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genevaxoxo · 4 months ago

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imagineee… sleepy! caleb x desperately down bad!reader who can’t help but marvel at caleb as he’s sleeping. he’s back…he’s actually genuinely here. in front of you. lying on his back sprawled out, an arm haphazardly over your stomach, with his head in your direction- and is that drool slipping out of his mouth?

you can’t help but coo at him gently, lifting your thumb to swipe at his mouth, and as you go to pull you hand back, he nuzzles into your palm, pressing a barely-there kiss; your heart stops in your chest, and you can’t help but grin to yourself, lovesick. adorable, you think to yourself, as you caress his cheek lovingly and begin to close your eyes as well, ready to return to your dream world-

until he rolls over on top of you.

caleb, in all his 6’2 glory, essentially climbs on top of you- a leg in between yours, head laying peacefully on your chest, with his hair, wild and free in your face, and his entire torso layered up on you. your arm is bent awkwardly, and you squirm under him until he moves just the slightest to free your arm. you lift it up to run a hand through his hair (mostly to move it the hell out of your face) and brush his waves away.

you feel like you’re drowning in a sea of caleb; not that you mind of course. your senses are immediately overloaded-

the apple pine shampoo he had lathered on in the shower, the crisp evergreen aftershave he used, your moisturizer (because ever since you moved in, he apparently “ran out of lotion”)-

he smelled so good. and he smelt like yours.

you lay there quietly for a good minute, simply enjoying his warmth, until your chest starts to ache from the weight of his head, and your legs fall asleep. you try to gently roll him off, but he won’t budge- the most you get out of him is moving his jaw a little to the right so that your boob doesn’t get stabbed anymore.

the buzzing in your leg doesn’t go away however, making you squirm ten times worse. you debate whether or not to wake him up- but you’d rather suffer than ever disturb him. it’s the first time in weeks that he’s actually slept- the fleet always pulling him back- away from you- one way or another. you’ll be damned if fate rips him away from you again.

so you lay there again- accepting your painful fate-

until he moves again.

this time though, it’s different. it’s slow-subtle- almost as if it’s carefully calculated, which sure, could be said for any one of caleb’s actions, but rn it’s…different- but you pay no mind, dismissing it as just something of sleep.

he tilts his head a little bit, letting his nose guide him, almost like an animal sniffing out its prey, and it leads him to the swelling your breast, which somehow is more exposed, since the strap of your tank top apparently slid off-but you could have sworn it was on earlier. one on his hands snakes up your body, gently caressing the skin exposed above your navel, while simultaneously gripping your waist tightly, anchoring you to him. your body shivers, goosebumps covering every inch of you, as you’re all but surrounded by one thing:

caleb.

he nuzzles against the exposed skin, and simply presses his face against it, taking in a deep breath before relaxing again. you smile softly, playing with his hair; the pain from your body suddenly dissipates and you feel your eyes begin to flutter close again.

but again- 5 minutes later, just on the edge of the cliff of falling asleep, something pulls you-

it’s wet- and warm.

your eyes are still closed, but you feel something on your skin- a tongue- and it’s moving slowing across your collar bone, licking and sucking languidly- and you can’t help the low groan that the action rips out out of you-

and you swear your hear it echo back.

you open your eyes slowly, the room just as dark as it was before, with the exception on pale moonlight slivering through the curtains. your eyes slowly drift down your body, and caleb’s since he’s still sprawled on top of you, and your eyes finally land on the culprit that woke you up.

there they are in all their glory- caleb’s lips practically engulfing your upper body- your collarbone seems red, no doubt turning purple with every passing minute. he still seems asleep, no doubt about that- because if caleb was awake, “slow” and “relaxed” would be words that you would forget the meaning about all together. he’s eyes are still glued shut, and if not for the squelching noises from his mouth, he would seem to be completely asleep. his mouth moves in a torturous cycle that you cant help but lightly mewl to no matter how hard you try.

lick. bite. suck. repeat.

his lips relent simply for a moment, and they trail butterfly kisses down the valley of your breasts- and it’s not long before you feel cold air on one of your boobs, caleb’s movement exposing more skin from that off-shoulder strap than before. your boob, which was completed exposed before, all of a sudden is covered again, engulfed by the cavern of his mouth- and so the torment begins again, and you have to bite your lip to keep yourself from moaning out loud. your hand buries itself in his hair to ground yourself, keeping him in place but debating whether or not to tug him off. it’s messy- spit is all over your tit, and he’s all over you, but somehow, it’s still clean enough that you can’t help but let a low moan out at- which somehow spurs him on.

his movements are still lazy, it’s almost as if this is therapeutic for him. there’s no real motive to his actions- he’s like a baby.

but babies aren’t this handsy.

the hand that was earlier on your waist, has somehow been drifting down simultaneously as his mouth has been moving up, and has now found its home-riiightttt on top of your-

“s-shit n-no-“ you can’t help but gasp out and arch lightly.

one of his fingers gently slip under the waist band of your shorts, running up and down in a straight line on your panties, right on your slit. his mouth circles your bud, and gently bites down, making you squeak. his fingers continue drawing patterns down there, eventually continuing their assault on your clit- teasing you beyond belief. you squirm under him- worse than before- and try to keep yourself steady (which works for the most part since you’re buried under his weight) but alas you fail. caleb’s mouth bites your nip subconsciously, making you whimper and force yourself to still- obeying him even when he’s asleep; you can’t help it.

again, you debate whether or not to wake him up- to stop him, or have him finish you this. almost as if sensing your thoughts, two of his fingers unexpectedly slip under your panties, hovering over your mound before slowly collecting your wetness and entering, inch by inch.

“oh fuc-“

you quickly bite your tongue to silence yourself as your eyes roll back to the back of your head- the stretch burning so good. he starts moving his fingers at a slow pace, making you whine lowly and gasp, trying to match his rhythm. again, slowly but surely, he speeds up, thrusting them in and out and in and out- until he has you writhing under him again- and eventually you feel that peak building; higher, and higher, and higher until-

he stops.

your eyes shoot open in disappointment and disbelief, jaw dropped as you look down and see both his hand and mouth still. you almost start crying at the sight-

you were so close.

you lay there still for 30 seconds, albeit impatiently, before sneaking your hand down to grab his wrist- if he wasn’t gonna do it, then you’d do it yourself.

slowly, you start moving his hand in and out, setting a good pace for yourself, and eventually you feel that peak building up again. you begin rolling your hips subconsciously, mouth dropping open again as you feel yourself teetering at the edge-

and then you fall off with a silent scream.

your eyes roll all the way back again, all you see and feel is euphoria- your back arches off the bed and it takes everything in you to not moan out loud. you keep moving his fingers, and eventually pull them to a stop, as you feel your juices running down his hand. you pull your own back up, running your hand down your face, wiping the sheer layer of sweat off.

you breathe out slowly trying to control your body, but it proves damn near impossible as caleb is still on top of-

oh my god, caleb.

your eyes almost pop out of your skull as you realize the weight of what you’ve just done. you just used him for your own benefit without a care of how he might feel- you feel so guilty and utterly devastated-

right up until you feel the hand, still stuck inside of you, move at a devastatingly fast pace.

your hand immediately shoots down, clutching at the wrist to ground yourself again as your back arches off the bed at an insane curve, and this time, you can’t help the scream that rips out of your throat.

“mornin’ pipsqueak…” a deep voice purrs in your ear, as you all but moan out in mewls as a response, “don’t tell me you had all your fun already?”

his fingers curl against your g spot again and again, and it’s overwhelmingly good- you feel like you can’t breathe. “pussy always needs me no matter what huh?”

you feel like you can’t take it anymore as caleb rips yet another toe curling orgasm from you, still not relenting his assault. his thumb circles your clit in a merciless pace as his mouth bites down in between the juncture of your neck. biting back a sob you peer down at him shaking your head, you can’t, you can’t, you say with your soul, but you know, deep down, you can. and you will.

anything to please him.

“don’t worry,” he starts as he rolls on top you completely, caging you in on both sides, and leans down to steal a fleeting kiss from your lips.

“…you’re far from being done yet sweetheart.”

———————————————————————————

auth. note:

SO much longer than i planned- ideas just kept flowing; first time writing smth smutty so do w that what u will… hoped you liked it 😜

#caleb smut #caleb x reader #love and deepspace caleb #lads caleb #caleb x you #love and deepspace smut #lnds caleb #first smut kinda nervous

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hazymoonlinh · 2 months ago

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(MDNI, smut, Mydei x reader.)

Pancakes, syrup and bed ~

(In which he devoured you.)

(I’m coping, trailer 3.3 did not happened)

The kitchen smelled like vanilla, butter, and the absolute end of your pride.

You have lost a bet, promised him pancakes.

You stood at the stove, flipping pancakes with shaky hands, cheeks blazing. Your face had been on fire since the moment he leaned against the counter, shirtless, grinning at you like a lion who caught the sweetest little rabbit.

“My girl making pancakes,” Mydei sing-songed behind you, stretching with a low, satisfied sound that made his muscles flex—and made you choke on your own breath. “Didn’t think I’d live long enough to see this.”

You spun around, scowling, spatula in hand. “Shut up.”

He raised his hands in mock surrender, though his eyes were dancing. “I’m just saying. Yesterday you were threatening to stab me with a fork, and today you’re making me breakfast. That’s, like—growth.”

“Eat this,” you muttered, shoving a hot pancake against his mouth just to shut him up. Your hand lingered there a second too long, fingers brushing his lips—and you yanked it back like you’d been burned. “You talk too much.”

He chewed slowly, deliberately, looking far too smug for someone who nearly gave you a heart attack a few hours ago. “You made it too sweet. Just like you.”

“Don’t make me pour syrup on your head.”

“Oh?” He stepped closer, cornering you against the counter. “Speaking of syrup…”

You watched, suspiciously, as he took the bottle, popped the cap, and—

Drip.

A single bead of syrup landed just at the top of your chest, warm and sticky. Your eyes widened. Slowly, your gaze flicked up to him.

“You did not just—”

“Oops,” he said, voice dripping with mock innocence. “Guess I have to clean it up.”

“Mydei—!”

But his head was already lowering, hands firm on your waist as his tongue followed the path of syrup, slow, teasing, maddening. You gasped, gripping the counter as he licked the sweetness from your skin like he meant it, like he was starved for more than just breakfast.

You shoved at his shoulder with a breathless sound, half-laugh, half-gasp. “We’re in the kitchen, you menace—!”

He pulled back slightly, licking his lips. “Yeah. And breakfast is the most important meal of the day.”

“Pervert.”

“Yours.”

You tried to look annoyed. You really did.

But the burn on your face, the way your fingers curled in his hair—yeah. He knew he won.

He barely gave you a chance to gasp before he was lifting you with those powerful arms, syrup bottle thunking to the floor, forgotten. Your robe slipped down your shoulders as he set you on the counter with practiced ease, spreading your thighs with a growl like it was instinct.

“Breakfast,” he muttered against your mouth, voice hoarse, starved. “Still not done.”

His hands were rough and reverent all at once, spreading over your hips, up your waist, tugging your robe until it pooled around your elbows. You whimpered, arching into him, and he caught the sound like a prize—like it was his.

“Look at you. All sweet and sticky and mine,” he said against your skin, licking another trail of syrup from your chest, lower, lower, until—

You clenched your fists in his hair, trying to suppress the noise that escaped you when his mouth closed over the spot just beneath your navel. “Mydei, y-you can’t—”

“I can,” he murmured darkly. “And I will.”

He spread you wider, dragging your hips to the edge of the counter, his breath hot against your core. “Been dreaming of this,” he rasped. “You, soft and shaking. Taste of pancakes and sin.”

His tongue found you, slow at first—agonizingly slow—until you bucked against his mouth with a gasp, and then he devoured you. Like a man lost. Like this was his last meal. The kitchen filled with the obscene, wet sounds of his mouth, your breathless cries, the desperate creak of the counter beneath you.

He wouldn’t stop.

Not even when your thighs shook around his head, not even when your hand gripped the edge of the table, then his shoulders blindly just to hold yourself up.

When you came, it was violent and full of syrup-slick heat. Your nails raked down his shoulders as you cried out his name like it was both a curse and a plea. He only chuckled against your thigh, lips sticky with sugar and victory.

Then, before you could even catch your breath, he stood, grabbing you beneath the knees and hoisting you against his chest like you weighed nothing. You wrapped your arms around his neck, dazed, flushed, still reeling—and he carried you like that, out of the kitchen.

“Wha—where are we going?”

He didn’t answer. Just dropped a soft kiss to your temple.

Then whispered, “Round two. Table’s too small.”

He kicked the bedroom door open with his foot, never loosening his grip on you. Your breath hitched when your back met the sheets, his body already crowding over you, syrup still clinging to your skin. He braced one hand beside your head, the other still holding your thigh open like a promise.

You looked up at him—flushed, panting, eyes glassy—and he paused just long enough to drink it in.

“You look wrecked,” he murmured, thumb stroking your cheek. “And I’ve barely even started.”

Then he bent down and kissed you—deep, slow, tongue tasting the inside of your mouth like he already owned it, like he always had. His body pressed against yours, hard and unyielding, the heat of him spreading everywhere.

You whimpered into the kiss, hips lifting for him, and he laughed softly, wicked and warm.

“Still hungry, sweetheart?” he teased, dragging the tip of his cock along your soaked slit. “After I’ve already fed you so good?”

You choked on a sound, trying to move, to pull him in—but he only held himself just out of reach.

“Say it,” he whispered into your throat. “Say you need me.”

“I—” you gasped as his tip nudged your entrance, shallow and cruel. “Damn you, Mydei—”

He bit your shoulder, enough to mark. “Try again.”

“I need you,” you finally groaned, voice cracking. “Fuck, I need you. Please—”

That was all it took.

With a low growl, he sank into you in one deep, dizzying thrust. You arched against him, head tossed back, fingers tangled in the sheets as your body swallowed him whole.

“Gods, you always—” he hissed, pulling back and slamming forward again. “—fit me like you were made for this.”

His pace was punishing. Dirty. Desperate. But his hands were gentle, tracing your skin, pushing your hair back from your face, kissing your eyelids between each thrust. He fucked you like a storm but touched you like a prayer. Your bodies moved in sync, grinding against each other like a song too obscene for words.

When your moans rose louder, when your nails raked down his back again and your legs locked around his waist, he leaned in close, lips brushing your ear.

“I’ll never stop giving you reasons to stay,” he whispered.

Then he pulled out only to flip you over, dragging your hips up as he slammed back in from behind, hand gripping your waist like a vice.

You screamed his name, broken and raw. And he kissed your spine, again and again, whispering it:

“Mine. Mine. Mine.”

Your hands slipped on the sheets, wrists caught in his grip, shoved against the headboard as your body rocked with his brutal rhythm. He didn’t hold back—couldn’t hold back—not when your body kept pulling him in like a drug, like you were crafted from his own ruin.

“Say it again,” he snarled, voice hoarse with need, sweat trailing down his temples as he pounded into you hard enough to make the bed creak violently.

“I—fuck—I need you, I need you, I need—” your voice shattered, high and wrecked, a litany of desperation.

“Louder,” he growled, grabbing your hips and dragging you back against him with every thrust. “You wanted rough. You wanted me, remember?”

You couldn’t speak. Just screamed his name when he angled just right, making you jerk, whole body trembling. His cock kissed your cervix in a way that makes you see star, filling you up completely that your brain turns to mush.

“Fuck,” he hissed. “You’re dripping for me—do you even know what you do to me?”

His fingers moved down, rubbing your clit in harsh circles while pounding into you, hips smacking against your thighs in a frenzy. Your eyes rolled back, stars bursting behind your eyelids as the pressure broke—your release hit like wildfire, and he kept going, not giving you a moment to recover.

“Not done. Not yet,” he growled into your neck, biting down hard. “You wanted this, baby. You asked for this.”

You whimpered, incoherent, and tried to crawl forward—but he yanked you back with a snarl, hands bruising your hips. “Where the fuck do you think you’re going?”

Then he lifted you—his strength unreal, terrifying—and sat back, spearing you down onto him. Your body convulsed, shaking, and he just held you there, impaled and helpless, lips brushing your ear.

“Say it.”

You could barely breathe. “I—I love you—”

“No.” He bounced you once, a cruel upward thrust that left you moaning brokenly. “Say you’ll stay with me forever.”

“I’ll—I’ll stay—fuck—Mydei—please—!”

That did it.

He kissed you like a madman, lips crashing against yours while he rutted up into you, brutal and deep. Each thrust wrung sobs from your throat. You clung to him, nails clawing his back, legs locked around his waist like you’d never let go again.

And he whispered through it all, even as your bodies broke apart and came together again and again:

“Mine. My girl. My madness. My fucking light.”

—————

(First time writing smut lol)

#honkai star rail #hazymoonlinh #mydei honkai star rail #mydeimos #honkai star rail mydei #hsr mydei #mydei #mydei x you #mydei x reader #mydei x y/n #mydei smut #hsr x y/n #hsr smut

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thepinkpanther83 · 29 days ago

Note

Person A is Reader and Person B is Eddie

Having a campfire in the backyard of Eddies trailer, Eddie and Reader has a few drinks to the point where they were only only the edge of being tipsy. Reader says some true things.

Maybe it leads to some other things? *wink wink*

Please and thank you! 😀

Firelight Confessions

One-Shot Request: “Firelight Confessions”

Eddie Munson x Female Reader

💌 Author’s Note: Huge thanks to the incredible @meankenna for this delicious prompt! As soon as I read “campfire + blushy Eddie + Reader teasing the hell out of him,” I knew this one was gonna get hot fast, and baby, I came to deliver. 🔥 Writing this was an absolute blast (and maybe a little bit of a spiritual experience 🙌🏻), so thank you for the inspiration. I hope it hits all the right notes for you.

To my dear readers: If you like a flirty love story that explodes into chaotic outdoor sex and praise-kink, slightly tipsy Eddie Munson worshiping the ground you walk on, buckle up. You’re in for one hell of a ride. 💋

~Pinkie 🍒

Masterlist

Find me on AO3.

Read this story on AO3.

Summary: What starts as a cozy campfire night with your favorite metalhead turns into something else entirely when your teasing goes a little too far, and Eddie Munson finally snaps.

He’s flustered, needy, and totally at your mercy. You’re in his lap before he even realizes what hit him. And once the sparks fly, there’s no going back.

An indulgent, praisekink-heavy, outdoor smut romp featuring: blushy Eddie, lap straddling, campfire tension, a wall, and one very lucky reader. 😉

Click "Keep Reading" below the cut to read. 😘

“Firelight Confessions”

The fire crackled low between you and Eddie, spitting tiny embers that danced upward and died before they could reach the stars. You were both bundled up in mismatched blankets- Eddie’s was a faded Iron Maiden tapestry that smelled faintly like weed and engine grease, and yours was some pillowy-soft quilt you’d brought from home that he kept calling “fancy” like it was a slur.

A cooler sat lopsided between your chairs, half-full with beer and a suspicious-looking bottle of “whiskey” that probably hadn’t been sealed when purchased. One or both of you might already be buzzed. Probably both.

The boombox on the porch played something classic- Zeppelin or Sabbath, muffled by distance and the occasional hiss of firewood settling. Firelight licked along Eddie’s cheekbones, catching in the dark swoop of his hair. He looked relaxed, for once, head tilted back, throat bared, lips curling around a half-finished sentence.

“Okay, but if I had a werewolf phase,” he said, swirling the beer can like it was a goblet of wine, “it was entirely justified. Seventh grade was rough, sweetheart. Puberty and silver chains don’t mix.”

You snorted. “So that’s why you claimed you had moon tattoos.”

Eddie clutched at his chest like you’d stabbed him. “Claimed? Claimed? How dare you insult my sacred body art.”

“Sacred?” you echoed, amused, watching him with hooded eyes over the rim of your drink.

He was already shifting in his seat, pulling the blanket down and hitching up his shirt like he was unveiling a priceless artifact. “Observe,” he said, trying to sound serious but slurring just enough to ruin it, “the marks of my former beastly self.”

What he actually revealed was… pale skin. A freckle constellation that might’ve been a Big Dipper if you squinted sideways. A few real tattoos, chaotic things, some of bats, a spider, one you thought was a demon skull but also looked suspiciously like some kind of kabuki yokai horror creature, and several others on his arms.

Definitely no moons.

But there was a strip of dark hair running from his navel downward. A narrow path disappearing beneath the waistband of his jeans like it had somewhere sinful to be. Your brain paused for a moment, eyes catching the faint trail of it, just above his belt buckle.

You coughed, almost believably casual. “Wow. So scary. Real beast-mode going on here.”

Eddie grinned and let the shirt drop back into place- slowly, just slow enough to know he caught your stare. “Don’t mock the happy trail, babe. It’s part of the curse. Every full moon, it grows… fluffier.”

You laughed. Couldn’t help it. “You’re drunk.”

“And you’re warm,” he shot back, eyes flicking toward where your blanket was half-draped across his chair, too. His knee brushed yours- light, careless, but it stayed there. “You always get this warm when you drink?”

“I always get this honest when I drink.”

Eddie raised an eyebrow at that, the firelight catching the gleam of it like a challenge.

“Well,” he said, leaning forward with that grin that always got you into trouble, “now that’s interesting…”

The laughter between you settled into something softer- less sharp, more tired. The kind of mellow that only comes when the drinks are just low enough to make the stars look blurry and the fire starts to feel like a heartbeat. Eddie leaned back again, legs stretched out, fingers tapping absently on the arm of his chair.

The boombox had trailed off into something instrumental- bluesy and slow, leaving only the fire to fill the silence with its occasional pop and hiss. For a few moments, neither of you said anything. It wasn’t awkward. It was nice.

Then your eyes caught on him again- his profile against the night, the faint smudge of ash on his jaw, that mop of hair falling into his eyes like it always did, and something warm curled up in your chest, insistent and tipsy.

“Y’know…” you murmured, lazily swirling the last of your drink, “your face is kinda freaking adorable.”

Eddie turned to look at you, eyebrows half-raised in suspicion. You smirked, met his eyes.

“And I bet the rest of you is too.”

There was a split-second of silence. Then:

Eddie froze mid-sip, like you’d just sucker-punched his soul through the Miller Lite. He snorted, then choked. Coughed like he’d swallowed the whole can wrong. You were immediately cackling, nearly dropping your drink in your lap as he gasped dramatically.

“Wha- what the hell… You can’t just say that!” he rasped, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes wide and pink.

“Why not?” you asked innocently, trying to stop giggling. “It’s true. You’ve got this whole rockstar-trash-prince look going on, but then your face is just…” You squinted at him like you were studying a painting. “Ridiculously cute.”

Eddie immediately turned away, tugging his hair down like a curtain. “Okay, stop. I’m gonna combust.”

You leaned forward slightly, peering around the edge of his defense mechanism. “Are you… blushing? Did I get the ever stoic, hardcore, total badass Eddie Munson to blush?”

“What? No.” He peeked at you between fingers and curls, completely betrayed by the dark flush creeping up from his neck to his ears. “It’s… It’s the cold.”

“Ohhh,” you teased, setting your drink aside to lean in with exaggerated understanding. “It’s the cold. Not the part where I said you’re adorable and that I bet the rest of you is too?”

Eddie choked again, this time on air, and blushed harder. “N-no… shut up-!”

“You’re blushing. Oh my God, that’s adorable, too.” You were full-on laughing now, tipsy and delighted, and Eddie looked like he was considering rolling directly into the fire to escape.

“Great,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Amazing. This is going so well for my whole mysterious metal bad boy image.”

“You lost that image when you wrapped yourself in an Iron Maiden blanket and called it ‘sacred armor.’”

“Okay, that was metaphorical. That was art.”

You grinned. “That was adorable.”

He groaned, dragging his hands down his face, but there was a smile twitching at the corners of his mouth- reluctant, but very real.

“…You really think that?” he asked after a second, voice quieter now.

You tilted your head, let it hang in the stillness for a second. Let it land.

“I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it.”

Eddie looked over at you again, eyes shining a little in the firelight. He didn’t have a comeback this time. Just sat there, staring at you like maybe he was trying to memorize something.

Like maybe he wanted to say something back.

But he didn’t.

Not yet.

The fire crackled low, casting flickering gold across his jaw. Your blanket had slid down a little in the last few minutes, heat rising from somewhere deeper than the flames. Maybe the booze. Maybe the fact that Eddie Munson- loudmouth metalhead, gremlin of Hawkins High, king of sarcastic comebacks, was currently hiding behind his hair, too flustered to form a sentence.

You tucked your legs up under yourself, blanket pooling in your lap, and leaned just a little closer. Just enough to watch his breath stutter.

“You’re usually all bark, Munson,” you said, voice quiet and teasing. “What’s got your tongue now?”

Eddie glanced over, hair falling into his face, eyes wide like you’d caught him in a lie. His lips parted. Closed. Opened again.

“…Maybe I’m just… processing,” he mumbled, fingers tightening slightly on his beer can. “Or combusting.”

Your grin went slow and wicked. “Processing what exactly?”

He tried for his usual cocky smirk, but it was… twitchy. Shaky around the edges. “You. Being all…” He gestured vaguely at you. “That.”

“That?” You arched a brow. “C’mon, rockstar. Use your words.”

Eddie groaned, flopping back in his seat, dragging both hands down his face like he could scrub the heat off his cheeks. “You’re doing this on purpose.”

“Doing what?” You gave him your most innocent look, curling forward just enough that your knees bumped against his again. “Sitting here? Talking to you? Complimenting your ‘sacred body art’?”

“That was slander, actually,” he mumbled behind his fingers. “You laughed at my werewolf phase.”

“You named your werewolf form. I should have laughed.”

He peeked at you again, lips twitching. “…Lupus the Dread was a solid name.”

You were laughing softly, but you didn’t pull back. Your eyes lingered on his face- his ridiculous, adorable, flushed face, and you let the air between you stretch, taut and warm.

“Y’know,” you said, quieter now, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you speechless before. It’s kinda hot.”

Eddie blinked. Froze. Then groaned again, louder this time, tipping his head back like he was begging the stars to strike him down. “You’re killing me.”

“Am I?” you asked, voice feather-light now, nearly a whisper. “Or am I just… burning you up a little?”

His head snapped back toward you so fast the curls bounced. His eyes were wide, pupils blown dark. For a second- just one, he looked like he was gonna lean in.

Then he stopped. Licked his lips. Stared at yours.

“I think,” he said slowly, “you’re trying to start something you can’t finish.”

Your heart skipped. But you didn’t move back.

You smiled.

“Mmm, Eddie,” you whispered, leaning in until your faces were barely a breath apart. “What if I want to finish it?”

The air had gone still.

Not quiet- there was still the crackle of the fire, the distant rumble of the stereo, the clink of a beer can rolling lopsided off the cooler, but still. Charged. Like the space between lightning and thunder.

You could feel it on your skin. In your lungs. That look he was giving you, wide and dark and locked on your face like you were gravity and he was already falling.

And you weren’t backing off.

Not this time.

Eddie’s tongue darted out to wet his bottom lip. His voice came rough, like it’d been dragged over gravel.

“You keep talking like that, sweetheart…” His gaze dropped to your mouth, lingered. “And I’m gonna do something real stupid.”

You tilted your head, your smile lazy and inviting.

“Like what?”

A moment passed. Then another. And then-

He moved.

Not fast. Not sudden. Like a tide rolling in, steady and sure, sweeping in to crash against the shore. His hand came up first, fingers threading gently through your hair, then sliding to cradle the back of your neck, warm and calloused and careful.

His eyes flicked to yours.

One last second. One last chance to stop.

You didn’t.

So he didn’t.

Eddie kissed you.

Soft, at first. Cautious. Testing, tasting- like he didn’t quite believe he was allowed to. His lips brushed yours once, featherlight, then again, firmer this time. His other hand found your waist beneath the blanket, anchoring him, grounding him, like he needed proof this was real.

And god, his mouth was warm. A little clumsy. A little shy. But hungry underneath it all. Starved.

You leaned into him, one hand curling in his jacket, the other pressing to his chest. He made a sound against your lips- somewhere between a groan and a sigh, and pulled you closer, his thumb stroking softly at the nape of your neck.

The fire behind him hissed and popped, sending a flurry of sparks skyward, but neither of you looked away. The world could’ve cracked open, and you wouldn’t have noticed.

When he finally broke the kiss- just barely, his forehead rested against yours, his breath shaky and uneven.

“Definitely stupid,” he whispered.

“Maybe,” you breathed back. “But worth it.”

Eddie was still catching his breath when you crawled into his lap.

You didn’t ask. You didn’t have to.

The moment your knees hit the outside of his thighs and your weight settled in his lap, he went still, wide eyes blinking up at you like he couldn’t decide whether to worship you or spontaneously combust. His hands hovered at your waist, unsure.

So you took them and guided them up under your shirt, over your ribs, against your bare breasts, until he got the message.

“Jesus Christ,” he whispered, reverent.

You smiled and leaned in, mouth brushing his jaw as you spoke. “You’re so hot like this, Eddie.”

He made a strangled sound, fingers gripping your flesh like he couldn’t believe any of this was real. His eyes roamed your face, then dropped to your mouth, your neck, the shadowed curve of your chest.

“I’m not even doing anything,” he mumbled. “You’re the one… you’re- fuck.”

“You’re hot,” you repeated, slow and certain, like you wanted it etched into the bones of his memory. You kissed the corner of his mouth, then down to the hinge of his jaw. “Your skin’s soft. Your hands are rough. Your hair’s a mess. Drives me crazy.”

Eddie’s breath hitched. His hips shifted beneath you, and the tiniest groan escaped his throat. You could feel him getting harder, right there under you, and god, he was trying so hard to stay respectful- polite, even as his self-control frayed by the second.

“I’m gonna die,” he whispered. “I’m gonna die and this’ll be on my tombstone- ‘Beloved freak and sex idiot. Died happy.’”

You giggled, then rolled your hips down just enough to make him gasp. “You like when I say nice things about you?”

Eddie’s hands clutched tighter. “I- I like when you say anything about me. I like when you touch me. I like when you’re on top of me. I like… fuck, babe, I like you.”

His voice cracked a little. Honest. Unfiltered. That talkative edge Eddie got when he was overwhelmed- babbling praise like it spilled straight from the heart without hitting any filters on the way out.

“You’re so pretty,” he said suddenly, voice hoarse. “You’re just- your eyes and your mouth and your laugh, fuck, I’m never gonna survive this. You’re gonna kill me, and I’m gonna thank you.”

You bit your bottom lip to hide the smile, then leaned forward and kissed him hard, swallowing his next groan. His hands were everywhere now- up your back, across your thighs, gripping your hips like he was anchoring himself to reality. You rocked against him again, and his whole body jerked.

Clothes started to shift. His flannel pushed off one shoulder, your shirt riding up, denim shifting against denim in friction-heavy bliss. You could feel every twitch, every breath.

“Need you,” Eddie muttered into your mouth, almost desperate. “Need you so bad.”

“I’m right here,” you breathed. “And you’re beautiful.”

That broke him.

His eyes fluttered shut. His mouth opened. His hips bucked up just enough to make you gasp. You felt his whole body shiver beneath yours.

“Say it again,” he begged.

“You’re beautiful.”

A full-body shudder. His fingers dug into your thighs.

One of you tried to stand. Maybe both. There was some fumbling, some off-balance giggling, your blanket falling off your shoulders, a shoe lost in the grass. You tried to make it to the trailer. You really did.

But about halfway there, Eddie’s mouth was on your neck, and suddenly the idea of making it inside seemed way less urgent.

Your back hit the side of the trailer with a thud softened by giggles and breathless moans, the cold metal sending a shiver up your spine. The night air kissed your exposed skin, but Eddie’s body pressed up against you- hot and solid, keeping you warm, keeping you anchored.

He looked at you like he wanted to crawl inside your soul.

“Tell me this is real,” he whispered, voice ragged, forehead pressed to yours. “Tell me you want this. That you want me.”

You grabbed his face, fingers in that ridiculous hair, and pulled him down for a kiss that said everything. But you answered anyway, because he needed it.

“I want you,” you murmured against his lips. “I’ve wanted you.”

Eddie groaned like it pained him- in the best way. His hands were all over you now, not frenzied but hungry, sliding up your shirt, tracing every inch like he couldn’t memorize you fast enough.

“You’re killing me, sweetheart,” he breathed, “and I love it.”

You helped each other undress in pieces- clothes tugged just far enough to make room. Your pants around one ankle, his belt hanging loose, jeans shoved just far enough down to free him. Your shirt bunched up beneath your arms. His fingers fumbling your breasts, reverent even in their clumsiness.

Then- finally, his hand between your legs, and the groan that came out of him when he found how ready you were?

Almost obscene.

“Jesus H. Christ,” he muttered. “You’re- fuck, you’re already so-”

“Eddie,” you gasped, cutting him off, eyes wide and dark and needing. “Now. Please.”

And that did it.

He lined himself up, hand braced on the wall beside your head, eyes searching your face for any hesitation, and when you nodded, soft and sure, he buried himself in you with a gasp like he’d just been blessed.

“Oh my god,” he whimpered, forehead falling to your shoulder, hips still. “You feel- you feel… fuck.”

You clutched him close, one leg hooked around his waist, hips rolling against his, and that’s when he started to move.

Slow at first. Testing the rhythm. Pressing you into the trailer wall like you were something sacred. His hand slid up your back, gripping the nape of your neck, pulling your forehead to his again like he needed the contact.

He talked the whole time.

“You’re so warm- fuck, you’re perfect, can’t believe I get to touch you… Can’t believe this is real-”

“You’re so fuckin’ pretty like this, baby, look at you-”

“I could stay right here forever. Never stop. Never… shit- never stop.”

Every time you moaned or gasped or whispered his name, he got messier. Deeper. Closer. You could feel how undone he was becoming- how praise and pressure turned him into a desperate, reverent mess.

And when you cupped his jaw and whispered, “You’re so sexy, Eddie,” right into his mouth-

He lost it.

His thrusts stuttered, eyes squeezed shut, mouth open against your cheek as a broken, “Oh fuck-” tore from his throat.

He didn’t finish yet, not quite. But it cracked something in him.

Suddenly, he was grabbing under your thighs, lifting you up fully against the wall, arms straining, grinding into you with dizzying pressure as your back scraped the trailer’s siding and your hips found perfect rhythm with his.

The firelight flickered nearby, casting his hair and shoulders in a golden glow. You kissed him hard. He kissed you like he wanted to breathe you in. Like your mouth was the only thing keeping him alive.

When your body started to tremble and you let out a broken gasp- he felt it. Froze. Pulled back just enough to see your face.

“You close?” he whispered, awestruck.

You nodded.

His voice dropped to a reverent whisper, barely holding it together. “Come on, baby. Come with me. Let me feel it- please… please.”

His rhythm grew messier- sloppier, with every roll of your hips, every gasp you gave him. Sweat clung to his skin, damp curls sticking to his neck, and he looked ruined in the firelight. Blushed all over. Lips kiss-bruised. Pupils blown so wide there was almost no brown left.

And god, he was still talking.

Not all of it made sense- half of it was just breathy curses and your name and desperate, reverent nonsense:

“Baby, fuck, you feel so- so good, I can’t-”

“I’m not gonna last- I’m not gonna… shit-”

“You’re perfect, you’re so… shit, please, don’t stop doing that-”

You were clenching around his length, your thighs were trembling, nails digging into his back as you chased the finish. Every thrust pushed you closer. He felt it, could tell.

And he wanted you to fall first.

So he dropped his mouth to your neck, kissed right beneath your ear, and whispered-

“Come on, pretty girl. Let go for me. Wanna feel you fall apart around me. Wanna feel you lose it, baby.”

Your body snapped.

It was sudden- hot, and electric and everywhere. You cried out, shuddering, your entire body tightening and pulsing around him as your orgasm slammed into you. Your legs clenched, your breath hitched, and Eddie groaned like it was killing him as your body milked him.

He stilled.

Then- one last grind forward, and he followed with a hoarse, desperate moan, hips rocking into yours as he spilled himself into you, forehead pressed to your cheek, body shaking. His voice went all strangled and ruined as he babbled through it:

“Oh fuck… fuck… thank you, oh my god, you’re… baby-” “You’re gonna break me… holy shit-”

It took a long minute for either of you to breathe right.

He was still holding you up, though his arms were trembling now. You both laughed- quiet and breathless and a little wild. Like you couldn’t believe what just happened. Like maybe the world did just shift.

You kissed his cheek, then his jaw, then his mouth- slow and lazy and smiling. His fingers rubbed soft circles into the backs of your thighs. Your heart still thudded in your chest, heavy and warm.

“I think,” he murmured finally, “we should probably try to stand straight before I collapse and we both die in a sex heap against the trailer.”

You snorted. “What a way to go.”

“No, seriously. They’d write it on my headstone. ‘Died from being too horny.’ Wayne would never live it down.”

You gave him one last kiss, then wiggled until he helped you down. Your legs were jello and your clothes were a mess, but somehow, it just made you laugh harder.

He took your hand. Twined your fingers. Still a little dazed, still glowing.

And the two of you walked back toward the trailer steps like you hadn’t just fucked like wild rabbits against the wall- but everyone could’ve guessed it by the flush on your faces.

Once seated on the metal steps, Eddie collapsed beside you with a sigh that came from the depths of his soul.

You leaned against his shoulder. He kissed your temple. Firelight crackled in the distance.

And after a quiet moment, he mumbled:

“…So, uh. You wanna go steady, or…?”

You looked up at him, still flushed and glowing, lips curling into a smirk. “After that? I might make you mine forever.”

Eddie blinked. Then grinned like a lunatic. “Okay. I’m good with that. You hear that, universe? I’m a taken man.”

“Don’t yell at the stars, Munson.”

“I’m in love, I do what I want!”

You laughed into his chest. He wrapped an arm around you, smug and spent and so unbelievably yours.

And in the golden quiet of the night, the fire crackling low and the scent of pine smoke still lingering in your hair, you knew you’d never forget a single second of this.

Who loves Eddie Munson, show of hands! 😂 Let me know if you want to be added to my tag list!

@justalotoffanfiction, @yorshie, @jackalope-in-a-storm, @v1per1ne, @daveythorntonslocker, @cokepowder55, @kelsiegrin, @ash-stardust, @meankenna, @kellsck, @chronicles-of-koystee

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bandgie · 10 months ago

Text

Between us | Armageddon Event

Request: Sloth | Park Seonghwa (ATZ) by anon song!

warnings! mdni18+, fem!reader, handjob, cum eating (m!), cum swapping, making out, attempts at fluff lol, sleepy!reader/hwa, ass grabbing

notes! the gender envy Seonghwa gives me must be studied. also I love this song sm

You love the feel of Seonghwa when he’s fresh out of the shower. His skin is not hot, but not quite cold. It soothes your own flesh between the sheets.

Slender fingers snake their way up your shirt and around your waist to bring you close. Your chest is flushed to his, legs entangled in a way you know will make you sweaty within an hour, but you don't mind.

And when you breathe, you can smell the soap. Seonghwa’s body and scent encompass you wholly and you can only sigh in content into his neck.

“You feel nice.” It’s just above a whisper as you groan in satisfaction. Your nose touches his throat when you breathe in. “I like it when you’re clean.”

Seonghwa laughs, but he sounds almost offended. “Am I dirty most of the time or something?”

You giggle with him and you can feel how his arms tighten around you. “After practice, yeah, but I don’t really mind. I like you stinky too.”

He makes a sound of disgust that’s drowned out by your pleased laughter. Your arms wrap around his small waist, and when you pull him impossibly closer, you can feel the poking of his hard-on.

“Ugh.” You look up at him and narrow your eyes. “Do you have to get hard all the time?”

Seonghwa can’t meet your eyes. His blushing face is turned upwards, pretending that you aren’t even there. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” But as he finds the courage to look at you, something in his sleepy eyes darkens.

“Don’t play dumb with me right now. I can feel it stabbing my stomach.” Although you have an irritated expression on your pretty face, you don’t deny the excitement that bubbles in you. “Aren’t you tired from practice?”

He is. You could tell the moment he trudged through the front door and collapsed on the couch. Getting him to take a shower was a challenge in itself; you felt like a mother scolding their child for getting sweat and dirt on the furniture.

Even now, you can see the tiredness in his slanted eyes. Seonghwa’s lips are pouty from sleep, but that doesn’t stop his damned tongue from swiping over them.

“A little. I can stay up though.”

You know what he means. There’s been more than plenty of nights of a tired Seonghwa pounding you into the mattress. He cums quickly like that, flopping on the bed when he’s finished and opting to lick you clean rather than a shirt from the closet.

And although you feel warmth between your legs from the thought, you can’t imagine all the work you and him would have to put into for sex.

“But it’s late.”

He nods, “I know. And we’re both pretty tired from work.”

There’s a moment of silence between you two. On one hand, yes you’re exhausted. You really didn’t plan on fucking tonight, content with Seonghwa in your embrace. But on the other hand… there’s more than one way to have fun.

You use the hand that’s wrapped around his torso to snake between your bodies. You go over his hip, starting at his stomach before going to his navel and the front of his boxers.

Seonghwa’s warm in your palm even through the clothes. His breath catches in his throat when you gently rub him, thumb ghosting over the head of his cock.

The hand under your shirt rubs up and down encouragingly. You can feel his body heat up, the cold droplets of his shower nowhere to be seen. Seonghwa’s fingers slip from your shirt to find the fat of your ass instead.

He squeezes when you cup his heaviness. You grope his sack before your palm goes up, trying your best to wrap around his cock and stroke.

“Shit.” Seonghwa’s lids close over his eyes briefly. “Just like that.”

You hum, straining your neck so you can kiss the underside of his jaw.

He lets you, invites you even. The sounds of your pecks quietly echo in the room. His skin tastes as he smells. There's a faint soapiness to it, but not overwhelming in the slightest. You lick a stripe from the base of his throat to his earlobe and Seonghwa rewards you with a whimper.

His hips begin to match your pace. Seonghwa ruts into your hand with tired desperation that can only occur in the late hours of the night. All you need to do is keep a tight ring with your fingers so he can thrust into them, but you have a different plan in mind.

It’s a whine that leaves him when your hands move. Seonghwa pulls from your kisses to look down at you confused and pleadingly.

Before he can think of begging, your fingers diligently pull his erection free.

You don’t even get to see how his cock stands in all its glory. All of your attention is on Seonghwa’s parted lips and arched eyebrows, the symbol of his pleasure when you wrap your hand around him.

It’s alright if you can’t see how hard he is, you can feel it. It throbs in your hold. Little drops of precum ooze from his tip and you use it to slide against his length.

Seonghwa looks at you with an unreadable expression. It ranges from everything between exhaustion and need, but when he looks at your lips, you know what to give him.

The kiss is open-mouthed. There’s hardly any energy to lock your lips properly, but you have no complaints when he moans into your mouth. You eat the sound, tasting his pleasure on your tongue when you circle his tip.

His hips buck. Another delicious mewl lands on your lips and you eagerly suck on his bottom lip.

“Like that.” Seonghwa still manages to speak, his bottom teeth gleaming in the shadows. “Imma cum.”

You can tell. You’ve touched him enough to know when he gets close. His thrusts grow sloppy and he’s trying to press your body closer to his by your ass, but he can’t with your hand jerking him off.

So Seonghwa satisfies himself by kissing you properly. His lips mingle with yours almost endearingly and he gently takes your tongue into his mouth.

He tastes of toothpaste and mint, another clear sign that sleeping was also his intention this night. But when he twitches in your hand and sucks harshly on your pink muscle, it’s finishing that he has his sights set on.

You can feel the ropes of cum shoot out. It lands on the exposed part of your stomach and shirt, spraying until the white arousal does nothing but dribble on your fingers.

Seonghwa moans in your mouth controllably. You take the opportunity to kiss him sloppily, uncaring for how your saliva drips onto his chin. Judging from the continuous pulsing and more oozing, you think he likes it too.

Now you’re able to look down at the mess he’s made. It’s more than you thought. You should have put a towel underneath before Seonghwa finished all over him and yourself.

But it’s nothing he can’t help clean.

You do your best to swipe all the cum in your hand. He gasps when you squeeze his tip, making sure to get every drop out.

As you bring your soiled fingers up, you can’t help but stare at the ropes of cum. It could almost be considered pretty being stretched on your digits like this, but you don’t have enough time to dwell on it when Seonghwa happily takes your fingers into his mouth.

He moans at his taste, tongue lapping before he moves to the next finger. His tongue is wet and warm, so similar yet different than the cum he’s eating. You shiver at the memory of the very same tongue digging into your cunt, collecting yours and his arousal for his own hunger.

Seonghwa pops your fingers out one by one, a drop of cum escaping from the corner of his mouth that he licks back in.

He doesn’t have to ask, you lean in again to kiss him. Seonghwa moves his hand from your ass to the back of your head to angle you perfectly against him. You can taste his release, his salty but raw taste. You gulp most of it down, saving some on your tongue so he can play with the strings between your lips.

And it’s strands of cum and salvia that connect you two when you pull away breathlessly.

His eyes are droopy. The high of his orgasm settled with the kiss and it’s only fatigue that welcomes him now. But his soaked, swollen lips still can’t help but ask, “Your turn?”

As good as it sounds to have his fingers play with your slick folds, you know Seonghwa would fall asleep before you could finish. Even if it was his mouth latched onto your pussy, he would still knock out from the warmth between your legs.

You’ll have to ignore the uncomfortable wetness in your underwear for tonight. “Maybe next time.”

Seonghwa has already begun to close his eyes. “But…but…your turn…” His head rests on the pillow, blinking to stay awake. But the warmth of your body and his after-glow is getting to him.

“I can…” he yawns. “...eat you out…”

You smile, but seeing him yawn makes you mimic him. His tiredness is rubbing off on you quickly and suddenly his mouth on your cunt doesn’t sound as good as sleeping in his arms.

A chaste kiss on his lips is all he needs to succumb to his slumber. “Goodnight, Seonghwa.”

#smut #atz smut #ateez #atz #ateez smut #seonghwa ateez #seonghwa smut #atz seonghwa #ateez seonghwa #seonghwa #ateez x reader #seonghwa x reader #park seonghwa #armageddon event!

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august-anon · 2 months ago

Note

Hello my friend!! You called for batfam prompts and I will happily deliver!! Ok here is one of the ideas that have been circulating around in my head: dick tickles damian pretty often and every time his excuse is something like 'this is just what big brothers do!' and so damian starts thinking that jason and tim are out to get him when they're literally just Existing. Not even Breathing in Damian's general direction. But Damian is Hypervigilant and finally cracks under the pressure and is like "JUST DO IT ALREADY" but jason and/or tim is like do what??? and damian explains that grayson said big brothers tickle little brothers (but in his own Damian way like "what, you don't think I can handle it?? You don't think I'm WORTHY?!?!?") and so jason/tim are like this has literally never crossed my mind but now that you've ASKED how could i not??? and damian gets flustered and wrecked by a Tickle Monster of His Own Creation.

ROSIE!!! as you can tell by the sheer wordcount on this fic, i was Obsessed with this idea skdjfhdsf Tickle Monsters Of Damian's Own Creation coming right up, my friend!!

____________________

Little Brother Privilege

Fandom: Batfamily (no specific source material/continuity)

Ship(s): Gen!!! Platonic!! Familial!! No batcest here

Characters (lee/ler): Lee!Damian, Ler!Dick (briefly), Tim, and Jason

Word Count: 6974 words

Summary:

Damian isn't quite sure why Todd and Drake have not made their attack yet, but he's not going to let his guard down until they do. He will not be made a fool of, even in brotherly contracts.

AKA, Damian gets tickled to pieces by two tickle monsters of his own creation.

[ao3 link]

____________________

It was the third time that weekend alone. Damian kicked and scrambled and tried his hardest to get away, but Richard was bigger and stronger and could contort his body into the oddest of poses. His grip was near-impossible to escape. It was clear why Nightwing was such a feared and respected hero, even if those skills were currently being used to absolutely mortify Damian.

“Come on, Little D! I just need to hear a few of those giggles. I need something to tide me over for when I go back to Bludhaven!”

“I do not giggle,” Damian grunted before sealing his lips shut, trapping the condemning noise inside before he could prove Richard right.

“Sure you do! I just gotta get your giggle spot– which is riiiight here!”

Richard lowered a clawed hand to Damian’s stomach, digging his fingertips into all the correct pressure points to have Damian doubling over in a futile attempt at protection. Richard laughed above his head and twisted his hand ever-so-slightly, hitting that accursed “tickle spot” (as Richard called them) to the right of his navel. Damian swiftly lost the battle, his laughter bubbling out from between his lips in a horrendously childish display.

“There they are!” Richard crowed, doubling-down on his attack.

No matter which way Damian squirmed, Richard was easily able to follow. He bounced between Damian’s ticklish spots without rhyme or reason, drawing out surprised noises in between more of those horrendous giggles. He heard Richard cooing over his head and had the distinct urge to stab him, but he settled for jabbing an elbow hard back into Richard’s ribs. Not that it deterred him in any fashion. No, it just seemed to give him the idea to start crawling his other hand up Damian’s own ribs.

“You said– you said just a few!” Damian called out, his laughter garbling his words.

“Hm?”

“Just a few giggles!”

Richard laughed, slowing his attack. “Oh, alright, alright. I suppose that’ll have to be enough baby brother giggles to tide me over until my next visit.”

Damian scoffed. “I don’t delude myself into thinking you won’t attempt to attack me again before you leave.”

Richard grinned, wide and toothy. “Probably.”

Damian scowled – it was not a pout, no matter what his siblings said, it wasn’t his fault his cheeks were still plush with baby fat and puffed out when he frowned – and tried to get his clothing and hair back in order. “I do not understand why you insist on doing that so much.”

Richard scrubbed a hand on his head, ruining his attempts at straightening his hair. “You had fun – don’t deny it! You totally could have stabbed me if you weren’t.”

Damian said nothing. He kept scowling.

“Besides – that’s just what big brothers do! Tickle the snot out of their baby brothers.”

Forget stabbing. Damian was starting to feel the urge to bite. “I am not a baby.”

Richard tilted his head at him. “Jason’s my baby brother, too. Do you think he’s a baby?”

Damian tilted his head, considering, and it earned him another laugh from Richard.

“Okay, maybe don’t answer that one. But – it’s just a way to have fun with your siblings, Damian. It’s alright to let loose and laugh and have a little fun here and there.” Richard’s grin turned mischievous as he raised two clawed hands. “Especially when the Tickle Monster’s involved.”

Damian would forever deny that he let Richard catch him. He just wasn’t able to gain enough speed to escape Richard’s game of chase, was all. He’d have to work on that in training later.

* * *

It’s just what big brother’s do! was a common insistence of Richard’s, every time Damian demanded an explanation for one of his (mortifyingly frequent) tickle attacks. There did seem to be some merit in the phrase. After all, Damian wasn’t Richard’s only target. Todd, Cain, Drake, Thomas, even Brown, and she wasn’t even related to them. Richard launched his surprise attacks against them all, tickling them to the floor and teasing them all the while. Todd did as well – pinning Drake or Brown to the training mats and tickling them until they tapped out or screamed loud enough that Father put an end to it. Cain was a bit harder to catch in the act, but he swore he saw her tickling the others at various times herself.

But the only one who targeted Damian was Richard himself (and sometimes Father – but he did not count, as he was not a “big brother” to any of them). Damian did not know why the others seemed disinclined to participate in this bonding activity with him. They seemed to engage with it plenty between each other, so why was Damian left out? Not that he wanted to be tickled, certainly not – it was humiliating. It would be remiss of him, however, to not participate in this so-called “family bonding.”

The only explanation Damian could come up with was that they were luring him into a false sense of security. They wanted his guard down, so that they could topple him with little resistance. Well, Damian wouldn’t let them get away with that. No – Damian would be ready, whenever they decided to strike. He would be hypervigilant, ready for their attack at any moment. He wouldn’t rest. He wouldn’t let his guard down. Todd and Drake would never make a fool out of him.

Except – well, the thing was, hypervigilance became tiring after a while. He grew weary of being on edge when around his brothers. With Richard he’d learned to know what to expect. Any playful moment – an unserious argument, a competition, a spar, anything – Richard had the possibility of taking advantage of. He didn’t know Todd and Drake’s habits surrounding this event, he didn’t know what to expect from them or when to expect it. As the days went on, the anticipation wreaked havoc on his nerves. Eventually, he couldn’t take it anymore.

Todd and Drake were having a pre-patrol spar in the Cave. Damian observed as he completed his own warm-ups on the mats nearby. He swore he could feel their eyes flickering in his direction and it took all of his hard-learned self-control to not fidget under their watch. Finally, after toying with him for nearly five minutes, Todd pinned Drake under his weight until he tapped out.

“Come on Baby Bat, you want a match?”

Damian’s guard immediately went up. The training mats – this is where many tickle attacks had taken place, from any number of his family members. Even Father was known to participate, if he was in a particularly playful mood.

“I suppose.”

Drake shifted himself to the sidelines as Damian took his place. He could feel Drake’s eyes burning through his back.

“Damian, are you injured?”

A false injury check – he’d seen Todd and Richard (and even, on rare occasion, Father) use that ploy on Drake more than enough times. With ribs as sensitive as that, it made him an easy target. Was that method now to be used on Damian?

“No,” Damian said firmly. “Why do you ask?”

“You’re just all,” Drake waved his hand in the air, gesturing to Damian’s form, “stiff.”

Todd’s stance shifted as he eyed Damian up and down. “The Bird’s right – you sure you’re not injured, kid?”

“I am in perfect physical condition. Are we going to spar or not?”

Todd raised his hands in surrender, backing into place across the mats. “Alright, alright. Timmers, you referee.”

Not the injury check, then. The spar was still in question. This may finally be the moment. Damian could begin to learn their patterns and perhaps finally relax in their presence again. He hated being so tense any time they visited.

Drake called for the match to start and Todd immediately lunged for him. Damian was put on the defensive, dodging and weaving between his attacks. He managed a few good hits, but despite his bulk, Todd was fast, and Damian always had to back off quickly. He knew he couldn’t take Todd head-on, the man was twice his height and three times his weight, so he needed a strategy. Without his belt or any of his gadgets, it would be a difficult victory.

Unfortunately, Drake had been correct – Damian was stiff. Not from injury, but hypervigilance. And it certainly had a poor effect on his focus in a spar. Every lunge, jab, swat, Damian was convinced it would connect with a ticklish area and Todd would proceed to pin him to the mats until he was red-faced and cackling.

It only took one failed swerve for Todd to tackle him down to the mats and pin him. Damian held his breath, watching Todd with wide eyes. After a moment to make sure Damian wasn’t going to try and break the hold, he was released and Todd maneuvered off him, wiping the sweat from his brow. The dam burst.

“That’s it?” Damian blurted out, unable to stop himself.

Todd and Drake both turned to him, frowns and furrowed brows in place.

“Damian?” Drake said.

“I grow tired of these games! Just do it, already!”

For the second time that evening, Todd raised his hands in surrender. Drake’s confused expression melted into concern. The jittery feeling in Damian’s stomach did not abate.

“Do… what, exactly, Dami?” Jason spoke to him like he was a child – the same voice he used on the young street rats of Crime Alley to try and build trust and rapport.

“Do not patronize me, Todd, I am no fool. Grayson made the rules of this game quite clear to me. Do you find me unworthy in some way? Too weak for such things? What is it?”

“Whoa – Damian, hold on,” Drake sat down on the mat, like he was trying to make himself smaller, and scooted closer. “We don’t even know what you’re talking about. Explain it to us first.”

“I told you not to–”

Todd cut him off. “We’re not patronizing you, Damian. Neither of us has any clue what the hell you’re talking about.”

Damian thinned his lips, shifting uncomfortably where he sat on the mat. He shoved his hands under his thighs so he wouldn’t be tempted to fidget with them. “Richard – he said older brothers tickle younger brothers. It’s ‘just what they do.’”

Drake let out an incredulous laugh, Todd pressed his lips together as if he was trying to avoid doing the same. Damian felt himself flush, starting in his neck and travelling all the way up to his forehead.

“Yeah,” Todd said, his voice trembling with withheld laughter. “I remember he used that line on me plenty, when I was as short as you.”

“Think he’s used it on all of us,” Drake said, still laughing. “Still uses it now, honestly.”

Todd plopped himself back down on the mat next to Damian. “It’s not a rule, kid – Dick’s just teasing you. Giving himself an excuse for why he tickles the snot out of you three times a day when he visits.”

Damian’s shoulders dropped. “Oh.” His face grew even warmer, travelling up his ears now.

Drake chuckled again, leaning forward with a sudden mischievous tilt to his mouth. “But, since you asked…”

Todd’s smirk took on the same quality. He wrapped an arm around Damian’s shoulders and Damian’s breath caught in his throat. He was torn – did he run? Did he stay and face the torment he asked for? The jittery feeling in his stomach grew stronger, almost ticklish in and of itself. He was paralyzed with indecision, but found himself fighting off a grin anyway.

Drake crawled closer. Todd’s clawed hand inched towards his neck. Damian shrank in on himself, making no move to flee and preserve his dignity.

“Boys!” Father called. “Suit up, let’s go!”

Drake and Todd snapped to attention, grumbling under their breaths. Damian felt like he was still trying to catch his own. When Drake reached out to squeeze his shoulder, he nearly jumped out of his skin. He let out an unbecoming squeak when Todd’s hand jumped away from his neck to scrub at his hair.

“This isn’t over,” Todd said, heaving himself to his feet.

“We are so talking about this later.”

Damian was, as Todd would say, fucked.

* * *

They didn’t even have the decency to put him out of his misery immediately following patrol. Todd returned to his own apartment afterwards to lick his wounds, and since Father had incurred an injury of his own, Drake took straight to the Batcomputer to log the night’s events and plan their next moves. Damian was sent upstairs alone, ate the post-patrol snack laid out by Alfred alone, and went to bed alone.

They continued to not have the decency the next day, or the next, or anything for near a week. Oh certainly, when they would run into Damian on patrol they would give him those infuriatingly teasing smiles, perhaps wiggle some fingers in his general direction or give a quick verbal tease, but even they knew better than to start such nonsense on patrol. Still, it infuriated him to no end, all this buildup and no follow-through.

Damian had half a mind to stab them, the next time he saw one of them. No one could say they didn’t deserve it.

That was, in fact, what wound up nearly happening the next time Drake stopped by the Manor for an extended period of time. Damian had been in his bedroom, perfecting a sketch of Titus as he sat at his desk. He had taken up listening to music as he worked, finding that it helped calm his mind and improve his focus, and that day he’d chosen to use earbuds to properly experience the full layers and mixing of all the sounds.

As such, he didn’t hear the knock on his door, nor did he hear Drake enter. He only became aware of Drake’s presence when a calloused hand ruffled his hair, startling him out of his hyperfocus and nearly making him ruin his sketch. Without thinking, Damian snatched a spare blade off his desk and made to stab his attacker. A hand grabbed his wrist, squeezing the pressure points just right to force him to drop the dagger.

“Damian!”

Damian finally turned to face his intruder, then took a deep breath and tugged the earbuds out of his ears. “Perhaps you should learn not to sneak up on people.”

Drake scowled. “I didn’t even sneak! I knocked and everything!”

Damian scowled back, resenting the way his cheeks puffed up a little with the expression. It made him look far too childish.

“You know what,” Drake continued, tugging Damian out of his chair and over toward the bed, “I’m gonna make this even worse because of that.”

Damian’s face dropped in shock. “Wait, Drake–”

Drake gave him an absolutely devious smile. “Don’t stress, Dami. Just fulfilling my big brother duties.”

Damian resolutely did not yelp when Drake scooped him up underneath the arms and tossed him onto the bed, no matter what Drake claimed later. Damian scrambled against the sheets, trying to crawl off the bed, but Drake launched himself as well. The bed bounced under his sudden weight, knocking Damian off-balance just enough for Drake to snatch his ankle, tugging it to force him onto his back and quickly crowding into Damian’s space.

“Drake, no!” Damian’s voice had gone shrieky and shrill, embarrassingly childish and out of his control.

Drake, of course, laughed at him. Damian sealed his own lips shut to prevent any other incriminating sounds. Just in time, too, as Drake started squeezing at his sides. Damian made a protesting noise in his throat, but swallowed down any other sounds.

“You know,” Drake said conversationally, “you’d think after making such a big deal about this, you’d be less stubborn about it.”

Damian’s ears grew hot, but he knew what Drake was doing. He kept his lips stubbornly sealed.

“I mean, you outright asked for it – were practically begging for it, actually.”

The heat in Damian’s ears spread to his cheeks. “I did no such thing!”

Curse him.

Drake grinned, digging into Damian’s stomach the moment he began his protest. Damian snapped his mouth shut, but it was too late. Strained chuckles escaped through his sealed lips as he squirmed away from Drake’s hands. He fumbled for Drake’s hands trying to push them away, but Drake was unfortunately successful at tossing his hands off.

“I’ve seen Dick tickle you, you know.”

Damian tried to glare at him. He didn’t imagine he was very successful, what with the wavering smile on his lips. In fact, based on the way Drake paused his one-sided conversation and pressed his lips together in a tight smile, he was likely resisting the urge to coo at him like Richard often did. His face grew warmer.

“I know generally where to target, you can’t hide the tickle spots from me. Just takes a little effort to find just the right place.”

As if he timed it, Drake’s wildly skittering fingers passed over that accursed spot to the right of his navel. Damian squealed and tried to toss himself off the bed. Drake laughed, bright and open, and lunged after him, pulling Damian back in with an arm around his waist. Damian kept his face turned away from Drake, trying to hide just how bright his smile was. Drake would almost certainly know it wasn’t just from the tickling – he was infuriatingly insightful like that.

“Get back here!”

“No!”

Drake’s fingers found that spot again and Damian doubled over in giggles. He shoved fruitlessly at Drake’s arms, trying to free himself, or at least stop the ticklish feeling.

“What’s wrong, Dami? Ticklish tummy?”

Damian growled through his giggles. “I’ll kill you!”

Drake laughed again. “That’s fair.”

Thankfully, Drake moved away from that spot. Unfortunately, his next target was Damian’s neck. He scratched at the skin with short, blunt nails, occasionally skittering them behind Damian’s ears. Damian was lost to mortifying squeaks and snorts, shaking his head to try and throw Drake off.

“See, I get why Dick does this so much, now–”

“Shut up!”

“– you’re actually pretty adorable like this. Still got those murder-eyes, but they’re almost cute when you’re being tickled silly.”

Damian twisted around and flopped back onto his back, throwing himself away from Drake’s tickling fingers. Catching sight of Drake’s face again, he could see the bright, teasing grin splitting across his face. Based on the way Drake’s eyes brightened, he’d caught Damian’s smile as well and read into it much further than Damian wanted.

“Alright, I’ll quit with all the teasing. Let’s get on with the main event.”

Teasing? Main event? Damian’s heart thudded in his chest, that jittery, almost-ticklish feeling in his stomach taking over again. That hadn’t even been part of Drake’s true attack? Drake had just been toying with him?

“Wait, Drake–”

Damian held out a hand, as if that would do anything to hold Drake off once he lunged. Drake snatched his wrist and pinned it to the bed.

“Why? I’m just doing what you asked.” His smile turned evil and mischievous again. “Gotta prove that you’re not weak or unworthy, after all.”

“No–!”

Damian burst into loud, childish laughter as Drake attacked his exposed underarm, scratching and scritching away against the fabric of his t-shirt. Damian tugged at his arm, but unfortunately the tickling and laughter had weakened him, leaving him firmly trapped. Instead, Damian tried to pry at Drake’s fingers with his free hand, but he couldn’t quite get the coordination he needed.

Damian squealed as the tickling dipped below his underarm, fingers wiggling along the length of his ribs and delivering nibbling pinches between them. He kicked out at Drake, aiming for his midsection to push him off, but Drake dodged his uncoordinated attempts easily.

“Man, Dames, you’re so right – I should’ve been doing this the whole time.”

“Stoppit!”

“I really dropped the ball with my older brother duties before, but you have my word that I’m gonna rectify that.”

“Cut it out!”

Damian finally got a good amount of momentum and corrected his arm, landing a foot directly in Drake’s abdomen. Drake grunted, releasing Damian’s wrist and ceasing his tickling as he was pushed back. He let out a little “oof” as the air was forced out of him.

“Did you just kick me?”

Damian blinked at him. “Yes.”

Drake narrowed his eyes. “You’re gonna regret that.”

Damian didn’t have a chance to protest or even gasp before Drake had thrown himself over his calves, pinning them to the bed with his body weight. The only sound that left Damian for a while after that was hysterical, cackling laughter and wordless almost-screams as Drake attacked his knees with ruthless precision.

“Are you sorry, yet? Apologize, you brat!”

Even if he wanted to, Damian wasn’t sure he could. The only thing he could think about was how badly it tickled. Richard’s tickling was ruthless and impossible to beat, certainly, but Drake’s methods were their own special form of torture. Damian felt as though he were being studied as Drake cycled through different techniques.

He would pinch at the pressure points just above Damian’s knee, making Damian’s legs jump as he choked out yelps between his laughter. He clawed at Damian’s kneecaps, driving Damian into a full-bodied squirm as he laughed helplessly into a pillow he tugged over his face. After tugging said pillow away, he did an egg-cracking motion over Damian’s knees, and Damian squealed until his voice went out. When he traced designs on the backs of Damian’s knees, Damian hiccuped with frantic, high-pitched giggles, the likes of which he had never made before.

Damian thought he might go insane.

“Drake! Timothy! No more!”

Drake’s hands faltered, but only for half a moment. Then the tickling started up again with a vengeance, combining all the most ticklish techniques he had found to make tears of mirth spring to Damian’s eyes.

“What was that, Dami? Didn’t quite catch that.”

“I’m sorry!”

“Oh yeah? For what?”

“Kicking you!”

Drake released him, rolling off his legs to instead recline next to Damian. Damian did not move, lying boneless on his bed as he caught his breath and tried to get his residual giggling under control. He swore he could still feel Drake’s fingers on his skin, tickling away at his sanity.

“They’ll never find your body.”

Drake snorted. “You think that was bad? Just wait until Jason comes after you.”

The jittery feeling in Damian’s stomach came back with a vengeance. He smacked Drake in the face with a pillow for the crime.

* * *

Todd’s attack was almost predictable, after all the games of anticipation he had played. Damian had known Todd was in the Manor – his motorcycle was in the garage upon his and Thomas’s arrival home from school with Alfred – and he knew Drake’s warning would not have been without meaning. After all, he’d seen Todd take Drake to pieces many times in the past. Drake would know well the brutality he was capable of.

They entered the Manor through the side entrance, the door closest to the kitchen, and were accosted almost immediately by Todd. An apron hung around his neck, dusted in flour and some sticky-looking batter, which he began untying once he caught sight of them.

“Hey, Alfie,” he said, passing the apron off when Alfred reached out an open palm. “Cookies are in the oven, I’ve got a meeting.”

Before Damian could think of a snappish retort, Todd was yanking the backpack and school blazer from his shoulders and tossing them to Thomas.

“Hey!” He yelled.

Thomas stood there, slightly dumbfounded. “I didn’t realize I was a coat rack.”

“You are today, sunshine. I’ve got business to attend to.”

Damian yelped as his feet left the floor, and grunted as his stomach met Todd’s shoulder. He started squirming almost immediately, trying to break Todd’s grip.

“Unhand me, you imbecile!”

“Do try to keep it down, Master Jason.” Alfred seemed uninterested in the happenings of the mudroom as he entered the kitchen, taking in the state of it. “Master Bruce acquired a concussion last night and I’ve only just finally convinced him to get some rest.”

Todd scoffed, bouncing Damian’s writhing body on his shoulder a couple times. “Come on, Alf – you know those bedrooms are basically soundproof.”

Alfred leveled them both with a look, so flat that Damian even stopped squirming for a moment. “Do not disturb your father.”

Todd huffed, moving toward the door leading to the rest of the Manor. “Fine, we’ll keep it first-floor only.”

“Thank you, Master Jason.”

“Uh – should we not be, like, concerned?”

Damian scowled at Thomas. “Are you going to just stand there? Help me!”

Thomas hesitated. Todd shot him a look over his free shoulder. “You intervene, you get your own big brother treatment. Where was it that got you shrieking, last time? Your feet? Or maybe it was your armpits? Eh, my arms are pretty long. I’m sure I could get both at the same time.”

Thomas cleared his throat and took a step away from them. “No, yeah – I’m good. I’ve got, like, homework and shit.”

Todd hummed. “Better get to it.”

“Yup.”

Thomas, the coward, fled via the kitchen.

“Thomas, you get back here and help me! Thomas! Duke!”

Todd snorted and made his way through the door of the mudroom, stalking through the halls as Damian fruitlessly kicked his legs and pounded on Todd’s back. “Resorting to first names, kid? Damn, you must be ticklish.”

Damian growled and twisted his hips in Todd’s grip, aiming to knee him in the face. Todd grabbed his ankle before he could, holding it fast as the rest of him continued to wriggle.

“Damn – ex-Boy Wonder was right, you’re a real squirmer. Dick ever call you a wiggly worm?”

Damian let out an enraged shout, punching at Todd’s back even harder. Richard had, in fact, called him a wriggly, wiggly worm before. Damian had bit him in response.

“Let me down, you brute! You bumbling beast! You–”

Damian yelped as he was unceremoniously dumped onto a plush couch. He scrambled upright, barely getting a glance of his surroundings – the library, he should’ve known – before Todd was upon him, properly wrestling him down against the cushions. A dangerous smile crossed his face.

“See, Dickie? He would’ve used that little comment to play some silly tickle monster game with you, really play into the whole ‘beast’ thing.” He effortlessly caught Damian’s wrist in his hand before Damian could punch him in the midsection. “Me? I’m just gonna make you regret it.”

“Todd, wait–!”

Todd cocked his head to the side. “Why wait any longer? Thought you would’ve had enough of that, by now.” His grin widened. “Timmers said you were practically crawling out of your skin. Don’t think I didn’t notice too, on patrols.”

Damian gasped as his other wrist was captured, feeling the heat flood his face at Todd’s words. His heart thumped in his chest and he stared up at Todd’s face helplessly.

Todd’s grin twisted into a diabolical smirk. “Giving up already, baby assassin?”

Damian could just accept his fate. He could give in, let his nervous system have a rest from the hypervigilance, allow Todd to tickle all of that out of him… But when had Damian ever endeavored to make things easy for his brothers.

Damian wiggled, half-trapped under Todd’s bulk as he leaned over him, and managed to squeeze his legs underneath Todd’s arm and up into his own chest. Then, he shot them out towards Todd’s chest, putting all the power behind the kick that he could manage. Todd laughed, deep and low, and darted backwards. It was almost like he had been anticipating the attack.

He snatched up Damian’s legs, bringing them to a tight hold against his chest with one arm as he stood from the sofa. Damian growled as his world titled upside-down, trying to kick out of Todd’s grasp and finding it near unmoveable. Only his head and shoulders still rested against the cushions, the rest of his body dangling in the air from the anchor point of his calves.

“Todd!”

Todd chuckled. “You know – maybe you should be eating more. You feel way too light for a baby vigilante.”

Damian threw a punch at Todd’s thigh, though he didn’t even flinch. “I am in peak physical condition!”

Instead of answering, Todd latched his free hand onto one of Damian’s knees, sending him into immediately hysterical laughter. Being held in the air like this, his legs so securely pinned, Damian had nowhere to squirm. All he could do was twist his body back and forth and bounce his knees – though as he quickly lost strength due to his laughter, he lost the ability to do even that effectively, as bouncing his knees meant raising his whole body along with them. After what felt like an eternity (but likely wasn’t more than a minute), Todd stopped and let him breathe.

“See, I could stay there all afternoon – make you beg and cry. I think it would end too quickly if we did that, though.”

Damian groaned and uselessly tried to kick out again. It was no use, Todd’s grip was inescapable.

“I mean, I made you wait more than a week. It would be pretty shitty of me to tickle you out so fast, huh?”

Damian bared his teeth. “I will make you regret ever being born.”

Todd mimicked his expression, though his version was far more gleeful. “Wanna bet?”

Damian inhaled, opening his mouth to speak, and all the air immediately left him in a giggly yelp as Todd began clawing at his stomach – right in that spot next to his navel. In the privacy of his own mind, Damian let out a slew of curses. Did everyone know about that accursed “giggle spot?” He blamed Richard’s repeated exploitation of it.

“See, I do my research, kiddo. I know all the best places to tickle already – and we might even find more along the way. And I’m not going easy on you like Timerbly did.”

Damian shot a wide-eyed look up at Todd, trying to pry his fingers off his stomach. Todd smirked.

“Good thing you’re already having fun, then, right?”

“Screw you,” Damian hissed through his giggling.

“How viscous,” Todd said, voice flat. “Like a truly fearsome kitten, really.”

He switched to clawing his hand up and down Damian’s ribcage, jumping back and forth between his left and right. Damian screeched, trying to leverage his shoulders against the cushions to twist away from Todd’s hand. Todd grumbled something in response and hitched Damian up even higher, lifting him away from the cushions, and stepped away from the couch. Damian dangled freely now, hanging uselessly in the air. Every squirm sent him swinging, making it even harder to control his movements despite the fact that Todd was able to follow his momentum easily.

Easily enough for his hand to crawl all the way up into Damian’s underarm, massaging deep into the muscle.

“No!” Damian cried out before losing himself to bubbly, boyish laughter and humiliating snorts.

Todd chuckled along. “No? No, what? Is something wrong down there, little demon? Something bugging you?”

Damian barely caught the sound of jingling through his own laughter, tilting his head up (or was it down, considering his flipped position?) to see Titus trotting into the room at the sound of his torment. Damian reached an arm out for him – the one not currently glued to his side from ticklish shock – which quickly turned out to be a mistake, as Todd switched to tickling that underarm instead. His arm snapped back to his side, but the brief movement had still caught Titus’s attention and he approached.

“Titus, help me!”

Todd laughed above him. “What’s the dog gonna do, you little snot? Take me down? Doubt it.”

Damian made his voice as commanding as he could despite the laughter. “Titus, attack! Bite him!”

Unfortunately, childish guffaws did not a commanding voice make. Titus tilted his head to the side at the unintelligible words before lowering himself down into a bow. Damian gasped as he realized what was about to happen, bringing his free arm up for protection, but it was too late.

Damian had learned early on that Titus loved the sound of laughter. He seemed to recognize what it meant – a happy, joyful human – and it always put him in a playful mood. Damian’s laughter in particular seemed to excite him more than most, likely due to the close bond they shared.

Low in his bow, Titus barked twice, before bouncing back up and prancing a bit on his front paws. Then, he shoved his cold noise right into the crook of Damian’s neck, snuffling away against the skin.

Damian squealed, then shrieked, then flapped his hands uselessly at the overwhelming ticklish feelings flooding through his body. Todd laughed again, thankfully pulling his own hand back, but doing nothing to deter Titus. Damian waved his hands around in the air, disoriented from hanging upside down and not certain how to even push Titus away with his lack of leverage. Titus, spurred on by Damian’s happy noises, continued to nuzzle away in his neck and at his ears.

“Titus, no! Down!” Damian shrieked again at a particularly breathy snuffle to his ear, trying to swing his body away from Titus unsuccessfully. “Todd! Todd!”

“What?” Todd’s voice was heavy with his own laughter, low and fond in a rare way that made Damian feel even more bashful. “I’m not even doing anything, Dames. That’s all Titus.”

“He’s– it’s– No!” Damian cut himself off with another squeal.

“Aw, what? Does it tickle? See, look, you’re so ticklish that even Titus knows what to do. Didn’t realize your neck was that bad, though. Reminds me of the one time I was able to get Bruce.”

Damian put his hands on either side of Titus’s head, trying to push him away. The touch only excited Titus even more, his licking and sniffing getting even quicker.

“Like father like son, I guess.”

Damian slapped at Todd’s thigh. Normally when Titus started this game, Damian would have been able to redirect him by now. The longer Titus stayed in his neck, the more hyper-sensitive he seemed to get. He knew it wasn’t his most ticklish spot, that curse lay firmly in his knees, but he didn’t think he’d ever been tickled so unbearably in this spot before. Todd seemed to get the message, shooing Titus off towards the dog toys in the dog bed in the corner of the library.

“Alright, go to bed, boy. Don’t want you tiring him out and stealing all my fun.”

Titus huffed, but trotted obediently off towards his bed, his tail wagging wildly at Damian’s continued giggles.

“How do you get anything done when you’re this ticklish, huh? I bet your clothes even tickle.”

“They do not,” Damian said, though the vehemence of his protest was lessened by how breathless and giggly he still was. The slight wooziness from the blood rushing to his head made the laughter even harder to stop. “I’m not that ticklish!”

“Really, you’re not?”

“No!”

“Hm. Are you sure? Why don’t you tell me how much this tickles.”

Todd’s hand shot towards his side, and Damian shrieked and swung his body the opposite way. All that did was get him swaying like a pendulum, practically swinging his body into Todd’s wiggling fingers and away again. Todd hummed out another chuckle, rocking to add a little more sway to Damian’s body to keep him rocking into and away from his tickling hand. It was a horrible tease that had Damian whimpering and giggling in equal measure, trying to shove at Todd’s hand every time he grew close.

“You’re doing it to yourself at this point, kid.”

“Stop talking!”

“Mm, nah. It’s pretty funny when you go all red. Especially since you’re the most uptight preteen I’ve ever fucking met.”

“I’ll kill you!”

“Been there, done that. Get some original material.”

Damian tried to growl, but the sound was interrupted as Todd targeted his giggle spot again as the pendulum swinging slowed. Damian clutched at his wrist, squeezing his eyes shut. After Titus’s attack seeming to set his nervous system alight, everything seemed to tickle even worse than before.

“Jason! Cut it out!”

Todd whistled, low and impressed. “I get a first name shoutout? Damn, maybe it’s time for the grand finale before your brain turns to mush.”

Damian’s eyes snapped wide open. His hands started flailing to try and catch Todd’s before he could up his attack. It was a pitiful attempt, and Todd’s hands connected with the muscle above his knee in moments, massaging away at the pressure points.

Damian practically screamed, and he hoped beyond hope that they were far enough from the stairs to the family wing to avoid waking Father. No doubt he would join in, seeing Damian red-faced and cackling. He was as bad as Richard when it came to his childishly named “tickle monster” tendencies, and if he decided to join in, Damian doubted he would see mercy for a long while yet.

And as much fun as Damian refused to admit he was having, adding in another set of tickling hands when he was already so consumed by the ticklish feelings with just one of Todd’s? He might truly die from it.

Todd jumped around, exploring around his knees as Damian cackled and snivelled and screamed in laughter. Clawing at his kneecaps, skittering at the thin skin behind his knees, jumping down to his claves or up to his thighs when Damian started to run out of air to give him some semblance of a break. He wasn’t methodical like Drake, but he was still precise. Every minute weak point was found and targeted with single-minded focus, until Damian thought he was going to die from tickles from just one hand.

Then, just when Damian was beginning to think he couldn’t take anymore, just when he was debating swallowing his pride and begin begging, Todd stopped. Damian gasped in a deep breath and it left him in a whoosh as he was dropped unceremoniously back onto the couch. His head swam from how long he’d been upside down and Damian allowed himself the luxury of going boneless, sinking into the plush cushions. He could see why Todd spent so much time in the library when he came by the Manor – this was exceedingly comfortable. He could fall asleep right there.

“Still with us, Baby Bat?”

Damian debated kicking Todd as he plopped on the couch next to him, but decided that it was ultimately too much effort to move that much.

“Your days are numbered,” he mumbled instead.

Todd let out a humming chuckle deep in his throat, reaching over to ruffle Damian’s hair. If Damian leaned into the touch, it was entirely because his neck was too tired to support his head. It was absolutely not because he enjoyed the affectionate touch.

“Me ‘n Alfie’s cookies are probably cooled enough to eat, by now. Want one?”

This time, Damian did kick at Todd, just lightly against his hip. “I deserve at least three.”

Todd ruffled his hair even more. It was probably sticking up in every direction, but he couldn’t bring himself to care.

“Yeah, probably. You got it, kid. Three cookies and a glass of water coming right up. If your limbs start working again, pick a book out. I’ll read you something.”

If Damian wound up cuddled up to Todd’s side under a fluffy blanket, munching on cookies as Todd read to him aloud, no one needed to know. Especially not the fact that he dozed off only a few minutes after finishing his snack, Todd’s deep rumble soothing him into slumber before he even realized what was happening.

* * *

“Heard you had quite the eventful couple weeks,” Richard said as he practically bounded into the training area.

Damian refused to look at him. “We will not speak of it.

Richard slipped behind the punching bag Damian was attacking, forcing his cheery grin into Damian’s sight. “Aww, Dami – it’s okay! You wanted some more big brother tickles. No one will blame you for that!”

Damian delivered a particularly vicious punch to the bag, but Richard was unphased, only smiling brighter.

“I think Jay and Timmy had fun, too. Better look out though, kiddo – now that they know you’re tickle-able, you won’t be escaping them anytime soon.”

Damian’s ears grew hot. “I know,” he grumbled. “They’ve already proved as such.”

Now that whatever unspoken wall protecting Damian had come down, it seemed as though he couldn’t go more than two days without Drake or Todd deciding he deserved another round. Damian didn’t think he’d laughed this much even when Richard was in town, tickle-attacking him at least twice a day. He would likely never have a day's peace again.

Richard smirked, releasing the bag and leaning down so they were closer to eye-level. “Something tells me you don’t mind as much as you pretend to.”

Damian bared his teeth, aiming his next punch for Richard’s nose, overly telegraphing the movement. Richard laughed, snatching the wrist up and using it to spin Damian around, pulling him into a backwards hug to dig his fingers into Damian’s sides and ribs. He immediately burst into bubbly laughter.

“That’s okay, though, kiddo. Those are just the privileges of being a little brother.”

Someday, Damian vowed, he would be bigger and stronger than all of them. He would exact his revenge ruthlessly and without mercy, and as frequently as possible. Someday, they would fear his “tickle monster” prowess.

For now, though, he supposed he could live with these so-called “little brother privileges.”

#tickle fic #my writing #dc tickling #batfam tickling #lee!damian wayne #ler!dick grayson #ler!jason todd #ler!tim drake #ticklish!damian wayne #dc #batfam #damian wayne #dick grayson #jason todd #tim drake

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gravid-transluna · 1 year ago

Text

Bread, Milk, and Eggs

words: 1390

content: rapid pregnancy and birth, lactation, birth denial, fpreg

Nadia grabbed a basket on the way into the supermarket. She wouldn’t need a cart. Her list only consisted of three simple things. The basket swung as she combed the aisles, leisurely.

Bread

She picked out a loaf, pausing to read the expiration date before dropping it in the basket.

As it plopped in, she immediately felt a strange sensation. It was almost like a tugging in her navel, a buttery innie. She pressed her lean, dark tummy, firm with athleticism. Not concerned. Just a little curious.

Then the tugging became a pressure, consistent with the bloated sensation she would experience on her period. Nadia frowned. She pressed down on her belly, and, to her surprise, it pressed back.

“The hell—?” She was really frowning now. She realized how she must look to passerby, a college-age girl in a crop top and jean shorts, staring at her stomach.

Probably just gas or something, she thought. She continued down the aisle. When she reached the end, she looked down again, this time gasping audibly. Her belly had a curve to it, bending a little past the waistline of her jean shorts now. Nadia pressed down again, hard. She stopped when she felt nausea well up inside her. Her belly was still mostly muscle, but had a slight softness to it, a give like a firm peach. As she watched, it swelled even more, pushing out slowly to stretch her shorts.

“Holy fuck,” Nadia muttered, suddenly feeling the flesh of her belly contained in the seams of her waistline like it had never been before. She felt extremely uncomfortable, and reached around it to undo the button, fingers fumbling. She gasped, breathing, and her belly expanded even more without the restriction.

Nadia could now spread her fingertips around its underside. She looked almost, she looked—

No. Nah. No fuckin’ way.

Nadia grabbed the bread from the basket and lifted it to her eyes. The expiration date had been nine months from now when she’d picked it out.

Now, it was four.

“I gotta be tripping,” Nadia mumbled.

She laced her fingers over her navel and held firm as the skin filled her hands and pushed against them. She refused to let it grow any more and ruin her trim tummy and athletic figure. Then a pain and pressure shot through her belly, as though something had rose, shoving, up into her sternum. She let go, and her belly rapidly dropped, the skin stretching tightly, itching around her belly, her taut belly muscles being pulled and loosened and smoothed into a round, curving shape. She watched in mounting horror, cupping her mouth as her innie rose and popped outward. Then, a sharp inner jab, distending its tight surface. Nadia gasped. Movements wriggled her belly viscerally. She clutched at her lively swell, unable to deny it any longer.

“Shit, I’m pregnant,” she said.

Dark stretch marks patterned the sheening brown skin. Nadia regretted her crop top, exposing her to the entire supermarket. She glanced around. She only needed a few more things, then she could get to a doctor. She began to speed-walk, realizing that her strut had been hindered to a waddle, heavy belly forcing her to walk with her back curved to support the gravid weight.

Without realizing it, Nadia rested her hand atop the high shelf of her belly as she walked, a natural maternal gesture.

Milk

She came to the dairy aisle and opened the door, suppressing a sharp breath as her belly rippled and twitched with a flurry of kicks. As soon as she placed a carton of milk in her basket, she was subjected to another set of sensations.

She recoiled.

“Noooo,” Nadia moaned, heedless to glances from passerby. “No, no, not again!”

Sharp points of pressure stabbed through her nipples, and she watched as they stiffened under her crop top, then began to thicken and elongate, inching outward. Her small breasts, she realized, were swelling as well. They sank, full, still not particularly large but swollen now, tender. High before, their undersides now rested on her belly, humiliatingly completely her very pregnant appearance. Nadia cupped them, then gasped; her fat nipples were sensitive, raw. The simple contact had leeched milk from the tips, forming twin wet spots on her tip. She crossed her arms over her chest, feeling them continue to dribble achingly.

My top, Nadia thought. My favorite fucking top.

She had to get out of here, now. Before anyone saw her, leaking milk in the dairy aisle. Before anything… worse could happen.

As if on cue, her belly shook and swayed with powerful, urgent kicks.

Eggs

One more item. Fortunately, it was on the same aisle, near the milk. Nadia scanned quickly, chose a carton at random, not even bothering to check the eggs for cracks as she usually did. Breast milk ran freely down her front now, her top soaked with two spreading wet patches. She threw the carton into her basket and heard a crack.

Nadia cursed. She opened the cartoon and saw that it only contained a single broken egg.

“What the—”

Then her belly surged, a sudden pressure rushing through her, downward. Her knees trembled, weak. She clasped the aisle fridge handle to remain upright as fluid flushed from her vagina, drenching her legs and puddling the floor. Immediately she felt something large, heavy, and round drop between her pelvis. Her belly hung lower. The bones of her hips craned with forceful pressure; they were still narrow and girlish, unable to reach the significant width of expecting mothers in time for her own birth.

Birth.

“No, I—” Nadia stuttered, clutching her belly. “I can’t be—nnnngh.”

An urge to bear down pounded in her head. Nadia fought it, sleek muscled body tensing with resistance. She tried to put her legs together, feeling like the baby would fall between them with her widened stance, and found that she couldn’t anymore. They were permanently spread, hips opened in preparation. She turned and began to waddle as fast as she could to the front of the store, hand pressed over the sodden crotch of her shorts. Running had become a ridiculous notion, nearly impossible. Her knees wavered, threatening collapse. She couldn’t bring her legs together as she pumped them forward, and her belly swung, gravid and obtrusive, as she moved.

Another contraction. Every muscle in her belly clamped down, transforming it into a tight, rigid ball, driving the breath from her.

Don’t push, she thought. Don’t push. Pushing makes it real. Don’t—

She dropped into a deep squat in the middle of the aisle. Gripping the belly between her thighs hard enough to indent the surface, she bore down with a long, uninterrupted groan. Internal muscles thrust her baby through her canal, opening her. Her hips creaked. Her voice cracked, shrill now as she pushed again. The head slid between them, almost dislocating them with its width. She forced her legs even wider instinctually, desperate to make room for the descending head.

“Holy shit, she’s in labor!”

“Someone call 9-1-1!”

The people around her had stopped, unsure. They watched her, some phone cameras now winking down at Nadia in her birthing squat.

Her eyes widened as the contraction abated with the baby’s head resting in her vagina, filling her entire canal with tremendous weight. She could feel herself bulging into her jean shorts. On quivering spread legs she raised herself and hobbled out of the aisle.

“Excuse me, ma’am! You have to pay first!” an employee demanded as she passed the checkout, basket swinging from her arm.

The store alarms rang, and then Nadia was gripped by another contraction.

She buckled, bowing into another squat and pushing long, shoving her baby further into her tented jean shorts. The crown burned and dilated her vagina into a hot, red teardrop, then a drawn circle. Amniotic fluid spilled, spurting into the fabric around the head. Then her progress was suddenly, excruciatingly halted by her shorts. She’d pushed half a head into them and the stretched fabric wouldn’t yield any more space. Nadia bore down, her clenching efforts fruitless now. Her pussy slipped, tense and bloodless around the head. She threw her head back and moaned with the screaming sirens.

It had been three simple things. The fourth? Well, the fourth she’d never expected to be so complicated.

#fpreg #clothing birth #birth denial #breast milk #rapid pregnancy #labor kink #birth kink #pregnant kink

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gnohomotho · 2 months ago

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May I play with you? 「✦Pt.5✦」

Pairing: The Salesman // The Recruiter x fem!reader Summary: Well, folks, it's happening, everyone stay calm. He's lost it (not the game, you lost that one). Flowery shower leading to a bed. There is some fluff, because of course there is. Bit of an emotional rollercoaster, is he still playing? Are you? How many times have you lost? Is he counting? What exactly does he have in mind? How much of him is true? Is anything really? ⭒˚.⋆˖➴༯ Warnings: 18+ MDNI, heavy intimacy, rich sexual inner monologues, description of naked bodies, biting, choking, bondage, abuse dynamics, accurate depictions of trauma responses, very questionable consent, razorblades, heavy snogging, groping, grinding, fondling, power imbalance, near-smut, the man's in love, what can I tell you. (❀´ ˘ `❀) Word count: 8.7k A/N: I'm aware the water bill will be astronomical. ˙ᵕ˙ Again, I'm so grateful for the fans and the people requesting this, tried quite hard and tried to write the saucy scenes very saucily and plan to give them a fully fledged scene in the next part. Just wanted to deepen the characters and relationship, rather than just fucking. But please put "describing the Salesman's nether region while trying to study for a state exam" under things I did not expect to be hard. Wait. WAIT NO--- Gorgeous gif by: @phantom-evil Tag list: @storytellers-randomshortstorys @ingstadstarlight જ⁀➴ Link to previous Link to next If you like my work, I cherish every like // reblog // follow // message - thank you for helping me boost visibility and writing! ♥ Masterlist ฅ^._.^ฅ

The shower water beat down on your delicate beating head like drops on a hot tin roof. Your eyes refused to blink. The water kissed your lashes and blurred the never changing abject scene before you.

There he was.

There he was, the enigmatic salesman, in his entirety, just under the tender curve of your breasts, his dark hair, thick with wetness and heat, his face, slick and never changing, fully focused into you without a single touch. Droplets running down his face but seemingly making way for his engulfing features.

Let me revere you.

Your breath could not catch up, your hands were remotely, unnoticeably shivering, and though the warmth covered your naked body down to the hem of your tights, you felt so very, very cold and exposed.

He was a mirror, the mirror you could not stand to look at yourself in at home, and he took all he reflected.

And, perhaps worst of all, the unwavering stabbing uncertainty dragged through your mind as the steam made the small space ever suffocating.

Curling softly and sliding down your nose and throat.

Sliding the tiles from under you like hands gripping a veil of consciousness from under your toes.

If he was like the others, you could have managed. If he took and grabbed, if he defiled, you could breathe. Bitterly, but you could. But not this.

Your eyes move to the heels of his shoes, perfect spades glistening and getting ruined by water. You try to focus on him, his form breathing under the heavy soaked suit, you don't want to acknowledge what he's seeing. Nor you. Nor the damage. But you don't move.

You watch.

Heavy shoulders so light against their surroundings. A large form lithe enough to jump at you if you make the wrong move. Eyes darkened by the water caught on his eyelashes, a perfect backdrop for the lingering darkness you know is there, barely subdued.

His shirt, soaked through.

His suit, weighed down by dark fabric.

His sleeves, stained.

His hands---

His hands.

Large, meticulous, open hands.

So close to the places you don't wish to recall, harbouring a touch that both holds you here and holds you apart.

You unwittingly, as invisibly as possible stiffen and force your thighs together; how similar are your moves to the dreadful night he bestowed that burning touch on you the very first time.

Heart beating madly, you pray he didn't notice.

His eyes seem focused on your body now, piercing your navel and hips, unmoving. Focusing. You wonder what he sees, what caught his attention and held...before you remember yourself checking the damage even before this nightmare of an evening.

Oh.

Oh no.

His hand suddenly moves. Veins like highways delineating its trajectory. All along down to the wrist you cannot quite see. The electricity between the steam and his light motion plays between your skin and his touch.

A gentle but methodical cut begins to pull each sleeve down just a tad, revealing his entire wrists and you almost gasp - almost - at the concentration imbued in them.

He's either struggling or preparing, either fighting or dreadfully at peace with whatever is running through his mind and intentions.

Even the way he did that - he didn't pull away from you, no. He wouldn't grant you that kind of impersonality.

No.

The salesman instead dragged his open palm gruellingly slowly with each fingertip lightly burning through you across your stomach. Inch by inch.

He slid along your ribs and simply rested there, letting your body pulsate into his firm touch.

Not only mine, the touch seems to say.

One with me.

When he does move, it's to tend to one cuff that he visited by travelling across you. As slowly as it is torturous, he then repeats the motion the other way, gliding across your prickling, responsive skin, to his other hand. Never once hurting or pushing into you, so methodical are his movements - even as his wrist touches your skin and the hand returns to its open palm possession.

Slow, everso slow, so lightly against your navel, soft as transparent cloth, deliberate as the hand of a dealer who knows the house always wins.

Never once letting you go without his touch.

If it was possessive, you couldn't tell. You did not wish to think. To make sure it's not a reaction, you let yourself be still for a time too long before exhaling and closing your eyes.

You feel a new sensation, warm and almost comforting - but bathed in a sense of dread.

Gently he began to lather soap and foam across your stomach, soothingly travelling up to your ribs. Across places that screamed in pain and need. Your breath, your mind was holding onto its last confines of stability not to react, not to give him an inch. But every breath sent a shiver through you, you knew if you dared open your eyes, you'd see him watching you with one eye pinned each time you tried to avoid the charcoal depths.

You feel his momentary focus on your quivering chest, as the droplets fall slower past the tender hills. Circular motions caress your sternum, along each side of your breasts, under them, stopping only for places that visibly hurt. Places you know don't hurt only because of tonight and you dread him reading you like a book.

The foam gathers in heaped warmth and hugs your chest, lazily falling down onto your stomach and he catches it - lathering every inch anew.

Sometimes he lingers. And you swear you have to be imagining the place grow warmer, warmer, then hot - as if the steam gathered there and moulded into you.

You thought you were imagining it until a soft yet rough small surface, wet and warm, momentarily, only for a breath - - - brushed a particularly tender spot.

Are those...is that...

Your eyes flutter open and thankfully, you see for yourself without him seeing you.

And you are not thankful to be gazing into a flurry of dark hair not even a clandestine inch away from your skin.

❥❥❥

As gentle and soft as his hands were - they were methodical. Deliberate. Never lingering without reason. He focused on your bruises and stayed there.

"This one's old," he hummed nonchalantly, but there was a cold edge to the whisper even the shower couldn't heat.

His breath kissed your skin and bathed it in warmth as the whispers enveloped every inch of the soft spot under his lips.

"And this one wasn't done by a fast, brutal, unbecoming drow of emotion."

He didn't have to move to connect the surface you had already suspected to your skin, to your body, to your soaked shivering tenderness.

His lips brushed the surface of your skin - just barely - over the place he had tended with his breath.

The electricity. The touch. The need in you gathers and you almost quiver into him.

Your heart. Your heart is racing and he must feel it through your form, your stomach, your ribs.

But he left you cold once more as his lips departed.

He moved ever lower.

Circling soap and smooth warmth just under the curve of your breasts, never touching - making his presence and his absence the same gruelling pain. And you felt everything.

He is travelling up between them, up your sternum. Slowly. Pressing each centimetre of your skin into memory.

"And this one...these ones..." the breath that left his lips lingered hot on your skin but held nothing but contempt.

His lips closed around the tender place and for a while, only lay there. The contact giving life alone. As he pulled away just enough to speak but so close you could no longer tell what is hot water and what are his lips upon you...

"These ones...my little flower...my dear little bird shielded by a pair of broken wings..."

His hand had stopped and your eyes cannot focus, the eyes you're explicitly not meeting are burning into you. You almost gasp as you feel his finger glide against the soft skin of your ribs, to your hip, sliding along the dip and laying against your side. It slides down ever further and grips your thigh.

"These ones make me wish to lay you down and invite a few more players to the game for you to merely watch."

The knife of his intonation cut through the steam, yet ended on a jovial little chuckle.

"Watch them lose."

The grip on your thigh grows, and you know what that does to him, you know how his thoughts must be spiralling through each and every scene from the tapestry of your skin he's putting together like a full picture. And you shiver straight through.

You must not let him see.

You must not let him see that you are falling apart, and your body is growing into a cold carapace to shield the damage.

Hold me, don't touch me, hold me, don't touch me, ruin me, make it stop, please hold me, make it safe...

Your left eye begins to do something you truly cannot afford right now, and you would almost curse at both it and the thought that forced it to glisten.

...love me.

His thumb leaves the grip of your upper thigh only to softly slide inside the vice-like grip between your legs, rubbing the tights and smoothing them over. Not taking them off. Not roughing them up.

Smoothing them against the water and against your burning skin.

Stability? Possession? Need? Obsession?

Play?

Please let it be that.

The drip leaves your eye as the words leave his lips bathed in pretentious honey:

"You want me to hurt you, don't you, little flower?"

❥❥❥

He gazes up at you, the question hanging in the air, one open hand rested upon you but unmoving. His other firmly gripping your thigh enough to remind you of the poor chair. Is this a test? Or a genuine question? His face is a wet, beautiful, striking vision politely asking each drop of water to pass so that it may be burned into you without barriers. His smile is small, but his expression harbours little warmth.

Reverence.

And detachment.

And...something you cannot quite point to nor comprehend.

Like a snake smiling up at you, and you don't know whether it's satisfied with a meal or about to strangle one.

And your body is giving him every answer he should desire before he even opens his mouth. You almost caught a glimpse at your chest, and something in those eyes that glistened.

Awe.

No.

Self-satisfaction.

But...

No...

Your head is swimming, warmth and heat pooling against his touch, your sense of wrong and yet - safety - dragging you to him, dragging you on each drop that falls down on him, dragging you into his arms but you won't.

You won't.

You're not losing to him and you're not getting devoured today.

The salesman's softer eyes watch the droplets gather on your breasts and kiss each tip, before falling against his hands which twitch ever so slightly with each shared contact they bring to him.

You barely notice his lips move, but the voice kisses your ears past the droplets:

"You would prefer I be like them."

It's not a question.

Please don't.

"You would have me hurt you, wish to hurt you."

The polite soaked figure is only reading each page in front of him like a slow bedtime story. The dripping head lulls so close to your skin you almost lean into the crane of his neck for him and stop yourself - entirely wrong, all wrong, offering him refuge? What is wrong with you?!

His voice is so soft, but his grip on you isn't, and it reminds you of the game once more. His head leans into you, as if ready to kiss a bruise right under your ribs, hidden in such a sensitive spot. Which he surely realises.

Please don't go there.

But the sensation never comes. Only hot breath circling your skin as the words kiss it instead.

"So that my tender flower could loathe me. Discard me. And forget me...even as the poison pulsates through her veins."

He pulls you closer with one slow move, your legs momentarily teetering but you steady yourself. His other hand holds itself outstretched, finger by finger, on the skin below your ribs, just above your stomach where they disconnect into delicate softness, letting you fall into him and letting him feel you in your entirety - but you won't let him know that. You know he's playing.

You know he's playing.

The soft frown as he gazes at you, eyes wide, does nothing to dispel the thought. Lips turning softly, pityingly, patronisingly, he hushes into you:

"Poor thing. That's not how this works."

As he concludes the sentence, he lays his other hand to your side, gliding down the soft curve of your hips and just slightly around, not teasing, but trespassing - stopping at your bone to slide back down the navel and narrowly miss what you expected him to wish to violate first. The salesman instead lays his other hand on your untouched thigh and simply...

Pulls.

Steady, against him, his hands firmly holding you from both sides, you would almost let your guard down and fall. Let your aching muscles rest into his grasp and warm hands, his fingers dispelling lingering pain.

You are pulled into him, meeting both the soaked fabric and his hot body underneath. Firm as it is adaptive, strong as it is fast. Meticulous as it is brutal.

Elegant as it is cruel.

His lips burn into you straight through as their touch travels from the spot he breathed life into, trails down the bruise, and brushes the skin to the very end of your navel. Where his lips rest. Not a kiss. Not quite. Yet not even letting water run between your body and his.

As he pulls away and watches you with detailed satisfaction, studying your face, his eyes follow the little errant drop on your left cheek.

Voice like smoke and velvet, harbouring both hunger and patience, breaks the shower's hum:

"That's a flinch."

❥❥❥

As he pulls away, you're left burning alive.

Shaking. Infuriatingly cold. Pried open. Left to hang.

Helpless.

And ready to move into his arms and kick him at the same time. Your breath makes a sharp inhale and you force it to steady, and of course - he notices.

And he smiles.

It's not a smirk, nor is it triumphant.

It's worse, and you shudder.

It's soft and it is…worshipful.

It is the look of a man who has pried open the most precious of locks inside of you, waltzed straight inside and didn't disturb a single exhibit. Waiting for you to realise just what a heap of kindling is left of your locked doors. For him. And no one but him. Knowing you almost held your arm outstretched with the key as he did so.

The space between you should feel like a reprieve, but it feels like a wound. A void. A chasm. Something terribly missing, and you hate yourself down to the core you don't believe you have, that you want him to close it again.

And...

He does.

He takes your shivering hand and lays it back on his chest, just as you did to catch him in his own game. You feel the hot fabric; you feel his heart. It's pounding.

A knowing smile underlines your surprise, as if reassuring you that you are correct. You may just have an upper hand if you play your cards right.

You may stand to win, look at him, kneeling there, pulse mad, eyes barely concealing their own darkness.

But the salesman moves again and closes the gap. That dastardly gap you'd give anything to close. Closes it by pressing his cheek to your stomach. And he exhales.

His hands grip your thighs and for a moment you wonder if he's steadying himself or tricking you. A softly planted, deliberate kiss right above your navel almost makes you throw the game away entirely.

As you listen to his steadying breaths, hands gripping your thighs, your own gaze softens against your better judgement.

The kiss as a gesture is so very twisted.

So very reverent.

So very...him.

❥❥❥

As you swallow on a dry throat, hard - his eyes flick up, dark lashes wet, and the voice teasingly letting you feel a remnant of warmth it would positively beg for.

"You think I'm cruel?

The salesman's palms skim the inside of your thighs, but stop just before anywhere indecent. Just pressing, not parting. Holding. Knowing you're losing the game and keeping them clasped even as his fingers manage to slide around.

"You think I'll take?"

A single fingertip traces your lower spine, up, slow, deliberate. You're not sure if it's brand, a promise, or a threat. As it slowly teeters down, drawing a shaky breath out of you and leaving electricity wherever it brushed, he speaks once more.

"No, sweet flower, that's not at all how this works."

A single finger slips into the hem of your tights, leaving you just long enough to realise what he's doing before the other mirrors the action on your other hip.

"If I tie you down, if I leave you whimpering and begging for me, it won't be because I made you do so."

The fingers tickle your skin, playing with you, but you feel his own breath quickening as his words are underlined by what he is surely gladly imagining.

"It will be because you sit down freely, bound by the rules of the game, so entirely mine that you offer me the rope through tears streaming down those gorgeous doll eyes."

You feel your stomach pulsate as your heart cannot keep up. He looks up, as if he said nothing at all - relishing surely how much you're regretting every single moment leading up to this one. Cold envelops your mind. Fuck.

"Whimpering, begging, kissing the air with your hurried, strangled breaths...mine from the limbs you won't be able to move to the lips I could tear apart and leave cold. My little lady. Broken by herself. Held together by me. Her will bent like the tender flower stem waiting for its poison to work. Begging for peace."

The fingers dig into each of your hips, surely leaving indentations. Your jaw tightens and your chest does too - and he notices. Oh, he notices the tender skin drawing in on itself, the soft points of your breasts catching his eyes and serving that self-satisfied, leisurely smirk. Though he is under you, he is nothing but towering over you. Just as he surely planned. Just as he intended to play.

His voice comes so unassuming, as if reciting a particularly odd verse he cannot seem to fully wrap his tongue around - so sweet it turns to cyanide on his lips.

"And the poison won't come...hm, my poor little flower...? Can you feel it?"

His eyes close like that of a satisfied cat resting a paw on its caught mouse.

"Because it's too late."

As if to make sure you realise the ramifications of your displaced trust and faint self-assuredness, both of his fingers make the same up-and-down motion, caressing the naked skin he has not touched yet and enjoying the new sensation with polite delight.

As they find every piece of fabric they can, and safely hook themselves under it, the salesman slides down your tights with gruelling, torturous slow detail imbued into each inch of your newly exposed skin. So gently as not to burn your exposed nakedness, but so deliberately it feels like you're being sentenced.

Each new exposed inch is tended to with his lips. Though his fingers are not gripping as you would expect, their pressure is palpable, and they glide slower upon each spot that stings. His lips follow, breathing into you. Kissing the exposed place as if he were burning it into his mind...and yours.

As the tights slide down to your ankles, he traces both palms up your shins, around them, slowly up the inside of your legs you are now vibrating with to keep closed. But he, politely, without explicit force nor a move of the brow apart from his shoulders visibly stiffening, pries them apart just enough for his fingers to glide through.

You're giving him the sensation of your grip and hold without even realising. You quiver further, unable to move - if you know anything...it must be intoxicating for him.

He steadies himself against you, looking up with that small smile but not meeting your eyes, oh, no. He's entranced by your form. Bare before him. So many more avenues to explore and tend to.

So many more petals to pluck.

You merely step out of wet heap and try to nonchalantly slide it away. There still is a part of your brain very, very much concerned about something glistening in the wet clothing.

But you're shivering and you are burning.

And you would collapse around him and hold him to your naked chest, so that you are both enveloped, so that even the gentle water cannot enter the closeness between you.

"My gorgeous little lady," he humms, eyes fixated on your legs and entirely naked beauty, "you're as perfect as you are terrible at this game."

❥❥❥

And you finally move. Never taking your eyes off him, you kick the fabric of your tights away, knowingly giving him your thighs opening on a silver platter.

But as much as the opening captivated him, and as much as his hands squeezed themselves against them – his palm letting fingers envelop the inside of your inner thigh and softly gliding up and down against the water and sliding with it, his eye darted to your movement.

The metallic glint.

You slid the tights away, but the water washed their darkness and let the tiny object half-slip out of their torn hem. Gleaming in the light of the shower and droplets gracing its surface.

And the little glisten caught his one watchful eye. Less than a second, and still – his head stiffens.

The realisation hit you just as it hit him. Though yours was focused on regret and a past life that was washing away with each second with the salesman.

Why didn’t I drag it across his throat, carve out an escape and be done?!

“Oh?” His inflection is curious, but low, his hands don’t stop touching you. One softly brushes fingers just a tad too high and you close your thighs again. But he’s already there and only relishing the comfort of your warm naked skin against his fingers. The smile widens as you make contact with his harsh skin.

The salesman leans towards the wet heap, reaching by your ankles, and takes out the small object that caught his eye.

You should stop him. You should do something. Move!

But you cannot move as you hear his quiet, almost amused breath.

And the expression, as he holds it in his one free hand, is almost ethereal in its captivated fascination. And there is something in his voice that lingers even above the steam of the shower, but heavy enough to pin your feet to the ground and bind your thoughts. Though you detest the thought, as your heart pounds and your vision clouds, you wish it were mockery or judgement, even amusement – but it’s not. It’s something that binds him to you in wire and fishing line, something that is too deep for comfort.

Understanding.

Something close to…admiration.

“The flower came prepared.” Without warning, he kisses your navel and lets his lips rest there. His hand finally releases your thigh, but glides along their side, up your hip, and clenches your behind. And you almost gasp, not expecting him to wash away a boundary he seemed to be respecting most ardently until now.

“Get your hand off my---”

He chuckles into you, moving his head from side to side. He trails his lips up your belly and lets his chin rest in you as he speaks.

Without warning, you snatch at the blade. Without a shiver, without a doubt, taking back something yours, a part of you, your own protection, and you feel…

A sharp snag of your wrist, mid-motion, even as his head never stops resting against you, never leaving your gaze. Both your hands hold the small blade, you move yours to not touch his, he moves his to grip over yours. You don’t let go.

Once more he tilts his head, watching you. Watching you with that infuriating patience that could disappear at any moment. He already knows. And still, he wants to watch the scene unfold.

“If you want to use it, dear flower, why don’t you use it now?”

The salesman cranes his head, slowly, watching you like a snake. Smile still there. You are his one and only project that he’s studying every nook and cranny of, delighted at every gear moving of its own volition…under his control. Until now.

You feel a white-hot frozen anger growing in your chest and step away, leaving him without your flesh. His hand grips your flesh behind you.

Not moving away from me, little one.

You think. You try to think. Shivering even as his hand firmly holds your behind, his other still gripping yours.

And he…grins and guides your hand closer to him, slowly, letting the weight of the gesture sink in with every inch traversed. The razor rests against his throat as he looks up to you, holding your fingers, but leaving his own limp enough in his grip for you to move.

I could cut him. Just add pressure. He’s kneeling before me. He’s drenched. His suit is ruined.

Your heart begins to feel against your will.

He’s still in control. But he…he killed for me. He didn’t hurt me. Yet. He didn’t use me. Yet. And he’s offering his neck to me. Trusting me. Or is it another game? Does he think I won’t do it?

You add pressure to alleviate the thoughts. It feels foreign and wrong to you. Like desecration. Not of him, but of you. This is not you. This is not the girl who tried to save her friend. This is not the hand of the girl who held the detective.

He looks up at you, like you’re truly that flower. Truly beautiful, untouchable, not to be harmed. Worshipping you on his knees at the expense of himself. Playing with you. Testing you.

Each time the thought enters, you wish to push and drag. Drag across his skin. He wouldn’t stop you, that much you know.

But your fingers grow still. And your face saddens into closing your eyes, letting the errant tears drop in full view. Your fingers tremble.

He leans into it.

You almost shoot the hand away for fear of hurting him, instinct doing its job.

Because this is not you.

You feel his skin; his pulsating neck almost touches your hand. The water cascades over him and doesn’t touch your entire palm. His warmth brushes your own. And the pulse beats into the blade that trails the sensation through your fingers up your arm and to your own heart.

Steady. Unafraid. Trusting.

Why do you trust me?

The unspoken question gets a reply as his quiet whisper circles the blade and kisses your fingers down to your wrist.

“If I was like them, I’d already be dead,” he smiles up at you, unmoving.

His fingers softly ease your own off the blade, one by one, stripping you of its cool surface until you are left…

Vulnerable again.

His.

His hand closes around the blade, hiding it, but you see his resolve and the pressure that built up through the scene in the veins on the back of his hand and the grip with which he envelops the blade.

“You’ll cut yourself, don’t hold it like that…” you hush against the shower, voice breaking. You begin to lean to him, hair falling past you, water shaping around your breasts and tummy, softly as you guide your hand to his. But no blood comes out of his palm as he opens it for you.

So you see everything, so close he himself could now slice your neck as you rest above him, exposed, naked, worried – he lifts the blade.

But he lifts it to his mouth.

The salesman presses a slow, deliberate kiss against the flat side of the blade and then…

Lets it fall.

The softest metallic sound against the wet tiles, a clatter, and…

It’s gone.

Just like your resolve, your armour, your weapon.

Just like the safety of placing him in the role of all the others.

And you know the innocence of you, the helplessness he might have imagined, is gone too. He sees you now. And he…is delighted.

And still, he didn’t hurt you. He took your weapon. Gave you his throat. And then didn’t hurt you.

The salesman leans back from you, resting on his heels and studies you anew.

❥❥❥

As if something clicked in his head, he finally stands up to his full height, soaked suit dripping on the tiles, face closing in the distance between you both until you step back at the feeling of his suit brushing against your skin. But you step into the cold wall and wince. And he towers above you, expression unchanging, full of mischief yet frozen condemnation, the snake finally zoning in on its prize and its meal. With no further need for theatrics or dances.

You feel his hand ghost your hip, and his breath kiss you – restrained, slow, but shallow. Too shallow.

As you move once more to avoid his hand, naked skin against the wall, his other grabs the small of your back, squeezing you tight. Before you can gasp, the other glides up your side, from your knee up, and as his face buries into your neck and collarbone, he grips your thigh and hoists you up against the wall as if it was nothing to him.

Instinctively, both your legs wrap around his waist and squeeze for balance, for safety, and you feel his head pull away from your skin just enough to let breath through.

You're blushing, you're almost overwhelmed but feeling everything, and the wetness of his suit against your naked skin, him holding you and being so, so close…The salesman lifts his head from you, water gliding past his hair onto his face, eyes sharp and entranced with you being locked in and gripping for dear life while he is standing there, looking down at you, having nowhere to go – dark eyes pinning you to the wall, just as he is with his entire body.

His smile is tender as it glides from your lips to your eyes, where it turns to pure hunger and restraint, something akin to a high off losing control. His large hands are gripping your flesh, but they jitter – even though the wall keeps you steady. He can't stop squeezing you, so hard he’ll leave marks, fingers brushing and exploring what they can.

As he leans into you, his eyes close, and the crane of your neck is kissed, softly, then simply rested in.

Such a false calm before the storm.

He's taking you in. All of you. His inhale is shaky, his breath hot. His hands firm and almost desperate in their pursuit of every inch of you he’s yet untouched. You feel his hot breath and you feel him nestle in, taste you, feel you, inhale you. Like he wants every sense enveloped in you. His thighs move and you feel him – truly feel him – truly no way to avoid his excitement. Each time you grip your shins or thighs for stability, he moves a bit more into you, until you could swear he was naked too for the sheer closeness of his own body.

"Clever girl," he coos into your shoulder, kissing the spot he knows must be tender.

"My good, obedient, clever girl..."

And you couldn’t control the feelings any longer. Between the tears forming in your eyes, heart beating out of your chest, and legs shivering around him as the roughness of his soaked through suit left nothing of your skin to yourself, you whimpered and let out a gasp as his teeth grazed your throat, sinking into your collarbone again. Your whole body twitched against him and your legs inadvertently squeezed him tighter.

It was like you flipped a switch in him. Time stopped. Even the water seemed to slow its drops. He pulled away just enough to rest his forehead against yours and pinned you down with his eyes alone. His face slowly distanced itself, his lips half open, head craning everso slowly to one side as if studying you for the very first time.

And in that small second that it took you to realise he’d pulled away, he hoisted you up against himself and pushed you into the wall, his hips crashing with yours and his excitement pushing against you with all the fervour he was hiding until now.

He pulls his head back slowly, drifting across your face and looks above you, a small, almost unnoticeable breath of a chuckle escaping his lips before he lets the wall hold you, one hand still gripping your thigh.

He looks fond. Calm. Steady as his other harshly grips the back of your head and grabs a handful of hair straight at your scalp – and pulls your head back. One last whisper swallowed by the shower caresses your ear, as his lips form around the words like soft nudges of air:

"You lose."

And his lips crash into yours. The kiss is anything but gentle – it is hungry, desperate, full of unspoken yearning and need – his tongue gives you no warning, he invades your mouth and tastes every little part of your mouth, craning your neck back with each pull of his fist. You cannot move, you are utterly exposed, and he’s inside of your mouth, against your body, exploring, invading, tasting, taking, owning you. You try to pull away to get air, but he only leaves your lips to explore lower – guiding himself to your neck and biting down, all the way down to your collarbone.

“Beg me,” he growls into your throat, and you pull your arm out of his grasp and grip his chin. You don’t know what you’re doing, you don’t quite know why, but it was on instinct – and he freezes.

Oh, you made a mistake of a lifetime.

Your lips curled into a bitten through kiss, you taste blood as you hush against the shower:

"You first," and you kiss his forehead in a gesture both tender and devastating.

The way he gripped your thigh that pulsated straight through your leg to your toes.

The way he stilled, but his breath remained ragged, slowly collapsing into that calm you knew and feared so well. A snake shedding his skin to reveal a shining new one underneath.

The way his eyes refused to blink and the way his gaze remained frozen on you, a million horrendous scenarios drifting across his pupils the further he drank you in.

That was your only warning as he wordlessly stepped out of the shower with you, traversed the room in only a few deliberate, heavy steps, and clutched you in his fingers so hard your back arched into him as he stood above the bed. You shiver and try to remain stoic, but he has you outplayed.

No more kisses, no more taking you in. Something broke and you don't understand what direction the carnage is falling in. The salesman easily flicks your hand away, and you let it fall – he does the same to your arm, as if suddenly detesting your touch.

"Bad girl," he states, voice nonchalant, but you hear him holding the equivalent of a dam back behind the two words. And it's cracking.

"Very, very, very bad girl. Let go. I'll show you what you can and cannot touch."

If you were a betting person, you'd place it all on him doing a bad job at hiding something, something important, something big – but you don't have time to study his shifting eyes or his suddenly harsh cold hands. You're growing cold, the suit stings, his touch seems foreign.

Still his hand lifts, while still holding you up with his other, and he touches your face – as if doing so for the first time.

As if doing so for the last time, you try not to think as you swallow on a dry throat.

And there's something dark, solemn in that touch, just as his eyes seem blank and his breath too calm.

"I'm going to have to hurt you, little flower," he softly coos, caressing your cheek and brushing your skin as if he were telling you something gentle, "I'm going to have to hurt you very badly."

You start shaking your head, but his hand lifts a finger to your lips and stops you.

"Ah ah ah. You've forfeited the right to beg. You lost. And then you tried to play dirty. Little flower little flower...you have no idea what you've done."

The salesman kisses your lips softly, everso softly, but his hand holds your cheek far too harshly.

So you grip his waist with your legs. You move your face on your own. If he doesn't wish for your hands to touch him, you don't lift them.

You crane your head to him, brushing the hair from his forehead with your nose, and kiss his forehead again, so gently, so lovingly that you forget how sealed your fate is. Because you're kissing the man who wasn't like the others, and the man who almost lost his composure in you – the one who held the blade and could have sliced your neck open, the one who kissed each bruise and didn't stray. The one who broke something in the man who's holding you now the moment you gripped his face.

"Please," you whisper as your lips pull away just enough to let words through, "please."

Come back.

But he doesn't.

You only twisted the knife further.

He shakes his face as if trying to rid a thought and looks at you anew, eyes cold, something wild and uncontained dancing in their dark pupils.

"Too late," he whispers, "too late, little flower."

❥❥❥

And he throws you on the bed, with such force that your legs don't get a chance to unravel on their own, and your arms fall beside you and by your head, your body bouncing on the mattress.

Before you can adjust or move, you close your legs on instinct and try to take a few heavy breaths, as you note you're not hurt – just shaken and your trembles vibrate through your entire body. But you wince at the sudden realisation of just how much of you he was holding together.

The salesman doesn't give you time to think, he climbs above you, sealing your limbs one by one – both of your wrists get pinned down before you can lift on your elbows, your midsection is left under his weight and he is above you, shielding the light, eyes wild, mouth closed, no smile.

"You think you're special?" His voice coils around your ear as he gathers your wrists above your head and pins them to the headboard.

You shake your head, fear finally gripping you and enveloping you to your core, and you try to twist away from under him. But his weight replies with a sharp thrust to keep you in place.

"I've plucked flowers like you from the side of the road, and dozens remained in their place. Better. Fairer. More open."

He uses his free hand to slide down your ribs, your side, your waist and stop at your hip, gazing into you the more you shiver, the more you pull away and touch him in turn. He grabs at the skin of your waist and pushes you down into the bed, feeling every inch of you he can.

"You're nothing. You lost. I'll take my prize and leave you to wilt."

As he finishes the sentence, he grinds against you so harshly you feel him in his entirety. Your recoil only made his movement sharper. He lays his body against yours, full weight pinning you down. As he takes in your trembling, he thrusts everso slightly for you to feel just how well he intends to deliver on his promise. Your legs give in and leave an opening which he uses to his advantage.

You gasp and a moan escapes your lips, turning into hurried breath and ending in a small whimper. You almost wish you didn’t hear the hardly contained ecstatic inhale that reverberated through you as he grips you again. He teasingly repeats the motion, harder this time, and stays fixed against you, pinning you down with the full measure of his need for you. You shiver at the length you feel still contained.

He almost smiled the more you coiled under him, the more your body touched his with your every jitter, every recoil, every hurried breath. Every flinch, he caught and returned with force to pin you in place. Every move you made to avoid him; he used against you. The moment he felt your thigh lose grip against his, he dragged his arm up your leg and squeezed your behind, pinning you to him, squeezing you in place and letting him sink further into you.

"Mine," he whispers under his breath as he drags his teeth against your skin, biting down on your breast and suckling the more he feels you arch your back.

"Mine."

And you still. You no longer grip against him, you grow cold. The sensation of his wet suit, his length against his trousers barely contained, feels like fabric and force, not lust.

He fades into the background even as your senses are overwhelmed by the smell of him, mixed with sweat, need, and the lingering softness of the soap he lathered you with.

Just as you thought you’d lost – him, the game, your sense of self, everything, you realised something and hope he didn’t.

His hand.

His hand gave his bluff away.

His hand betrayed him, even as the words sent tears into your eyes and your heart into overdrive. But his hand. The same harsh hand that left prints on your thighs hesitated above them, just next to your tummy and the place he cared for so intently – so gently, the place he rested his head against and lulled into. The skin he smiled into and caressed.

You only watch him, wary to disturb the air. Your eyes follow his chest lifting and falling heavily. The chest that rises with yours and pushes you down. The hand that trails from gripping you and holding you down, to sliding and caressing your skin from your shoulder across your breasts down to your tummy and lower still. You see his eyes drink up your breasts, your waist, your skin, your collarbones, your neck...with each move putting the puzzle of you together and trying to keep the pieces apart all at once. He rests his hand against your most tender place and remains there, unmoving.

In stark contrast to the rest of him, it’s his hand that doesn’t let you leave entirely.

He's losing.

Without warning his hand moves down and climbs between your knees, forcing them apart. The moment he has an opening, he climbs between your legs, and his own body holds you down, pinning your thighs at each side of him and not letting you curl back into yourself.

As he rests above you, that self-satisfied smile glides across his lips, as if you’re so perfectly in place for everything he promised and more – as if you’re just a chip in a game he never intended to entertain losing.

“Those eyes…” he mutters as his head softly cranes to one side, as if studying a painting. But he’s not admiring its beauty. He’s admiring the ruin in his hands.

“Those eyes crying for help and safety…” he leans down to you and whispers into your ear, breath hot and poisonous: “…how foolish to run to safety to me. I thought you were better than that.”

As his head straightens, he looks at you anew. Expression a falsity of tenderness.

“All the more beautiful the more you break with every thread you trusted me with. You lost. Flower. You lost each and every game. Did you think it would go unnoticed? Did you think you could ever play me? Unpunished? My dear sweet flower…”

His hand slowly glides up and touches you finger by finger, playfully, coldly across your naked skin until they arrive at your face where he simply dots your lips with each finger and bends down to kiss the side of your mouth. As you close your eyes into the kiss, fear and hope gripping you at once, you feel a sudden sensation on your neck – which turns into a grip. You gasp and try to move away, but he'd holding you tight.

You feel his waist move into you and with each breath you try to take for yourself, his body replies with less space for you to even think of moving. His waist guides into you, keeping your legs apart and grinding against you as his breathing grows more rapid. His chest is heavy as it collides with yours, and your hips inadvertently move with his every time you try to avoid him and sink into the bed. He pushes himself onto you, the full length of his need against you, the heavy breaths against your own chest turning into desperate kisses of every place his eyes drank up.

As if reading your mind, his hand moves from your throat to your mouth, this time, laying his entire palm over it so you don't make a single sound. And you sharply inhale as you hear the sound of a belt unbuckling.

You twist under him, feeling your hips grind into him and your stomach touch his fingers - you move backwards but he pulls you back down and pins you down.

His kisses turn from hungry to ravenous, leaving marks everywhere they touch – moving from your cheek to your chin to your neck and finally, your chest. He's not gentle anymore. He takes your breast into his mouth and kisses it, before biting down and feeling you whimper into his hand.

He pushes it down further and does the same to your other breast, stopping only to look back above you, looking into your eyes above his form, palm still strangling breath from your mouth.

He stops. Lips half open. Eyes wild. Face dishevelled. He stops.

"I thought I told you that you've no right to beg," he whispers in one breath, as if speaking to himself. The hint of anger at the very end of the sentence doesn't fit and you freeze. You haven't uttered a word. You can't.

The salesman guides his hand down your lips to your jaw and grips it, turning your head in his palm and driving his fingers into your skin.

Studying you. Pushing into you.

"I told you not to beg," he whispers again, losing your eyes.

You slowly try to undo your hands from his grip. His fist adds fervour until you tear up again for the pain.

He sees the tear and immediately lets go entirely, pulling away. Breathing heavy.

You lie there.

Before him. His eyes trail you so slowly, as if time had truly stopped.

❥❥❥

The bruise left my someone else, the remnant, fades next to his own handprint.

The tender, soft body still lifts – in perseverance, not defiance.

Her lips are tender, still tender, even after they've been torn apart.

Her eyes don't beg. Wide, gorgeous eyes, full of sorrow and betrayal but still. They understand. They accept.

Her body is scratched and marked where she should have been revered.

Red on skin that should have been tended to.

Petals lying scattered about her like little halos, cracked but not broken. Torn apart.

The light in her eyes is burning through everything, it hasn't faded. She didn't run. She didn't lose feeling. She didn't go numb.

She didn't fight, didn't kick, only tried. She could have. She didn't.

When she should have beat her fists into his back, she clung to him for refuge. Him.

Through everything, she's shivering under him, not begging, not using any poison. As naked as her body.

And he would defile it and ruin her.

To prove a point.

To win against himself.

To discard her as she would discard him.

Shoot first, lest he be shot.

Lest she realises his gun is full of blanks.

❥❥❥

You don't know his mental process; you only feel your tears against his hot skin on your cheek and mouth.

"So soft," he finally whispers to himself, gliding a hand just above your skin, his finger only lightly brushing certain parts as if scared to shatter you. Just as his hand hovers above your navel and your tummy, he rests it there fully. Listening to your pulse. Your breath. Lifting against him. Against his warmth. Against his harshness.

"So...delicate."

You gently, still terrified, but acting on an algorithm you don't recognise and do all at once, softly untie your hands for his fingers. Just as he did yours off the blade.

You touch your neck, your collarbone, and freeze at feeling scratches and bumps, tender places that burn on touch. Wetness and heat. But you don't say a word.

The tears fall to each side of your face. And through it all, you smile.

You smile as you lift both hands.

They seem like those of a stranger, but you fight to keep yourself in them, try to stay here one last time.

And you smile as you softly, carefully cup his face, tenderly as if he were about to flinch or break entirely.

And you whisper, meaning every word:

"It's alright."

And as if on cue, he begins to shiver in your embrace but doesn't pull away.

"It's alright," you smile through the tears, and allow yourself a deeper breath. Which he feels reverberate through his palm still laying upon your stomach. Just as he feels your pulse grow rapid, then...calmer.

His shivering turns harsher, but he never loses your eyes. Lips still semi-open, he's transfixed by you, frozen yet lost in time. Unable to blink away from you. His eyes begin to turn glassy.

You once more, with heavy effort and ignoring the pain pulsating through you, straighten just a tad under him, just enough to pull yourself up to him, clinging to his legs once more for stability.

You pull up to him and gently place a kiss on his forehead that is speckled with beads of sweat, vibrating in your hands.

"It's..."

You move down and kiss the bridge of his nose.

"All..."

You kiss the tip.

"…Right."

And you tenderly lay your lips on his, first merely resting there, then turning touch into a kiss. You feel him hesitate, grip you then...fade in his strength...and kiss you back.

Just as softly.

Just as gently.

And as if you lent him life in that moment, he moves, of his own volition, and lays you back down, cradling your back so you don't hurt yourself. His kiss deepens, but doesn't take nor hurt. You feel your head hit the pillow and envelop you in your wet hair and you swear you feel him smile into the kiss, one hand shakily placing errant strands from your face.

"My perfect little flower," he whispers as he pulls away just for a moment.

"Now I'll never let you go."

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inkedinshadows · 8 months ago

Text

Twin Flames

Day 27: Temperature play (wax/fire) — Eris x f!reader

Warnings: smut, language, p in v

Word count: 569

The collar of fire around your throat tightened as another drop of melted wax landed on Eris's chest, and he hissed at the sensation. Your mate had agreed to let you do this on one condition: you were to let him summon that fire so that you could feel the effect of your own actions. It didn’t burn you, of course. It was warm enough to make a few droplets of sweat form on your brow, and its heat increased whenever it grew tighter around your neck, but your skin wasn’t even red. It only recreated the feeling of the wax on Eris’s skin.

“You’re getting bold, darling,” he mumbled. There was a strained note in his voice, and he was slightly breathless, as if it was becoming too much for him.

You halted your slow grinding on him and straightened the candle before you could pour some more wax. “You want me to stop?”

You had been getting bolder with it, smearing the drops closer to his nipple to heighten the sensation, but without actually touching that sensitive bud. You liked to hear his groans and the way he arched beneath you, driving his cock deeper into you. And you loved the pressure on your throat, a reminder of yet another connection between you and your mate—the bond between your souls, your joined bodies, and now his power as well.

Eris raised a thin eyebrow. “That’s not what I said, now, is it?”

His hands squeezed your thighs for emphasis, and you smiled down at him as you resumed your movements. Hips rolling just enough to feel him move inside of you, you let the pleasure build up slowly, focusing on the candle instead.

You tilted it with a quick flick of your wrist, and you both watched the red drop splatter on his pecs. Eris twitched and sucked in a breath, while you whimpered softly as the fire burned hotter for a couple of seconds.

“It almost looks like blood,” you remarked, brushing your fingers over the few dark beads scattered from his collarbone to his navel. “But it suits you. It matches your hair.”

Eris’s lips curled into an amused smile. “Are you saying you might stab me because blood looks good on me?”

You couldn’t help but chuckle as you leaned down. “I could never hurt you, my love.”

His grip on you tightened when you closed the distance to press your lips on his, swallowing his quiet groan as the fire of the collar caressed his neck. The kiss was gentle at first, but it soon turned into a passionate dance of tongues, and you ground faster on him.

When you and Eris parted, you were both a bit breathless. You set the flickering candle down on the nightstand before sitting up straight. A new heat was spreading inside you, one that had nothing to do with the fire still burning bright around your throat, and that could entirely be blamed on the desire coursing through your veins instead.

“I think I’m going to fuck you properly now,” you stated. Placing your hands on his lower abdomen, you began to rock your hips, bouncing up and down on his cock.

Eris grinned, and his fingers dug into the soft flesh of your thighs to guide your movements. “And I think I’m going to keep that collar on you. I think it suits you.”

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reformhim · 2 months ago

Text

Womb

It started subtly—an ache in Daniel’s lower abdomen that pulsed with his breath. He figured it was a pulled muscle or maybe a lingering stomach bug. But as days passed, the pain deepened, growing into something stranger, something alive.

There were nights when he swore he could feel movement—not gas or digestion, but a subtle shifting, like something within him was rearranging his insides. And then, his hips began to ache. Not from strain, but from pressure, from change. Slowly, over a week, they'd widened, expanding just enough that his jeans no longer fit right. The waistband dug in cruelly. His gait shifted. His center of gravity felt... different.

He tried to ignore it. The doctors had no answers. But Daniel knew—his body was no longer his own.

Inside, the transformation was meticulous. His prostate withered slightly to make space, while new tissue budded quietly behind his bladder. Ligaments thickened in his pelvis, weaving themselves like anchors, and from this scaffolding, new organs took form. A pair of ovaries nestled into place first, like small, almond-shaped secrets pulsing with dormant potential. A uterus followed—soft and hollow, its lining rich and vascular, eager to begin its unknown purpose.

He felt it all. The cramps. The odd tightness behind his navel. The rushes of warmth as hormonal tides flooded his blood—estrogen mingling with testosterone in unfamiliar harmony. One morning he woke up sobbing over a commercial for dog food. Another night, he was so aroused he cried.

But it was the bleeding that undid him.

It started with a deep, stabbing cramp low in his pelvis. His skin was clammy. His breath came short. Then came the pressure—tight and strange—and then warmth. He stumbled to the bathroom and froze. The front of his boxers were soaked in blood.

Not from his rectum. Not from an injury. It came through his male urethra, like his body had forged an unnatural compromise. There was no explanation. No guide. Just Daniel, bent over the sink, shaking, as something female declared its presence inside him.

The bleeding lasted five days. He kept to himself. Wrapped in a blanket. Snacking on chocolate and biting down against cramps that felt like claws inside him. He didn’t know if he was dying or evolving.

When it ended, he felt empty—but not broken. Changed, yes. Softened in places, but also made stronger in others.

And then came Jason.

Tall. Charismatic. The kind of man Daniel had always admired from afar. Their chemistry had always crackled at work, and after a long week, they finally collided—Jason’s lips against his, heat blooming between them. The sex was transcendent. Jason's body pressed into him, held him, filled him—and something in Daniel opened. He could feel it: a fluttering deep inside, the kind of pleasure he’d never known. A need that echoed in a chamber that hadn’t existed just months ago.

Weeks later, the nausea returned. He was moody. Tired. His body felt sore. Then one morning, he vomited into the sink, tears in his eyes, heart pounding.

The doctor ran bloodwork. Then an ultrasound.

Daniel stared at the screen, mouth parted, barely breathing. A black-and-white swirl. A shape. A pulse.

“You’re pregnant,” the doctor said gently. “About six weeks along.”

His vision blurred. His body began to shake. He left the clinic in silence, unsure if he was spiraling into madness.

Telling Jason was the hardest thing he’d ever done. But the man didn’t run. He didn’t laugh. He just sat beside Daniel, took his hand, and whispered, “Then we’re in this together.”

There were still questions. There would always be questions. But Daniel had stopped looking for answers.

He had ovaries. A uterus. A womb.

He had life inside him.

And for the first time in months, he wasn’t afraid.

#mpreg belly #mpreg kink #mpreg #male pregnancy

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diejager · 2 years ago

Note

Saw your requests are open can I please please please ask for Pyramid Head? Any crumbs of him pls you write him really well. Size kink and belly bulging or gaping, or him eating the reader out if you need any inspo? I don't know if I want him to have just one long, slimy tongue under the mask or a whole mess of bloodied guts and tentacles tbh

Behaviour actually had a tongue for Pyramid Head’s model-

Tongue Cw: cunnilingus, bulge from tongue, tell me if I missed any.

Pain and pleasure were synonymous with Pyramid Head, his pleasure stemmed from pain and your pain brought him ecstasy. You were hesitant at first, looking at the sharp wires that made up his restraints and cages, fearful of pain, of hurt. They were all rusted, sharp barbes turned brown with age and dried blood of his prior victims, it was neither sanitary, nor was it secure.

But you’d learned to take from pain, every slash and every stab from a killer became something you expected, something you awaited with batted breath. You learned to use pain to further your excitement, your pleasure and your enthusiasm, you found pleasure in pain and it made your world much easier. It made Pyramid Head rumble, his body trembling with arousal and excitement to finally have you the way he wanted, an entity of pain and regret using what he was made of you bring you satisfaction.

You let him tie you up, wires wrapped around your wrists, keeping you still from his ministration, pulling and squirming under him. The barbes cut into your skin, small nicks and scrapes that bled the metal red with fresh blood. The pain pulsed down your arms, warming the skin under his palms and made your clit twitch, it made the knot in your core coil, throbbing strongly between your legs.

His hold was unmoving, the strong grip of his hands on your thighs, spreading you open to his slick and able tongue, pumping into you with deep and harsh thrusts. His fat tongue curled inside of you, pressing against the walls of your cunt and tapping your bruised cervix with hard hits. You bulged with his tongue, the pink muscle pushing your skin outwards with intent of watching you swell, searching for the tightness of your cunny when he makes you look at your navel bulge with every thrust, popping up when he pushed more of his tongue into you.

Although he was bruisingly rough, he was still mindful of your safety, often making sure you were all right, to be sure that your whimpers and cries were one of pleasure and not agony —he wouldn’t ever dream of hurting you too deeply, to scare you away from him. He would purposely loosen his grip from time to time, reassuring growls that would send you reeling, a rumble vibrating into your core and invisible eyes keeping track of your expression.

His tongue swirled, curling on itself before twisting and turning inside you, rolling the rough and asymmetrical texture of the ball to push at different, sensitive spots of your walls. You wailed, high keens with tears rolling down your cheek and drooling in sheer, mind numbing pleasure. Your body burned, toes tingling with pleasure and fingers curling in ecstatic pain, your eyes never left Pyramid Head’s face, watching him through dazed eyes, his hulking figure and nimble tongue.

You were so close, the unwavering heat and tight coil in your core becoming unbearably present as was Pyramid head and the sting of your wounds added to it, coursing through your veins in a hot flash. He groaned, feeling you grip his tongue, pushing more and more into you, admiring your writhing figure, back arched and hips buckling into his face, crying out his name over and over again. It was as addictive to him as it was to you, blinded by fiery, white pleasure, squirting over him, painting him in more than rusted metal and dried blood.

You mumbled lowly, expressing your gratefulness while your head rolled back, eyes heavy with exhaustion. He grumbled, a happy and satisfied sound, thumbs rubbing circles on the bruised skin of your inner thigh.

#x reader #pyramid head x reader smut #pyramid head smut #pyramid head #pyramid head x reader #pyramid head x you #pyramid head dbd #silent hill smut #silent hill #x fem!reader #female!reader #fem!reader

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houserautha · 1 year ago

Text

These Destined Ends

Part Eleven

Summary: Jessica fulfilled the wishes of the Bene Gesserits to produce a daughter. You’re now burdened with the task of not only marrying the na-Baron, but also bearing his child — the Kwisatz Haderach. Will you take your fate into your own hands? Or will it always belong to those who control you?

Pairings: Feyd-Rautha x F!Reader

Word Count: 3.4k

Warnings: you stabbed him and now you handcuff him, blood play, wound play, the events in this part are probably not hygienic or realistic but my thots took over, you both cry, mentions of killing/death, brief depiction of killing

A/N: I would like to add that reader and Feyd have such a toxic relationship but god do I love it so much (also the writing god possessed me and made it possible for this to be published now instead of tonight, god bless)

You push the dagger in to its handle.

It comes back slick with blood.

You use it to quickly unlatch your bindings, then shift aside as Feyd falls onto the bed beside you. Without thinking, you place a knee on either side of his waist and set to inspecting your work — the cut is deep, weeping ink-colored blood. A depraved part of you wants him to suffer, to feel pain as unimaginably deep as you did. And you do not want him to clot quickly.

Feyd’s hand ghosts over the wound. Blood spills onto his alabaster skin, the bedsheets, on the leg of your pant nestled into his side. And all the while he gazes up at you endearingly, face noticeably paler, blood coming to gather at the corner of his lips. You lean forward to kiss him and lap up the droplets of blood, he groans; you’re pressing your entire weight into him, into the wound.

“I want you to hurt,” you whisper against his mouth. You put your fingers to the wound, Feyd shifting uncomfortably as your nails bite into the recently torn flesh. Beneath you, his cock stirs, and in response you dig your fingers in deeper.

His flesh is warm. Wet.

“Fuck,” Feyd mutters.

“I want to hurt you and you’re enjoying it,” you sneer at him, “perhaps I should just stop. Chain you up to the bed, see how you like it. Leave you to bleed out alone.”

He doesn’t reply. There’s a flicker of recognition in his eyes — he knows that he’s supposed to atone for his family’s crime, play his part in your twisted battle of wits, but there’s no denying his swelling, twitching cock, eager to make contact between your legs. He grimaces as you remove your hand, breath expelling in shaky bursts.

Feyd watches you reclaim the cuff, hook it around his wrist and then do the same with the cuff on the other side of the bed that Wyn hadn’t bothered to attach. You secure both cuffs so that his hands are pinned above his head. He looks infuriatingly gorgeous like this, blood wetting his skin and your hands, muscles tensed and pain spasming his handsome features.

You grind against him and his hips buck.

“Fuck,” he says again.

You lose yourself, slightly, at the sight of him like this, and you’re entangled between vengeance and desire. The urge to maim him paired with the dreadful urge you have to ride him.

Why couldn’t you do both?

You rake your nails down his chest, creating trails of angry welts from sternum to navel. His breath quickens. Blood pools near the site of the wound and you drag your fingers through it.

“Interesting. You bleed just like the rest of us, Feyd-Rautha.”

“Do you want another taste?”

He inhales sharply. You’ve angrily pressed your palm into the wound, resenting him for reminding you of your transgressions. You growl, “You won’t find humor in this when I’m done with you.”

Fingers bloodied, you put them to his plush bottom lip — fuck, his lips drove you wild — and down his chin, the column of his throat, over the welts you’ve created. He writhes. You unbuckle his pants and, without any trace of kindness, tear them from his narrow hips. Feyd whimpers as the sudden movement prompts a gush of blood, and you grin at the reaping of your effort. He glares.

You scoop more blood like a painter from its palette. His cock is standing to attention, arched backward slightly, flushed and threaded with pulsing veins. Starting at his swollen head, you trace your fingers up and down, coating him thoroughly with his own blood. It takes several applications before you’re satisfied. An entirely addictive sounds escapes him when you fist the base of his shaft and start pumping, the slickness of the blood easing your work.

You stroke him over and over, varying your pace as not to guide him to orgasm. He rallies against you, straining at the cuffs. Although you can’t see it, you feel him dig his heels into the mattress in an effort to gain purchase, anything to channel the desire unfurling inside him. And all the while you watch him, fascinated, bleeding profusely yet so eager for your touch.

The mighty Feyd-Rautha, champion of Giedi Prime, shuddering and moaning beneath you, pre-cum leaking from the slit of his cock. It draws heat to your core. With his hands over his head, his mobility is limited, and you use this to your advantage: maintaining a steady pace on his cock with one hand while the other explores his body, dipping down to cup his balls, trace his thighs, then back up to tease his taunt nipples and the wound in his side. Feyd cries out, eyes rolling back and hips snapping.

You revoke your hand. He’s practically shivering now, undoubtedly torn between pain and pleasure. You climb carefully off his lap. Feyd’s gaze burns into you as you strip off your clothes until you’re standing only in your panties.

“This should only hurt a little,” you tell him. The muscles in his stomach jump and flicker as you resume your kneeling position, this time decidedly higher.

Your clit is aching for friction, so much so that you grind your center into him, right over the wound. He grunts in pain with each roll of your pelvis, seeking out your pleasure while you aggravate the place where the dagger had slid in, breasts pushing outwards. You can see it on his face, what he would do if he could use his mouth on you, his hands, but the pain is too great. Tears spring to his eyes as he fights the crashing waves of agony while you ride his wound.

“It’s not enough,” you utter, mostly to yourself, “it’s not enough.” Not enough pain.

You slide back down his body, reclaim his cock, then notch its head at your entrance. You’re slick with your own desire, and his blood, and you have to fend off his bucking hips to prevent him from penetrating you. The sensation of him gives you shivers, racing up and down your body.

You brace your quivering thighs and sink down on top of him. Feyd howls as your walls clamp down, taking him in one swift movement. You can’t help it — your head lulls back and your body bows, gripped by a wave of unbelievable pleasure. He fills you up so neatly, so fully, that you’re in despair when you pull away, then plunge back down with even more force. It reminds you of the throne room, how you had wrested the power from him. But you were na-Baron and na-Baroness before, this equates to something much more primal, raw, two blood-soaked fighters in an arena of your own making.

You ride him to completion, cuming on his cock twice before he finally musters the words, “Enough. You’ve got your punishment. Now let me fuck my wife.”

You pause with him still seated deep inside you.

“I don’t think I’ve yet reached the depths of your pain,” you tell him in reply.

Feyd’s eyes flash. “No weapons can maim me as entirely as having you naked in front of me and without the use of my hands to touch you. There will be no show of blood for how you’ve tormented me. No physical measure. Let me fuck you now so that we may be equals again.”

Seconds after you unlatch the cuffs, Feyd is on you. He all but attacks you, mouth hungrily searching yours, hands grabbing at your body. Effortlessly he flips you onto your back, blood gushing from him. He wavers, probably from loss of blood, before burying himself inside you. You cry out, wringing pleasure from him with each thrust, the feel of his hands more rewarding than anything without them. He’s on every surface of you — pressing kisses down your neck, your breasts, pulling each nipple into his mouth and giving them a lewd suckle. His hands grab the backs of your thighs, your ass, pin your hips to the bed so that you can’t move.

“You. Are. Mine,” he grunts with each thrust. His voice is wreathed with anger. Possession.

Heartache.

You can’t even begin to examine this before he spears you even faster, with more vigor, words slurring together with impassion. “You are mine, jewel. I thought you dead. I thought you taken from me. But no one can take you from me. No one. You don’t even possess that ability. I am the keeper of your life.”

He’s becoming more and more incensed, his pace growing sloppy and unpredictable. You feel a wetness by your neck and you realize that it’s not blood causing it but rather a furious outpouring of tears from your husband, his jaw clenched and brows furrowed in concentration.

“Mine.” Thrust. “Mine.” Thrust. “Mine.”

You cling to him, hold him the only way you know how, with your legs wrapped around his waist and your nails down his back. It’s as if you’re trying to merge into one being, take this man as part of your own flesh and, in addition, make his sorrows and pain yours. You taste the salt of your own tears as you both rise and crest like waves against one another, finally not opponents in a war that you can’t win but allies in a surmountable battle.

Feyd cums first, but you follow quickly after. Pulsing and shuddering, he cries into your neck as he fills you with his seed, clutching your body to him just as tightly. Both of you are gasping for air from the exertion, the tears, the culmination of your pleasures being chased down in such a heightened state. Feyd withdraws from you. He allows one hand to press against his wound protectively, but then surprises you by placing his bloodied handprint on your breast.

Above your heart.

“You are mine,” he says, “and I am yours.”

Hot water pours down you in rivulets, interrupted only by Feyd’s hands as he washes your body. Crimson water swirls down the drain. You take turns silently scrubbing the blood from each other and swapping stolen kisses, Feyd wincing each time the water makes contact with the wound. You start to form some semblance of an apology but Feyd silences you with a formidable look. “It was necessary,” he tells you.

The bloodied sheets and discarded clothes are much harder to rid of. And there’s no saying what Doctor Wyn was thinking when you told her that Feyd now demanded her attention, what she thought when she saw the horrible wound etched into his side. But, to her credit, she never asked any questions, and you never gave her any answers.

You could see why Feyd hired her.

And when someone wasn’t aggravating the wound, it healed much faster. Feyd refused any ointment that would erase the scar, however, which you knew he would. He kept every scar from every fight like badges of honor. You knew most of them well by now, and had your fair amount of contributions. And although you never explicitly discussed what happened between you two that day, you felt it between you like a tether, binding you together in a way that even you had no words to describe.

And that’s why you stall the Baron’s wish to seek an audience with you. You won’t go without Feyd.

He’s stubbornly vague about everything, too, claiming that it would make more sense to wait to hear everything unfold at once. You’ve missed too much while self-contained and now feel eager to return, to start the plot against Feyd’s uncle.

“I have my ideas,” he says one day when you’re begging him incessantly, “but first hear what the Baron says, make your own judgements. Revenge does not happen overnight.”

This irritates you, but you ultimately oblige.

Finally the day comes for your visit with the Baron, and you make sure to wear your best dress. Instead of the usual monochrome Harkonnen colors you’ve chosen a bright red, a thin fabric that clings to your figure. Feyd’s lips twitch when he sees you.

“You wear red to invoke the ire of the bull.”

“The Baron is no bull,” you retort. You think back to your grandfather’s legacy, of the dark eyes of the bull staring at you while you sat at the table on Arrakis. And while the Baron was not a bull, you were determined to have his head anyway.

Feyd grabs your hand, feathers his lips over your knuckles. “You look exceptional.”

You smile at him. “Let’s see what your uncle has to say.”

You made it a condition of the meeting not to be held in the throne room — you didn’t like the imbalance of power. Besides, you weren’t a lowly citizen come to collect their stipend, you were the na-Baroness, bound to the na-Baron in a bond that transcended the intricacies of power. You were no longer two beings but one, a formidable union. And as you sneak a glimpse of Feyd before you enter the dining room, you’re only emboldened by the resolve you see in his face; he is a fine partner to have in battle, indeed.

The doors open and his hand brushes yours once, a subtle indication of his fealty to you.

Your chin is raised and your stride confident as you approach the table. “A meal then, between family,” the Baron had said when you declined his offer to meet at the throne room. You notice that neither the Baron nor Rabban stand when you enter, which digs under your skin like a splinter.

“Don’t spare your na-Baroness with your pleasantries,” Feyd rasps darkly.

“This is not a political endeavor,” the Baron replies. If he realizes just how agitated his nephew is, he doesn’t show it. “Sit, sit. We dine together finally. I am only too glad to…catch up.”

It’s difficult to keep your composure neutral. Here before you is the man who orchestrated your family’s deaths, the one who carried them out. Hatred burns inside you.

You take your seat, Feyd beside you.

“We’ve already had our catching up, haven’t we, brother?” Rabban’s gaze is cutting.

Feyd just stares evenly back at him. “I remember.”

Rabban grins triumphantly. “And I’m glad to see that you’re healing well.” Before you can inquire about this — was Rabban the cause of the scar across his face? — the former turns his attention to you. “It is my dear sister-in-law that I need to reunite with. Isn’t that right?”

“Need is a strong word,” you retort. “I was under the impression I didn’t have much choice.”

“Oh, how you wound with your words as well as the blade,” Rabban replies, feigning insult.

“You seem to know quite a lot about blades, Rabban. Is that how you dealt the deaths of my family?”

Rabban sneers. The Baron holds up a large hand, his voice punishing, “That’s enough.”

“I’ve only just started,” you bite back.

“Brother, temper your wife,” Rabban says. “She speculates that which she has no knowledge of.”

You open your mouth to reply, outraged, but Feyd beats you to the punch. “My wife will do and say as she pleases. You should just be grateful that she hasn’t slit your throat yet.”

“There will be no deaths today,” the Baron warns.

“Because you’ve had your fill of them?” You counter. Under the table, your fingers form claws.

“Let me give you the truth, na-Baroness, so that you might stop leveling accusations,” the Baron replies coolly. “You are new to the Harkonnen so I may forgive you this once. You were not born as we were. That being said, we were the original defenders of Arrakis. It is our planet. And as you know we will do whatever it takes to defend our own.”

You can’t help it. You snort. Is that what he was doing when he cajoled his young nephew? Put more darkness in him than necessary?

“With the help of the Emperor, we were able to reclaim Arrakis. We tried to give House Atreides the option of conceding but they staunchly refused. We did only what we had to do.”

Your eyes narrow. “The Emperor aided you?”

This, you knew, but you wanted to hear an explanation from his own mouth.

“We both had certain…lofty aspirations…that the other could provide. It was a rational exchange,” the Baron says, as if talking about expanding trade routes instead of lives. “The Emperor was fearful of your father and his power. Now he has to worry no more.”

Conversation subsides as servants place food in front of you, some kind of bird drenched in a sickly colored sauce. The only person to touch it is the Baron, who savagely devours it without any use of utensils.

“You lie,” you finally say. “My father had no intentions of usurping the Emperor as you claim.”

“The Emperor is a…fickle man. He knows his own weaknesses. I cannot blame him for his fear.”

“And why did he partner with you?” You ask. “What did you gain from this?”

“Arrakis,” the Baron answers simply.

“You said that you both had aspirations that the other could provide,” Feyd presses, taking the words from your mouth. “You eliminate the House Atreides for the Emperor, but you are not the sole benefactor of Arrakis. You must know that I would rather perish than take orders from you.”

The Baron wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “I suppose the news will come out sooner or later. Rabban?”

News? What news?

Rabban grins at you and Feyd. “The princess Irulan and I are engaged to be married.”

Shock seizes you and keeps you from forming any sort of response. The Emperor gave his eldest daughter to Rabban? Thoughts race through your mind. Not only did that mean the Baron had his influence in Arrakis but now the entire Known Universe as well. Dread fills you. How had anyone allowed this to happen?

“That’s not the congratulations I was expecting,” Rabban continues, clearly pleased with himself.

Feyd’s fist strikes the table, causing the silverware to rattle. “You gave me Arrakis over my brother, but now you secure him as Emperor? What are you playing at, uncle?”

“Your brother is willing to…follow my orders, as you so eloquently said. His loyalty deserves recognition.”

“This is a grave error,” Feyd snarls.

“Jealous, are we?” Rabban asks, drawing the attention back to him. “This could’ve all been avoided if you’d only accepted my offer,” he says to you, then Feyd, “and then you could’ve been in my position, heir apparent to the Empire.”

Feyd shoots to his feet. “I should’ve killed you when I had the chance.”

“Boys,” the Baron snaps, intervening what you are certain would’ve been a death match, “everything is now in place. Feyd-Rautha will rule Arrakis and its coveted spice; Rabban, the Empire. Instead of fighting you should be celebrating the fortune of the Harkonnens.”

Silence descends.

This was worse than you imagined. The Baron had manipulated everyone here to get what he wanted. It was he who would profit from the marriages he forged for his nephews.

“Now, Feyd-Rautha, you must put aside your envy. You and the na-Baroness are required to return to Arrakis in a fortnight.”

It feels as if someone has poured ice water down your spine. “What?”

“You think you can rule from Giedi Prime?” The Baron asks, bemused.

“Fine.” Feyd looks to you but no one else. “We are done here.”

You want to challenge him, to remain where you are and root out more truth, but to do so would to humiliate him. You avoid the eyes of the Baron and Rabban as you pick up the skirt of your dress and follow after him dutifully.

The doors slam shut behind you with a resounding thud.

As you search for something to say, Feyd screams, visceral and terrifying. In a blind fury, he cuts down the two closest servants with his dagger, their blood splattering the ground as their bodies slump to the floor. His shoulders heave, dagger gripped tightly in his grasp, and he whirls on you wildly as you approach.

“Do not give them the satisfaction,” you whisper urgently to him, grabbing his face. Your touch soothes him ever so slightly. “Their time will come but first we must consider how to proceed, formulate a plan that will leave them in their graves. They will not go unpunished.”

The dagger clatters to the ground as Feyd finally releases it.

“I will not rest until then,” he swears.

You rock up on your toes and press your forehead to his, holding him to you. “Neither shall I.”

Part Twelve

Taglist:

@moonsoulk @heartarianagran @torchbearerkyle @unicoreads @taleah @mamawiggers1980 @jovialeggsbailiffsoul @harkonnin @avidreader73 @unicorntrooper @beebeechaos @kamcrazy123 @wo-ming-bai @m-indkiller @kpopnstarwars @dacreshoney @stopeatread @the-na-baroness @therealslimshady-1

#dune #feyd x reader #feyd x you #fanfic writing #feyd smut #writers on tumblr #feyd rautha harkonnen #writing #fanfic #these destined ends #feyd rautha

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madschiavelique · 2 years ago

Note

hi can we get some fluff drabble with girl reader + miguel where he finds himself unexpectedly enjoying being a small spoon but rather die than accept it. if you want you can turn it into a soft smut where he is a whimpering mess because she jerks him off from behind while massaging his chest and leaving small kisses across his neck and back

THIS IS ADORABLE ANON AAAAA

i loved writing this (i might relate a bit too much to miguel in some paragraphs of this fvdsbjsqdhfds)

summary : miguel enjoys being a little spoon (not proofread)

content warnings : fluff at the beginning that turns into SMUT (18+) minors dni, handjob, praise, miguel is so horny for your touch omg, no use of y/n, fem!reader word count : 1,6k

tag list : @fandom-ash

As on many evenings, Miguel had come home late. His professional commitments meant that your life and his could sometimes be out of sync. He was exhausted, and gently laid down on the bed without waking you, lying beside you and kissing your forehead.

He laid down against you, acting like the big spoon as he drew you closer to him in his embrace. Coming back to his flats every evening and finding you there, in bed, all peaceful, was the ray of sunshine that caressed his heart after his day. He closed his eyes, surrendering against you as he drifted off to sleep.

It was only a few hours later that he woke up, his eyes had opened on their own and he had no idea why. Perhaps he was having insomnia? That would be the crowning glory of his exhausting day. Even in his sleep, didn't he deserve a little respite?

Then he wondered if perhaps this awakening was due to his Spidersenses being alerted by something. And that's when he felt it, that pressure against his back, the sensation of something around his waist.

You were pressed against his bare back, your steady, even breath landing tenderly on the back of his neck as your hand rested on his stomach, close to his navel.

He was almost tense, completely alienated by this kind of intimacy, but he was slowly trying to relax, to simply enjoy the feel of your body pressed against his.

He was used to being the one who was the big spoon, the one who protected, who formed a shell of his whole body to protect those he loved. He'd already lost so much, so he couldn't afford to lose you, and that translated into many actions, which of course included being the big spoon.

And the back is a sign of vulnerability. Showing someone your back was proof that you trusted them enough to let them have free rein without fearing that you'd be stabbed in the back.

But he felt so... good, he felt safe, like this, in your gentle arms. In fact, he felt that he could be vulnerable, and that little feeling that he could never admit aloud was starting to grow stronger and stronger in his veins:

It felt like he was taken care of, and he liked it.

Why was it so hard for him to admit that he liked, no, wanted to be taken care of? He was always the one who took care of others, not the other way round, but he couldn't help sighing softly. He was comforted by the touch of your skin against his, by your unconscious embrace of him.

You shifted gently in your sleep, your hand accidentally touching a little lower than his navel, on his groin, just a few centimetres away. His breath became a little shakier, the sensation making him quiver and boil at the same time.

You breathed in deep suddenly, as all sleepy people do from time to time, and what he felt gave him the impression of melting: as you breathed out, he felt your breasts pressing against his back.

Now it was going to be difficult to keep his composure. Every breath you took let him feel your breasts on his back, even if they were covered. He swallowed, trying to concentrate on not...

But it was too late, he was starting to feel himself getting hard, his erection rising little by little.

He mentally insulted himself as your hand, with every breath you took, constantly brushed against his skin. Shit, he was getting way too horny. Your breath on his neck, the feel of your body against his, his hand so close and yet so far away.

He let out a little moan as your head moved close to the back of his neck. He had to do something, move perhaps, get out of the embrace, but he didn't want to move away from this sweetness that was being given to him.

He moved a little, just to get your hand away from him and save him from further torment.

"Babe?" your slightly sleepy voice froze him in place, "are you all right?"

Damn, with all his emotions he'd woken you up.

"Nothing's wrong nena, go back to sleep," he whispered, his breath coming in fairly ragged gasps all the same, trying to relax and breathe normally.

You moved slightly, raising yourself gently and accidentally letting your hand rest a little more against his skin, the sudden change from brushing against his lower belly to touching it immediately drew a groan from his throat.

You frowned, waking up a little more.

"Are you sure you're okay ? You seem all so tense..." you asked as you straightened your face until your lips brushed his jaw.

His breath trembled, his back arching.

"Mhm, everything's alright," he said, trying to contain himself even though the urge was growing, "go back to-"

"Miguel," you asked simply, your tone astonished, "are you... hard?"

He bit his lip, his nose wrinkling as he tried to concentrate. But all the sensations you were giving him were preventing him from staying still. He felt almost guilty that he couldn't contain himself, that he was simply being aroused by the mere gesture of you hugging him from the back.

"It's okay," he swallowed, softly, "go back to sleep, it's fine."

He didn't want to disturb you, and he felt guilty that just by you spooning him you'd managed to turn him on.

"You had wet dreams?" you murmured softly, starting to feel more and more awake and aware of the situation.

If only that was all it was, but no, it was completely and utterly you. Your simple touch, your breath, your body, everything.

He hesitated, was admitting that the reason he was horny had simply been the fact that he was the little spoon? Or was he going to make up a trifle? He couldn't even admit to himself that he was immensely affected by your embrace, without it even becoming erotic.

You gently kissed the corner of his jaw, pressing yourself against him.

"What is it," you said, your breath catching on his cheek as he sighed, "hmm?

Your hand drifted down to his erection at last, caressing him with your fingertips, his back arching as he let out a sigh of relief.

"You're so hard..." you remarked softly, whispering against his ear as you placed little pecks on the back of his neck, "I wonder what got you so turned on..."

If only you knew... Your fingers skimmed the length of it, letting the fingertips run down to his balls, caressing them gently. Miguel breathed in deeply, his lips parted.

Your fingers wrapped around him, snaking around his head, letting your thumb make circular movements as the little drops of pre-cum glistened on his tip.

"Would you look at that, so horny..." you mumbled as your other hand slid down his back, tracing the line of his spine as you kissed his shoulder blades.

He let himself be touched, the sensation of your hand slowly and softly pumping his cock as you let your lips and fingers travel up and down his back felt so good it was like he was dreaming.

The warmth of your body, your voice, your presence alone and everything you brought him completed his sensations until they took him to paradise.

You were taking care of him, and he loved it.

He swallowed, the moans multiplying in his voice as you kissed his back.

Your hand took on a slightly faster rhythm, putting slightly more pressure into your stroking when coming back up his head, spending more time just underneath his crown tracing sinuous patterns, his voice trembling as you twisted your wrist while jerking him off.

"Does that feel good?" you asked, kissing his ear, nipping lightly at his lobe as a dark growl rose from his throat.

All those kisses, all those touches, he wouldn't last long.

"Mhm," he nodded, his voice quavering, "increíble, nena."

His hips began to move of their own accord, one of his hands coming to rest on your hip to pull you closer to him. He wanted to eliminate any space that separated his back from your torso, intoxicated by the physical sensations, the exceptional feeling he had in his lower back.

Your kisses were tender, your words sweet, your hand taking him perfectly and touching him wonderfully in all the right places. He felt himself melting under your touch, the friction you were giving him so perfect that he could already feel himself coming.

"So good, muñeca," he breathed, his hips accelerating, his pelvis undulating to fuck your hand, "so good..."

His breath quickened, and with a loud groan, he came, spurting over your hand. His hips jerked as you gently slowed the pace, tenderly caressing his hard skin as you kissed his neck, murmuring tender words.

He turned to lie on his back, watching you. He came over to kiss you, almost as a thank you, but mainly because you'd just given him such wonderful sensations.

You brought your hand to your lips, licking them gently.

"I wonder what made you so hard," you said in a murmur, coming back to place your head on his torso.

You had eventually understood the reason for his arousal and globally his delight, and from then on, as soon as you were both in bed, you would take him in your arms like a good little spoon against you. Because he had shown you how vulnerable he was, and because he too had the right to know that there was someone there who cared about him and would protect him at all costs.

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