the hell is up with her today? First she ‘defends’ you from that woman, and now that you think of it, all she’s been calling you so far are very affectionate pet names. Sure, she’s called you these types of nicknames before but in a more degrading form, hearing it now… It felt much more intimate than before.

You stare at her from the corner of your eyes, not daring to move a single muscle, hoping she somehow forgets your existence if you don’t move. Lauren had calmed down quite a bit now, it’s been a while on the road and you still had no idea where she was taking you, the roads were unfamiliar to you and even if you wanted to you couldn’t tell which road you’d know due to the fear overcoming your body. You decided to look down for the rest of the ride to not incur her wrath anymore.

It then clicks. The game’s still not over, they’re still playing, and the team’s golden ticket was driving a car to your grave. Lauren was still wearing her uniform and all, her headgear haphazardly thrown to the back of her expensive car, she even still has her team’s colors painted on her face. You don’t know the consequences of her bailing on the game, but you know she’ll be able to get out of it one way or another. Either by bringing her mom up or by bribing the coach into forgiving her. But all in all Lauren seemed more upset about what happened in the bathroom than her bailing on her game.

“Hey. Come on, stop daydreaming and get out.” Lauren’s voice was rough after she screamed at that woman. Turning towards the driver’s seat you didn’t see her there, the hell? Where did she go? Wait was it all a drea- “Over here, moron, god you’re so stupid. Or is it because that bitch rattled you to stupidity? Don’t worry, I’ll gut her soon.” Lauren said again, but this time you could tell she was speaking from your side, you looked over to find the door to the passenger’s seat was open and Lauren stood firm, her arms crossed and her face unreadable. Lauren reached a hand out to you, “Come on.” She said.

You didn’t want to grab her hand, who knows what she’d do to you if you did, so you tried to leave the car without her help, but before you could even put one foot out the door, Lauren pushed you back down, “Take my hand.” And you did, although hesitantly. Lauren, like some gentleman, pulled you up, helping you out of her ridiculously expensive car. You heard her mutter something for what felt like the 50th time this night, “God... still shivering.. to kill that freak…” Why in god’s name do you only manage to hear her murder plots when she mutters.

You look at the house Lauren parked at, it had the normal suburban house structure but was surrounded by much richer, fancier houses. Was it Lauren’s house? Knowing Lauren you’d thought she’d have a bigger, grander, fancier house. Your thoughts and speculations didn’t have to go on for long since Lauren spoke up as if she’d heard your every thought. “This is my house, from now on you’re going to come over every weekend, got it?” You turned to her, face full of disbelief. That ridiculous sentence completely woke you up from your fear, is she kidding? As if you’d spend two days and two nights trapped in her house, with satan and its spawn.

It all felt like a joke really, none of it felt real, so you laughed like anyone in this situation would. “Y-you’re kidding, right? You hate me! I hate you! We shouldn’t even be near each other for an hour, no less two days!”And you kept laughing, damn near falling to the floor from how stupid this situation is. A slow chuckle came out of the lady in front of you, looking back up at her you wiped away the fake tears, but oh how fast your smile fell. Lauren wasn’t chuckling because she realized how ridiculous she was being, she chuckled to get your attention. She looked beyond pissed, as if she’d strangle you if she so wished.

Lauren walked closer to you and you walked back until your back unfortunately met with the car behind you. Lauren placed one hand on your hip, and the other took hold of your chin, “H-Hey I-I was j-just kiddi-” You were silenced. Lauren crashed her lips into yours before you could utter another word. Shock filled every part of your body, you were frozen still. Unable to react to this sudden change of events, one moment she was openly threatening death on one person, and the next she’s passionately kissing the person she’s been relentlessly bullying. The strangest part is you could see her blushing, her eyes squeezed shut, while yours were still wide open.

Just as you were about to pull away she beat you to it, she was looking down at you all flustered, face so red it made a mockery of tomatoes, and her face paint was smudged. “You better know what this means. You’re mine from now on, you will be mine until we both die. I-I’ve never lov… Fuck, whatever let’s get in the house a-and makeout or something…” 

The rest of the night was fuzzy, but all you know for sure is that Lauren never let you leave her side.

[buglism]

Any chance we can get a sfw alphabet for Vere from Touchstarved?

(I like to put characters who probably aren't familiar too with non-sexual intimacy into situations where they get to experience non-sexual intimacy lol)

SFW abcs (A-C) with Vere from touchstarved!

A/N: the ABCs for both SFW and NSFT (not featured in this work) are made by me! Please credit me if you use them! Also! I love vere, I love complex characters with gray or dark morals who have their moments of humanity so much <3 this can be read as either romantic or platonic!

Feel free to request the rest of the SFW alphabet, this was just super long as is! Lmk what you think <3

Warnings: canon typical CWs apply, vere being…vere. Possibly ooc as this is my interpretation based on the two routes I’ve played so far (need to do the last one), nongendered reader, ‘friends’ to friends to possible lovers implications, platonic intimacy with implications of possible romantic feelings, but keeping with the macabre theme of the game.

A = Affection (how do they show affection/ / prefer to receive affection?)

Give:

Vere shows his affection in blunt ways, threatening you, flirts, empty promises of truth hidden under his silken tongue. We all know and have experienced Veres light switch tendencies with MC so while threatening you initially was for fun, sick thrill of the hunt, after a while you notice a change, he hopes you don’t focus on the way he gifts you long sleeve gloves that fit unsettlingly well to your cursed black flesh (of course and very in fashion) as the sun rises on your birthday, he disappears into the small crowd starting that surrounds the alley near the wet wick before you can register what’s happening, eyes tired as you resist the urge to smile, maybe being awoken so early wasn’t so bad.

Or the way your cape, which has been frayed and torn in multiple spots, truly almost strings in a certain someone’s opinion, is suddenly replaced one day after a heavy night of drinks and laughs at the wet wick, you don’t remember losing your original cape.

Thinking through the fog and hangover you remember wearing it at the bar, chatting away with someone, and then suddenly you were being guided to your room; slightly (extremely) drunk. Your brows furrow as your covered hands rub the new cape, thick outer layer feels breathable and expensive fur lines the entire inside, a heavy thick wool coat a dark gray is soft to the touch and feels warm, the hood has a fabric mask that feels like satin and covers everything from your nose down.

As you fiddle with it, lost in thought, you find clasps; the inner fur can be removed for warmer weather. Suddenly as you swear your face grew warm you remembered the smell of..something sweet and spiced.. you shake your head, pain settles into your skull and you decide it best left for another time. You don’t question as you inspect the jacket (can never truly fully trust the damn man, with how black and white he seems to be at every turn) the way he, somehow or by choice, left his initials in pink thread on the inside of the heavy fabric, either.

Receive:

he adores gifts, but of course he does, less work and hassle for him to do and who can so no to free stuff? Banter and borderline threats as well, the way your eyes went pinprick when his teeth grazed your throat sent primal shivers down his spine, the night you met.

Sex? Of course, with not much else to do what’s a guy to do? He would probably be surprised (and depending on how close you are) slightly annoyed if you refused. He wouldn’t kill you, not now at least, but it would set him on edge, if you don’t want sex and you don’t want his money what else are you after?

But something he will never admit is quality time, pebbling and loyalty really sink their claws into his (hopefully not three times too small) heart.

The way you often join him at the bar despite his insistence he hates the alcohol, but booze is booze he says and you notice how his posture slowly sinks as the nought goes on, his ears; while still alert, no longer stand like daggers listening intently. It’s not the alcohol, at least you think, that makes him seem so … human in the wet wicks dim light, when he laughs and hiccups or nearly falls off the barstool (again.)

Or how he refuses to acknowledge the way his eyes watched your figure swim through the crowd before declining to his hand, where a bag of assorted flora and fauna was held. ‘I accidentally took too much’ you said, fighting back an awkward chuckle ‘I figured out of everyone you’d enjoy having some’ your voice lingered in his brain as his ear twitches in annoyance, trying to stuff the disgusting and .. human emotions building in his chest.

Maybe you do finally acknowledge it, in a way, one night and after way too many glasses of wine and champagne you’re one of the only one willing to walk him ‘home’. if you could call the tall spire with secrets buried under mystery and danger a home to anything.

He leans into your frame, and somehow you hold as he giggles drunkenly into your ear, eyes trained on your reaction with almost feverish intent. His lips meet your skin and for a moment you feel the familiar strike of fear down your spine, he almost looks like he’s ready to strike before he sighs deeply, something strange flutters through his eyes and he settles into your side. His hair uncharacteristically a mess and the collar softly clanked in the darkening sunlight and abandoned street, he’s lost in thought as you two walk.

Just as you made it to the bridge and further from lowtown you felt his breath on your ear as he stops walking, his hands resting on your hips, turning you to face him as he leans forward and presses his forehead into your shoulder, shocked and afraid you’re stiff in his hold before you hear faintly “if you ever betray me, I’ll fucking kill you.” and before you know it he’s walking up the bridge, seeming more sober than before, almost at his usual confidant stride.

You stand there for ages it seems, deciding however it’s better to retreat into familiar territory lest a soulless find you yet again, you walk home. A strange sense of trust and something new bubbling in your chest.

Should it be fear? Or something somehow darker?

B = Best Friend (how are they around people they are close with? How would you know?)

There’s evidence vere can become close with someone, or at least was able to, given how much he seems to know about Ais in a .. . Definitely normal way. As well as a few others. You’ll know when his advice becomes less and less harsh jabs with intent to kill with harsh realities and slowly he begins dripping ways he may be able to relate to you.

Example:

You: “kauras is driving me nuts-“ (his care and lack of seeming any leeway into becoming closer than arms length are overwhelmingly frustrating sometimes)

Vere: “. . . Have you been deaf the entire time? Or are you too stupid to comprehension any of what I’ve been telling you?”

To

You: “why are we walking in circles?” (You’d become overwhelmed inside the crowded bar, bloodhounds being loud was enough let alone how humid the damn place got)

Vere: “25 minutes.” (As smug as can be, looking for any sort of reaction out of you)

You: “what? . . “ (confused as ever, passing the wet wick for what seems like the fourth time)

Vere, slightly annoyed: “25 minutes it took for you to notice. Besides, it smelt like dog shit, figured you wouldn’t mind some fresh air away from. . That.” (That’s all, he tells himself, however truthfully Leander was annoying him with more of his ‘drinks’ and you were the only one within arms reach that wouldn’t annoy the fuck out of him.)

C = cuddles (how are they when physically affectionate? Are they at all?)

Vere when physical intimacy is involved it’s usually to get a reaction, or gain something in return. And who can blame him? He’s been property for as long as god knows. He’s learned his skill set for a reason, and in his own words ‘ I’m very good at what I do ’

That’s all, that’s all it would ever be. But again, he hopes you don’t notice his leniency for you. You push a lot of buttons, and sometimes you push them well. But in some fittingly dark way..

As a totally yk hypothetically made up situation:

you’re at the wet wick one night, at the bar talking (being annoyed by) Ais when vere arrives, instantly vere with a confident stride heads to the bar. And let’s say some time later, and several drinking games, you’re shitfaced. But, the wet wick is slightly tamer now, the crowed settling for the evening once again. You and vere sit in a booth (having moved away from the bar at vere’s request when Leander wanted him to try a new shot called ‘the guzzler’ that had pink chunks of . . Something in it.) and the silence is enjoyable, vere is mid sip of his glass when he feels you suddenly lean into his side. At the contact he stiffens for a moment, observing you as you cuddle into him for warmth. Somehow, seeming to have lost your cape.

Something in his brain struggles for a moment, here he has the perfect opening to see what’s underneath your bandages, to figure out what the fucking fuss is about.

But another part speaks a little louder he finds, despite how tight his clenched jaw is as he chugs the rest of his wine and thinks about asking for another bottle.

As you settle against him he sighs, lifts you up slightly and encourages you to lean on him. Seeing this as an ample moment for more heat to your somehow cold body you wrap your arms around his midsection, even in this state careful not to disrupt your coverings, no longer bandages, but gloves. You sigh with a giggle as he grabs something, possibly his own jacket off the back of the booth as you leave, heading back to your loggings in the wet wick.

He doesn’t say anything, neither do you, but you notice he stands closer now, and once; when a little tipsy you leaned against him, and despite realizing and trying to move he leans into the touch.

It’s a mutual agreement then, more a challenge.

How far are you both willing to let the other go?

[midnight-bay-if]

(Follow up to the RO reaction ask where the MC had to do some fake dating for a mission, but it wasn't with the RO)

This is mostly for Taj and Umbra who were very unhappy about it but didn't directly comment on it to the MC like N as they can't enter their head. Though of course if you want to feel free to do it for everyone, as for the others I guess they may feel sort of guilty for their previous thoughts on it for different reasons and what not.

So... what if immediately after the mission, as soon as it's done and MC is back with the RO, they are like "sorry, do you mind waiting a bit before we chat, I need to take a long shower after that!" and going to do so without waiting? Cause like, they acted super professional and convincing about the whole thing during the mission, but it still made them feel utterly disgusted AND disgusting and they are literally miserable now. And well, it clearly shows just how bad MC feels about the whole thing - they can't even enjoy the feeling of a job well done after that. Though just as a mention, the person they had to do the pretend-date with didn't do anything wrong or bad! I'm really just talking about a MC who feels absolutely awful about even pretending to date someone who isn't the RO even if they were good at their job on the spot.

(So sorry about the wait! Hopefully, this is what you wanted. I turned them into two short stories. :) And they turned out much longer than I was anticipating, haha.)

Taj: Taj leans against the closed bathroom door, quietly listening to the water running from behind it. The moment you returned from the mission, you insisted on showering to wash away the icky feeling left behind by having to play pretend with someone else. Your response humbled them greatly. They felt... embarrassed. They were so angry, ready to pout, groan, and dwell in their self-doubt.

They never even considered the possibility that your experience had been even worse than theirs. Selfish. Idiot.

Taj sneaks a glance at the clock on the wall, pondering. It isn't too far away. If they run, they might make it.

With the decision made, Taj grabs their keys, pulls their favourite hoodie over their head, and rushes out of the apartment door. With quick footsteps honed over years of practice, they rush down the apartment block stairs two steps at a time.

At the bottom, Taj yanks open the main entrance for the apartment block, ready to rush out. The overcast sky doesn't appear particularly inviting, but if they are quick, they should make it before suffering its effects.

Pulling their hood tighter over their head to disguise their ears, they rush out into the street. Their feet pound against the pavement, sprinting to try and beat the trappings of time itself.

As they round the corner, they see the stand being gradually packed up. Taj picks up the pace, desperate to reach the elderly gentleman before he leaves.

"Wait!"

The man turns to look at them, eyes slightly wide as they take in their dishevelled appearance. "Can I help you?" He asks.

Taj inhales deeply, desperately trying to catch their breath as they take in the collection of homemade confectionaries on display. It's a stand you've spoken about often. The old man sells his homemade cakes, jams, bread, and an assortment of other goods all day on his stand to make enough money for his family. You always speak of the town's resilience with such... pride.

"Uh, yes," Taj says, biting their lip as their eyes search the goods. When their eyes are set on what they know to be their favourite treat, they sigh with relief. "I'll have two of those, please," they add slightly shyly.

The old man breaks into a grin. "Of course, of course," he replies, carefully bagging the items. "I've seen you before, haven't I?" He continues, scrutinising them carefully. "With MC."

Taj feels their cheeks warm slightly. "Does MC know everyone in this damn town?" They mumble irritably.

The old man laughs. "Pretty much. Those of us from this town take care of one another. Remember that."

Taj understands when they are being given a warning. "I will."

With that, the old man holds out the bag to them, a warm smile on their face. "Good luck to you, then. I know an apology when I see one."

Taj scoffs, though their eyes twinkle with something akin to amusement before setting off back down the street. They sprint as fast as they can, their eyes deadset on the direction of their destination.

Suddenly, the heavens open up, ready to serve their punishment. Rain pelts hard against them; they feel the water soaking through their hood and shoulders to the skin beneath.

"For fuck's sake."

They try not to bristle, keeping their feet moving despite droplets blurring their vision. Without thinking too hard, Taj shoves the bag beneath their hoodie to keep it safe from the elements.

With the apartment block finally in sight, they rush back into the building and up the stairs with superhuman speed.

Water drips onto the apartment floor as they fling the hoodie over their heads, keeping the bag tightly in their hands. The curls of their hair didn't survive completely unscathed, with water droplets gathering at the ends and dripping down to the floor below.

Taj runs a hand through the dark curls, shaking the water droplets out.

"Taj?"

They freeze, bag clutched tightly. They dare glance in the direction of your voice and see you standing there, towel wrapped firmly against you. They try not to stare. They have something to say first.

"Eh... I just... I-- Fuck," they groan, getting frustrated at their own stuttered speech. They hold out the bag to you instead.

"What's this?" You ask, gently opening the bag. The moment they see your eyes light up at its contents, they breathe a sigh of relief. "Is this from Mr. Dales stall?"

Taj coughs, rubbing their arm. "Yes? I couldn't remember his name. But I remembered you telling me about him."

The feel of your arms pulling them into a tight embrace, with a wide smile on your face, makes the wet hair, the burning in their thighs, and the uncomfortable conversation with a stranger entirely worth it.

"I'm sorry. I acted like a prick today," they mumble, tucking their face into the crook of your shoulder.

"You did?"

Taj scoffs. "In my head, I was an ass," they confess sheepishly. "I don't want to be that with you anymore. I want to do better. I won't always get it right... I'm fucked up, angry and petty, carrying a lifetime of hatred, but I want to try. With you. For you."

You stumble backwards slightly, a smile on your face. "Enough of that, you dummy," you say, caressing their face. "Let's enjoy these together, shall we?"

Umbra: Umbra paces the hallway outside of the bathroom. They hear the water running from the other side of the door, and the sound soothes the aching ball in their chest. It's not enough to stop their feet, but it's still pleasant to listen to. With pale fingers, they prod at the marks of their face, trying to determine whether they still stick in the ugly mask they wore at the event. They don't want to turn it on you, after all. It was for them. The one who prodded at you, laughed with you, dared to whisper so close to your ear...

No, no, no... Do not think of it. It was hard enough to smooth out the lines of their face the first time.

They find their mind catching on the way your lip curled in disgust the instant you returned home. You threw down your bag and coat onto the couch, mumbling and disgruntled. They didn't want to intrude on this moment with yourself, but they heard it regardless.

You didn't like pretending. It felt wrong.

It shames them. Seeing you with someone else created an ugliness in them they chose not to control, all while you were struggling to keep the smile on your face they cherish so greatly. How do they make up for that?

Before Umbrs can even question it, they pick up your mobile phone and search through the contacts, one button at a time. They hit the call button as soon as they see the name they were looking for. They can't afford to talk themselves out of this.

"MC? Is everything okay?" The gruff voice sounds out on the other end after just two rings.

"I... It is not MC."

"Umbra?"

"Yes."

Alek sighs, and Umbra can imagine how they are rubbing their face exasperated. "What is it? Why are you ringing from MC's phone?"

"I do not know what else to do."

"All right. Out with it. What's happened?"

"I... I am realising all the small ways I fall short. MC was unhappy today, and I did not see it. What good am I if I cannot even see that?"

A pause. A shuffle of material. Then, an exhale.

"Tell me about it, kid," Alek whispers, barely forcing the words through his breath. "It's a part of being alive. We don't always see the obvious."

Umbra almost quibbles with that bit of observation, but this conversation isn't about them. It's about you. "How can you tell? How do I ensure MC's happiness?"

"If I knew that, kid, these past ten years wouldn't have been so gruellin' for them."

Umbra shakes their head, clenching their free hand into a fist. "I cannot be you."

"Charming... but you are right. And you already aren't. Look, I don't know what happened today, but sometimes people are just unhappy. It happens. You can't always fix it."

"That doesn't seem fair."

"It isn't," Alek says through a sigh. "Now get off the phone to me and go talk to them. You have a habit of making a mountain out of a mole hill. Whatever it is you feel MC is upset about won't be solved by trapping yourself in your own head."

"I... Yes, I should. I am sorry."

"Stop apologising. You know how MC feels about the apologising."

"Right. Yes. Erm... Thank you, Detective Graves."

"Don't call again."

With that, the line goes dead.

Umbra tucks MC's phone back where they got it, just in time to hear the shower shut off from the bathroom. It doesn't feel like enough time; they still need to prepare what to say, how to express how today has made them feel, or how to prepare themselves to hear how today made you feel.

None of it matters the instant the bathroom door opens, and you are standing there, hair dripping, with a towel wrapped tightly around yourself. You are perfect—you are always so perfect.

"Umbra? Are you... all right?"

Umbra nods, then takes a deep breath. "Yes... Are you?"

MC raises a questioning brow. "Is this about earlier? I'm sorry for my mood. Today was just... a lot, and not a particularly enjoyable experience."

Umbra shakes their head, gently taking your much warmer hand in theirs. The feeling in their chest blooms as their pale, bony hands press against yours, and you do not pull away.

"It scares me," they begin, choking out the words. "The ugliness I feel when I see you smiling with another. It's grotesque."

"Umbra--"

"But I promised to be a person for you," they continue, a smile inching at the corners of their mouth. "I am sorry. I let my ugliness take hold today. You must have felt very alone." Umbra steps forward, pressing their forehead against yours. "If you like, we can talk through today together, or simply curl up together and forget about it all. Whatever you want, I will follow."

[strangelysamantha]

closing shifts ❀

steve harrington x fem!reader.

warnings: super cute fluff!

words: 1,026.

summary: scoops ahoy after hours, i guess closing shifts at work aren’t half bad when you have steve to entertain you!

request? no

a/n: i’m so madly in love with steve harrington. i’m so excited to start writing for other characters now:)

my masterlist

—————————————————————————

“the mall is closing soon, which tasks do you want to do tonight?” you question steve. he rolls his eyes, “we’re here everyday, can’t we just for once, not do our job?” he laughs but continues, “not like anyone will notice…” you cross your arms together, “steve… someone will notice. and unlike you, i don’t have daddy’s money so i need this job.” he scoffs, “had, don’t forget, HAD daddy’s money. i don’t have that luxury anymore.” you hide your smile, “exactly my point so you need this job just as much, thanks for doing the work for me!” you run off to the back, grabbing the sanitizing spray; preparing to clean the counters. you grab the broom for steve as well.

“here how about you sweep, that’s easy enough for you, right?” you egg him on just to get a reaction. “yes, i guess ill sweep.” you pretend to aim the spray bottle at his face, “watcha going to do harrington?” you laugh as he throws his hands up, completely dropping the broom to the floor in the process. “please! please! don’t spray!” you lower the spray, “hey at least your hat is covering your hair so it won’t get ruined!” he sighed in relief, “never been so thankful for this damn scoops ahoy hat in my life.” you stop being distracted and walk over to the register. steve bends over to pick up the broom to continue sweeping. after he swept, he grabbed the mop, while you counted the register down. “do you want any ice cream before we go stevie?” you yell out to him. he follows your voice to find you, “no i’m ice creamed out. thanks though.” you nod in agreement, “me too. maybe we should get a job somewhere else, take advantage of their free food policy.” he laughed, “as if it’s not embarrassing enough to work here, it would be worse if we worked somewhere else, people would think we got fired or something.” you heart jumps at the idea of him actually wanting to follow you to a different job. your crush on steve was hard to hide, but in order to be “professional” at work, you had to keep it under wraps. besides, steve would only see you as a friend. he’s made it very clear with his desperate attempts of flirting with the costumers, that he had a specific type in mind.

you put everything else away, and meet up with steve. you verify that everything is done, and you both clock out. “let’s get outta here.” you say excitedly, practically running to the gate. he laughs and follows after you hurriedly. “i’m so glad it’s over.” you close it, and lock everything up. this was your favorite time of the night. since it was so late and dark out, steve made sure to walk you to your car for safety. “what was your favorite part about today?” you ask him. “i think it was funny when that guy paid for his ice cream, turned around, and immediately ran into someone.”

“that guy was so mad he lost his ice cream, while the other girl was so mad she had her new shirt ruined. talk about a loose loose!” he’s amused by your comment, “what are your plans tonight?” he asks you. you shrug, “i’m not sure yet. i wanted to hang out with my friend but he cancelled.” you frown, but it wasn’t surprising. steve stopped dead in his tracks, “he!” you glance over at him shocked, “what?” he repeats himself, “who is he!” you roll your eyes, “it’s not like that steve, trust me. he is just an old pal from my last job. we had a class together in high school, but that was about it. we were supposed to hang out tonight but he had something pop up.” he nods listening, “well, do you think you have a crush on him?” you did not want to be having this conversation, let alone it being with steve the hair harrington, the last thing he needs to know is who you have a crush on.

“steve, he is dating someone already. i don’t have a crush on him, he’s just cool to talk to sometimes. plus after graduation it’s been hard to keep a lot of friends, people grow and move on.” you keep walking, hoping to make it to your car soon. steve continues questioning you. “i see, well then who do you have a crush on? there’s got to be someone, right?” you turn over to see his face, you couldn’t quite tell what he was wanting. “i mean yeah, i have a crush, but steve, just because you like someone doesn’t mean you have a chance with them.” steve frowns, “well when you think that way, then you definitely won’t ever know if you can get your crush or not! you have to be more optimistic!”

“have a goodnight stevie.” you unlock your car and open the door, he comes around your car, standing outside the driver door. “i’ll get it out of you one of these days, i’m going to be your ultimate wingman.” you roll your eyes, “i don’t need you as a wingman, i can get anyone if i really wanted too.” you start your car, waiting to see how he responds. “is that a challenge?” he asks, his determination is admirable, but at the most it’s intolerable. “steve, if i say yes, will you let me go home?” you chuckle. he grins, “yes!” you shake your head, “fine it’s a challenge. we’ll talk more about it tomorrow alright? i gotta get some sleep.” he lightly taps your car, “perfect, that works, i’ll see you bright and early tomorrow morning!” he says goodbye before heading to his car, hopping in, and driving off.

you heart burns. you want to prove to steve that you can get any guy you want, but at the same time, you don’t want just any guy, you just want him. you head home, no other plans for you to attend, you get ready for bed. getting prepared for your shift with steve tomorrow.

[scoonsalicious]

Unwanted: Chapter 7, Unburdened - Pt. 2

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Avenger!Fem!Reader

Summary: When your FWB relationship with your best friend Bucky Barnes turns into something more, you couldn’t be happier. That is, however, until a new Avenger sets her sights on your super soldier and he inadvertently breaks your heart. You take on a mission you might not be prepared for to put some distance between the two of you and open yourself up to past traumas. Too bad the only one who can help you heal is the one person you can no longer trust.

Warnings: (For this part only; see Story Masterlist for general Warnings) Language, a lot of sexual discussions, promises that will not be kept.

Word Count: 1.3k

Previously On...: You and Bucky fucking finally admitted your feelings to one another. About damned time, geez, you two. Anyway, just as you're about to celebrate your newly declared love in a, uh, physical manor, you're summoned back to the common room by Tony.

A/N: I have no excuses-- I was fucking high AF when I wrote this part, which is why it may come across as a little... unhinged. But once I was sober and re-read what I wrote, I thought "screw this, I love it; it stays!" I hope you enjoy it as much as I did!

Thank you to all those who have been reading; if you like what you've read, likes, comments, and reblogs give me life, and I truly appreciate them, and you!

Banner By: The absolutely amazing @mrsbuckybarnes1917

Taglist: (Please let me know if you’d like to be added!) @jmeelee @cazellen @blackhawkfanatic @les-sel @marcswife21 @buckybarnessimpp @mrsbuckybarnes1917 @erelierraceala @hayjat @capswife @itsteambarnes @jupiter-107 @marygoddessofmischief @sebastians-love @learisa @lethallyprotected @rabbitrabbit12321

Presentable once again, you left your room, Bucky taking your hand in his as you headed up to the common room and whispering all of the filthy things he was going to do to you when you both officially retired for the evening. By the time you entered the common room, you were leaning into him in a fit of flustered giggles.

"Good. Looks like you finally got it out of your systems," Tony said once you'd walked through the doors. "What the 'F' Was It?"

You and Bucky exchanged confused glances before looking back to Tony. Tony's eyes cast down to where your hands were entwined. "Looks like the 'fuck's have it!" he called out to the rest of the gathered group. "Everyone who bet "fight," pay up!"

"Boss, did ya'll seriously bet on whether we were fucking or fighting?" you asked, horrified, but still a little amused.

"That's why the game is called "What the 'F'?," Pocket," Tony said with a smirk and playfully exaggerated eye roll. "Try to keep up."

"Well," began Bucky with a smile, "technically, we didn't do either, so you should all be paying us."

"Nope," said Tony, "Cap had 'Firm up their Friendship,' so I guess he's the winner."

"'Firm up their Friendship'?" you asked, raising an eyebrow in Steve's direction. The super soldier shrugged and averted his eyes, a slight blush creeping up his cheeks.

"It had to begin with an 'F,' otherwise it would not fit the parameters of the game," Thor offered helpfully. "It was very humorous."

"Alright, everyone, pay out to Cap," Tony said, reaching for his wallet.

"Not so fast," Natasha interrupted. "I believe you'll recall that I put money on 'frottage,' so if we could get confirmation on that, I'd appreciate it," she gave you both a knowing grin, and you instantly regretted confessing to her how turned on dry humping made you.

"Oh my God," you muttered, putting your face in your hand, now fully horrified.

Bucky looked down at you, face confused. "What the hell's 'frottage?'" he asked cautiously. You whispered the definition in his ear and his entire face turned a crimson red as he furiously rubbed the back of his neck.

"Ha! I knew it!" Nat shouted, raising a fist in the air. "Pay up, bitches!"

There was a chorus of groans as your friends all begrudgingly passed Natasha one-hundred dollar bills.

"...eight, nine, -- hey, who didn't pay up? There should be a thousand bucks here!" Nat looked around the room. "Where did Steve go? Dirty cheat owes me a hundred dollars!" Everyone looked around, but the Captain had vanished from the room. You felt Bucky heave a heavy sigh next to you, and when you turned up to look at him, you noticed the distraught expression on his face.

"What's up, Buck?" you asked, concerned. "Do you know where Steve went?"

He shook his head, the corners of his mouth turning back up as he looked down at you. "I'll tell you later," he promised before kissing the crown of your head.

"So, we're not hiding this anymore?" Sam asked as he walked over to the two of you. "Because I'm so tired of pretending we don't all know you two bumpin' uglies."

You rolled your eyes at Sam, but couldn't hide the smile that was creeping across your face. You wrapped your arms around Bucky's waist, drawing yourself closer to him. "What? You want us to make some kind of official royal proclamation?"

"I, for one, don't really give a shit," said Rhodey from across the room. "I only bet because Romanoff threatened me."

"Thank you for minding your own business at least, Rhodey," you offered, caught somewhere between grateful and insulted. Rolling your eyes at Sam, you turned to Tony. "So, what's so important that you called us back down here, Boss? We were a little... preoccupied."

"Ugh, Pocket, I don't need you to put a picture in my head, thank you," Tony said, waving his hands at you in disgust. "That's a whole new thing to unpack in Virtual Therapy: "How to handle the guy who was brainwashed into murdering your parents repeatedly violating the girl you've come to see as your baby sister."

"Oh my god, Tony," you muttered at the same time Bucky said "It's not violating if she's a willing participant, Stark." You elbowed Bucky gently in his side.

"Don't traumatize him, baby," you murmured. "He's fragile."

"Funny. Very funny," Tony deadpanned, arms crossed over his chest. "Anyway, getting back to very professional Avenger business, you'll notice Ms. Carthage and our SHIELD guests have left for the evening."

Huh. You'd forgotten they'd even been there to begin with, what with all the love declarations and frottage that had taken place with Bucky.

"Yeah, we see that," said Bucky, answering for both of you.

"Which means we have to decide, as a group, if we want to invite Ms. Carthage to join us on a probationary basis. We've already taken a preliminary vote, so we just need you two to cast your ballots. What's it going to be? Yay or Nay?" Tony looked to you first.

You thought back to the tour you'd given her earlier that day, and how unprofessional Jade had been. Even before she'd started her flirtations with Bucky, Jade Carthage had rubbed you the wrong way. You couldn't, in good conscience, agree to invite her onto your team, into your family.

"I vote 'nay,'" you told Tony.

He nodded. "Very well. Barnes? What say you?"

Bucky didn't even hesitate. "If my girl doesn't want her here, then neither do I. I vote 'nay.'"

You looked up at him, your eyes wide as saucers, and you were pretty sure they’d turned heart-shaped. Despite hoping Jade could give him the answers he'd been searching for, Bucky had voted against having her join The Avengers just because she made you uncomfortable.

"Hey," he said, tucking his thumb under your chin and tilting your head up, "I told you, you're the most important person in the world to me, and I want whatever is going to make you happy. If that means not having her around, then I don't want her around."

"Buck," you breathed, standing up on your toes to reach his lips, "I love you."

You did your best to ignore the cheers and goads from your friends as you kissed, and when you pulled apart a short moment later, both your cheeks were red with embarrassment.

"That was disgusting," Tony said, rolling his eyes in that bored Tony way of his. "Too bad it was for nothing. The 'yay's have it, seven to six. We'll be officially extending an invitation of probationary membership to Jade Carthage, AKA: Vixen, first thing tomorrow morning. Class dismissed."

The relief that had washed over you when Bucky had voted 'nay' alongside you evaporated when Tony read out the results. You mumbled half hearted goodnights to your teammates as they trickled out, off to their individual evening pursuits, until it was just you and Bucky left standing in the common room.

"I'm sorry, doll," he murmured softly as he ran his hands gently up and down your arms. "You'll let me know what I can do to help make the next few months with her as easy for you as possible, yeah? Anything you need."

You smiled at him, so grateful that he was being so understanding about this. You put your hands over his as they rested on your arms. "Just love me, okay, Buck?" you asked him. "Just love me and be honest with me; that's all I ask."

He took you in his arms, swaying you back and forth ever so slightly. "That's an easy promise, sweetheart." You felt him rest his chin on the crown of your head. "I give you my word."

<- Previous Part / Next Chapter ->

[marcellaasblog]

My Maid.

Modern Eddie x female reader

Main masterlist

Eddie munson x maid reader

Summary: You needed the extra money really bad. Your best friend Sidney shows you a way she makes money and how you can too,but there is a dirty little twist to this job.

Warnings for whole series:angst,smut, fluff,alcohol, smoking,p in v, daddy kink,digrating kink, pervert Eddie, insecure reader,dom Eddie,shy reader, jealous Eddie, Sidney is two face.(I believe that's all)

Author's notes: If their is incorrect spelling I'm truly sorry and I will fix it when I get a chance to.

Part 2 // part 3 // part 4 // part 5

Part 1

.

.

.

Since moving to a big city money has been tight. your best friend let you move in with her knowing that you,her childhood best friend, was struggling with financial things.

She understands your struggles. She was once there too when she decided to move away from her parents.

Sidney's apartment was beautiful. It had so much open space, so many windows and beautiful views coming from the balcony.

Damn must be fucken expensive.

You didn't know how the hell she could ever afford this place living in such an expensive city. You didn't wanna be a bother and ask her but you needed to know. Maybe she could help you.

You felt bad that she was spending so much money on you.you also felt like shit that you couldn't afford anything or even pay her back cause she never let you. she was like your little sugar Mama spending as much as she wants on you. She never complained or made you feel bad about your low income situation. She wanted to help you but she didn't want to scare you off or make you look at her in a different way. She waited for you to ask ,she knows you're curious on how the hell she can afford all this shit. So she wanted to wait but she didn't know how long she can hold it in for.

.

.

.

You both came back from a girls night. That was the most fun you ever had. Sideny didn't let you pay for anything you even asked if you could leave a tip but nope she didn't let you again for the millionth time.

You made it back to her penthouse safely holding y'all's hills in your hands.

"There you go your home now sid" You tell as you lay her tired body on the sofa.

"Thank you so much for keeping me safe babe." She slurred as she slowly sit up on her couch

You put your purses on the countertop as you drop yours and sindy's hills by the front door.

"No problem, it's the least I can do, since you keep on spending money on me." You giggle heading to her refrigerator to grab both of y'all water.

"Y/n for the last time stop feeling bad I don't mind spending money on you,you're my best friend plus I'm not going to let you struggle. What kind of friend would I be to do such a thing like that to you?" She pokes her chest.

"I know sid I just feel shitty right now,I can't find a place to afford I have no money to my fucken name because I HAVE NO JOB!" Sidney's eyes widened at your sudden meltdown,you didn't mean to scream at her but everything was just piling up on you all at once you let your Insecurities take over your thoughts.

Sidney huff as she slowly walks over to you grabbing the water bottle out of your hand setting them down on the island. She brings you into a hug feeling tension all over your body as she hears your little sobs coming from you as you apologize to her.

She wasn't gonna let you feel like this anymore she hates seeing you cry.

"Y/n look at me."she asked as you slowly rose your Head away from her shoulder. She saw how red your face was and how red your eyes were.

"Look I can help you okay but you got to promise me to not judge me or look at me in a different way okay?" You nod at Sidney as she wipes your tears away.

"The reason I can afford shit and have all this crap is because I run a little business,well it's something like that but it pays good and it keeps me on my feet."

"Are you a drug dealer?" You asked, she giggled at your confused face expression."

"Oh god no, it didn't work out the first time.' she said sarcastically, making you giggle.

"Wait really?"

"NO! I ju- nevermind look what I do in something different."

"Are you a sex worker?"

"JESUS,let me finish lady!."

"Sorry, continue , please."

"Thank you!,like I said it's way different but it pays well but you have to be comfortable doing this okay because you might attract a couple of freaks. You gotta be careful." Sidney takes a deep breath letting her mind turn off so she can continue.

"I'm a topless maid."

You look at her as if she had a third eye."A fucken WHAT?"

"A topless maid." She bit her inner cheek.

"So you're telling me you go to to people's houses and get paid to have your tittie's out while you clean,is that what I'm hearing?"

She nods her head " yeah pretty much."

"So your telling me I can have my tittie's out and some old fucks will pay me?" You are stunned how the hell have you never heard of this before.

"Yup."

"Wow, that 's something new." You flabbergasted

You can see the worry on her face as she looks up at you."Hey I'm not judging you it's just I never heard of it that's all.

"Yeah it's not really spoken about as much,but hey it makes you hell of money."

"How much money are we talking about?" You're in your investigation mode trying to get out all the good secrets from your friend.

"It depends. I charge my client $300 an hour.

"$300 an- BITCH WHAT $300 A FUCKEN HOUR TO CLEAN WITH YOU TITS OUT!"

"yup people love tits what can I say." You needed to know how the hell she did it and you weren't gonna waste your time.

"Teach me." She smirked at you,as she leaned on her refrigerator Crossing her arm on her chest."

"Really!?"

"God yes I need the money at this point I'll do anything, maybe even become a stripper or a fucken drug dealer for all I care." She bites her lip trying to hide her excitement.

"Great, then it's settled. I'll take you to my 2 o'clock appointment I have and show you how it's done." You're excited but a little frightened.

"Gross I don't wanna see your tittie's Sidney."

"Oh calm down you're just going to be there for training and then if you like what I'm doing we can start you off with something small."

"Oh okay cool yeah then I'll go." Sidney up and down and excited.

"Hell yeah, let's make you some money girl."

"Yeah yeah, let's get to bed already then,it's almost 4 in the morning." She groans forgetting she had to wake up early.

"Fuck you right,i forgot I had an early shift.I swear if I wake up with a bad hangover Eddie is gonna be pissed that I had to reschedule again and he is annoying as it is idon't need his bickering again" She makes a groaning noise grabbing her purse and water you make sure the doors are closed and locked and the windows are covered. You both walk into the hallway ready to separate into your rooms.

Sidney stops you before you can open your room, her guest bedroom.

"Hey y/n." She asked, rubbing her eyes.

"Yeah?"

"Thanks for not judging me,it feels nice to be appreciated for what I do." You smile at your friend.

"Hey I would never judge you as long as you're happy about what you do there is no judgment here." She wraps her hands around your frame giving you a big squeeze.

"Thank you y/n,that means a lot." You kiss the top of her head melting into her huge.

'`No problem, but get some sleep. I'll see you in the morning.'

"Alrighty, I love you y/n."

"I love you too ,sleep well." She smiled at you as she skipped into her room almost falling on her face. you laugh as you enter your room.

.

You asked yourself if you really wanna do this.

Was being topless worth the money Sidney was making.

Hell yeah it was, and you weren't gonna miss this opportunity

You never know, maybe you will like it .

Your just hoping that this Eddie guy isn't some wired old pervert.

But only tomorrow could tell.

[theglassofmiddleearth]

I'm Always Funny. You're Just Not Smart Enough To Keep Up. (Teaser!)

Max Verstappen X reader

Danny Ricciardo X reader platonic.

Not sure if anyone here is an F1 fan but I've recently gotten into F1 and I've started writing a small fanfiction of Max Verstappen Fake relationship Au! Please tell me if you like this and want the rest of it! Enjoy~

Max had just broken up with his long time girlfriend Kelly Piquet. 

They had disagreed on their future plans and had decided it would be better to part ways. It was an amicable split and Max still visited Penelope. However, the media wasn’t kind to him, not that it usually was.

Fans were in a roar over the split calling him all sorts of names for the past seven months.

It wasn’t too bad until the sponsors started to look a bit concerned over the state of the media.

Y/N, being a small town girl from Perth Australia, knew Daniel Ricciardo from when she was younger. His sister Michelle would babysit Y/N from time to time and that's how she came to meet the ever enthusiastic personality that was Daniel.

Daniel, alongside Michelle, had been like an older sibling to Y/N. He would always visit her or text her to catch her up on his state of affairs. 

After his ill-fated departure from Mclaren, to which Y/N was still fuming over. He had spent two months back in Australia, lounging around before Y/N and Michelle told him to get back into what he really loved.

Sure enough, Daniel returned to RedBull as a reserve driver alongside his old teammate Max Verstappeh and Sergio “Checo” Perez.

It was at this point Max had been receiving scalding comments and the Public Relations (PR) Manager had decided it would be a good idea for Max to date someone new with good media presence. Someone who the fans were bound to like.

That is exactly where Y/N came in. She had been featured on Daniel's social media before and made small cameo’s on RedBull and Mclaren videos, wishing Danny luck in his races or even supporting him in person.  

~~~~~~

Max walked alongside Y/N at a brisk pace. They were wading through the crowd of press just before the paddock and after the car park. Y/N was slightly uncomfortable with the firm grip that Max had on her hand but refrained from speaking up. He, after all, was paying her salary, so to speak. 

“Smile,” Max grunted out. Nodding at the press and giving half smiles in a seemingly out of character style. 

Y/N, who was already smiling hissed through her teeth.

“The hell you think I'm doin’ mate?” She then turned slightly away to wave at the photographers,

“Morning! Hope you’re all well rested! Make sure to drink enough water too!” She called out to the mass of people. Y/N understood that these people had to make a living and if you were nicer to them, they were bound to return the favour, although that was easier said than done.

Verstappen kept a pleasant expression as he continued to walk past people, signing hats along the way. 

“When can we stop this damn circus act?” He hissed into her ear, his voice sounding like the grind of gravel. 

“Whenever your PR Manager lets us.” She replied, her smile unfaltering as she kept walking beside him.

“This is all a stupid waste of money and time.” He grumbled under his breath. “This whole relationship thing and the sponsors.” Y/N cocked her head knowingly and replied,

"You need those sponsors and so does RedBull. Anyways, don’t give me a hard time because of it, yeah? I’m just doing my job to the best of my ability.” It wasn't as if she didn't want the money, however she also did it to help out Danny. Apparently the situation had made Max a little crabby.

Max sighed, “You have no idea who many different people we have to play happy couple for to satisfy the sponsors.” to which Y/N smirked and retorted with.

“I dunno, maybe the whole world, Mr Formula 1 World Champion?” Max rolled his eyes dismissively, effectively losing his facade.

“Do you know how much the sponsors pay me to keep you around? Don’t smart mouth me man.” He spat out, scowling and crossing his arms defensively. He pointed at the camera’s who had now turned back to you at the suddenly escalating conversation as moths were drawn to light.

Luckily they hadn’t heard the conversation, only seen the wild gestures that Max had thrown out in exasperation. 

Y/N, being the quick thinker she was, gently patted his shoulder and stepped closer to him,

“Calm down mate, they’re looking at us. Let’s just get inside the paddock yeah? Then we can argue when we get to the motor home.” She whispered slowly, hoping to ease his stress.

“Whatever, " Verstappen muttered, his voice ever harsh and monotonous.

He led her by the small of her back past the photographers and past the gates and into the paddock. He kept you firmly by his side while remaining silent. It seemed like he wasn’t going to talk until they were both tucked into a private building. Or as private as it would get.

As they briskly walked by, they passed some children who were staring in awe at Max. Y/N smiled at the children and tugged on his short sleeve gently.

“Max, give them an autograph! Look, they're so cute. This one’s wearing a mini version of your race suit!” She exclaimed, clearly taken by the children who were bubbling with energy.

Max, as a result of Y/N’s excitement, stopped walking and looked over at her with his signature grim expression before seeing the children. His eyes shifted and his expression became light hearted and almost charming.

“Yeah, alright I’ll sign a few things for you guys.” He grinned at the kids that had gathered around began thanking him incredulously in adoration as their favourite Formula one driver signed their shirts and caps.

Max suddenly turned to Y/N with a small smile,

“Here,” he said, handing her a sharpie, “You should sign one too. They’ll like it.” Y/N shook her head, shy from the sudden attention. 

“But I’m not famous like you. They don’t know me.” She turned to the children, sheepish, waiting for them to collectively agree. Yet, to her surprise one of the younger girls reached out to hug her and exclaimed,

“I know you! You’re Max’s girlfriend! My older brother says you’re pretty!” The little girl beamed up at her and pointed at an older male of similar facial structure who was blushing.

Y/N laughed in surprise and smiled brightly at the young girl.

“Hey love! Would you like me to sign your shirt?” She kneeled down to face the girl and all the younger kids. The children that were now surrounding you went crazy, screaming “Yes!” and “Please!”

They held out their belongings for her to sign, clearly overjoyed. She laughed in delight while Max looked on, while chatting to other young fans.

Y/N gave each of them a hug before signing their shirts.

“Oh and here!” She took out a large ziplock bag that was filled to the brim with friendship bracelets she had made for the fans.

“Take these! There’s enough for all of you.” She ruffled the closest childs hair. Max watched in amusement as the children who were absolutely beside themselves, trying on their new bracelets.

“You’re good with the fans,” he said, actually sounding genuine and kind for once. Y/N shook her head, smiling and waving at the children still as they walked away.

“Nah, I just love the kids. I want them to have good memories that build into hope and motivation.” She looked at Max and gave him a small smile.

“That’s very kind of you.” Verstappen replied, sounding surprisingly sincere. They both walked towards the motorhouse and as they reached the entrance Max opened the door for Y/N and signalled for her to enter.

Y/N walked through, thanking him on the way and waved hello while passing all the staff and volunteers of the Red Bull team.

The pair made their way, through all the greetings and then into Max’s room where Max closed the door behind them both and then turned to face Y/N.

“Alright, no more fake smiles or pleasantries. He sighed, “Do you know how long we’re stuck with this whole fake relationship thing?” He asked while plopping down onto his bed, unceremoniously to which Y/N shook her head. She herself was unsure.

“Nope. I was hired for a year-long contract but it wasn’t definitive,” She sighed and sat down on his chair and spun to face him.

“I think it wouldn’t be too bad for us to be friends Max.” She sat forward with her elbows on her knees.

“It’s not like we’re attracted to each other. It would make life easier if we got along, no?" Max stared at her, inquisitive.

“Friends.” He said slowly, almost as if tasting the word before he tilted his head to say,

“Friends don't usually get paid to be with one another.” Max raised his eyebrows.

“But, I guess being friends wouldn't be too bad. It’s not like anything would happen between us anyways.” Y/N nodded and chuckled, 

“I mean, I get paid to pretend to be your girlfriend. We could totally do it from afar y’know?” she shrugged, smiling.

“That sounds like a great idea.” Max said sarcastically. 

“I’ll just yell ‘I love you’ through a megaphone at you from a distance and we’ll keep it going that way.” He smirked mischievously, crossing his arms to which Y/N burst into laughter in sheer surprise. 

“Right! That would get all the fans roaring.” She chuckled loudly, enjoying his dry humour.  She gave him a genuine smile before asking, 

“You’re really funny when you want to be huh?”

Verstappen rolled his eyes with a subtle upturn in lips at your amusement. Y/N had an instinct that he was proud of the reaction he got out of her.

“I’m funny all the time.” He retorted, “You’re just not smart enough to pick up on it.” He said with a cocky smile.

 

~~

AND THATS THE TEASER! please comment if you'd like the rest!? Thank You for reading!

[cherrycola27]

Like a Virgin

Pairing: Rooster x Reader (Call Sign: Blaze)

Warnings: Language, drinking, Smut, insecurities, virginity, Minors DNI 18+

Frustration. That's all you can think of right now as you make out with your boyfriend on the couch of his apartment.

Why are you frustrated? What reason do you have? You're a Navy pilot at the top of her career, you have amazing friends, and a boyfriend who you are certain God took extra time making, with both his looks and his personality.

You had a man, who despite his questionable fashion choices, loved you more than anything in the world, who looked at you as if you hung the moon, who worshiped the ground you walked on. Rooster Bradshaw was perfect.

You knew then man loved you and you could feel the evidence of his desire straining against his jeans as you straddled his lap while you kissed him.

So why were you so damn frustrated right now?

You were frustrated because at thirty years old, you were a virgin. And in the six months you had been with Rooster, you never told him. He definitely wasn't one to pressure you into sex or anything in that neighborhood. You had told him you wanted to take things slow, you felt like he was the one for you and you didn't want to screw it up.

That, and some well executed blow jobs seemed to satisfy him. You weren't necessarily hiding the fact that you hadn't had sex from him, but it embarrassed you. How many thirty years old had a man that looked like him and treated them the way he treats you aren't weren't jumping their bones?

What was even worse is that you hadn't done anything in the intimacy department. Though previous boyfriends had tried you psyched yourself out and shut them down, much like you had done to Rooster in the past. Sure you had given, but had never received

You knew deep down he would be able to make you feel good, but the thought of having to tell him scared you. What scared you even more though, was a conversation you had accidentally over heard between him and Hangman a few days ago at the Hard Deck.

"Rooster I know that Blaze has got to be giving you a run for your money in the bedroom." Hangman said to him. "Actually we haven't... we haven't slept together yet." Rooster admitted sheepishly. Hangman almost spit out his beer. "Bradshaw you guys have been together what... six months and you haven't screwed? You're a better man than I am because if it was me I might start looking elsewhere" Hangman finished.

You were too embarrassed to stay for the rest of the conversation. But in the back of your mind you wondered if Hangman was right. What if Rooster started to look elsewhere because you weren't sleeping with him? What if he got tired of waiting? You couldn't lose him because of your irrational fear, so you made up your mind that tonight you were going to have sex with him, virginity be damned.

You were almost naked in his lap, down to just your bra and panties. You were trying so hard to let yourself fall into this moment, to enjoy it, yet you felt like you were going to burst into tears at any moment.

"Rooster —wait... Rooster, I'm sorry, stop." You stated pulling away from him. You could feel the tears building. His hands went to your thighs rubbing soothing circles on them.

"Honey are you okay? Did I hurt you? Did I do something wrong Blaze?" He asked, his voice deep with concern.

"No, it's not you Bradley, you're perfect." You whimpered out as the tears streaked your cheeks.

"Y/N, baby what's wrong?" He asked pulling you close to him.

"It's not you, it's me. I, I..." you couldn't finishing

"You what?" Rooster asked, worried about you.

"I— I've never— I'm... I'm a virgin Rooster." You finally confess to him.

"Oh" He responds softly as if he isn't sure what to say next.

"I've never had sex, I've never done really anything. It's pathetic I know, and feel so bad because I know you have and that you want to. I know you have needs, and then the other night I heard you and Hangman talking about how if he was you he would go looking somewhere else for those needs to be met and that freaked me out because I don't want to lose you so I figured I could just get over it and we could do just it, but, but I'm scared." You spill your guts to him.

He takes your face in his hands a day wipes your cheeks. "Y/N, honey... I don't care if you're a virgin, and I would never leave you because we aren't sleeping together. Hangman is an ass and I told him as much after he said that. If you aren't ready, if you aren't 100% I'm fine with waiting."

God Bradley really was perfect. "But I am ready, I want this, I want you." You whisper.

"Okay." He responds before kissing you. The next thing you know, Rooster is lifting you off the couch and taking you to his room.

"What are you doing?" You ask. "I wanna do this the right way. I don't want your first time, our first time together to be on a couch. I want to take you to bed so I can properly love you.

You silently nod your head and wrap your body around Rooster, clinging to him like a koala on a tree.

His grasp on youis tight as he carries you through his home, his lips never leaving your skin as he kisses your neck, your jaw, your shoulder, any inch of skin that is exposed to him that he can get to.

Your nails dig into his shoulder blades as he kisses a sensitive spot behind your ear and you let our a breathy moan.

"Fuck sweetheart, that sounds so good, can't wait to see what other sounds I can get out of you." Rooster whispers in your ear as he opens the door to his bedroom and gently deposits you on his bed.

"Get comfortable baby. I'm going to take my time with you." Rooster tells you as you. You slide into the center of his California king and lay back on his pillows.

To him you looked like an angel with your hair fanned out around your face. The lace baby pink set you have on is a stark contrast to his grey duvet.

You look at him with big doe eyes through your long lashes. God, you look so fucking innocent, he can't believe that he is the one that gets to have you first, that you trust him enough to do this, that he is the first one to ever see you like this, and if he has it his way, he'll be the only one to ever have you.

"Darlin, God, you look—fuck, you look amazing." Rooster tells you as he moves onto the bed.

He pulls you flush against him as you lay on your side and kisses you again. This time it's sweeter than before... like he is trying to savor you.

His large hands find your hip. He guided your leg over him. Bringing the two of you even closer. He trails his hand up and skims over the lace panties you are wearing. His hand travels further until it finds the clasp of your bra.

"Can I?" He asks. "Yes." You breath out. He flicks it open with one had. Of course he would be able to do that.

He pulls the lace away from you and you roll onto your back. You quickly bring your hands up covering yourself.

"Honey, don't do that. You're beautiful. I want to see you." He tuts as he pulls them away from your chest.

You take a few deep breaths. You aren't scared, this is Bradley, your Bradley who tears up at the ASPCA commercials on TV. You're just neverous.

"I'm going to touch you now. Y/N, if I do anything you don't like, or you get uncomfortable, just tell me and we can stop. I promise I won't be mad. Okay?" He states.

You nod your head as one of his hands comes up to skim your breast.

You gasp at the sensation. He continues to palm it when his mouth finds your other one, he tentively captures your nipple in his mouth.

"Ah" you gasp as your hand flys to his hair. "Everything okay?" Rooster asks you. "Yes, feels good." You reply.

He tongue circles the sensitive flesh causing you to squirm underneath him. He keeps it up for a few minutes before switching to the other one.

The sensation has you grinding your thighs together, seeking some much needed friction.

Rooster can tell you want more. He slowly trails his lips down your stomach and stops at the waist band of your underwear. He peppers your hips with kisses before looking up to you, a silent plea for your permission to continue.

You shake your head and he carefully pulls them down your legs and drops them to the floor.

He grabs your ankle and trails wet kisses from it to your knee before switching to the other. He peppers the inside of your thighs with kisses, sucking and biting a few marks into them, claiming you as his.

"Rooster—" you breath out, not sure how to ask what you need.

"I've got you darlin." He coos before tentatively licking your slit.

"Oh fuck." You cry out, hips jerking off the bed. "So sensitive, so wet, and all for me." He says to you or to himself, you aren't sure.

He starts out slow, tongue sweeping long, broad strokes through your folds before he circles it around your clit, cause you to moan his name, God it sounds so good to him, he continues.

"Baby you taste so good, sweeter than fucking honey." He tells you. You aren't able to respond because his full lips are wrapping around your clit sucking it into his warm wet mouth.

"Oh Rooster, feels so good!" You cry out slipping your hand into his hair and grinding down on his face.

He continues to alternate linking and sucking on your clit, everything feels so good, you can feel an orgasm approach, but you need more.

"Roo— Bradley, please I need" You don't know what you're asking him for.

"What do you need pretty girl, tell me what you need." He coaxed you.

"You fingers, I need them in me please!" You gasp.

"Okay baby. Tell me if it's too much." He states before gently pushing his middle finger into you.

"So tight." He whispers. He slowly works his finger through your folds, finding that spongey spot inside you and stroking it.

You throw your head back and cry out his name. Soon his ring finger is slipping inside you to join his other.

Your hips grind down on his hand, chasing a feeling that no one has ever made you feel.

The grip you have in his hair tightens as he spreads you open further for him. His face is buried deep in your core, his nose bumps your clit as you grind against him, the fine hairs of his mustache further adds to the pleasure.

His broad fingers scissor your walls drawing you closer and closer to your peak.

Rooster grinds his hips into the mattress, enjoying this moment, perhaps even more than you are if that's possible.

Soon, your clenching around his fingers as they work in tandem with his mouth.

"Roo—Bra—I—I" you don't know how to tell him.

"I know you're close baby, let go. Cum for me pretty girl, I want to watch you fall apart for me. He encourages you.

His words cause the band to snap and soon, you're cumming all over his face and hands, but he doesn't stop. He continues to lap at you as if you're his last meal, drawing every ounce of pleasure from you, it's almost too much and before you even realize what's happening, you cum again, crying out his name as your thighs clamp around his head. White spots cloud your vision and you arent sure if you want to pull him closer or push him away.

Thankfully you don't have to decide because he has mercy on you and pulls your legs off of him and climbs back up the bed.

"You still with me pretty girl?" He asks brushing your sweat slicked hair from your face.

"Thank you, that—that was something else" you tell him panting, trying to catch your breath.

"Don't thank me just yet baby." He winks at you.

"Do you want to keep going, we can stop if you want to." He assures you.

"No, please, I don't want to stop, I want you so badly Bradley, I want all of you. I want to give you all of me." You tell him as your green eyes meet his.

He cups his hands around your face and kisses you sweetly before removing his boxers. He reaches for his night stand and fumbles in one of the drawers for a minute.

Then it dawns on you what he is looking for.

"I'm on the pill." You blurt out "And... well... obviously I'm clean." You continue.

"I'm clean too... are you sure?" Rooster asks.

You nod your head. "Okay." He states before kissing you again.

He lays you flat on your back, head propped up on some pillows before he moves his body over you.

"If it's too much, or it hurts, or anything and you want to stop, just tell me." He says.

You smile up at him knowing that he is going to take care of you.

You feel the head of his cock pressing against your entrance. His arms are by either side of your head, steadying himself, you grip the sheets at your sides as he slowly pushes into you.

You knew he was big, and you also knew he tried to warm you up with his fingers, but his cock still stretched you as he pushed in. You could tell he was going slow. The stretch of him burned, a few tears pricked your eyes, but you didn't want him to stop. You wanted this so badly.

"Almost there baby, you're doing so good, taking me so well." Rooster praised you sensing your discomfort.

After what felt like ages of him entering you, he was finally buried in you to the hilt.

He let out a breath he didn't know he had been holding.

Your hands left the sheets and went to his back, drawing him closer to you.

"Are you okay baby? Do you want to stop?" He asked, feeling how tense you were.

"No, I just need a minute, I feel, really full." You try to explain to him.

You took deep breaths as you slowly began to relax around him. You drew in a deep breath and slightly adjusted your hips, causing Rooster to hiss.

"Bradley, you can move. Just go slow please." You told him after what felt like ages to you buy was maybe only a few minutes.

His hips began to gently rock against yours. Testing the waters to find out what you liked, what gave you pleasure.

At first your nails dug into his shoulder blades, but as he continued, your relaxed and gave yourself over to the pleasure.

Soon, he was picking up the pace as your sounds turned from small whimpers to moans of pleasure.

"Oh. Oh. Oh. Baby that feels so good. Oh God Rooster, right there—just like that!" You cried out when he hooked your legs over his shoulders giving him a a chance to thrust deeper into you. The angle at which his cock was driving into you made it graze your g-spot over and over again.

"You feel so good around me pretty girl. Can't believe you trusted me enough to let me be your first. My fucking beautiful baby, your pussy was fucking made for me." Rooster praise you as he continued to move against you.

His fingers gripped the meat of your hips bringing them to meet his thrusts. You were sure you would be able to count ten finger shaped bruises on them tomorrow but you didn't care.

He moved faster again you, enough to push you towards your peak, but not enough to hurt you.

Rooster knew there would be a time where he could be rougher with you, but this was your first, he wanted you to enjoy it. While he wanted to go faster and harder, because fuck did you you feel good around him, and damn if he didn't want to cum deep in you and make you so cock drunk that you forgot what your name was, because he did, this wasn't about him.

No, this was about you. You weren't some random girl he had taken home for the night, no, you were the love of his life and the woman he was certain he was going to marry.

You trusted him enough to be vulnerable with him, and he wanted to make sure you were satisfied.

"Bradley, faster, harder, please." You moaned underneath him. He picked up his pace slightly, pulling you to meet his hips with each thrust.

You were on cloud nine. Each snap of his hips wound you tighter and tighter. Rooster was taking such good care of you. He was everything you ever could have wanted.

He continued to push into you, bringing his hips flush with yours each time.

You felt like heaven around him. The way he filled you was perfect, the way your walls clenched him, he had never felt anything like it, nothing came close to this feeling head had right now. The euphoria of being one with you. Not even flying made him feel this good.

Rooster never understood what some of his friends told him about taking someone's virginity, about how it was one of the greatest things they had ever experienced.

All of the women he had been with had experience.

He thought his friends were full of shit honestly, but boy, was he wrong.

Now he knew what they meant. It wasn't just how you felt around him, it was the connection you shared that made it so much better

The fact that he was the first one to draw these sounds from you, the first one to give you this pleasure. The first one to feel the velvet of your walls wrapped around him... it was fucking addictive and he was sure he would never get enough of it.

He had never thought of himself has the possessive type until now, you were his, all of you was his and his alone. The way you squeeze around him and pulled him in, the way your body accepted him, felt like it was made for him, and well, it would be a cold day in hell before he ever let someone else experience this.

He wanted you all to himself, forever and always.

"Babe, are you close pretty girl?" He asked as his hips began to falter. He wasn't going to be able to last much longer.

"I'm close, but I don't know if I can again. I want you to cum Rooster, you can if you need to. You already made me feel so good." You told him earnestly.

Rooster thought it was so sweet how you wanted to take care of him, but he needed to make you cum one more time.

He craved the feeling of your velet heat clenching down on him and milking him for all he had.

One of his hands left your hip and came to were your bodied met. He began to draw tight circles over your clit pushing you to the edge.

The new feeling overwhelmed you. You threw your head back and closed your eyes as a third orgasm rapidly approached you.

"Fuck, Bradley... I'm gonna cum!" You cried, rolling your hips to meet his.

"That's it pretty girl, I know you can do it." He encouraged you as his rhythm stuttered.

"Open your eyes baby, I want to see how beautiful you look when you fall apart on my cock pretty girl." Rooster commands. Your eyes snap open and with one, two, three more deep thrusts you cry out his name while your body shakes and pleasure overtakes you. You cling to him for dear life as he falls over the edge, spilling into you.

You aren't sure how long the two of you stay like that, but eventually the weight of Rooster's body on you becomes too much and you push him off.

He smiles at you, it's goofy and a little lopsided from the post sex high.

"That was amazing." You tell him.

"Best I've ever had." He tells you.

Now it's your turn have a goofy smile.

He pulls you tightly against him. You could stay like this forever, but suddenly you are aware of the sticky sensation between your thighs, and your need for the bathroom.

"Rooster, I need to pee." You say sheepishly. He just laughs.

He give your a quick peck on the lips before scooping you up and taking you to the bathroom. He gives you a few minutes to take care of business before he comes back with one of his shirt and a fresh pair of boxers on.

He sets you up on the counter next to him.

He wets a cloth in the sink and cleans you up. Then he slips his shirt over your head and carries you back to the bed before tucking you into some fresh sheets.

He curls up beside you and you bury your face into his chest. Your body suddenly heavy with sleep.

"Bradley." You mumble against him.

"Yes baby?" He asks stroking your hair.

"I love you."

"I love you too pretty girl, I love you too."

Tag List: @dreamingathighaltitude @shanimallina87 @luckyladycreator2 @mak-32 @katieshook02 @samhapner6 @rosiahills22 @thedroneranger @roosterforme @youlightmeupfinn

[cevansbrat0007]

The Green Light

Summary: Full Story! Andy is over the moon when you finally get the green light to be intimate again after the birth of your babies. But how do you explain to him that you're not quite comfortable with your post-pregnancy body just yet? Check out the sequel: The Green Light Afterglow.

Warnings: Mature Themes, Light Smut, Daddy Kink, Insecure Reader, Discussions of Post-Pregnancy Body, Discussions of Intimacy, Slight Lactation Kink Reference, Cursing, Minors DNI

A/N: I know this took a while. Thank you all for your patience and I sincerely hope it's okay. Prompt courtesy of an anonymous reader. Part of my ongoing Growing Pains Series. Warnings subject to change. All mistakes are my own. Please let me know your thoughts!

___

“Well, I’ve gotta tell you, my dear, by all appearances you’ve healed just fine.” You let out a sigh as Dr. Wilson, your OBGYN, removes the speculum. God, how you hated that thing. “You can go ahead and sit up.” You watch as he removes his gloves to make some notes on his mobile workstation. “Everything looks good. How have you been feeling lately? Raising four kids is no easy feat, especially when half of them are newborns.”

“Andy and I try to split the shifts as best we can. If he’s helping with the twins then I’ve got the older girls, and vice versa.”

“That’s good. One thing I’ve always liked about the two of you is that you believe in teamwork. You’d be surprised at how many couples don’t.” He makes a few more notes. “And how many hours of sleep would you say you get a night? Ballpark it for me if you can.”

“Um…” You have to think about that one. “Maybe five. Yeah, I would say about five hours a night. And I can occasionally squeeze in a quick nap during the day when the twins are sleeping. It doesn’t happen all of the time, but it’s better than nothing.”

The older man nods his head. “And how are Bianca and Katrina adjusting to the new additions? And by the way, don’t forget that you promised to show me pictures, because I certainly haven’t.” Dr. Wilson looks up from his computer and offers you a warm smile.

“I haven’t forgotten, don’t worry.” You tell him with a chuckle. “And they’re okay. Bianca loves to hold them all the time. And Katrina is enjoying being a big sister – she’s very helpful. She wants to play with them so bad, but she doesn’t quite get that they’re still a little too young.”

“I see. And is she still threatening to put A.J. outside?” The corners of his eyes crinkle as he struggles not to laugh just like he had when you’d first relayed your three-year-old’s initial reaction to your pregnancy reveal. 

“Oh, God. She’s only made that threat twice I think since we’ve brought them home. Once when he wouldn’t stop crying. And then again when she wanted to cuddle with me while I was in the middle of a feeding. Other than that, she’s been fine. He’s growing on her.” 

“Glad to hear it.” He mutters. “That’s usually how it goes. Give it a few years, and I bet they’ll be the best of friends.”

God, you sure hoped so. Just last night you had a dream about finding your little boy out in the woods. Except he’d somehow grown a beard, making him look like a baby mountain man. And, of course, he had been clutching that damn blankie too! 

“Well, you’ll be happy to know that I’m officially giving you the all-clear to resume any and all physical activity. If you have any concerns after we’re done here, you know I’m only a phone call away.”

Thank goodness! You couldn’t wait to start working out again. You were tired of rocking stretchy pants and maternity clothes. 

Your phone buzzes in your purse as Dr. Wilson finishes up whatever else he’s typing. It goes on for a while before it finally stops, only to resume buzzing seconds later. 

If you were a betting woman, and you were, you’d put your money on the person behind all the constant buzzing being none other than your husband, Andrew. You knew he’d been waiting for this day. Your man had been extra giddy this morning. So much in fact that you could’ve sworn he’d clicked his heels on his way out the door.

___

Twenty Minutes Later…

You wait to check your phone until after your appointment is over and you're safely back in your car. According to your phone, you have two missed calls from Andy Bear, along with three new texts.  

Andy Bear: Hey, baby girl. How’d the appointment go? Did we get the all clear?

Andy Bear: Can you answer your phone, please? I want to hear your sweet voice when you tell me the good news.

Andy Bear: C'mon! You’ve got me dancing on pins and needles right now. Call me.

You shake your head and then dial your man. He answers on the second ring. 

“There you are, sweetness! I was starting to get worried there for a moment.” The genuine concern in his voice has you playfully rolling your eyes. 

“Relax, Andy. Sometimes these appointments can take a while. It doesn’t mean anything is wrong, Dr. Wilson is just being thorough.” You check your appearance in the rearview mirror, noting that the bags under your eyes seem to look better than they have in days. “That’s part of the reason he’s been my OBGYN for so long, because he’s good at what he does.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. He’s great.” You know he's not being dismissive on purpose, it’s just that he’s chomping at the bit to hear one key piece of information. “How’s your little body? Did we get the green light?”

Ahh, and there it was. Sometimes Andrew Barber was like a dog with a fucking bone. And only your husband would refer to your body as being “little” when you were still walking around sporting maternity wear.  

“I’ve been cleared for all physical activity. Which means I can finally start working out again and –”

“Fuck, yeah we did!” He cheers into the receiver, loud enough to make you wince. “Alright, baby girl, that settles it. BiBi and KitCat are going to my sister’s for a sleepover and the twins will stay at grandma’s. Meanwhile, I’m gonna leave the office early to pick us up some dinner. How about we celebrate with some surf and turf?”

“Oh my god, Andrew! We are not leaving our two newborns at your mother’s house for the night. That’s too much!”

“What if she already said yes?” You have no doubt that your unrepentant husband is smiling hard enough to crack a tooth right about now. 

“You didn’t.” Your head drops to the steering wheel with a light thunk. 

“Oh, I did.” The sound of an eager chuckle spills across the other line. “Ma and Bill are happy to keep Rory and Junior. She said you left them with enough formula and diapers to get ‘em through and that she, and I quote, would be positively heartbroken if you deprived her of time with her precious new grandchildren.”  

“Andy…I don’t know…” As tempting as the thought of a night of uninterrupted slumber was, you were on the fence about being away from your precious babies for that long. 

RoRo needed to be rocked to sleep, while A.J. needed you to pat his little tush and bounce him just so. And they both needed approximately 1,375 kisses every five minutes, otherwise they got fussy. 

“You must really want a good night’s sleep, huh, Big Man?”

“Baby, when I get my hands on you, I promise that sleeping will be the last thing on both of our minds. Now, I’ve gotta run. But I’ll see you home around 4:00pm.”

“Andy…” 

How did you tell your husband that you weren’t really feeling your post-pregnancy body right now? You’d even taken to changing in the bathroom lately. Thankfully he hadn’t seemed to notice that increasingly bad habit of yours…

At least not yet. But it was only a matter of time.

“Hush, sweetness. You just let Daddy take care of everything, okay? I’ve been dreaming of this day for almost two months now, and I plan to take my time loving all over every inch of your delectable body. And what’s more, you’re going to let me.” You can practically feel your nipples pebbling beneath the fabric of your shirt. 

God, how did he always manage to sound so sexy when he was telling you what to do? Handsome ass buttface!

“I’ve gotta head into this meeting, but in the meantime, get some rest. You’re gonna need it.”

“Yeah, okay, sure.” You respond with a resigned sigh. “I…I guess I’ll see you when you get home then.”

“Damn right. Can’t wait to lose myself between those luscious thighs.” Andy rasps, with a slightly roughened edge to his tone. “It’s been way too long since I’ve had a taste…” 

Oh good God…and it had been way too long since you had to deal with beard burn. At this point, you’d almost forgotten about what it felt like.

“Bye, Andy Bear.”

"Goodbye, little love.”

The call ends, leaving you alone with your thoughts. Putting the car in drive, you pull out of the parking lot and start thinking of every argument you could possibly make to talk your sweet, although slightly ogreish, husband out of sexy times and into sleepy times. But there was also something that told you that might not work.

Which meant it was time to come up with a Plan B. And while you were at it, probably a Plan C too.

___

Later That Afternoon...

“This makes me look like an apple with legs.”

You stare at your reflection in the bathroom mirror trying your best not to give in to the overwhelming feeling of defeat. At this point, you’d tried on multiple sets of lingerie – all different styles, cuts, and colors. 

And this one had been the only thing that seemed to look halfway decent.

Well, the good news was that your ass was still there. But the bad news? So was your stomach. 

“Swear to God…I’m gonna find an ocean and throw myself in it.” You mutter as you stare at your reflection. You let out a resigned sigh as you do a little spin. “Knowing my ass can’t swim.” You gently smoosh your hand against your tummy in an attempt to flatten it. 

To be fair, you’d only given birth two months ago and the lingerie you’d purchased was kind of slimming so…

Maybe you were being too hard on yourself. Or, maybe it was still worth trying to convince your husband to settle for an evening filled with dinner and cuddles. You really weren’t in the mood to take your clothes off in front of him at the moment. 

Hell, who were you kidding? You could walk around wearing nothing but fishnets and tinfoil and the man would still find a reason to be into you. 

Sometimes your loving husband was a man of the hopeless variety. 

Plus, while Andrew Barber wouldn’t force you to do anything you didn’t want to do, he would definitely do everything in his power to persuade you. And he could be very persuasive when he put his mind to it. 

Yeah. You were probably fucked.

You take a deep breath and run your fingers through your thick hair, loosening and fluffing your curls. Although Andy would be home any minute, there was still time to throw on sweats and a t-shirt or something. 

“Fuck!” You hiss as your eyes well and your bottom lip begins to tremble. The other problem was that, while you were convinced that you needed more time, you also wanted to make your husband happy. But how could you when you could barely stomach the idea of taking off your clothes in front of him.

Just last week, some asshole at your favorite smoothie bar had the nerve to ask how far along you were – his intrusive gaze lingering on your post-baby body. His audacity had caught you so off guard that you were pretty sure that you’d given some unintelligible answer before snatching your drink and running towards the nearest exit. 

That one little interaction had practically eviscerated what little bit of self-confidence you had left. And while you hadn’t made specific mention of it to Andy, you might end up doing so – if only to plead your case. 

Which was that you were simply too large right now to be sexy, let alone feel attractive. Your skin was too loose, your stretch marks too prominent. And not only that, you were pretty sure that the only reason Andy wanted you right now was because he hadn’t gotten any in a couple of months. 

Once his itch had been sufficiently scratched, the haze would clear and then your husband would see your body for what it was. He would understand your need to undress behind closed doors, without an audience. And then he would give you however much time you needed to get yourself back into some semblance of shape. 

A lone tear slips down your cheek, which only serves to piss you off more. And although you’re quick to dash it away, another one is soon to follow. The last thing you needed for Andrew to notice you’d been crying. There was no need for both of you to feel bad about the state of things, you know?

With one last shake of your head you decide to throw on your robe and head downstairs to greet your man. 

“Let’s get this shit over with.”

___

Ten Minutes Later…

“Baby?” Your husband calls out as he enters the house from the garage. “Baby, I’m home! Where are you?”

“Kitchen!” You go back to busying yourself folding your brand new set of dish towels you’d purchased from Bed, Bath, & Beyond. That store was one of your happy places, second only to Target and Disney World. It also helped that there was one located almost directly across the street from the mall you’d stopped at as well.

Your pulse quickens as you hear him approach, his rapidly falling footsteps coming closer by the second.

“Ah, I found you.” Andy rounds the corner, grinning from ear to ear. “Hi, my gorgeous girl.” His smile somehow grows impossibly wider. “I’ve been thinking about you all day.”  

“Well, here I am.” You cast him a demure glance over your shoulder. “Although, I’m afraid I’m probably not much to look at.” Noticing his hands are surprisingly empty, you attempt to change the subject. “I thought you were gonna stop and grab dinner on the way?” 

“I was.” He cocks his hip against the kitchen counter as loosens his tie. “But since you didn’t seem all that keen on the idea of surf and turf this morning I figured I’d hold off. Maybe see how we were feeling later this evening.”

“Oh.” 

“Oh? Is that all my baby has to say about that?” Andy tosses his tie onto the counter before unfastening the top three buttons of his light blue dress shirt. “Just oh?” 

“Uh, yeah. How was your day?” You were quickly running out of towels to unfold and refold. If you kept it up you were going to start looking like a lunatic.

“Too long for a man who’s been missing his wife the way I have.” His sensual purr is enough to make you weak in the knees. “It was fucking excruciating, Baby Girl.” 

Don’t make eye contact. Don’t make eye contact. Don’t make eye – fuck! Your dumbass just made fucking eye contact!

Your throat suddenly goes dry as the weight of his intense gaze threatens to overwhelm you. Andrew Barber always seemed to have this way about him. Only he had the power to unravel you in this manner. 

It was truly a skill that was his alone. But on days like today, it was also a major nuisance.   

“Come here.” The gentleness of his tone softens the command.

“Umm…” Instead of doing as you’re told you decide to shove those stupid towels you’ve been preoccupied with into a drawer. Which also happens to be the wrong drawer. Kitchen linens didn’t belong with the cutting boards. Anybody with some sense could see that!   

“Sweetheart…” Andy’s voice drops another octave. “Stop fussing with those and come here already. I’d really like to hold my wife.” His earnest plea has your eyes welling with tears.

“Yeah. Okay.” You sniffle out, before dropping the towel and making a headlong dash into his waiting embrace. He wraps his brawny arms around you then, tucking his chin into your thick mane of glossy curls.

The two of you stand there without moving. Holding each other close as your hearts beat in time with one another. Andy’s hand comes to rest on your lower back, his palm slowly rubbing in small, soothing circles. 

“What’s wrong, princess?” He hugs even tighter as you gently nuzzle your face against his chest, effectively wiping off what little bit of makeup you’d managed to apply earlier. “Tell me, please.”

Aww. Your sweet Ogre had even said “please”. 

“Nothing.” Which was also code for everything. 

Andy steps back to tenderly grip your chin, his thumb lightly smoothing across your bottom lip. “You know Daddy doesn’t like it when you lie.” And then he leans in to brush his mouth over your own. “Especially when you’re upset.”

“I know.” The words come out barely above a whisper. “And I’m fine. I just, um…” You go to pull away, surprised when he actually lets you. “I went and did a little shopping today. You know…cuz’ we got the green light. But – well, not the robe. Th–that isn’t new. But once I got it home and really looked at it, I um…” You throw up your hands as everything comes tumbling out in one jumbled mess.

“It just doesn’t fit right, okay? It probably didn’t even fit properly at the boutique when I tried it on and I just didn’t notice. Because the lighting was different and the mirrors are maybe a little more forgiving. Kind of like the ones you find in a funhouse. Except all of them were super flattering. Not like the one we’ve got in our bathroom here at home. Which…I mean that’s probably how they get ya, right?”

Your husband lifts a quizzical brow as you continue to ramble and slowly back away. You knew there was quite literally no possible chance you could manage to outrun your handsome attorney. But that didn’t mean you weren’t above giving it the old college try.   

“So, I’m just gonna go upstairs and peel this ugly thing off. That way neither one of us has to even bother looking at it.” You finish rather lamely.

“And why exactly do you think I wouldn’t want to look at you? How about you explain that one to me, please?” Andy growls, jamming his hands into the pockets of his trousers.                 

“Because I don’t like the way I look right now and I’m pretty sure that if I show you, then you won’t either.”

Andy stares you down, the muscle ticking in his jaw. But you were beyond caring at this point. Right now was about acknowledging the truth regarding your body and the level of comfort you had with it.  

“That’s bullshit, baby.” He rakes an impatient hand through his hair, moussing the auburn strands. “You know I love the way you look. I fucking adore you.”  

“And that last part may very well be true, Big Man.” You concede, toying with the material of your robe. “But I, um...” A lump forms in your throat, but you force yourself to press on. “I do believe you love the way I look when I’m pregnant, yes. So do I…mostly. And you also love the way I look when I’m not pregnant. As in, after I’ve lost a healthy chunk of the baby weight.”  

“What in the–? I mean, Jesus fucking Christ!” Your husband cuts himself off mid-sentence as he rocks back on his heels – as if stunned by your admission. 

“I’m saying this wrong.” Good lord, you needed to get a better handle on the direction of this conversation. “Fuck! I know I am. But I don’t feel very good about myself right now. I don’t want to take off my clothes. I don’t want you to see me in this lingerie. Because I am almost entirely convinced that once you do – once you see all that I’m currently working with – you will change your mind about wanting to sleep with me.”

“You don’t mean that.” Andy scoffs under his breath, which you ignore.

“And if I see that…if I see that switch flip behind your eyes when it finally clicks just how unattractive I truly am…I don’t think I could handle that.”  

As hard as this was, it was important for you to make him understand. And once you were finished, perhaps you could cook the two of you something for dinner.  After that you would simply settle in and enjoy an easy, child-free night.

“Meaning?” Andy grunts.

“Meaning, I’m not taking off this robe tonight.” You blow out a weary breath as your hands go rest on your hips. “In fact, I don’t even know why –”

“Are you finished yet, sweetheart?” Your husband finally interrupts, apparently having had enough of your tirade. “Or do you have more? Because I’ve gotta tell you, as nice as it is that you think you’ve decided all this shit for us, your Daddy has quite a bit to say. So, are you fucking finished?”

“Y–yes.” That strange lump in your throat is back. “But I –”

“Stop. If you’re going to be done, then be done.” Andy interrupts again, scrubbing a tired hand over his face. “Baby Girl…I know what you’re doing. Even if you don’t, even if you can’t see it. I do. And I’m going to put a stop to it right now.”

“I’m just telling us both the truth!” You cry before you can catch yourself. 

“No. You’re feeding us both lies. And I won’t stand for that shit. Not for another goddamned moment. I–I just won’t.”

The passion in his voice is enough to temporarily silence any forthcoming protests. 

“And what’s more,” Andy forges on, “you’re not giving me even a shred of credit here. Which, and I’ve gotta be real honest with you here, kinda pisses me the fuck off.” Now it’s his turn to sigh, although this one is filled with exasperation.

“I’m sorry.” You whisper, looking down at your toes.

“Look. At. Me.” The authority in his tone has your head snapping up immediately. 

“Have I ever, and I do mean ever, in all the years we’ve been together, given you any indication that you are anything but beautiful to me?” He takes a step towards you, even as you take one back. “I quite literally worship the ground you walk on, sweetness. Which means that I occasionally notice things, even when you think I don’t.”

Your husband takes another step towards you, and then another. He’s getting closer, purposely crowding you with his big body – essentially trapping you like the predator that he was.   

“There has never been a time, not once, when I have been less than hopelessly attracted to you. I want you all of the goddamned time. And, you know, maybe I should seek professional help for this shit, but I don’t want to. I don’t need to. Because I love my wife. I adore every single inch of you.”

You jump when your back collides with the refrigerator, the cool surface of the stainless steel appliance piercing your skin through the thin fabric of your robe.

“So what is it, Baby Girl? What is that you’ve got under there that’s got you so convinced I’m going to be disgusted by what I see.” Andy levels you with a pointed look as his hands go to gently grip your biceps, caging you in. “What is it you’re trying to hide from me?”

You close your eyes when it becomes too hard to look at the man you loved more than anything - the man who was surely about to become your undoing.     

“While I appreciate your so-called brand of honesty, sometimes it hurts me when you talk about yourself like this. When you doubt yourself in this way. When you doubt me. Doubt us.” Andy briefly rests his forehead against yours before continuing. 

“How am I supposed to help you battle these insecurities if you won’t even let me in the ring, sweetness? Sometimes you make it damn near impossible to – fuck!” He hisses, breaking the almost tender embrace before reminding himself to pause. “Okay.”

“I–I’m sorry, Andrew.” This time you don’t bother trying to fight back the tears when they come. Instead you decide to let them fall, realizing that it might finally be okay to let your husband catch you.

Before you broke completely and shattered into a hundred-million little pieces.   

“Why on earth are you apologizing to me right now?” He cups your face with his hands as he brushes your tears away. “I’m not shaming you. I’m just…” He takes another calming breath. “I’m just talking to you. I thought we were expressing how we felt about things, weren’t we?”

“Yeah.” You give him a quick nod as more tears make their way down your cheeks.  

“Okay.” He presses a sweet kiss to your nose. “Then will you trust me to show you something?” Again you nod before allowing him to lace his fingers through yours and pull you in the direction of the hall.

“Wh–where are we going?”

“Hush.” 

He leads you down the hallway in silence, not stopping until you’re both standing in front of the full-length mirror located in the foyer. And then he reaches around to undo the knot on your robe, sliding it off your shoulders and letting it pool on the floor at your feet. 

“Well, would you look at you? Is this pretty little thing what you bought for me today?”

“Mmhm.” You breathe, resting your head against his broad chest while your man looks his fill. Andy smooths his hands up and down your sides, lovingly kneading your ample curves. “It was the only thing that I felt, um…like it might be okay.”

“You’re fucking gorgeous, Baby Girl.” Andy playfully nips at your ear. “You still trust me? Okay, good. Then let’s take this off, too.” He reaches for the skirt of your lingerie.

“But why?” You whine, attempting to wiggle out of his hold. Unfortunately for you, your Big Man refuses to let you go. “Wait!”

“I think I’ve waited long enough.” Even though he’s pushing you, you can tell he’s also trying to keep a lid on his patience. “We both have. You got to make your case back there in the kitchen, young lady. Which means it’s now time for your Daddy to make his, don’t you think?”

While you weren’t quite sure where this was going, you also weren’t sure if you were ready to use your safe word yet. If that particular rule even applied right now.

“I – alright.” You concede before lifting your arms so that he can help remove the flimsy garment, leaving you naked and bare to his gaze. Goosebumps rise on your vulnerable flesh as you shiver, but it’s not from the cold.

Safe to say, catching a chill was the last thing on your mind. You just wanted to get this shit over with, whatever it was, and then move the fuck on already.

“Be a good girl and open your eyes for me, little love.” Andy purrs, lightly running his fingers through your curls. “I want to show you what I see every time I look at you.” 

It takes you a moment, but eventually you’re able to do as you’re told. But instead of focusing on your own reflection, you choose to look at your husband – taking comfort in the warmth radiating from him.

You wanted to trust him. You really did.     

“Thank you. Now, I want you to do your best to hear me.” Andy begins as his hands come up to rest themselves on your shoulders. “You are gorgeous no matter what size you are. And I am consistently awed by the fact that you, my darling wife, just gave birth to two healthy babies a little over eight weeks ago. My babies.” You receive a tender kiss to the back of your neck.

Your lower lip begins to tremble of its own accord. But this time you don’t look away, instead you follow the path of his fingers as they trail their way down your body.

“It’s because of you, and your magnificent little body, that I’m lucky enough to have four pieces of heaven running around this house, making noise and causing chaos. Giving me both a reason to live again along with a few new gray hairs at the same time.” 

You watch as he lifts your breasts, hefting the erotic weight of them in his palms. He gently massages them, completely unfazed by the light dribble of milk leaking from your left nipple. Instead you’re treated to another roguish grin as his tongue darts out to greedily lap up the stray drops from his knuckles. 

“Fucking delicious. But stop trying to distract me, baby.” He rasps, his tone just shy of teasing. “We both know you’re not quite ready for me to feast just yet.” And then he winks at you, which suddenly has your legs feeling like jelly. 

Although you flinch when his focus shifts to your belly, the pads of his fingers tracing along one of your more prominent stretch marks. He keeps his touch light - bordering on reverent - as he marvels at the angry stripes painted across your skin.

The ones formed out of a natural bond built between a mother and her children. 

“I love this part of you. This part right here where you – aw, no. Please don’t look away from me, honey.” Andy moves to kiss away a fresh wave of tears. “Let me see those eyes.”  

“I…I...” Your mouth clamps shut as you stifle a hiccup. You grant yourself a couple of seconds before opening your eyes again. This time when you do, you gently place your hands on top of his. “I’m sorry. I know, you love this part of me because of the kids. And I get it, I do. But…” You shake your head and give up.

Because something tells you that perhaps you’d be better off just listening for right now. 

“Yes, I absolutely love this part of you because of our rugrats, but that’s not the only reason. It’s because, as much as I adore your tight little pussy and that spankable ass of yours, your belly has always been it for me.”

“What?” Now that has your full attention.    

“I’m not kidding.” He asserts. “I don’t think I’ve ever shared this with you, probably because I thought I’d run the risk of sounding dumb. But your belly has always been my favorite feature because it’s…it’s my anchor.”

Your husband’s heartfelt admission actually has the nerve to throw you for a bit of a loop.   

“I’m serious.” Andy continues, leaning down to press a hard kiss to your cheek. “There’s something about whenever the world feels like it’s falling apart all around me and then I reach for you, because that’s what I do. And you’re always there for me, my love. Always.” He gives you a light squeeze. “And without fail, you just let me hold you like this, wherever we are. And I just…I feel better.”

“Swear to God, I’m a grown-ass man, but this part of you brings me so much comfort. I understand the fact that you struggle with accepting your body the way it is right now, especially after welcoming the twins. But please believe me when I tell you that where you only seem to see your flaws, I see strength. I see incomparable beauty.” 

Andy takes that moment to fully envelope you, wrapping his arms tightly around your middle and burying his face in your hair. You allow yourself to stand there for a little while, drinking in the sight of your devoted husband holding your nude body.

You’ve never felt more loved. More cherished than you did right now.  

“Andy Bear…” You whisper, your voice filled with emotion. “I…I don’t quite see what you see. Not yet. But I do think I feel it now. More than I did anyway.” 

You let out a surprised yip when he spins you around. His intoxicating blue eyes bore into your own as his hands move to tease the globes of your ass.

“You should know that I wasn’t finished yet, princess. I just spent the last several minutes composing a sonnet dedicated to that greedy pussy of yours. Then there’s those luscious thighs, and that ass. I also never really had a thing for feet until I met you, but I’m particularly fond of those too. I’m prepared to wax poetic about it all because I want you to see what I see.” 

A laugh bubbles up in your chest. And when you decide to let it loose, it’s quite literally the most wonderful feeling in the world. You feel lighter than you have in days.

It’s enough to make you start crying all over again.   

“I love you, Andrew Barber.” You murmur, rising on your tiptoes to take his lips in a brief kiss. “And I know you had what I’m sure was one hell of a speech planned, and while I really hate to cut it short, I’m thinking I might wanna take you to bed now.”

“Oh?” His tone is rife with cautious optimism. “Is that right?”

“Yeah.” Giving in to impulse, you proceed to tickle his ears. He makes a show of batting your hands away as he playfully dodges your advances – much to your delight. Although he eventually puts an end to things by picking you up and holding you close.

“But can we maybe take it slow?” You ask as you snuggle into his chest, basking in the safety and security of his familiar scent. 

“Of course.” Andy murmurs as he spins on his heel and heads towards the direction of the stairs. “We have all night, my precious girl.”  

That was the moment you knew without a doubt. The moment you finally believed that everything he’d said, every word he’d spoken to you, had been nothing but the truth.  

And later that night, when you collapsed on the bed feeling completely sated with one another, you thanked your lucky stars that fate had led you into the arms of the one and only Andrew Barber.

END

For more about Andy and Reader's first time making love after welcoming their twins, be sure to check out the sequel, The Green Light: Afterglow.

[sugoi-writes]

Scream Machine - Part 2 - An Alastor x Reader Fanfic

A/N: Soooo, here's part 2! Horny brain went into overdrive and cranked this bad boy out. I do apologize if there are mistakes. I hope you enjoy!

Keep in mind I'm still keeping the reader/their parts/and such all neutral: the only thing is you are in a dress. But otherwise, that's it!

Mentions of grinding, light choking, some manhandling, biting, making out, tidbits of French, and generally... lots of clothed smut.

Catch yall in horny jail tonight 👈😎👈 Bring a sweater

❤️🎙❤️

The weather, despite the hellscape, was... perfect? Your stroll was casual, slow... and you felt like you were either being paraded around, or made claim on. It make your throat tighten as you continued walking with the radio demon.

You glanced upward, instantly regretting your decision. You caught the glint in his eye as your face heated.

"So, have you always been a musician, dear? In your time alive, I mean." You blinked at the question, nodding.

"On and off while alive. Music class here, trying new instruments there... but when I came to hell, something just... called to me. And I've been doing jazz band since I've gotten the hang of trumpet." You were surprised by the pleasant conversation, the ulterior motive becoming harder to crack.

"Do you play? With your broadcast and all, I'd assume you play too..." Alastor hums, positively delighted by your questioning.

"Indeedy! My Mother taught me everything I know. I'm a piano man, myself... never took up an interested in brass or percussion." Your eyes widened a little bit. How odd for an overlord to comment on... his mortal mother.

"I assume she was a good player..." The smile on Alastor's face faltered for a beat, before it quickly bounced back," Oh yes... she saved as much money as she could for lessons, as well. Whatever she couldn't do, she made sure I learned it elsewhere. You'd be hard-fetched to find a tune I can't play." You found yourself returning his smile as he looked down to you. Most of what you hear about Alastor is how terrifying he is... how dangerous he was... What a rare treat it was to hear about how he was just a child once, like you.

"And... I would assume you could keep up with demand, yourself," Alastor quipped," You must have a pretty good ear and lots of darling little fans.

You were going to confirm that yes, you made a name for yourself... but you remembered why you got here. Be humble.

You were shrugging shortly after," Y-You could say that, I guess. I wouldn't say I'm perfect by a long shot, but--"

You nearly fell on your face as Alastor rounded the corner suddenly. You grip at his arm tightly as your train of thought buffered. You didnt see the look on Alastor's... the look of satisfaction. He has you right where he wants you... Before you could continue walking, you felt your body become incoporal again, before materializing in the alleyway. Your breath hitches, Alastor now standing before you.

"Tell me... is music your only source of income?" Alastor asks, his voice taking on a nearly creamy quality. A shiver hits you again. That damned voice...

You scoff, laughing bitterly," Of course not... you should know that, with your hotel side project..." You seethe, immediately catching yourself. Don't lose your cool...not with this guy. His voice is already dangerous, a voice you typically fell asleep to... don't let him crawl further into your head.

Alastor's grin seemed to double, as he lowered himself to your level. A dangerous glint glided across his eyes," ...what if I told you it could be?"

You take a step back, your hand brushing against the wall of the alleyway. You were nearly pushed all the way to your back as Alastor loomed over you," I dont... quite follow I'm afraid, Alastor, sir..."

Sir. Ohh, he did like the sound of that. Your pulse picking up was music to Alastor's ears... His hand slammed into the wall next to your head, making you gasp and jolt. You looked to your right for your escape, but your head was tilted back and up towards the Radio Demon, his damned microphone forcing you to look his way.

"Well, with being the hotelier, and having my own... passion projects... I have been looking for people to delegate to. 'Many hands make the work lighter', and the like...," Alastor cooed, his voice sickeningly sweet as opposed to his demented face.

"And with this hotel... there is not shortage of entertainment, nor opportunities for employment..."

You swallowed hard, having heard of the hotel. You've seen the standoff that was brought about the most recent extermination. The things you saw made your skin crawl, as if infested with maggots. The princess of hell, Charlie, and her insane powers... the King of Hell himself, who was short a spouse, but not a punch... and the Great Alastor, who many had thought was gone; perished. But alas, how wrong you all were....

"Look, I-- I appreciate the offer. But redemption isn't what I need. I earned my ticket here, and I'd like to earn my keep to stay. This life-- this style--... I don't imagine heaven is very keen on wild jazz musicians up there." You grinned up at the Radio Demon, some of your fire bubbling back up from below," You have a lot of gals and boys just itching to get in... why me?"

Alastor's eyebrows raised, impressed," My friend, if there is anything that hotel and its residents lack, it's class... and what better way to fake it than with quality entertainment? Additionally, the more they partake... the more they adapt; and the more that YOU--"

A large pile of money vaporized out of thin air, it's bills fanning your face," ...stand to earn~"

You swallowed hard. The amount of money that was in his hand was... transformative. It was regal amounts of money. You could do so much with it. Pay debts, secure land... You'd be able to get out of the barrel of shit you'd been trapped in.

You glanced between the money and Alastor, your eyebrows knitting," ... well, what do you want out of all of this? Surely you're expecting something on your end, Mr. Overlord..."

Alastor sighs, tsking as his cane drops your chin, allowing you to relax," If you're worried for your soul, I'm afraid I have no interest in it." Alastor waves off your worry dismissively, still grinning maniacally," No, no... all I want is to become your patron. You supply entertainment for the hotel and its guests, and I supply you with cash... in the meantime, I can make any alterations and requests to your 'sets' at will." You blink, surprised as you process the words spoken to you. This man ALWAYS dealt with souls... and he had no use for yours? You huffed, almost offended. Of course... why would he have a use for a useless sinner like you?

You crossed your arms across your chest, your golden dress ridding up your thighs," So... let's say I were to agree to your little arrangement. Would I still be able to do my other music gigs? I'm still making a name for myself..."

"That would be quite alright, dear."

"And if I have a conflicting event...?" Alastor's silent smile sends the message. No calling out sick... got it. You nodded to the cash in Alastor's hand, eyes narrowed. You needed to play this up, see how much you could squeeze out of this...

"And that? Is that my weekly pay?" Alastor shakes his head, the money still gripped in hand like a bear trap. One that you were about to fall for...

"My my, you must take me as a sham... this is just the sign on bonus! I can assure you, you'll be making SO much more, once you start..." You gulped down the air around you like a fish out of water, gapping. Yep. That's all that you needed to hear.

"I... I dont..." Your mind was racing. Would you really be able to live with yourself by taking this? Would you really be able to accept a bribery like this from one of the most sadistic fucks in hell? ...of course you would.

You hold your hand our to Alastor, hellbent on making it official," Alright, Radiostar... let's make that deal." Alastor is quick to chuckle, his tone dark and rich as he closes the gap. The firm, resolute shake that was shared between you lit a spark in him, literally and physically, with an ominous green light. He had to keep getting more... MORE of you. More of your time.

Alastor backs you into the wall once more, your eyes doubling from panic. And there was your pulse, aching to be bit into... Alastor stoops down to your height, hands slowly raking down the walls of the alley. It their wake, he was leaving deep, wide rivets.

"Dear, I have to ask...," Alastor rasps out, his eyes threatening to flicker to dials. His voice drops an octave, making your legs squeeze together. Alastor's eyes move to them, taking note. So you were his little fan...

"...how is your stamina?" You didn't have time to ask, before Alastor crashes into your lips, tilting your chin up. You were breathless, hands instantly coming up and beating on Alastor's chest. This was so sudden! This was in public!!! This... this was pretty hot, honestly.

You weren't sure if it was the lack of oxygen, or how good his kiss had become... but Alastor was making you question your resolve. You felt Alastor's tongue, thin and keen on entering your mouth. You hesitated, before you felt two large hands grip you under your thighs. As you were hoisted up, you groaned, giving Alastor easy entry. The moment his tongue met yours, you were practically melting. Alastor was famous for his silver tongue, but you had no idea he could do this with it.

Your head was reeling from the quick, heated emotions you felt. Once or twice, you had pondered what it would be like to be endeared to the Radio Demon... but only that: pondered.

And yet today, you seemed to be having your lucky day. A fast paced, VERY lucky day.

When Alastor finally pulled away, you were panting, much harder than you did inside of the speakeasy. A strap to your golden dress had fallen down shoulder, only for Alastor's hands to move it back into place. A gentleman, despite everything.... and despite the mouthwatering sight of your dress riding further up your thighs. Alastor had to admit the display made him feel... carnal desires that he hadnt felt in such a long time.

"It's a shame... I figured the taste of metal would still be on your lips... but no matter. You taste just as sweet..." Alastor nearly purred, making you sigh shakily in his grasp. You fisted his blazer, eyes hazy as Alastor began to kiss your cheeks, then down your neck. You could punch, kick, scream... but this was playing out in sucj a delicious way... would a part of you really want to see this go any other way? You moaned into the crisp, hellish air.

You thought not.

You let your head fall back against the wall, eyes fluttering as you felt his hot tongue in all of his open-mouthed kisses. His breath set you on fire, and you were kicking yourself mentally, realizing this demon was getting you much too heated.

"S-Slow down! I-- ahh-- W-We're in public! Nnngh--" Your pitiful words were useless as Alastor suckled on the junction between your neck and shoulder, making your head feel even lighter. Your legs strained and buckled, and you could just tell that if Alastor touched you between your legs, you would be drenched with your own arousal.

"Aren't most performances live, mon cher~?" Alastor chuckled darkly, his nonchalant attitude making your breath hitch again. A broken, disjointed moan was the only thing you allowed to come out. With your head still thrown back, you couldn't see the way he drinked in your appearance. Alastor relished and memorized how your throat tightened and bobbled with each noise you made... Arguably, this was much better to watch than your strife at the speakeasy.

Alastor lapped at your shoulder lecherously, before sinking his teeth in. You nearly screamed, the pain soon replaced by pleasure as Alastor suckled at the wound. You let out a pleased hiss when Alastor's hands moved higher, gripping you by your hips. Then, you felt his knee come between your legs, anchoring you in place. To your horror, Alastor could indeed feel JUST how excited you've gotten.

Due to you dangling in the air, gravity was already threatening to pull you down. And with his knee the only obstacle, you felt the friction at your core... Worriedly: a place where you weren't sure if you wanted stimulated in an alleyway. But, the deeper parts of your psyche ached for the display to contiue... to see how much the Radio Demon would do.

Your toes curled as you let out a high pitched yelp, your hips involuntarily grinding into Alastor's knee. The deer Demon's ears perked up. Not only had your heart fluttered, but your voice had changed... so scandalous! He wasn't one to engage in this behavior before Hell... but with how far your dress had ridden up, clothed privates gyrating against his knee... he felt the need to indulge.

Experimentally, he pressed his knee further into you, forcing a whine as you ground down again. It looks as though you bit off more than you could chew... but you couldn't help but revel in the feeling. Alastor smiled mischievously, practically groaning himself.

"Oh darling, you taste absolutely Heavenly...," Alastor exaggerated," And your little cries... THIS is a performance I'd like to see~" Alastor nipped at your skin again, making you quake and grind. Your mouth hung open as Alastor hungrily licked a stripe from your collarbone to your ear. He shifted his tone to a gravelly, baritone inflection that made you clench around nothing. With the confidence of a succubus, he whispered in your ear.

"Should we see it to its conclusion?"

Your head rolled to the side, allowing Alastor more access as you panted below him. The fire in your belly beckoned your answer.

"Pl-Please... I-- I can't-- I cant...! n-not without...," you bite your lip," I-Internal stimulation." Alastor chuckled, sultry eyes gazing back to you through half lids. How quick you are to switch sides... how quick you were to be putty in his hands. Perhaps you would be willing to engage in other deals...

"You doubt my abilities? You wound me~" He ground his leg into your heat again, sending sparks up your spine," Then you'll have to work for it..."

You whined as Alastor leaned in to kiss you again, his hands holding your waist firmly," You may use me to meet your peak, love...," Alastor huffed, bringing you higher with just his knee. You found yourself unable to think, your body moving on its own to situate yourself.

"And when you climax, I want to look at me. And only me."

You panted like a dog in heat as your hips moved on their own, Alastor's grip rather unnecessary. Though, if he let go, he would be scared of losing this moment.

Your hair clung to your forehead as your voice hit a crescendo, eyes threatening to roll back. He wasn't kidding. With all of this wording, foreplay, and tension... you may just come from grinding on his leg afterall.

You felt a hot, girthy tendril come up to your lips, swiping your drool across your bottom lip. Alastor was lowering himself,  kissing the hem of your top. You shuddered as you felt the heat of his face ghosting your skin.

"Thats it... keep going. I promise I will give you something much more fulfilling soon~"

You whined as your mouth fell open, Alastor's tentacle pushing past your lips. The promise had to demanding more. On command, you sucked on his tentacle, hollowing your cheeks as you felt it wiggle and explore your mouth. He had also managed to quiet you down... effectively: he killed two birds with one stone.

In his case... something had been hardening in his trousers, straining against its confines. Damn it all, he was losing his restraint.

Alastor's hands guided your hips, rocking you quicker against his leg. He would ensure that you met your high before he pushed you too far. Your hands flew up to steady yourself, grasping his lapels tightly. Alastor chuckled in amusement as he watched you bounce against him, eyes rolled fully back into your skull as you took his tentacle and his teasing. Alastor rewarded you with a well placed kiss, landing on top of your clothed nipple. You nearly shrieked as Alastor suckled there, a new tentacle coming up to tweak and fondle the other. What a perfectly flushed and scandalous display!

You were putty in his hands, about to come completely undone. You looked towards Alastor, signaling to him that you were getting close. The Radio Demon grinned, removing his tentacle almost immediately. It instead looped around your neck, pulling you close to his face.

Your head spun as what little oxygen you had was knocked from your windpipe, it's grip around you loose. And yet, it was sensual enough to spike the feeling in your gut twofold. You let out a garbled whine, your lips forming the words "Close! Cl-Close!!!"

Alastor brusher your nose with his own, his voice low and demanding," You can cum now, dear... let me see your grand finale."

Your entire body convulsed, the suddeness of your orgasm shocking you. Your hands shook as your nearly screamed, Alastor's lips silencing your pleas. He helped your ride out your pleasure, magma coursing through you as you started to return to your senses. You panted, breath ragged as Alastor returned your gaze, catching his breath at the same time. You looked down between the two of you, eyes widening when you realized what had happened.

Alastor's pants now had a very evident wet spot... but not just from you.

You looked to meet Alastor's gaze, eyes wide in awe as he gave you a toothy, blissful grin.

"You'll have to excuse me, dearest. I am not used to this form of... entanglement. Though I can assure you that we can work on that stamina... together."

Alastor lowered you to your feet, before catching you hastily. Your legs wobbled and gave out, too unstable to keep you upright. You smiled back, eyes still glossy with lust.

"I-- I have to hand it to you, Alastor... that... that was a show alright."

Alastor laughs breathlessly, snapping his fingers. With a quick flourish, the both of you were wearing new outfits. You were now dressed in a deep red gown, while Alastor was fitted in a black and red pinstriped suit. Evidence of your mingling was gone, his sweaty, slick hair had now back to its voluminous, pristine look. You questioned if you looked just as fair...

"As I said! It was a performance I was most invested in... and one of many, I would hope." Alastor pats your cheek, stepping back once he knew you could stand.

"Unfortunately, my dear, I am out of time. Business to attend to. But... whenever you are free... you may come straight to the hotel for check in."

"Ch-Check in...?," you reply," But... I wasn't so keen on redemption, remember?"

Alastor laughs, a familiar laughing track echoing through his vocal frequency," You jest! Surely you know all staff are to stay within the hotel, dont you? Free room and board! What could be a better perk?" You smile sheepishly, wiping your hands down your sides, as if they were dirty from your exploits.

"Well... I guess after a freebie and getting my hair blown back, it'd be rude to refuse... I assume I'll have my own room?" Alastor nods, taking your hand.

"I'll ensure that it's taken care of. Of course... if you'd like, I could give you priority on where you'd like to be placed...?" You swallowed the lump forming in your throat, suddenly nervous after having been given the ride of your life by a near stranger.

"Well... if I could be next to your room... it may make... 'practice'... a little easier?" Alastor smiled wickedly, pulling your hand to his lips. You held back a mewl as he kisses your delicate knuckles.

"Consider it done... I'll send some help to collect your things." Alastor backs up a few more paces, and double taps the ground with his staff," Check in is before 8PM... don't be late~"

And with that, the Radio Demon disappears, leaving your head reeling and face flushed. You sighed, placing a hand over your still racing heart. You had a lot of work ahead of you...

You begin your awkward, wobbly way towards you apartment. The possibilities and the future were looking all too promising...

Indeed, you were about to be a much richer, much more satisfied sinner. And you were a-okay with that.

[astravv]

one of your girls || alhaitham x stripper! reader || multi-part

warning(s) : smutty fic, reader is a stripper

pairing(s) : alhaitham x female! reader

summary : modern au story. alhaitham owns a strip club where almost all of his girls have a thing for him. it’s no wonder since he’s so handsome. his club catches your eye. easy money, and dancing. something you are good at. a week into the job, you start to notice that alhaitham has been keeping an eye on you. maybe he’s taken a liking to you?

a/n : this idea came to me while I was listening to

the weeknd’s song “one of the girls” so if ur the type to listen to music while reading fics, there’s a good song to listen to for this fic.

—

you strut around the pole, swinging yourself around for all the men to see. you were your favorite pair of lingerie tonight. after all, it was a special night. it’s your birthday. some people wonder why you would work on your birthday, but you like to think that you’re treating yourself with all the stacked up cash drunk men like to throw at you.

after the song is over, you quickly collect your cash and continue to the back of the stage, giving a small smile to the next dancer coming on stage.

she was one of the more snarky girls. she was stuck up and always has an attitude. she’s also a blonde with a damn good body, so of course the men love her, and she knows that. she always makes you and the other dancers feel bad about how much you make when you see her fat wad of cash she brings off of stage every night. boss seems fond of her too. she brings him good business, after all.

you up to your assigned vanity and locker to lock up the cash you received for the night.

“going home soon, newbie?” one of the brunette girls asks.

“yeah actually, i better be getting home.” you shoot her a small, soft smile. she nods and goes back to cleaning up her makeup.

“wish you could’ve stayed longer, i just got here.” the brunette sighs, setting down her powder brush she had been using to fix her makeup up.

“i know, tonight is my birthday and i just want to do something special tonight.” you reply, grabbing your normal clothes out of the locker.

“well happy birthday, newbie.” she exclaims.

“thanks.” your voice trails off. you quickly get into your comfy clothes and start turning your vanity off and tidying up your area so you can leave. you then place all the cash you had made in your purse, and head out the back entrance. alhaitham always said to all the girls to leave out the back entrance because he didn’t want random intoxicated men bothering us and following us home. no one was allowed behind the office buildings, and even if they came back there, we had really good cameras.

before you walk out the door, you hear a familiar voice call out for you. you turn around to see alhaitham leaning out of his office door, urging you to come in.

you nod your head and follow your boss into his office. he pats the chair in front of his desk, signaling for you to sit down. you start to worry if you’ve done something to upset him, but nothing comes to mind. you’ve been on time to work, left on time, and have done good out on stage, at least you think so.

he sits down on the chair at his desk, looking into your eyes. you awkwardly sit yourself down in the chair and dust your pants off, waiting for him to speak.

“so y/n. i’ve taken a liking to you.” alhaitham begins, smiling softly. you’ve rarely ever seen the boss smile. granted, you haven’t been here for long, but still. nothing but a blank stare ever comes from him. “customers seem to like you too, they’re constantly asking when you’ll be out next.”

you anxiously nod.

“don’t tell the other girls, but i think you’re better than all of them. you’re gorgeous, have a nice body, beautiful eyes.” he tells you. “now i am just blabbering on, but it’s true. you are one of the prettiest girls i’ve ever laid my eyes on.”

alhaitham gets up from his chair and walks over to you, staring into your eyes the whole way. he reaches his hand up to your chin and pushes your face up, so he can get a better look at you.

“so pretty.” he mumbles.

“alhaitham, i-“ your voice trails off. he lets go of your face and smiles softly again.

“what’s wrong, babydoll?” he whispers.

“isn’t this unfair to the other girls?” you question, quickly standing up from the chair.

“it’s not like they’re competing for my love. they’re all here to make money. if they wanted my love they’d make more direct advances like that one allie girl.” he replies. “she’s obsessed with me. i don’t feel the same about her. she’s just like any ordinary girl. boring.”

“yeah, i guess.” you murmur under your breath.

alhaitham grabs your arm and pulls you close, his lips so close to yours. you both join into a soft, yet passionate kiss. your hand trails up his arm and squeezes it.

alhaitham moves back from the kiss, still staring longingly into your eyes. he kisses your neck, biting at the soft flesh, making little soft moans escape through your lips. your hand grips onto his arm harder, digging your nails through his shirt.

then there’s a knock on the door. alhaitham lifts his head up and looks towards the door.

“who is it?” he calls out.

“allie.” a girl’s voice responds. “i need to talk about my schedule.”

you roll your eyes, then look at alhaitham who also looks very annoyed. he pulls himself away from your grasp and goes to open the door. you walk behind him, then quickly push yourself through the doorway, ignoring allie’s dirty looks.

you piece yourself together and push the back door open so you can head out to your car.

once you get to your car, you immediately throw yourself in and start collecting your thoughts. the thought of alhaitham’s lips on your neck was enough to drive you insane, especially the whole drive home. you almost completely forgot that it was your birthday, but maybe that’s the reason why he was acting so weird towards you. maybe it was a special birthday thing?

the thought of it just being a birthday thing upset you. you didn’t want this crazy incident to be a one time thing. you needed more of alhaitham’s touch.

once you got into the parking garage of your apartment, you spot a familiar face. it was a taller man, he was handsome, but clearly looked intoxicated. you realized he was one of the men at the club who was staring so closely at you.

you bit your cheek, hoping that it was just some random coincidence that he lives in the same apartment complex as you. but you always had an open mindset to creepy men. especially with the job you have.

the man presses the elevator button to go up. he waits patiently and then enters the elevator once it gets to the garage level floor. he heads up, and all your worries seem to be gone.

you continue on, pressing the elevator button to go up too.