#scab band

[daxwormzz]

VERRRRY old. In the sense that it’s from when I first started drawing him a couple months ago lol.

[gayofthefae]

Thinking again about the symbolism of Mike's first real straight moment of the show being the lingering look with El after "I understand".....a conversation they have prompted by him homophobically being thrown to the ground.

El is literally his coping for homophobia. His scene with her is his next full scene after being tripped. Same episode, sequential scenes.

The homophobia hurts and she fixes it. That symbolism runs deep.

[i-ate-your-dog-srry]

I got a really bad Ouch on my hip it's really deep. I hit it on the door, lock thing somehow, but it's ok because I get to put a band-aid on now, and I love band-aids you can decorate them and draw on them and they come in different sizes and shapes and they are like stickers that stay on for a long time :3 and they make you feel a bit better they are like fun little magic stickers!

[savedlatin27]

saw a band last night and the bassist really looked like van days Joe Trohman

[yeyinde]

hands like barbed wire

John Price x Reader

18+ | dubcon that flirts heavily with noncon. fingering (in public). manipulation. slight corruption kink. sheltered reader forced into a wife-grooming speed run. lotsssssa good girl/sweet girl/baby abound. implied kidnapping.

You meet him in a bar.

He's sitting alone in the corner, body angled towards all the exits. There's a glass of scotch on the table that drip, drip, drips these big, teardrop-sized droplets of condensation down the glass, kept cradled between a thick, grizzled hand. The scabs on his knuckles remind you of ripe, sour cherries when they flex under the coarse dusting of hair.

There's something about his hands that catches your attention first. Keeps it.

Your daddy used to say there was a lot to learn about a man by the shape of his hands. And his, this magnetic stranger's, are rough. Worn. Dangerous. Blistered and torn up. Caution tape in pale peach. Dirt under his nails. Ash on his forefinger. Stay away, it says. Run.

But the flicker of orange sparking up in the gloom draws you in like a moth to a flame. Stupid girl—

(just like daddy always said)

He doesn’t look up when you step closer. Little moth drawn to that orange light, the shift of those fingers wet with condensation. But you catch the slightest shift of his chin from your periphery. A silent acknowledgement, but it’s all you get. He keeps his eyes glued to the newspaper he has spread out on the table. Disregarding you entirely. Ignoring you. 

(and you keep yours fixed on the clench of his hands—)

"Not supposed to smoke in here," you murmur, voice a little slip of a thing when it shudders out of your throat. 

You don’t mean to say it. You’re not sure why you do. The words roll to the tip of your tongue and drip down your chin when your mouth shifts on a small, soundless gasp. Beneath the scabs on his fingers, his skin is all scar tissue—

In an almost laughable contrast, he growls, purring like a tiger, a diesel engine, when he speaks. 

"m'not supposed to do a lot of things—" When you finally, finally, drag your eyes away from his hands (the flex of his fingers, wondering how they'd even fit inside—), you catch a flat, uneven line buried under untameable brown. But he still doesn’t look at you. "But who is gonna tell me that?"

You don't get it. Sheltered girl—little girl, he adds, all ugly and cruel; cold in his mockery because that's what you are to him: little—growing up buried in the mountains, left to rot on the fecund plains where your daddy sowed seeds and mama pickled the wares for the market. Barely scraping by on a farm doomed to fail. Some poor man's burial ground, the locals say. Cursed. But hindsight—the gold band on his ring finger, one half of a matching set belonging to a woman who isn't you; and the patch on his leather jacket, faded yellow and bold, 141 with a twisted skull—bring you to a neat conclusion:

he's a bad man. Stupid girl, daddy would bark. Ain't you know nothin'? Stay away from them folk. Bad news. Nothin' but trouble.

(Mama would laugh. And oh, honey, did trouble find you—)

Between the heavy thud of your heart, the words slip out. “Well, I just did.”

More gall. Cheek. You don't know where it comes from.

Mama would have washed your mouth with soap. Dragged you to the washroom, spitting about respect as she twisted her gnarled fingers into your lips, and tugged. 

You expect the same from him. Maybe worse. Much worse. But he just looks—

His eyes peel away from the article (train robbery down south, it says in bold, ugly letters), finally darting to take you in. There's shock, you think. Stupefied by your audacity. The disrespect. But when he rests his eyes on you—cold blue, like a glinting gem, a lagoon—the slow climb of his brows, drawn up high until three deep lines stretch across his skin, comes to a stop. 

He seems to pause for a beat. Just long enough for an exhale of smoke, twin funnels of dragon's breath, to pour out of his nose. They draw together, but it's not in anger. Scorn. It's a rough sort of contemplation. Eyes narrowing into slits as he stares at you. 

And the weight of his gaze is a palpable thing. Heavy. You try to fight the urge to fidget as he sizes you up, rolling your eyes down the length of his body above the table to skirt around intense, dizzying blue. 

But your avoidance makes him huff, and he leans back, sucking in another breath. 

"C'mere," he demands. Doesn't say, doesn't ask. Just growls the words out between the clench of his teeth buried in that cigar you tried to nitpick him about. "Come sit."

And you do. of course, you do (stupid girl).

But when you reach for the chair next to his, he scoffs. "Didn't tell you to sit beside me."

"Then where—"

He's pushing back in his seat before the words are out, thick thighs open wide (impolite mama would say), stretched tight over a pair of jeans. But even with the wide spread, you can't even see the cheap red plastic in the open v of his legs. When you don't move quick enough—head all thick, syrupy—he grunts. Reaches down mockingly and pats his thigh.

"Come sit, little girl—"

It's demeaning. Embarrassing. But there's something about him that seems to negate choice the closer he gets. Renders it into dust between his fingers. Head syrupy. Empty. No thoughts needed when he'll just think for you—

And oh. 

Oh. That thought does something to you. Static in your veins. An electric shock. Mind reeling, spinning around that single, wayward idea.

Your head is hot. Feverish. Everything inside is melted, liquified, and drips out of your ears to pool between your thighs. 

(Under the white cotton of your modest summer dress, they squeeze together, sliding in the gathering slick—)

When you don't move fast enough for his liking, he grunts. "Ain't gonna tell you again—"

And you listen. Obey. Because that's what you are: a good girl. You do what you're told, don't you?

So you slip onto his lap, letting those big, gnarled hands wrap around your waist. Holding you steady (keeping you trapped) as his thick, warm thigh splits yours apart. Wrenching you open for one of his rough, dirty hands to slide between.

His forearm anchors you to the broad, dizzying spill of his chest, head dipping to nuzzle against the shell of your ear. Shushing you softly as you squirm around the hard, thick press of his thigh against your core—cunt, he bites out, teeth nipping along the skin of your ear; can feel your hot little cunt, sweetheart—and grapple with the strange, dirty-wrong, sensation of sitting in a stranger's lap as he slowly pulls up the dress you wore to church this morning, fingers hot on your inner thigh. Chasing that sticky-slick dampness that makes him groan low in his throat when he first touches it. Softly still, a hoarse good girl—

But this isn't what good girls do.

Mama says no man is allowed to touch this hot, slick little place between your thighs until you're married. A sin, she called it. Wrong. The pastor, too. Only when you're married. Only as a wife.

You don't think he has any intention of marrying you, but he touches you like a man would a wife. Knuckle hard, firm against the thin, worn cotton of your panties. Grazing. Rubbing. All soft and slow. Not even much of a touch—just the whisper, the idea, of one.

The rasp of his smoke-scorched, whiskey-scented voice in your ear, peppering filth, sin, out as he tells you he can feel how wet your little pussy is. Feels it against his finger. And can you feel that, sweetheart? when he pushes a little harder, digging the peak of a bent knuckle into the seam of you. Can you feel him through your pretty little panties?

"Mm," he grunts, pushing harder. Arm tightening around your waist when you squirm, and squirm. "Can you?"

Yes, you think around a long breath. A little stretch. Your legs kick out under the table when he grazes over a spot that blooms a vicious, intense pleasure through your belly. Something that feels so good, that it makes you a little sick. Makes you want to run. Maybe that's why your legs kick and kick, and—

"Be good." It's a snarl. A warning. "Or I'll take you over my knee—"

Be good, he adds again when you whimper, softening the grit in his voice from granite to soot. The same tone Daddy uses when they bring him a broken horse. "Jus' wanna make you feel good, sweet girl, mm. Want that, don't you?"

"We're n-not supposed to do this if we're not—not married."

Shivering it out into the balmy, smoke-dense air of the bar feels almost like a release. Baptismal. Like maybe now you've said it, whatever spell has fallen over the two of you will be broken. He'll blink awake and right the wrong you've committed with a quick, decisive shake of his head. You'll go back to being a good girl, a simple girl from a simple family, and he'll be the stranger in a bar you think about sometimes, like the real man mama loved but her daddy wouldn't let her marry.

(A sweet little fever dream, she'd said fondly. Sadly. And then, scared, tense: don't tell daddy, though, okay?)

He hums around it, but it sounds accommodating. Placid. Like an adult entertaining the whims of a child.

"Want that, mm?" He digs the question in with a slip of his finger over the cheap lace lining the hem of your panties. "Want me to marry you?"

You're not sure. You don't know him, but he's touching you in public. Has you sat—spread—on his lap with his hand under your dress, touching you the way a husband would. There's a ring on his finger already. The suggestion of a wife. A life outside of this hovel where nothing grows, and you're just expected to roll over and grow old with whatever man daddy approves of.

"No," you stammer out because he's married already, and that's what daddy will say. "No—"

"Shame," he grunts, and his nail catches on the edge of coifed lace. Scraping it over slick, damp skin. "Jus' lost mine, you know. Been thinkin' 'bout takin' another."

A good little girl to warm my bed is said as his nail drags your panties over your swollen, slick folds.

It's instinctual to want to snap them shut. Keep him out. But his knee lifts like he's expecting that, keeping you spread. Open. His hand is hot on your skin. Burning. His thumb wedges into the hem of your panties, stretching the fabric to tuck the edges together, exposing your cunt to his wandering, blistering fingers.

There's no quarter. No choice. He doesn't let you think. Doesn't give you a minute to breathe. It's just—

Skin on skin.

His knuckle slides between the seam of your swollen folds, parting them as he touches that slick, hot space cradled inside. Groaning, too, when he does; like he touched fire. Like you burned him. Hurt him even though you know you never could.

The noise balms the panic and clots thick tufts of cotton inside your ears. The low, rolling brass trembles in your belly. A small quake. You feel it in your cunt; a strange, throbbing little hum that makes you clench down twice on nothing but the idea of that sound. The echo.

He tells you he feels it. Feels how desperate you are for him.

Needy little thing, he rasps, and it isn't kind. It isn't nice. There's a reprimand needling in against the grain of his praise. An unspoken good girl said in the tone of a man who thinks you're anything but.

"Been thinkin' about takin' a wife," he says again, dragging the rough, scabbed tip of his knuckle across the powder-soft flesh of your folds. It's ticklish. Weird. Something that makes you want to giggle and cry. Pull your blankets over your head. Lean into it more. Spread your legs wider until he touches that spot that made you shake. "But the mistake I made the last time was not testin' 'er out before I married 'er. Turns out—" the tip digs in between your swollen folds, touching where you're hot and sticky and far too sensitive for such rough hands. "She wasn't as sweet as I thought she was."

And it's electric. The rough, calloused scrape of his finger stroking up and down your split seam (your clit, he mumbles into the hollow space behind your ear, giving it a little swirl that makes your toes curl; to your hole, nice and tight and so fuckin' wet f'him, mm?) is a jolt of that dizzying, too much-not enough pleasure. A shock. Mouth open, toes clenched tight. Legs kicking. Muscles seizing as he works you over with just the tip of a finger. Barely even a touch.

"But you're sweet, aren't you?"

It sounds like he's chiding you all over again, but the cotton puffing up against your eardrums, the pleasure buzzing in your belly, between your thighs, makes everything sound so sweet. Enticing. So you agree. Nod feverishly on a gasp when his finger trails down to where you clench tight around nothing, circling your opening with the tip of his finger, nail skimming over swollen, slick flesh.

You're not sure what this is. Don't even know where to begin to articulate what you want, need, but each pass makes you feel every bit of the needy little thing he called you earlier. An admonishment drenched in fondness. Wrapped up so tight in a soft, velvet cloth of amusement that you could barely feel the pricks of barbed wire nestled inside when it rubbed against your skin.

Sweet enough that it makes you turn your head into his bicep, nuzzling against the fabric of his jacket as he works his fingers between your wet, slick thighs. Thumb against your clit. A brand. Pressing down, down, and then softening when your legs kick out, too much. That dirty, awful kind of pleasure that makes you feel like a balloon being pumped too full, ready to burst. His finger slips inside. Just a tease. As gentle as a kiss. Only up to his cuticle. Barely even a knuckle.

He tells you all of his with his beard scraping against the flushed, damp skin of your cheek. Murmuring the words into the pool of blood throbbing against your cheekbones. Reinforces them with a sharp nip of his teeth when the shame trickles in—when the easy pump of his finger, not even a knuckle, makes a wet, sticky noise as it pushes into that pool of heat inside of you.

And it's all good girl, sweet girl against the sticky-slick shine of your raw cheek when your needy little cunt sucks him in deeper. Beggin' for it, and sweet little pussy wants it so bad, mm, needy girl? and don't worry, baby, m'gonna make you feel so good.

Baby. It catches, loops. Makes it easier to ignore the noise spilling out under the thick spread of his palm, finger digging in deeper (the first knuckle is a soft good girl, the second is a rough a doin' so good, sweetheart; and the third, slipped right up to last is a low, rumbling that's it, baby, takin' it so well, ain't you?), and the clatter around you. A semi-crowded bar.

You forgot, you think, squirming suddenly. Stiffening around him, on him, as the world sharpens into a whistle. Glass on worn wood. Thud, thud. Legs squealing against herringbone as a heavy chair is dragged back. Low murmurs. Laughter. Noise spilling out from the front of the room, calls for more beer. Another shot. Hey, bartender, gimme another Jack on the rocks—

"Shush-shush, baby," he coos, finger dragging out a lewd squelch when slides back inside of you, as deep as it'll go. The slap of his bent index and ring finger hitting your puffy, drenched folds when he thrusts. "They can't see you. Can't hear you. Jus' be good for me, mm? My sweet girl."

Nothin' matters except me, he adds, curling that finger inside of you until it hooks on a spot that makes you whimper into his arm, teeth sinking into leather. I own this bar, he promises, lifting his arm up as you cling to him with your teeth. A block against the world. Nothing but faded, aged leather and stale smoke. Gunpowder. The slick glide of his finger inside of you, the sting of the stretch dissolving into a wet, sticky pleasure.

His own teeth dig into the curve of your neck. A pinch. Sucking in a mouthful of skin as his ring finger extends, drags over your messy cunt until it's pushed up against your stuffed hole, nudging inside. A shallow dip. Lemme in, it says as he bites through blood vessels with the hard suck of his mouth. Lemme in because—

"I own this town. This bar. Jus' like I own this sweet little cunt."

A shove and he's in. All the way. To the last knuckle. Quick and sudden, the sting is an afterthought; the burn is a hazy, ephemeral throb in the back of your head. Balmed by the drag of his thumb over your pebbled clit.

It feels like a seesaw. Up and down. Bending your knees, feet planted into the ground, and then kicking up, up. Weightless. Over and over again. An ebb and flow. Higher and higher until you slowly fall down—

(—into his lap. the cup of his palm.)

You tell him as much. Mewled out into spit-drenched leather as he rumbles against your spine, his voice so deep, so full, you can feel it humming in your chest when he speaks.

(feel it drip down your spine like hot wax where it pools between your thighs—)

"Good girl," he says, and you feel like anything but. Less like the girl who sat in the pew this morning, humming along to hymns in a modest, cotton dress and more like gum spat out onto the pavement. Squished down under his heel. Dragged along beneath his boot. Pretty, dizzy pinked up remora. "Bein' so good, mm? Maybe you deserve a reward."

It comes on the crook of his fingers twisting inside your slicked up cunt; blunt nails pressing against soft walls until it stings like the nip of his teeth over your cheek. You're not even sure if it feels good. It's just—

Pressure. A burning stretch. The foreign sensation of something detached from your body squirming inside of you, touching places you've never been able to reach before. Too deep and too full. His index finger is nearly double the width of your own.

It makes you mewl like a child. Twisting on his lap, trying to pull away from the place that parts for him so easily, opens up with just the crook of his finger. Leaks slick down his palm, drenching his pants. Makin' a mess, he growls, and pulls you back down on his lap. Feel it, sweet girl? Mm? Feel the mess you're makin'.

And you hate that you can. That each thrust of his hand between your thighs sounds wetter and wetter than it did before. That it pulls it out of you until it drips down your inner thighs and pools against the back of your dress. Stains his thighs. The hard thing—his cock, he tells you, dragging your ass over it with a grunt—under you that jerks and throbs and flattens up to a size that makes you want to curl into a ball and weep.

(that makes your knees twitch, wanting to spread wider—)

It's a lot. It's too much. You're not even sure you like it ("ain't nice to tell lies, little girl;") but he doesn't stop. Won't. Not even when tears drip down from the corners of your eyes, and you hide whimpers into the damp, sticky leather of his sleeve. It doesn't really matter because—

"mm, you look so pretty when you cry."

You feel drenched. Liquid. No longer a person but a puddle. Melted, leaking. Dripping down his lap and pooling onto the dirty barroom floor. A slippery little thing held together by the cup of his palm, the hook of his fingers sinking into you over and over again.

"Are you watchin'?" The arm wrapped around your waist shifts until his dry, rough hand is cupped under your wet, sticky chin, curling over your throat. "Look at us."

Between the spread of your thighs, white cotton dress rumpled and rucked up around your hips, the sight of his hand—masculine: dangerous; knuckles bruised and scarred, cherry red; big and rough and hairy—is obscene. Ugly. Wrong.

(a grunt: too tight. his fingers flex, spreading open inside of you, scissoring apart. loosen up, love, before you break 'em, mm.)

So, so wrong.

You feel small with that big, grizzled hand between your legs. Insignificant. A toy to play with. A thing to be used. And that's just what he does.

Shows you how he can play with your body when he peels his fingers out of you nice and slow until just the tips keep you open, skin shiny and wet. Glistening in the flushed, low light of the bar. And then slides them back inside, just as slow. The first knuckle. The second. The third. Wiggles them around. Scissors them apart.

Pulls them out faster now, and thrusts them back inside hard.

This cunt belongs to him, he grunts, words nestled beneath the slick, sticky-wet sound of him taking what he owns. Over and over again. That big, bearish hand works at your messy cunt until your thighs tremble, and your head throbs.

The hand on your throat is firm. Tight. And when it pulls away to slip inside your cotton dress, you realise you've forgotten how to breathe without him controlling every breath.

"Come on," he rasps, fingers working harder. Faster. His thumb catches your clit, rubbing small, tight circles; each pass brings a new, terrible pleasure rippling through you. A crescendo that builds and builds. Higher on the seesaw—up, up—

His hand is scorching as it cups your breast, index and middle finger scissoring over your nipple until it's caught between the two. A pluck. A pinch. It buzzes down your chest, sinks like a stone into the wet, muddled mess between your hips.

And that's all you are. Nothing but a soaked, hot mess of a thing in his lap. Putty. Messy girl. Silly girl. Sweet. Stupid. His.

(his low, growling voice in your ear: mine, mine, mine;) "aren't you, little girl?"

The leather between your teeth tastes like ash. Smells of gunpowder. Fresh hide in the summer's sun. Smoke. Tobacco. Potent. Masculine. Grizzled, like his hand between your thighs. The other cupped around your breast, pinching and pulling and kneading flesh you hadn't realised could feel so good when it was touched like this—

By his hands, palms hot enough to scorch, to brand. To melt you from the outside in until you leak all over his lap where you're cradled like a child. Obedient and docile.

Especially when he makes you come on his fingers. Tells you that's what you'll do before it happens—a grunt, a command, in your ear. Do it, sweetheart. I ain't askin' again—

And you do. Pulsing like a heartbeat around the thick stretch of two fingers digging deep inside of you, stabbing into that spot that makes you pant like an animal. Blooms more heat, more pleasure, that thickens inside your navel—molten. Spilling out from between your hips. Up, up, up on the seesaw—

"Good girl. Good fuckin' girl—"

He doesn't even sound like a man anymore. The rough, feverish grit of his voice pitches low into his throat, hums in his chest. Rattles like bones in the wind. Howls. Sharpens in the pit of your belly, another liquid pulse around his fingers. It sounds animal. Primal. Bearish as he claims you as his, as he curls his fingers around the heart of you, and tugs. Leaving you spun around those thick, grizzled fingers like fresh cotton candy, sticky and sweet. His to keep.

And that's what you are,

"aren't you?"

Good girl, he coos when you nod, sniffling into creased leather that smells of cade and motor oil. Too dizzy to make sense of what he's asking for, too incomplete.

Your neck feels cold without his touch, but you don't know how to ask for something you don't even think you really want. Shouldn't want.

You feel feverish, too, and it's an all-over thing. From the space between each toe, to the backs of your ears—everything is too hot, too cold. You're shivering, but you want to sink down into a pool of ice, a blanket of heat and warmth. Wrap yourself around the hot, oozing insides of a chest—like the hunter who slept inside his beloved horse—and bathe in the waters around the polynya. Icy and dark.

Mostly, though, you just feel raw. Wrong. Scraped out and hollowed. Broken into pieces and put back together with mismatched parts.

And it's worse, you think, when he pulls his fingers out of you, and you're reminded of what it feels like to be empty all over again.

"Shush, baby," he's cooing when you whimper. Chiding. "Let's have a taste, mm? Find out if you're really sweet."

His hand is drenched when he pulls it from between your thighs. Thick, clear strands make a bridge between his fingers when he splits them apart, rumbling low and brassy in his chest at the sight. Spits like a burning log, crackling sap in a dry fire, when he says, look, baby, got me all fuckin' wet—

But you can't. Not when he drags his hand up, up, over your shoulder, above your head, and sinks his fingers into his mouth with a groan that raffles through you, all the way down to your toes. Slurps on his hand, on the slick you left behind, like a man half-starved. Grunting at the taste. Cock throbbing beneath you like a heartbeat. Pulsing and angry. Enough that you cower a bit, flinching back into the broad expanse of his chest as his thick, fat cock twitches under you, eager for something you only really know about as an abstract concept. Knowledge gleaned through rummaging around in cupboards when no one was looking. Playground tales; cupped palms against the side of an ear. Stage whispers.

Husband and wife.

And oh, baby—

"you're the sweetest thing I've ever tasted," he rasps into your cheek, lips shiny and wet. Smearing spit and slick across your raw skin. "Looks like I found my new wife."

It doesn't make sense. Another abstract concept. Fragmented pieces. You want to say we can't get married, but all that comes out is a squeak. A whimper. Some shallow warble in the back of your throat that sounds like daddy, please.

But he's pulling his hand away from your breast, and clasping it tight around your neck before the words can make it through the panic clogging your throat. A firm squeeze snuffs those flames as quickly as they formed, and you swallow down the ash in the back of your throat before it can choke you.

Good girl, he says with a paper soft kiss to the bruised, burning apple of your cheek. Sweet girl, baby girl, and when he smoothes his damp hand across the rumpled fabric of your cotton dress, pulling it back over your thighs, you realise you forgot your own name.

(It doesn't matter, you suppose. You'll have his soon enough.)

When it's back in its proper spot, unblemished and pristine despite the ache between your thighs and the way your panties stick, uncomfortably, to swollen skin, he drags his hand back up your leg until his palm swallows your thigh. The warmth of his skin bleeds through the cotton, and his rough, calloused fingers catch on loose threads when he splays them wide, touch firm, possessive—as if he has the right to hold you like you're his.

But his skin is still wet, and when it catches in the light, you feel a sinking weight in your belly. An echo in the back of your head that says you already are.

His thumb strokes over cotton, and it's almost obscene, really: soft, virginal white against marled, cherry red and scarred peach; from his knuckles to the hem of his leather jacket, he's covered in a dense swath of hair. Veins bulge when he flexes, thick lines running down the back of his hand like little rivers of blue beneath raw peach flesh. He's just so—

Different.

Masculine. Big. Dangerous, you think again, and hear that muffled echo in the back of your head that said run, stay away.

(except now it sounds like stupid girl, you're much too late—)

Trapped like a fawn under his paw. One on your thigh, the other on your throat. The phantom burn, the hollow echo, of his fingers tearing through the too-tight space inside of you, making room for the heavy, fat length under you.

Soon, it seems to say, still as angry as it was when he feasted on your sweet taste.

His hand leaves your thigh, reaching up towards the half-drunk glass on the table beneath a puddle of condensation. It, too, is swallowed up under his bearish hand when he curls his fingers around it, tugging it closer, over your shoulder.

You smell whiskey as he takes the last swig, grunting at the burn, the sting. When he's finished, he leans forward, warm chest glueing to your spine, and places the empty glass back in the puddle.

The hollow thud of glass on wood seems to shake loose the cobwebs that spooled around your head. It feels like blinking to life. Waking up from a deep sleep.

The bar is still buzzing with noise, but you can hear it clearly now. A constant, endless press of voices and low hums, words you can't make sense of. You're too far back in the bar for anyone to have seen you—the bulk of his arm is a wall between you and the world—but you wonder just how much your whimpers carried under the static chatter. The wet, messy squelch—

"You're fine, sweetheart." A squeeze and the panic welling in your throat is choked under his palm. Snuffed out. "No one heard a thing."

You're not sure you believe him, but it keeps the embarrassment from eating you alive, and so you let it go with a slow, sleepy nod. A sniffle. Wet, weepy: I want to go home.

"S'right, sweetheart," he soothes, pressing another brittle kiss to your temple, one that feels the sting of a scraped knee. "We'll get you home."

(Chiding. Look at what you've done to yourself. Pitying. Patronising. Poor thing.)

His home isn't the same as the one cradled in the maw of a mountain, where the land is always barren, and your mother weeps when your father isn't around, but you relent when he tugs, pulling you into his arms. Holding you like a small child as he bites down on his cigar, and moves through the blanket of silence in the once rowdy bar. Hands firm, tight like shackles when they close around you.

Your father used to say you could tell a lot about a man by the look of his hands, and when he slips his fingers between the soft brackets of yours, filling the spaces you hadn't realised were empty, you know one thing:

these are not the sort to ever let go.

(bassbround. apodictic.)

and when he slips his ring on your finger and tells you to wear that little white cotton dress for him, you suppose you have no one else to blame but yourself.

[boneless-mika]

I managed to put a band aid over my disgusting and terrifying wound and it made me feel better (not sure why bc I couldn’t see it anyway, maybe it’s the placebo effect but I’m happy to be less freaked out)

[shouyuus]

direct continuation of this; part of the apt neighbor!vi au

apartment neighbor!vi who disappears, or at least tries to -- no more weekend visits, no more tuesday night movie dates -- you still see her, or rather, catch glimpses of her here and there, but she's always ducking away or off somewhere before you can catch her, and for a someone who's so conspicuous, she's more slippery than you could've ever imagined. and at first, you're angry -- hurt, confused -- but the pain dulls after a week, two, and soon enough, there's only the barest flinch whenever you see her silhouette slipping down the hallway when you catch her coming back from the gym, or in the mail room --

once, you catch the bright chime of powder's voice as vi opens her door, and you could've sworn you heard your name, but the next second, the door's slamming closed behind her, and powder's voice cuts off like an old record.

apartment neighbor!vi who still goes to the gym, and it's the only real place you see her, but she's always got her headphones banded over her bright red hair, her eyes narrowed -- the bandages around her knuckles are tattered, stained with what looks like blood. there are new cuts and bruises scattered along her arm and what looks like a fresh scab at the corner of her lip.

you don't ask; you figure that if she'd wanted you to know, she would've told you by now.

apartment neighbor!vi who is not there the first time you let curiosity get the better of you and maps the way to her family's pub -- it's a divey kind of place, but spacious and well-kept, with dartboards lining the walls and an old fashioned jukebox in the corner. the man behind the counter glances up with a grin, a slight dip between his brows, an old pipe between his lips.

"bit early for a girl like you to come wanderin' in here," he says, with a voice that rumbles through you, even from a distance. you clear your throat and check your watch -- yeah, 2pm on a wednesday isn't peak hours for a bar like this but it's what you were hoping for.

"oh -- sorry, are you guys not open yet?" you glance back at the door, afraid that you'd missed some sort of signage but the man just laughs and shakes his head.

"nah, we're open. c'mon in," he gestures to the empty bar top, and sets down a glass with a heavy hand.

you eye it for a second before skittering over and sliding up onto one of the barstools, glancing around to take in the scene.

"lookin' for vi, i assume?"

you jump at the sound of vi's name, your eyes slingshotting back to the man, who breaks out into a loud bark of laughter, pouring you a full glass of water.

"h-how did -- has vi said something?"

the man shrugs, pushing the water towards you; you grab it for lack of anything better to do, taking a tentative sip as he eyes you with beady, beatle-black eyes, shining with mirth.

"you pour people drinks for long enough and you start to get a knack for puzzlin' out what they want when they walk in -- kinda person they might be, why they're comin' in -- gets to be a kinda game if you get good enough at it," he leans in with a conspiratorial wink that sets you at ease. you feel your own shoulders drop a bit as you set the glass back down on the counter and lick your lips.

"so you must be vander," you say, the name ringing back through your sifted memories -- vi on a tuesday night, after a movie about race cars or something, chattering about the bar and how her stepdad always gets on her about flirting with the customers too much.

vander nods, taking a soft puff of his pipe and leaning back.

"and you must be the neighbor girl that vi's not been able to shut up about," he muses, making you gag on your next sip of water. he lets out another booming laugh and reaches behind the counter to hand you a stack of napkins. you mop at the water dripping down your chin, feeling your cheeks burn.

"sorry, sorry -- forgive an old man his good time," he says with another good-natured wink before his jovial expression flattens, "but if you're here wonderin' what she's been doin'... then you're fresh outta luck, darlin'."

you frown, cupping your fingers around your half-drunk glass of water.

"i'm just... worried about her."

vander grunts, shrugging up a single, massive shoulder.

"standing room only on that bus, i'm afraid."

you let out a soft scoff of laughter, nodding.

"it's sweet of you to come knockin', but... she's a stubborn one, and if she doesn't wanna tell us then..." another shrug, another sigh, "no one's gonna be able to force it outta her."

you nod again, feeling rather wilted as vander reaches over to pat your shoulder with a large hand. he chuckles.

"tell ya what, here -- have a drink -- on the house."

he grabs a wine glass and sets it in front of you with a tiny flourish. as second later, a deep red liquid fills your glass and you stare up at him as he grins.

"i figured you were a cab sav kind of girl -- but tell me if i'm wrong, and i'll swap it out for anything else you might like."

you shake your head, laughing as you tug the wine glass closer, "nope. you're spot on."

apartment neighbor!vi who shows up hammered, with no preamble, banging down your door a on friday night (though it really is late enough to be called saturday morning) -- you answer with a frying pan clutched in one hand, a hissing sigh whistling through you the second you see who's on the other side. the pan drops and you're about to be angry, but your eyes catch on the fresh bruises blooming across the high of her cheeks, a bump the side of a golf ball swelling up above her right eye.

"o-oh my god, vi! what happened?!" you jump back as she nearly collapses into your doorway, barely catching herself against your shoe-rack.

"jus... missed you, sugar! can't a girl... miss... someone she likes?" she slurs, shaking her head as she pushes herself up; you blink rapidly at her, your chest a tight whirlwind of questions and concerns. it's all eclipsed, however, by alarm, as she lurches into your apartment and nearly smashes into your hallway wall, looping an arm around your shoulder -- you stumble beneath her weight, struggling to keep her upright.

"vi? vi -- you're drunk --"

"nah this ain't nothin' -- just wanted a few after -- after getting beat up, ain't that normal? damn -- got so fucked in the ring -- that match was fixed -- shoulda known smeech couldn't be trusted -- that slimy, money-hungry bastard --"

you somehow manage to half-drag vi into your living room and dump her on the couch, fluttering around for a large glass of water and a first aid kit.

"what -- what're you saying?" you ask, even as you force her to take a large gulp of water (she makes a face as if it's vodka before downing the rest in a few long gulps -- a few beads of water trickle passed her chin and into the collar of her stained tanktop). but in between the fragments and incoherent mumbles, a slow realization starts to coalesce inside you as you inch closer to her and convince her to sit still.

"vi...?"

"mm." she hiccups, flinching slightly as you dab at a cut on her cheek with an antibacterial wipe.

"are you... in some sort of... fight club, or something?"

vi makes a grumbling noise, her eyes fluttering closed; she sways a little as you continue to gently clean out her wounds. her breath carries the sharp, turpenic smell of cheap alcohol as she lets out a long sigh.

"somethin' like that... kinda like a boxing ring -- i'm pretty damn good at it, most nights," she adds, hissing again even as you jerk back, pursing your lips. she crinkles her nose before wiping a hand across her mouth, staring blankly down at the fresh blood smeared onto her skin.

"and... i'm gonna go out on a limb and guess that this boxing ring thing... isn't legal, right?"

vi tries her best at one of her usual, charming, lopsided grins, but it just ends up looking something like a grimace instead.

"legal's not where the money is, sweetness."

you lean forward with a fresh sanitary wipe and motion for her to hold still again. she does, offering you her other cheek, her eyes now startlingly clear as they flicker over the planes of your face. you wonder how drunk she really is, or if she's just gotten terribly good at hiding it.

"but... i thought that you guys were in a rent-controlled unit? what'dyou need all this money for?"

vi scoffs, her eyes lowering.

"pow's university tuition isn't gonna pay for itself."

her voice is soft, low, her words steady. you pause, frowning slightly at her as she sighs and leans back to cast you a sad little grin.

"ah... now that i've told you, 'fraid i'm gonna have to killa ya," she winks. you don't smile, only turning to discard the dirty wipe for another fresh one.

"i thought the bar --"

"it doesn't make enough -- and powder -- she --" vi sucks in a long breath, her eyes fluttering closed. when she opens them again, it's the eyes you remember, the eyes you'd spent so many afternoons and evenings staring into -- there's light and laughter, a fire that can't be extinguished, a light that can't be dimmed, a hard-lined conviction that makes them shine even on the darkest of moonless nights.

"she deserves every opportunity. that girl --" vi lets out a helpless little scoff, "she's gonna change the world one day, i just know it. if we can only --" she makes an abortive gesture with her hand.

you nod, reaching out to wipe away a small smudge of eyeliner beneath her eye. she stills beneath your touch, the cool of your skin against her burning cheek makes her shiver.

a thin tendril of tired, incredulous laughter slithers up your chest; vi's eyebrows kick up as you let out a giggle -- the only warning she gets -- before you're toppling into a fit of truly stomach-clenching laughter, leaning back into your sofa cushions, clutching your belly.

"a-are you alright?" vi asks, blinking at you with mild alarm as you shake your head, flapping your hands at her, unable to form any kind of coherent thought. you wipe at the tears forming at the corner of your eyes, and somewhere between one breath and the next, your laughs turn into frustrated sobs, and you shove vi reproachfully as she stares at you, totally nonplussed by this strange turn of events.

"y-you're such an idiot!" you say between heaving breaths, rubbing at your eyes. you feel lightheaded; the clock on the microwave blinks a bleary 4:42AM at the pair of you.

vi stares, completely nonplussed as you sniffled and reach over to snag a few tissues, daubing at your eyes.

"there're so many things you can do to get money -- you don't have to --" you gesture at her, "get yourself killed in an illegal fighting ring -- and you don't --" you jab a single finger into her chest, hard enough for her to flinch back, "have to try to do it alone."

she blinks, once, twice --

"uh..."

you sigh, rolling your eyes, "god, you're so stupid -- for someone with a genius sister --"

vi makes a slightly affronted noise, "i got good grades in school!"

you tear open a packet of neosporin with perhaps more savagery than necessary, nearly dropping it. you glare at the tiny packet before squeezing a large dollop onto your finger and motioning for vi to lean in. she eyes you for a solid three seconds before slowly leaning forward.

you lave the gel onto the cut on her cheek before peeling open a bandaid to cover it up.

"there. that's waterproof, so it won't come off when you take a shower."

"when i take a shower?" vi asks, her head cocking to one side.

you cast her a sharp look, "you're so gross right now, of course you've gotta shower."

vi hiccups into her fist before shooting you a sheepish grin.

"i could just shower at home."

you narrow your eyes, "it's 5am -- and i'm pretty sure powder's got a massive midterm tomorrow. you're staying here tonight."

"ah. yes. of... course," vi says, biting back an amused chuckle before looking around at the couch beneath her.

"well, i've always liked this couch."

you close the first-aid kit with a sharp snap.

"if you shower within the next --" you glance back at the clock on the microwave, "10 minutes or so, you can sleep in the bedroom. but if i'm asleep when you're done then you're gonna have to sleep out here -- i don't like being woken up." you try to sound stern, though it might have just come out sounding petulant.

vi grins, the expression so familiar to you it singes a line of heat down the center of your spine.

"oop -- guess i'd better shower quick then!" she pushes off the sofa and jogs for the bathroom, swiveling around by the door to give you a soft smile and a -- "hey... thanks."

you roll your eyes at her and flap your hand, "go. shower!"

you slip into bed, listening to the shower water run, a twist of something collecting in your gut as you hear the sounds of the water turn off and the unmistakable noises of vi toweling off. you burrow further into your blankets as her footsteps thump through the apartment, the slight creak of your bedroom door swinging open as she slips in, the shape of her limned in moonlight as she slowly makes her way to the other side of the bed.

"hey sugar... you still awake?"

you crinkle your nose, and for a second, consider feigning sleep. but the next second, she's slipping into the blankets next to you, her skin warm to the touch as she shuffles closer.

"yeah," you answer, a second later.

she shuffles just a bit closer; you flip around to face her, gasping as you realize how close she is -- your noses almost touching. her eyes widen as they meet yours, and you could swear that even in the pre-dawn dark, you can see her cheeks rioting with color.

she clears her throat but doesn't make to pull away.

"y'know, usually when i get invited into someone's bed... it's a lot sexier than this."

you puff out a breathy laugh, "yeah? i'm sure. why don't you tell me about it tomorrow, when we're compiling all the scholarships that we're gonna help powder apply to?"

vi falls quiet, her gaze going startlingly liquid, and for a second, you wonder if she's going to cry too. but then, she's leaning in, pressing her forehead to yours --

"god... sweets... what the fuck did i do to deserve you?"

you snuggle in closer, your heartbeat a livewire thrum at the back of your throat.

"nothing... you were just... you."

vi lets out a shaky breath, her eyes falling shut.

"shit, sugar... what the hell, man... it wasn't supposed to be like this."

you laugh as she sniffles, tugging you closer, her palm warm along your waist, her fingers pressing into your skin.

"yeah? did you have it all planned out? help the new girl move in? watch movies and make food with her on the weekends till she falls in love with you?"

vi's breath hitches. you bite your tongue.

still, she doesn't refute you. finally, she manages --

"i just... never thought it'd... get this bad..."

you sigh, leaning in to press a soft kiss to her forehead.

"y'know, for a smart girl, you're really dumb sometimes."

vi pulls back, sighing, "yeah... i -- i know. and i know that powder and vander probably know too -- they just -- they just... knew me too well to try and --"

"force it out of you?" you supply. vi nods, her hair tickling your skin as she burrow in against you, her body curling in till she's in a fetal position, her face pressed into your chest, her breath fanning hot against your collarbones.

"well, lucky for me --" you say, reaching up to run a hand through her hair, caressing at the still-damp ends, "i didn't have to -- you came knocking all on your own."

vi's quiet for another few beats before --

"i wasn't lying y'know... i really did... miss you." her voice catches, the words cracking over one another like river stones.

you graze your lips along her hairline, nodding, "yeah, i know... i missed you too, vi."

she wraps her arms around you and pulls you in, pressing you to her so completely your chest almost starts to sting with the pressure.

a few minutes later, she relents, releasing you just enough for you to suck in a long, steadying breath.

"did you really mean it? that thing about... the scholarships for powder?"

you nod, "course i did. and we can look up loans too! i had to take one out when i went to college too, so i'm pretty familiar with them. it's alright -- we'll figure it out -- together."

vi nods, chuckling softly against you.

"mm... before all that though..." she tugs back just far enough to look at you, her voice husky as she leans in to brush her nose to yours --

"d'you think... you might allow me the honor of making you breakfast?"

[himbosandhardwear]

Eddie has a bad habit of picking at his skin when he's nervous. Not, like, shy nervous or stage fright nervous, but the real kind of nervous, not-sure-I’m-gonna-survive-this kind of nervous. Like while he was alone in the boat house, he'd shredded every one of his cuticles. That time Hopper caught him behind The Hawk, very obviously selling his wares, he'd bitten his lips bloody.

Tonight he's picking a scab off his knee. It's practically healed already, so it won't bleed, he just needs to feel something on his body come loose before he does.

“You good, dude?” Steve asks, so in tune to Eddie's nervous disposition. Such a good guy. What a friend.

Eddie lets his head hit his knee caps with a thunk.

“Yup.”

Steve snorts. “You don't look good. I mean… You know what I mean.”

He smiles, tilting his head to look at Steve, always happy to give him a hard time.

“Oh, absolutely. You think I look good, don't cha, Stevie?”

He gets a couch pillow to the face for that, but they're both laughing so he doesn't think he's crossed the line yet.

Yet, yet, yet.

“Seriously, what's up with you? You've been quiet. It makes me want to call the squad.”

“Har har,” Eddie mumbles, but he does uncurl himself, sitting back against the couch again. “I'm trying to work up the nerve to ask for advice but it's-” Christ, he doesn't even want to admit to being embarrassed, that's how embarrassed he is.

“It's what?” Steve asks, the picture of earnest encouragement. “You can talk to me about anything, man, we're, like, bonded in blood or whatever.”

“Right. Yeah. Except this has the potential to get real awkward, real quick, and I'm not sure we're at that level of friendship yet.”

“Well,” he drawls, “if you ask me whatever it is that's got you all flustered I'm sure that will level us up. Right?”

“I'm not flustered.” God damn his red fucking face. Steve just laughs at him. “It's just, I don't have anyone else to ask about this. Jonathan probably doesn't have this particular problem, cause he's got- Uh. Sorry.” Steve waves it away, so Eddie goes on. “The kids are too young and the band guys don't understand what we went through-”

“Eddie, just spit it out.”

“Fuck! Okay, fine! You asked for it.” He takes a giant breath, steels his spine and just says it. “The Trauma is affecting my ability to get laid and I don't know how to fix it. Every time I get close to it I freak out and have to bail.”

There. All out now.

He looks over at Steve, and it's so much worse than being laughed at or pitied. He just looks sad.

He shakes it off quickly, hair barely moving, Eddie notes. He finds Steve's hair routine both endearing and ridiculous.

“Yeah. Okay. That's super common, just so you know,” Steve assures him first. “Robin says it's all connected, your mind and your body, so trauma can, like, get trapped in weird places like that. I can't play baseball anymore. Cause the memory of beating demodogs to death.”

“As you do,” Eddie quips.

“Right. But your thing. Uh. Yeah, it took some time before I could relax enough to even attempt getting laid, let alone actually do it.”

“So?” Eddie drawls, waiting. “How did you get over it?”

Something is off. Steve's not known for being skiddish about sex, but his hesitation and his inability to look Eddie in the eye is setting off alarms.

“Hey, if this is too weird for you-”

“No, I'm good, it's fine. Just, I'm the only person you have to talk to about this, so I'm gonna try to be helpful but, uh,” he scratches at the back of his head awkwardly, “in all honesty, I haven't been laid since before Vecna either. Way before. So. Yeah. Not sure I should be giving out advice on anything.”

That's crazy. Like actually crazy. He can't even compute Steve Harrington not absolutely dripping in women. He must have some look on his face because Steve gives a dry sort of laugh, self deprecating, and leans back against the couch with him.

“Weren't you on a date with Brenda Mulligan the night- Vecna’s first attack?”

Steve shoots him a look. “Y- Yeah, but that didn't go anywhere. We weren't, like, compatible or whatever.”

Oh, yeah, it was weird that Eddie knew that at all, let alone remembered it nine months later. “That's too bad,” he replies lamely.

“Yep.”

He feels terrible for dragging down the whole night, it would've been better if he'd just kept his mouth shut. But that's never been his strong suit, as evidenced by him blurting out, “If the hottest guy in Hawkins can't find a suitable date, what fucking chance do I have.”

Steve snaps, “Don't say that. What the fuck?”

Great, now he's gone and made it weird. Good job calling your straight friend hot, you fuckin’ dipshit.

They sit in the awkward silence, out of things to say or out of useful things to say. Either way it's them breathing, the clock ticking, and the M.A.S.H. rerun playing softly in the background.

Steve clears his throat. “Whatever, let's get back to the point. You don't have to tell me if you don't want but…what do you think the specific reason is for your…issue?”

He thinks about it. Has been thinking about it, for a while now. “My dick still works, if that's what you're wondering.”

Steve chuckles, high and surprised. “Good for you.”

“Yeah. It's more like, I can't get out of my head. I start worrying about my scars, explaining them if someone asked. I think about how even though I don't want anything long-term, I wouldn't be able to do long-term anyway, because I'm a fucking mess. If it's really bad, I'll get flashes of Chrissy or Patrick's bones snapping, as a little soundtrack to the fun shit happening outside my head.”

Steve looks sad again. Maybe it is pity but it looks more turned inward, like he's dealing with his own shit more than Eddie’s.

“You hooking up with strangers then?”

Eddie blinks at Steve. “Well…duh. Right? Not like I have guys lined up around the block here in Hawkins.”

Steve is full blown scowling at the TV. It's weird.

“What if-”

Eddie waits but Steve doesn't finish his thought.

“What if…what?” He prompts, giving a little nudge with his foot.

He's still avoiding eye contact, not even turning his head to look in Eddie's direction.

In a soft voice, almost too quiet to hear, he says, “What if we helped each other out?”

He must've heard that wrong. Or he's misunderstanding.

“What?”

“What if we help each other out? Like, a mutually beneficial arrangement.”

That can't be right. No fucking way. It's a test. Like as soon as Eddie agrees, Steve yells ‘Aha! I knew you wanted to molest me! Goodbye forever!’ and runs out the door.

“What, exactly, do you mean? Like, what are you getting out of it?”

Steve finally looks over. “Well, I would think that was obvious. If you're willing.”

Eddie's legs are starting to go numb.

“Okay, so I blow you and you blow me, except when you're doing it I have to watch you take it like you're being force fed liver and onions at Grandma's house?”

Steve slowly shakes his head no.

“Oh, okay, so you're going to blow me and enjoy it,” he snaps sarcasticaly.

Steve nods once.

“You want to blow me?”

“Mmhmm,” he hums without moving a muscle.

“Since when!” Eddie brings his octave down from the upper atmosphere. “Since when, Harrington? This is insane behavior. Should I call the squad for you? I'm serious. I'll do it.”

“You don't have to say yes. I was just offering.” He says it like Eddie isn't one green flag away from stomping on the gas.

He starts nervously laughing, which makes Steve flinch unfortunately, but he can't stop.

“It's cool, just forget I said anything.” He moves like he's about to get up and leave, which is fucking insane because it's his living room. Eddie stops him with a tight grip around the bicep.

“Don't you dare. If you're even remotely serious, we have to have a much longer conversation. Sit.”

Steve drops like a sack of bricks. Which is…something.

“Right. First off, this is uncommon behavior in a straight friend. Is there something you'd like to tell me, so I don't think you've been body snatched?”

He pinches at the top of his nose, like Eddie is inconveniencing him greatly. Too bad.

“I'm probably bisexual.”

“Probably?” Eddie asks with a raised eyebrow.

“I'm an inexperienced bisexual,” he amends through clenched teeth.

“Good. Great. Happy to hear it.” His heart may explode from his torso à la Ridley Scott's Alien but sure. “Second on the agenda, what do you mean help each other out? What's on the table? Mutual handjobs and then we never talk about it again?”

“No,” Steve answers immediately. That's good. “I'm open to…whatever you're open to.”

“Steve.” He has to clear his throat. “You dont even know what you're agreeing to.”

“I trust you.”

Fuuuuuck.

“Okay, right, uh, let's circle back to that later. Third thing, what, uh, what is your level of commitment with this?”

He just stares at Eddie, all doe eyed. It shouldn't work, Eddie fucking invented that look. It's gotten him out of more scrapes than he can count. Now it's being used against him but to what end? Does Steve want to get bundled up in a blanket and tucked into bed? Because Eddie can make that happen for him.

“Whatever you want, I guess,” he finally says. “I mean, like I said earlier, friends who help each other out. Casual. I'm not interested in looking for Mrs Harrington anymore and you're having a problem relaxing around guys who don't understand what you went through.” He makes a gesture like ‘Ta da.’

He's not wrong. It makes sense. But…

“Fourth thing. Is this just an experiment for you? Cause I'm all for you exploring your sexuality but, historically speaking, friends are a bad place to start.” AKA ‘it will break my fucking heart if you decide you're not that into it and it's because it's me.’

“Eddie. Look.” He gets more comfortable, facing Eddie straight on finally. “What you're going to provide is practical knowledge on what has only been theoretical up to this point, but the theory has already been well established.” He taps his head. “Understand?”

A smug confidence melts Eddie into the couch. “You liiike me,” he sings. “You think about me naaaked. You wanna-”

Steve lands on him, lacking any elegance or grace, and nearly caves their skulls in with his Jay Garrick approach to kissing. Eddie doesn't say a fucking word. He does wonder at the fucking majesty that is making out sober. What a revelation. Steve keeps making these tiny, almost wounded noises, to the point where Eddie tries to back up and do a check in but Steve doesn't let him, he chases him down and latches back onto Eddie's bottom lip like he's Hannibal Lector. It's stupid hot.

Everything is going great until Steve lets out a sound that legitimately has Eddie worried he's upset about something.

He pulls back and asks, “Are you okay?”

“Oh fuck, I'm sorry. I just can't, I can't believe I got this fucking far. You're so hot I'm losing my fucking mind.”

“Me?” Eddie snaps. “Dude, you're out of your mind.” He pokes Steve in his meaty chest. “Literal. Prom. King.”

“Fucking stupid high school shit, are you kidding me?” He sits up, straddling Eddie's hips, which is boner enhancing to say the least; he's got Steve's thighs in his grasp immediately. “You don't get it, I'm gone on you. I've got it bad, man. I was playing it cool earlier-”

“At no point tonight were you in any way playing it cool.”

“-but, fuck it, guess I'm ruining it, cause I can't be cool about this. I don't want casual. I don't even want to date you,” and before Eddie can even worry about that, he says, “I wanna skip straight to boyfriends, man. I know you said you didn't want long term with anyone but-”

Eddie interrupts again, this time by pulling Steve back down horizontal and kissing him like he just bravely declared himself as all in.

If this is a pod-person, well, that's a problem for Tomorrow Eddie. Tonight Eddie just landed Steve Harrington as a boyfriend.

[trulyumai]

Blinded by the Flame

Pairing: Messmer the Impaler x Reader

Warnings: Blood, Death.

Synopsis: Left bloodied and blinded, Messmer searched. Not for revenge, but for his wife.

A/N: So, this fucking sunflower boss is kicking my ass. Im cooked.

Enjoy the story!

“Ah! Mother, please!” In the middle of the room, sat the legend of the flames. 

He balled up in agony, his fingers covered his face— his eyes entirely. 

Blood seeped between the crevices of his digits, his eyes burned with an itch, a feeling he wanted to tear out.

“For how could I— your spawn, be subjected to such a monstrosity of an ending?” The man cried out, his deep wails echoed throughout the chambers around his being. 

Messmer mumbled incessantly, begging and twitching as his vision blackened. 

He had to gain control— before the chaotic numb feeling goes too far, before his mind slips away completely. 

Think of the throne 

Think of the order 

Think of… 

“Wife,” 

He called out, saliva dripped down in a reddened  pace between his lips. 

Messmer reached out to nothing, to the blackness that surrounded him. 

“Wife!” He wailed

“Don’t— don’t leave me alone!” 

The lanky man keeled over, his hands beat against the wooden floor with fury. 

“A-Answer me! Your husband— your Lord demands it!” 

With a slurred speech, he crawled, began to move toward where he thought the door might be. 

His hand met with a stone wall, it stood firm against his blood covered palms. 

He couldn’t think- couldn’t remember the size of the room, the chamber at all for that matter. 

The  pain was piercing his mind, it left fire in its wake. 

“Augh—“ 

The knight continued his mission, persisted onto finding the exit, the way to his home- his love. 

Knees now scratched and molded over with scabs, he stopped his movement, as something cold came into contact with his dirtied palm.

Shakily a pale arm reached down once more and with his posture bent, he leered over the object. 

It was fleshy, wet with a warming substance and–

“No,” 

Firm hands acted, looked for proof that could refuse the perverse thoughts invading his mind. 

“No, no, no!” 

Shaky fingers guided their way to a hand, it was soft, so small that he could cover it whole with his own. 

He came into contact with a cold metal, a band that had been wrapped around the person's finger. 

His darling wife’s finger. 

“—Ah! No, this— this is a warning- a vision, it's a farce!” 

Not bothering to stop the blood from pouring down his chin, it fell atop of the bloodied woman. 

Her eyes remained closed, the middle of her person laid into a deep maroon color. 

As best as the weakened knight could, the woman was pulled towards him. She rested upon his lap like a deity. 

Her head was angled towards him, it sagged into the man’s chest instantly. 

He smelled the apples— the Elder flowers that clung onto her stilled skin.

There was no denying, it was his love that lay crumpled in his arms like a wilted lily. 

Only his cries were heard through the chamber, bouncing off the walls with ease as his wails got louder and louder. 

The cries were wet, uneven hiccups accompanied the tears. 

As if nature mourned her loss; thunder boomed, rain seeped down to drench the land and the wind howled beneath the winking stars. 

The man’s shoulders shook, he howled— it was too much, too far beneath the golden rays he was promised. 

Burying his head into her neck the man refused to move. 

His kin could walk through the gates now— with a cure for his blindness yet he would say put. 

For his protective reign is over. 

Now that his purpose lay still and quiet. 

His grip tightened, wide knuckles turned white with pressure. 

“Thy will bury it all in flame,” 

His voice but a whisper among the pelting rain. 

“I will offer it all; and join thee with the heads of the filthy accusers, who dare put thy to rest.” 

Biting down on his cheeks, more crimson seeped down with unwanted reign. 

“Rest, my wife,” his forehead met with hers, the surface sticky and wet. 

“My love will hold me here—“

“—nnnghh,” 

Thin red brows raised, with his mouth agape he let out a noise like no other. 

“Darling, love, please!” He didn’t know what he was begging for, but it came out in unseen repetition

Her mind was foggy, vision even more so as her arm raised above her being. 

It felt as if daggers pierced through her chest, and needles laid about her arms like unseen birthmarks. 

“–mer, Messm—“ 

“I’m here! Gods, I’m— lovely, hear thy cries, please!” 

The voice sounded like it was under rubble, or even perhaps miles of sand and dirt. 

She felt the light touches, how they guided their way on her cheeks, her jaw. 

It was a loving, soft touch made by roughened hands. 

Familiar hands. 

Tears struck her bloodied cheeks, a sloppy smile graced her expression. 

He hadn’t left her afterall— after the fall, the oncoming of soldiers, he was here, by her side. 

Grunting out a low groan, words fled her cut lips in a rush. 

The woman’s words slurred together, and the man tried to make sense of them.

“Slow down, my wife, slow—“

“Es, mess, yo— your eyes!”

On queue, the blackened holes throbbed. Dark pits of ash wobbled down the crevices and met the material of his armor. 

“Shhh, Darling, it will be alright, it will be alright.” 

Her lips shook with a new level of fear, of total shock. 

“I will take care of it— mother will help. I— it will be alright.” 

“She is the cause of such damnation, how will she help?” Taking her hand in his larger one, Messmer placed kisses upon each finger.

The woman gaped up at him. 

“Why are you so calm, aren’t you angry— hurt?”  

“I… was,” He replied. Still distracted by the kisses he laid upon her skin. 

“But thy are here to calm such a flame, hm?” 

The red knight pushed his woman closer, till the cheek of her face mushed against his dirtied armor.

“Let us get fixed, then such a discussion can be demanded.” 

Ignoring the woman's constant worried touches, a smile adorned his face. 

He wasn't alone, his wife lay huddled between his arms. The unspoken horror lay hushed beneath his heel, stomped and winded. 

Although he was blinded, left to die on his own, he could continue his push to the capital.

For the prophecy has already been foretold. 

The kingdom will be left in ash; with only his wife and him to huddle in the flames of ambition. 

[maladaptivewritings]

Head-canons about Ghost

Including: Appearance, domestic life quirks, and more

Simon Riley is an elusive man, unknown appearance and private life. If he were to have a life outside of the military, so to combat this predicament, this is my list of HC's and some reasonings.

Appearance

His hair is a perpetually in the awkward growth phase, he gets a buzz right before deployment. He doesn't get it cut when he returns, just letting it be. The only routine self-maintenance is shaving his face, he hates the feeling of facial hair against his mask.

Speaking of hair, his hair is a mousey blond. Growing up it was closer to bright blond until he was around fifteen; when he was assumed dead he dyed it a chestnut brown. The first time it was dyed it stained his ears for over a week, he didn't know if he would laugh or cry.

Dark eyes, like devoid of light unless the sun hits it perfectly. You'll feel him watching you from a mile away. When the light does hit it, they are a stunning ochre.

His sleeve was done during a slightly manic moment, when he returned from one of his first long missions. He did it in two sittings, most of the flames were done in the second.

He's 6'3, barefoot and 6'5 with his gear on. He wasn't tall growing up, shooting up the summer he turned 17.

Scars, the majority clustered on his hands. Picking at scabs in the field, he fidgets on the little knicks and gashes if left alone on rounds. He doesn't really he does it. His oldest is a gash on his brow, no fun story just tripped as a child, got cut when his dad started throwing shit busted his face.

His Skin is a strange neutral tone, if he were to go out in the sun he'd tan easily. If he were to tan, it would reveal freckles across his nose bridge.

Thinking about his nose, it's crooked and bent from many uneven breaks healing over time. Scar from his lip just barely reaching it.

Domestically

He hates grocery shopping, but refuses to be a hermit. He know's that he could get them delivered, but he’s too stubborn and will show up to a small corner store wearing sunglasses at night with a mask and headphones. The clerk knows not to question it at this point.

Doesn't often drink beer or wine, whiskey of course is his vice. Though if dragged to the bar he will order tequila shots, and if he actually for once gets drunk he'll order a cocktail. (Soap has a photo of Simon drinking a fishbowl)

Smells like cigarettes no matter what, He will wear cologne when home from deployment and he's mastered how to pair it. No one knows this or cares, it's his little secret. The cologne he often wears is a sweet orange, with vanilla. Laswell got it for him, She saw his traumatized ass and decided to try and help.

Refuses to go to therapy, depending on how long he's home for he may meet with Price for 'coffee' every few weeks and chat. Simon thinks Price does this with the other guys. He doesn't.

Orders food atleast once a week, normally Thursdays. Theres a pub a block away he will pick it up from on his jog, same meal every time and same time every week.

Has the cilantro tastes like soap gene, Gaz does make fun of this.

Has no clue how to feed himself when he gets back from deployment, will either snack all day or not eat at all.

Weirdly into dinosaur movies, you'd think it was a bit but genuinely loves Jurassic park.

Specifically likes rock bands that most hate because they don't fit the mold. This is mainly being petty and liking what his father would hate.

Deployment Simon

The mask is soaked in hydrogen peroxide before he left, he cleans and mends it himself. He can sew, just not well. The skull is attached with fishing wire.

Hates coffee, would rather deal with the caffeinated gum. Soap once got him a Frap as an experiment one time when they're on base. He loves them.

Traumatized as fuck, he legit will dissociate when moving locations. Price only knows, neither says anytime about it.

Dry Humor to cope, most of the jokes came from his old history teacher in secondary school. He was a former soldier during the Falklands war, his time in the military was brief because his leg was severely injured. The only good role model Simon had.

Never personalizes gear, especially guns. Finds it dumb when he see's it being done.

In his mind will make jokes about whats going on. This had led to him accidentally saying "chat clip that" after he beat his personal record for kills before being noticed. Soap will not let him live this down.

His expectations of living to see tomorrow goes from 100 to 0 real quick, willing to take tasks no one else wants. If it weren't for Riley joining on certain missions, he'd definitely be in a pauper's feild.

Mentally,

Should be on so many mood stabilizers, claims it would just be a nuisance. Medicates with energy drinks and cigarettes.

High-functioning autism, undiagnosed.

C-ptsd, obviously

High-functioning depression and anxiety.

Talks to Price, sometimes Laswell about everything going on. He doesn't realize that he's venting.

No one lets him drive, too many suicide jokes.

Very petty, Cat-of-a-man. Will force himself to like things that his father would hate, as well as to prove a point to others.

Only has like a handful of colorful things in his office and home. Most its gifts from the rest of the guys or cards from the lady across the street who he may shovel the snow for.

One-Sided beef with southern U.S. Only due to Graves anymore, but he does appreciate Sweet-Tea.

[faux-parenchyma]

[Minecraft winter drop spoilers but it’s just from the Minecraft socials]

So obviously Minecraft has just come out with some new blocks that are going into testing on bedrock for the winter drop. And like, man I’m SO excited yall should have hopped on sooner.

This test implements the eye blossoms, which bloom as eyes only at night, as well as resin blocks from the trees. Once again, I cannot keep emphasizing just how much each of these little details makes it seem like the pale garden is going for the route of something truly *alive*.

Obviously, I don't mean alive in the sense of a general ecosystem, because of course it is, but something so ancient, and massive like the aspen Pando, and almost sort of aware. It is silent in the day, it notices the players presence, the lack of mobs makes the land safe, if not a bit tense. It needs to protect itself at night, so its puppets, the *limb* of the garden, stand in the dark ready to defend. Now, the eye blossoms, telling by the name could become part of the gardens sensory system, considering just how dark the land becomes each night. How else would the garden know to send its puppets out, to recognize threat, which very well could be you? And the resin, which in my opinion is one of the most interesting, could become the pale gardens final attempt at self-preservation. Often, trees use resin to act as a sort of scab or Band-Aid, and it very obviously knows its way around defense systems, why not go the extra mile? The garden knows you're hurting it, though I do wonder to what extent of feeling. And all for a set of wood.

[stormyelliotwritez]

SCRATCHING AND SCARRING

this is gonna be so self indulgent

mentions of reader being called pup, age difference (still legal but hes like 200 so there’s bound to be one), reader scratching and picking at scabs, blood

————————

Logan had needed to get away for a bit so he’d packed a bag and gone on a bike trip to a nearby cabin. You’d stayed back at the mansion to finish off some work and do some extra stuff.

He came home a day or so before you thought he would. When he did, you were sitting at your desk and grading papers. He walked in as quiet as a mouse which was always surprising. You were scratching a scab on your arm and he crossed his arms.

“You said you’d stop,” he huffed.

You turned around in your chair and raised an eyebrow. “What?”

He nodded at your arm and frowned. You glanced at your arm. It was just a scab.

“It’s just a habit. I got stressed. You get stressed and fuck off to the mountains for days. Can’t I have this?” You said, raising your voice slightly.

He stalked towards you and stopped a meter or so in front of you, his arms still crossed. He glanced between your face and the scab.

“It’s bleeding,” he said quietly, his expression not changing.

You glanced down, saw the blood and then jumped up and rushed towards the bathroom connected to you twos room. Logan slowly followed, ready to jump in if you’d ran into something or hurt yourself more. You grabbed some band aids from the first aid kit and sat on the toilet.

He watched from the doorway and sighed. “Need a hand?”

You looked up at him, your expression not unlike a scared puppy, and nodded. He closed the gap between the two of you and took a band aid out of your hand and opened it. With the most gentle care, he put it over the now open wound and then leaned down and kissed it.

“I get that it’s a compulsion, bub, but we need to work on this, okay? It ain’t healthy to tear into yourself like this. You can’t keep scratching and picking,” he said softly before taking your hand and leading you to the bed you shared.

You dragged your feet and eventually, he just picked you up and dumped you on the bed.

“Hey, you can’t do that,” you squealed before bursting into giggles.

“I think I can, pup,” he said with a smile before climbing onto the bed and pulling you into his arms.

He didn’t call you pup much. It usually came out when he was worried. You were part of his pack so he had to protect you and you were young as well so he had to guide you. He had to keep you safe. You’d never felt safer than when you were in his arms.

He rubbed your back and hummed softly. You turned your head and breathed him in. You rubbed your face against his shirt. You loved him so so much. He just kept saving you.

He laid down and pulled you with him. Gently, he laid you down next to him so he could pull his shirt off. He pulled it off and then picked you right back up. When you scared him like this, you stayed in his arms for ages. He knew you were safe, but you were safer in his arms.

“Sleep, pup, alright?” He said quietly into your ear.

You nodded and the thoughts of scratching left your mind. You slowly fell asleep, protected by him. He kept watch for a while before falling asleep as well.

[oldwritingm]

Creepypasta/MH - Holding Hands

Characters: Nina the Killer, Jane the Killer, Clockwork, Ticci Toby, Tim/Masky, Jeff the Killer, Eyeless Jack

Nina the Killer

Hand-holding is a must with her

Especially when you’re walking

She’s very casual about it, simply interlacing your fingers as you start walking somewhere

She likes to link arms while she holds your hand, getting as close as possible to you

But she’ll be totally nonchalant about it, talking normally as if you weren’t literally joined at the hip

You already know her hands are soft, and they smell like sweet scented lotion

Her grip is gentle until she gets excited

You can always tell when she’s getting worked up because she’ll start to squeeze your hand

Not to the point that it’s painful, but you’ll definitely notice it

If she gets super excited she’ll run in front of you, still holding your hand

You’re just getting dragged at that point

She will not let go of your hand until she absolutely has to

And even then she’ll prolong the contact for as long as possible, sometimes dramatically stretching her arm to hold on by your fingertips

She just loves holding hands :) it’s how she shows she cares

Jane the Killer

Though she won’t admit it at first, she does like holding your hand

At the beginning of the relationship she’ll be super shy about it, going red at the slightest brush of your hands

But gradually she’ll get more comfortable, going from linking pinkies to full-on hand holding

She prefers to do it when you’re sitting alone somewhere

But if you want to hold hands while you walk, she might be down

Depends on the crowd you’re with

If you’re all alone at the mall or something, she’ll probably be more inclined because she wants to keep track of you

But if you’re with a bunch of people you know, she’ll be a bit less receptive to hand holding

When you do hold hands, she likes to cradle your hand in hers

She gives occasional squeezes as signs of affection, shooting you loving glances as she does so

Her hands aren’t too soft, but they’re not rough either

Just normal skin tbh

Clockwork

She reaches for your hand whenever she’s idle

She’ll be retreating into the recesses of her mind, and suddenly her hand is resting atop yours

She likes the feeling of something fleshy in her hand while she thinks

She will squeeze your hand if her thoughts start to get intense

And depending on how intense those thoughts are, you might have to tell her to ease up a little so she doesn’t break your hand

She’ll even start to dig her nails in if you don’t say anything

But if her thoughts are more calm, she’ll gently brush your knuckles with her thumb

Her hands are slightly calloused, especially in the colder months

She’ll be sure to compliment your skin, even if it’s rough like hers

She’s not big on hand holding while walking/in public, unless you’re on a scenic walk and she starts to daydream

If you insist, she might let you hold her pinky or something

But she’d honestly prefer to have full usage of her hands

Ticci Toby

For him, hand-holding is a more pleasant alternative to more harmful manual activities

In other words, he won’t scratch or pick at himself when he’s holding your hand

He doesn’t really notice this though, so you’ll have to be sneaky about it if you want to use it to help him

Luckily he loves holding your hand anyway

So when you hold out your open palm, he smiles and slaps his hand into yours

His hand will be completely still; he won’t even squeeze or brush your knuckles

It’s almost a little eerie; like you’re holding a sleeping person’s hand

It’s also completely unlike him to be so calm

Of course, he’ll probably be occupied doing something else while he’s holding your hand, but still

His skin is very rough, and it’s covered in band-aids and scabs

But if you use your little hand-holding trick often enough, you’ll notice the damage reducing significantly

Somehow he doesn’t notice this either

He’s just happy that you seem to like to hold his hand :)

Tim/Masky

Not really a big hand-holder

He’s just not all that physically affectionate

He can get into it if you’re into it, but he usually won’t initiate it himself

It’s only when he’s tired or upset that he seeks your hand

It’s an intimate action for him, one that he reserved for when he needs some intimate affection

He’ll sit or lay close to you, wordlessly taking your hand into his

He’ll stare at it, brushing his thumb over your knuckles and fingers as if trying to distract himself

Because he probably is

Eventually he’ll close his eyes, and the tight grip he has on you will ease up

He might even fall asleep like that

His hands are big and a little rough on the back

His palms are much softer though, so holding his hand is pretty pleasant

Jeff the Killer

He does actually like hand holding

When he can remember it, anyway

It’s not his first thought to grab your hand when you’re near

But when it does occur to him, he’ll happily grab your hand

It’s usually an abrupt motion in the middle of a walk/conversation

He’ll give you a huge grin and proceed with a little more gladness in his demeanor

He doesn’t like to hold hands in more calm situations though

It’s just awkward for him; he sees hand-holding as an activity to supplement something more active like a walk

So if you reach for his hand while cuddling or something, he’ll squirm out of your grasp pretty quickly

His hands are surprisingly soft, which is weird because you know this man hasn’t touched a bottle of lotion in years

He’ll make fun of you if your hands aren’t as soft, telling you that you need some lotion

Just tell him he’s a hypocrite and he’ll shut up

Eyeless Jack

Sort of like Tim, he reserves hand-holding for more intimate moments

When he’s walking, he likes to be as alert and efficient as possible

Hand-holding is a damper to that, so he’ll politely refuse to hold hands while walking

He’ll gladly take your hand in his when relaxing, though

It’s calming for him to rub your knuckles while talking at the end of a long day

He loves to study the lines on your hand, your nails, the shapes of your fingers—everything

It’s just a very relaxing activity for him :)

His hands are fairly soft, but you can definitely tell he doesn’t use moisturizer often

Plus his nails are very sharp, so sometimes he’ll have little scratches on his palms

He tries so hard not to scratch you, and will apologize endlessly if he does

It does give him an excuse to kiss your hand when he does scratch you, though, so he’s not totally remorseful

How scandalous…. I hope you guys enjoyed!! Thank you for reading, and take care of yourselves little stars <33

(divider by saradika)

[bloodykora]

Scrapped Knees

Hehe I just started writing and this came out. Hope yall enjoy, more stalker mc content.

MDNI this game is 18+ therefore so is my writing. TW: mentions of blood, and the normal yandere tropes TKATB List

'Hey so uh I may be a smidge late. I totally did not fall and scrape the fuck outta my knees. :)'

You hit send and wait, looking down to your legs that are now dripping with blood. The concrete making a perfect target. You glance back to the phone, those three familiar dots appearing as Sol quickly typed back.

'Oh wow, where? I'll just meet you there with some bandages. Don't hurt yourself further.' Your face pops into a huge grin while reading his text, you look around for a place to sit. Finding a curb where you could plant while you waited.

'I'm like.. a block and half down from the cafe. But I can meet you!' You text back, taking your bag off and setting your phone down. You pull your legs near your face, observing at the carnage when you hear your phone buzz again.

'No, stay. I'm coming.' You smile and shake your head a bit, giggling at how easy it was. Bait set and trap. Not very easy to fall just enough to only damage your knees, speaking of. Your gaze falls to them again, using your fingers to pry out the few rocks that had settled into the wound.

It wasn't long until the sound of steps echoed closer to you, relaxing your legs out instead of being scrunched up. You turn to look down the road, Sol speed walking with a plastic bag in one of his hands and his backpack slung over the other shoulder.

"Hehe hi, sorry about this." You sheepishly spoke as he approaches you, setting both of the bags he had down along with yours. He immediately kneels down to look at your legs, gently taking them into his hands. Heat of embarrassment building in your body as you watch his eyes.

"You need to be more careful." His tone darker then normal, flutters of butterflies in your chest as you hear his words. Need to be more careful, careful for him because he cares. He practically rips open the bag. Gauze and bandaids, cotton balls along with two bottles of water. Even some pain meds.

"Where did you get all that?" Turning your head to the side a bit in confusion as you eye all the supplies. He cracks a top of one of the bottles off, taking out a few cotton balls before pouring some water on them. Dabbing it to the scrapes.

"I ran to the little store down the road. They luckily had this stuff." Your smile grows wider at his words. "Sol thats so nice!" The words spill out before you can even think about them. A small blush now filling his cheeks as you reach out to hold his arm. Rubbing along his long sleeved shirt.

The stinging of the cuts barely being noticeable as he touches your skin. Sticking dried blood now being wiped up, the sound of the plastic bag crinkling when he throws a cotton ball out. It goes quiet as the sun begins to set, orange skies casting over the pair of you.

He begins to open the band aids, choosing which size would fit over your knees best. You admire him, taking in his hair, his face, his piercings, his black painted nails, the way his eyes fix into a stare as he begins to concentrate on something. He places two band aids on one knee, covering the now beginning to scab parts. He then begins to repeat with the other.

"When you're all done, are you gonna kiss my boo boos better?" You ask earnestly, his stare blanks for a second before a small smile appears on his face. "If you really want me to." His smile turns into a smirk at your face blanking, your ears burning. It quiets down again as he finishes patching you up, gentle with his touch.

"Do you want any pain killers?" He asks, finally looking back up to your face as you shyly shake your head no. He then keeps eye contact with you as he lofts your knee to his face, closing his eyes softly. Then pressing his lips to the bandage. Your hands fly up to your face, covering your face. Too embarrassed to even look at his face afterwards. A low chuckle hits your ears causing you to shake your head in reply.

"Uhh anyways!" You shout behind your hands, trying to change the topic. Peaking out as he tucks the extras into his bag. "Its gonna be dark soon now, how about I walk you home?" You remove your hands and agree, smiling as he puts his hand out for you to take to get up.

"Yeah! And we can finish up the assignment there too." He nods as you two start walking as the street lights begin to turn on around you.

[kikyan]

Leftovers

Cw: Yandere, Non-Con/Dub-Con, Spanking, Dumbification, Degrading, Sadism, Fingering, Oral (giving and it's forced), Trey forces you to call him big brother, Nasty, Spitting, Picture-Taking, etc. .. . (please let me know if I missed anything!) 

Fandom: Twisted Wonderland 

Character: Trey Clover X GN! Reader

Word Count: 5.2K

A/N: This is an attempt to explore darker kinks and darker content than I usually write! The tags are listed above, so if this makes you uncomfortable, please skip them! I promise not all my content is like this but I just want to show that I CAN write nasty horny and fucked up shit like this, okay thank you enjoy!!  :3 

The cries of a child echoed through the small meadow and the rapid steps of another, to the source of the crying. 

“Gosh, it’s not like you fell that hard!” 

There in the meadow, were three children. One child had [color] and was sitting in the meadow, bawling their eyes out. Their knees were exposed, scraped, and bleeding. A child with short purple hair, all different shades, and choppy bangs. He was standing in the middle of the meadow; his eyes were staring at the crying child with annoyance. The last kid had short green hair, ruffled at the top, and wore glasses. He crouched down to the crying child shushing them in a soft caring tone. 

“There [Reader], it’s okay. Here, let me help you up.” 

“O-Ok. . .”

[Reader] took the hand, stifling their cries with sniffles and hiccups. 

“It’s what you get for being clumsy, we told you not to run down the meadow, stupid.” 

“Chenya! You’re not helping. Don’t listen to him, [Reader]. Let's get you cleaned up when we get to my house.” 

“Thank you. . .Trey.” 

“Of course, [Reader]. I’m always here for you. . .” 

Chenya rolled his eyes and continued walking, 

“Ugh, Trey is in love~! Whatever, I will leave you two if you don’t hurry up.” 

Trey’s ears turned bright red and so did his cheeks, 

“N-No I am not! I’m just a good friend, unlike you.” 

He huffed out that last comment and turned to face [Reader]. His thumb went to the corner of their eyes, and he wiped their remaining tears. 

“There, ready to head out?” 

[Reader] nodded, they smiled and took his hand in theirs. 

“Thank you, Trey.” 

All three continued to their friend's house, Riddle Rosenhearts. Chenya walked ahead leaving Trey and [Reader] alone, hand in hand. Later that day, after playing with their friend, Chenya bid Trey and [Reader] a good night. Before leaving, he stuck out his tongue at [Reader] who returned the favor. 

“You two, stop fighting. Anyways, see you tomorrow, Chenya.” 

“Night Trey, night [Reader]. Don’t fall in your dreams either, [Reader].” 

“Oh, shut up!” 

Chenya left shortly after his small encounter, leaving Trey and [Reader] alone. Trey adverted his gaze and from the corner of his eye, saw [Reader] looking intensely at Chenya.

“[Reader], let’s go back to my house.” 

“What for?” 

“We still haven’t cleaned your wounds yet, remember?” 

A scab had already formed on their knee, but he was right. They couldn’t disinfect it and after hearing Riddle’s talk about it getting infected and Chenya’s teasing about having to cut their leg off, [Reader] didn’t want to take any chances. 

“Oh okay, let’s go!” 

Trey led them to his home and his mother greeted them at the door, they had noticed the wounds and expressed concern, 

“Oh dear, here sit on the couch and I’ll be right back with the first aid kit.” 

[Reader] did as they were told, and Trey’s mother returned shortly after with the kit. They grabbed the rubbing alcohol and cotton pads to disinfect. 

“This might sting, Trey, hold their hand.” 

Trey did that exactly and his mother applied alcohol, cleaning the wound. Once the pad made contact with their skin, [Reader] let out a hiss, and tears welled in their eyes. Trey quickly took notice and wiped them away with his free hand while squeezing the hand they were holding. 

“There, all done.” 

His mom said and made sure the band-aid was placed correctly with no lumps. 

“You did good [Reader]. Trey, you’ve been looking after them, right?” 

“Of course I have!” 

“That’s good, would you like to stay for dinner, [Reader]?” 

“Yes please!” 

His family had gathered around the table to have dinner with [Reader]. After dinner, Trey, [Reader], and his siblings played for a while before getting ready for bed. Trey’s mother had called [Reader’s] parents and asked them if it was alright for them to spend the night at their house, which they agreed was fine. Since it was short notice, they couldn’t prepare a spare bed but were quick to accommodate.

“[Reader], do you mind sleeping in Trey’s bed?”

[Reader] shook their head. They did not mind sleeping in his bed, much less sharing it.

“W-well where would I sleep?”

Trey had turned to ask his mom who gave him a confused look.

“In your bed as well, Trey. Do you mind sharing a bed with [Reader]?”

Trey’s cheeks flushed pink, but he knew it was nothing different than sharing a bed with his siblings or friends, so he quickly got over his embarrassment.

“Then it’s settled, that is of course if it’s okay with you, [Reader]?”

“Of course! I don’t mind sleeping with Trey!” 

Sleeping arrangements were finalized and the couple tucked both kids in, bidding them a pleasant night. [Reader] was sleeping on one side of the bed and Trey on the other, reminiscing about their day.

“I had so much fun today, Trey! I can’t wait to play with Riddle and Chenya again tomorrow! Even if he is a little mean. . .”

Trey’s expression softened at them and he turned his body sideways to face them.

“I’m excited to play with everyone again tomorrow but you know  it’s not nice to fight with others, [Reader].”

“He started it! I didn’t do anything, Chenya is just a big old mean bully!”

[Reader] huffed in frustration, thinking back to the boy with the smug grin and his witty comments. Trey merely laughed at their cute, annoyed expression,

“Alright, if Chenya is a bully to you tomorrow I will say something but don’t fight with him anymore, okay?”

With a heavy sigh, [Reader] agreed.

“You’re very nice to me Trey, that’s why I love you a lot! Unlike Chenya, so that’s why I love spending time with you.”

Trey’s eyes widened at the confession and his cheeks flushed, staring at them in awe.

“Y-you love me. . .?”

“Of course, I do! You’re like my older brother, you’re nice and take care of me.”

Trey’s expression fell for a second before he chuckled and placed his hand on their head, ruffling their hair.

“I love you too, [Reader]. You’re like a younger sibling to me too. . .”

With that, the two fell asleep into a deep slumber where his parents would come to find them holding hands in their sleep.

~~

Following the years to come, Trey and [Reader] had remained as close as can be. Both attended the same middle school and frequently had sleepovers, playdates, and events together. Everything was the same even when Trey and [Reader] got the letter of acceptance from Night Raven College. Both were excited to attend NRC and even more excited when they were both assigned to the same dorm, Heartslaybul. It was the beginning of their high school life, but there was only one problem. Cater Diamond. During their time at NRC, they met Cater Diamond who became best friends with them. Trey thought he was an interesting fellow who certainly was hiding something, but [Reader] was different. Instead, they were enamored with him. Cater was the responsible upperclassman who wasn’t afraid to loosen up a bit. It had been a small crush that wasn’t noticeable to the naked eye, but someone like Trey who had practically lived with [Reader] all their life knew something was off. [Reader]’s crush was harmless because he knew Cater wouldn’t like them romantically. It still hurt to see [Reader] love him after all these years. It was okay though because Cater would never love them. . or so he thought. 

They were in their third year and  discussing the internships that they would be undergoing during their fourth year, 

“So what did you pick Cater?” 

“Nothing yet, I’m not sure what to do and now I’m even more confused after hearing everyone else. I guess everyone has their life planned out. . .”  

Trey nodded but the two remained silent. The silence was cut short when Cater spoke up, 

“I wonder what [Reader] is going to do. Maybe I’ll go to the one they pick, who knows.” 

Trey perked up at the comment, 

“Oh, why do you say that?” 

Cater lazily turned to look at Trey and gave out a sigh, 

“I know you’re very close to them Trey, but do me a favor. Don’t tell them what I’m going to tell you but I care for them. I think I like them.” 

Trey’s breath hitched, 

“O-oh really? What makes you say that. . .Cater?” 

“They’re always near me and while that can be a bore to some it’s nice to know that there's someone in my corner. They’re honest and they’re not trying to suck up to me because they voice their feelings and aren’t afraid to call me out. I don’t need to keep up appearances or a persona with them. I can be genuine and I like that.” 

Trey kept a stoic face, then awkwardly smiled. Hands scratching behind his head, 

“I see. . .your secret is safe with me Cater. I will say this much, I’ve grown up with [Reader] and I swear if you hurt them-” 

“I won’t. I would never dream of it and I certainly wouldn’t want to incur your wrath, Trey. So scary!” 

Cater made a face before the two shared a small laugh. If only Cater knew that Trey wasn’t joking and was plotting against him at the very moment. 

~ 

Trey aimed to prevent [Reader] and Cater from being alone. Cater wouldn’t confess his feelings towards [Reader] if others were looking. Despite being flashy and always posting, Cater valued his privacy. Right now [Reader] was missing but Trey was certain where to find them. Cater had his music club right about now and knowing [Reader], they were probably in the clubroom with him. Trey made it to the room only to see Lilia and Kalim talking. 

“Trey!” 

“Oh, good afternoon Trey. Are you looking for Cater?” 

“Kalim, Lilia, you could say that. Is Cater around? Looks like Riddle wants us back to dorm stat.” 

A white lie, that was all. 

“Oh, well you’re just in luck! They’re already heading back to the dorms!” 

Kalim voiced, making Trey question his verbiage. 

“They?” 

“Oh! [Reader] was here too, they both just left. They looked happy and were chatting about something.” 

Lilia clarified for Trey. 

Kalim smiled and turned to Trey, 

“I’m so happy for Cater. Make sure to say congratulations Trey!” 

“Congratulations. . .?” 

Lilia sighed, 

“Kalim, not yet. He hasn’t asked!” 

Trey felt a sigh of relief wave over him, but he had to intervene one way or another. 

“ Oh, I see! Sorry, but I must get going before Riddle has my head. See you guys around.” 

Trey bid his farewells and walked back to the hall of mirrors, Kalim and Lilia both bid him a farewell. At this point, Trey was running, if they had just left then they might still be at the hall of mirrors that was filled with students returning from their clubs like them. If that was the case, there was still time! Once he got to the hall of mirrors, he panicked as they were nowhere to be seen. He immediately rushed to his dorm and thought, if Cater were to confess, where would he go? Luckily he didn’t need to rack his brain for long, as Ace and Deuce were lounging about. 

“Ace, Deuce! Sorry, but have you guys seen Cater? I need to speak to him.” 

“Oh, hey Trey! Yeah, we saw him not too long ago. He was talking to [Reader] and they were heading to the dorm rooms. They left the lounge area like about. . .3 minutes ago?” 

Deuce answered his question, but his response did not soothe Trey.

“I see, well thanks! I’ll be heading out now, if you see him or [Reader], could you shoot me a text?” 

“Yeah, we got it.” 

Ace and Deuce nodded, turning back to what they were doing initially. Trey began to head to the dorm rooms and once he reached their area, he saw Cater and [Reader] standing in front of Cater’s dorm room. 

“I recommend checking out this artist, all their music is super good and I’ve been trying to get Lilia and Kalim to do something similar with me but it’s no use. Those two just don’t get it.” 

Cater sighed and held a face of disappointment, but perked up when he heard [Reader] chuckle. 

“Well, Lilia likes metal and wants to add screams to everything and Kalim just loves music that he wants to add every kind of beat and instrument. I’m sure you guys could make your own version, but I’ll check out their music!” 

Cater smiled and turned to them, 

“[Reader] I-”

“Cater! There you are, I’ve been looking all over for you.” 

Trey arrived at the right time, cutting Cater off and from making a mistake. 

“Oh, Trey. . how can I help? 

Cater’s gentle smile that for [Reader] turned forced and strained, like a ‘hey can’t you see I’m doing something, the hell do you need’. Cater had told Trey his plans to confess soon, but he figured he would be able to read the room to see what he was planning on doing. 

“Hey, [Reader]. . .sorry Cater I didn’t want to bother you but Riddle wants to speak to you. Says it’s an emergency.” 

At the mention of their housewarden, Cater sighed and gave an anxious smile. 

“Well, if Riddle wants to speak to me who am I to say no? Sorry, [Reader] but I’ll catch up with you later, okay?” 

“Mhm, I’ll be waiting Cater!” 

Cater waved them goodbye and turned to walk towards Riddle’s dorm room. The moment Cater was out of sight, Trey turned to [Reader]. 

“Are you going back to your room? I can walk you.” 

“Oh, yes I was, and sure, I’ll take you up on it.” 

Trey walked [Reader] to their room and made light conversation on the way. Once they arrived, [Reader] thanked Trey and then asked for help on a subject. 

“You want me to tutor you?” 

“Yes, please! If Riddle were to see my last potion’s exam score he would surely have my head! Professor Crewel is letting me retake it and I can go in on Friday, but I need help!” 

Trey thought back to all the time he spent tutoring [Reader] and hanging out with them after school, how could he say no? 

“Alright, let’s see what we’re working with. I’ll help. Let’s go to my room though, I think I have some old workbooks in there.” 

“Thank you, Trey! I’ll make it up to you!” 

[Reader] went inside their room to collect their materials and then headed over with Trey to his dorm room. He invited them in and sat on a desk chair while he walked around to find his study materials. Curiosity got the better of him despite already knowing the answer, 

“So, what did Cater want to talk to you about? You guys seemed. . .close.” 

“O-oh, nothing important. Just some club stuff, they’re planning on performing at a school event but aren’t sure what to play so he just wanted a second opinion.” 

“I see. . Well here are the books. What do you say we get to studying?” 

After a while, 48 minutes to be exact, [Reader] was still struggling. 

“So, when these two mix they don’t cause a reaction?” 

“No, because if you see here in this example-” 

After explaining it for a minute, [Reader] still looked at Trey in confusion, who just sighed a their expression. 

“Okay, we can review again. I don’t want to overwhelm you with information when it seems you’re deep in thought. Anything you want to talk about it?” 

Trey offered an ear to what he assumed was a problem. 

“Hey Trey, can I be honest?” 

“ Of course, what’s on your mind?” 

“Well. . .I’ve had a crush on Cater for a while and sometimes, I feel like he knows or feels the same way. He sometimes says things where they could be meant for friends but they linger in my thoughts and I think maybe he likes me. He’s your best friend, has he ever mentioned anything about me?” 

“Well-” 

Trey tried to respond but was cut off by [Reader].

“It's just, I like Cater. I think he’s an amazing person who listens to others around him and he is always there to help! He is super easy to talk to and wants to make the most of his school life you know? He is like a safe space where I can talk about things I feel embarrassed to confess to another, I know that deep down he won’t open up as fast as another and he’s hiding behind something. Some might think it’s annoying, being friends for three years but still not knowing how the other truly feels or thinks. I trust Cater will open up when he wants, and I’m okay with that. I want to support him like he supports me. Sometimes I feel like, I found my soulmate here!”

Trey adverted his eyes and his once expressive face turned stoic. He was angry and tired, 

“Shut the fuck up.”

“W-what?” 

“I said, shut the fuck up! I’m tired of listening to you talk endlessly about Cater and how much you love him. It’s pathetic, you fell in love with someone who probably doesn’t know what they want or who they are. This whole time I. . .I’ve been here. I love you, [Reader]. What does Cater have that I don’t have?” 

[Reader] stared at Trey with wide eyes and swallowed thickly. 

“T-Trey. . .it’s not that Cater has something that you lack. It’s more like. . .oh how do I explain this, Trey, I don’t like you like that. To me, you’re more of an older brother, y’know? Someone I can depend on and ask for help; I don’t see you as a romantic partner.” 

Trey just stared at [Reader] with serious eyes. His expression was stoic and gave off an eerie vibe. [Reader] adverted their gaze from his eyes, but what’s done is done. [Reader] was honest with their feelings and though it was awkward, they were sure that with time they could get back to what they had originally. 

“Listen Trey, I’m sorry but I also didn’t want you to think differently, okay? I’ll go ahead and leave, feel free to reach out if you want.” 

With that, [Reader] made their way to the door to his room. Trey remained silent but slowly moved his body to face [Reader’s]. He reached out and right before [Reader] opened the door, he slammed their head into the door. They were knocked out briefly, turning to look at Trey with fear written on their face.

“Trey. . .w-what are you. .?”

“I’m like an older brother, right? Well then, it’s my job to protect and prepare you for the real world ahead.”

Trey’s hands went to their neck, and they wrapped around tightly. Their back was still against his chest while their hands were trying to pry off his solid grip from their throat.

“T-Trey. . h-hurts-!?”

He led them to the bed, where he threw them without any remorse and immediately crawled above them. Now [Reader] was lying on the bed, his grip returning to their throat with his legs in between theirs. With their legs spread, his hands traveled to their crotch and began to touch, trailing his finger up and down. He leaned into their neck and his lips got closer to their ear.

“Does it feel good? Do you want more? Do you want you ‘big brother’ to make you feel good?”

His tone was condescending and playful, no doubt he took pleasure in causing them fear. [Reader] shook their head at his suggestion, but his hands were already wandering and slipped inside their bottoms. His fingers found themselves inside, touching their sex and rubbing their sensitive bits.

“No? You seem like you want it. . .you seem aroused.”

[Reader] squirmed at the feeling of his hot breath on their ear but also at the feeling of his fingers playing with their sex.

“T-Trey. . .stop! I don’t w-want this. . .”

“Are you sure?”

He let out a light scoff, staring at their struggling form. He continued touching them but also tightened his grip on their neck. [Reader] was desperately flinging their arms around to try to hit him or make him loosen his grip, but to no avail. Trey was relentless.

“Look, can you feel my finger inside you?”

Trey’s finger pumped in and out of their hole, reaching deeper and deeper with each thrust. He struggled to thrust at a consistent speed as their hole clenched around his finger, no doubt trying to stop it from entering.

“You should really try to loosen up, [Reader]. It’ll hurt less, after all, ‘big brother’ doesn’t want to see you in so much pain.”

“T-trey get off me-!”

[Reader] yelled out, their hands slapping his face and arms to get him to release his hold. Trey did not show any remorse or intent on letting go, but he did. He let go of their neck and sex, before grabbing their face and shoving his fingers in their mouth. He made sure to reach the back of their throat to make them gag. After a while, his hand returned to their throat.  Trey’s hands went to his own pants, and he undid the buttons and zipper. His hands reached into boxers, pulling out his cock. With the same hand, he gave it a couple pumps and smeared the pre-cum around the tip.

“You should really shut the fuck up, [Reader].”

Both hands returned to their face, thumbs prying their mouth open before he scooted closer to them, sitting on their chest. He made sure his crotch was near their face and his cock close to their mouth.

“I don’t think I have to warn you on what’ll happen if you bite, right?”

He glared down at them before shoving his whole dick inside. His hold on their head never loosened, but rather got tighter which was also helping with prying their mouth open. Trey didn’t have to worry about [Reader] biting, his grip had made it impossible for them to even attempt to close their mouth.

“A-ah. . .f-fuck! Your mouth feels so g-good. . .God, imagine how your insides would feel.”

Trey held no remorse; he thrusted inside their mouth at a brutal fast paced and hitting the back of their throat. Their tongue was unintentionally licking the vein running down the side of his dick and their throat was watering up, lubricating it as well. Drool ran down the sides of their mouth and their hands at this pelvis area trying to push him out of their mouth, but how could they when his whole-body weight was on them.

“I’m fucking close, gonna cum in your mouth. Don’t you want big brother’s milk inside of your mouth, huh [Reader]?”

Grunts and soft light moans left his mouth as he continued to thrust. Tears welled in [Reader]’s eyes and their hands bawled into fists, hitting his pelvic area.

“F-fuck c-coming-!”

Trey hit the back of their throat, spilling his cum inside. He pulled out to see the line of drool connecting their mouth and his dick, but also the cum that was spilling from the sides of their mouth. The sides of their mouth and cheeks were turning red, no doubt bruising from how hard he was gripping.

“God, just look at how hot you look. Cater doesn’t deserve to see this. . .only I get to see you like this.”

There was a flash that awoke [Reader] from their state of shock. Turning to see Trey grinning while holding their phone.

“Say cheese~”

He tossed his phone to the side and his hand went to their face, gripping their cheeks together and puckering their lips out. He gave their lips a kiss, even as far as opening their mouth and sticking his tongue inside. His tongue went over their tongue, licking up his own cum and their saliva. While he was making out with them, his free hand went back to their bottoms and tired prying them off. Removing their bottoms and undergarments, revealing only their naked bottom half and exposed sex.

Releasing them from the kiss,

“I would love to see your face as I fuck you, but I think for today, I’m fine without seeing it. Besides, your big brother has plenty of time to see your fucked out face. Now, let’s get you on all fours, [Reader].”

His tone was that of the Trey everyone knows, kind and gentle, but his words were laced with venom and ill intention.

“W-what n-no, let me go Trey!”

[Reader] scrambled to find an opening, anything to get them out of his grip. They began to crawl towards the edge of the bed, but Trey was quick to grab their torso and drag them back to the center. His hands went underneath and propped them up, head down ass up. His hands were digging into their hips, and he leaned to give their back small light kisses.

“Can’t you see how good ‘big brother’ has treated you all this time? How nice he’s been?”

“Trey! S-Stop this, w-why are you acting like this! Fuck, I just d-don’t like you like that-ha!”

‘SMACK’

Trey had smacked their ass cheek and visible irritation was starting to form.

“Don’t make me gag you, I want to hear you after all.”

Another smack was heard. Trey alternated sides, but still smacked their ass. A light sob could be heard from [Reader] with light moans and groans from the pain slipped out. Trey stopped for a moment, [Reader] momentarily thought he may have been done before feeling a painful stretch.

“Fuck. . .you’re fucking tight.”

“F-fuck!?”

[Reader] let out a pained curse and tried to regain their breath. Trey started off with a light thrust before increasing his speed. He was stretching their hole and fucking them at a brutal pace with no regard for their feelings. [Reader] had yet to adjust to his length and was clutching the sheets in his bed for some sort of distraction and relief. As he was thrusting into them, he was also spanking them as well, causing twice the pain.

“Ha, you think I like being the nice guy, huh [Reader]?”

They leaned their head towards the pillows on the bed to try to get relief, focusing on his words instead of his actions.

“F-fuck, h-ha. . .think I like being the one everyone looks up to? They’re so annoying, always fucking complaining about every little fucking thing. Cater, don’t get me started on him!”

‘SMACK’

“How did he ever get your fucking love? He’s always lying and adapting to everyone because he doesn’t even know who he is. He’s so fucking two faced, but what have I done? I’ve taken care of you and looked after you. When you had a problem who solved it? Huh, [Reader]!?”

‘SMACK’

When Trey did not hear a response, he spanked [Reader] harder and inched his hand closer to their neck, adding light pressure as a warning.

“I fucking said, who solved it!?”

“Y-you, Trey. . .”

“Yeah? Me? Just Trey? Ha. . .or was it your ‘big brother Trey’? Say it, bitch.”

“Y-you, ngh-! I-it was you, b-big brother Trey-ha fuck!”

‘SMACK’

“That’s right, it was me. . .’big brother Trey’. Want ‘big brother Trey’ to make you feel better, [Reader]? I’m only using you as my toy, my cumslut but I know you want to feel good too huh. . ?”

Whines and soft moans left [Reader’s] mouth as they adjusted to his length. His pace had slowed down a bit but was constant, hitting all the right places and angles.

“Y-yes. . .”

“Yes, what?”

They felt so disgusting and dirty having to say what he wanted them to say, but if they complied with him would he let them go?

“Y-yes, ‘big brother Trey’ m-make me f-feel g-good. . .”

Trey scoffed at them and let out a laugh,

“Did I break you already? No matter, sure, “big brother Trey” will make you feel so good [Reader]. . .”

Trey began to thrust deeper and harder into them, he had arranged the position of his hands for one to hold their neck in place and the other free hand wandering to their genitilia. Trey began to rub slowly; unlike the first time he touched them. Stroking and rubbing slowly, creating a slow pace but one that pleasure their most sensitive points the best. After the pain subsided, [Reader] began to feel pleasure, which did not go unnoticed by Trey. He quickens the pace in with his fingers, rubbing, stroking, and pinching their sex.

“You’re twitching. . .are you going to come, [Reader]?”

His tone was still condescending and filled with fake worry.

[Reader] nodded but whimpered when his grip tightened on their neck.

“Y-yes “b-big brother T-Trey’, c-coming!”

As they said that, they came, but Trey did not come.

“G-good, did that feel good? See how good ‘big brother Trey’ can make you feel?”

[Reader] nodded, they thought this was the end until Trey continued to thrust inside them still.

“W-wait-”

“I didn’t come yet, [Reader]. Don’t you want ‘big brother Trey to come inside you? To fill your insides up?”

Seeing as they already came, Trey removed his hand from their sex but neck, but positioned his hand back at their hip, with his free hand holding his phone  and recording.

“Come on, say it, say you want ‘big brother Trey’ to fill your insides~”

Trey’s phone was pointed at [Reader’s] back, but also managed to get his cock mercilessly pounding into [Reader]. Their moans filled the room as well as the sound of flesh hitting each other. Overstimulated from their first release,

“W-want ‘b-big brother Trey t-to fill my insides, to c-come inside f-fuck! Ha! F-feel s-so good. . .”

With that, Trey gave one last final thrust before coming inside them. His cum filling them up and leaking from their plugged hole. He pulled out and angled his phone’s camera to their lower half, taping their exposed body and their cum filled hole. He stopped filming and leaned over their shoulder,

“Do you still consider me like your big brother, eh [Reader]?”

~~

Cater was scrolling through Magicam tirelessly but then he got a message from Trey.

Trey: Hey Cater, are you hungry? Looks like I have some leftovers you can have.

Cater pondered for a bit, what could Trey possibly have made or ordered, but he stopped when he saw a video attached to another message.

“A video. . ?’

Cater clicked on it, curious at what the video was about since the surrounding background was dark in the video.

“Come on, say it, say you want ‘big brother Trey’ to fill your insides~”

[lalunanymph]

𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐅𝐄𝐈𝐓 — i.rin

both of your lives take an unexpected turn

Rin's pretty sure he's never fucked up this badly before.

Besides the dried scabs on his knees, and a few litany of scars covering his arms from one too many dives on the verdant green fields, he's remained largely unscathed from any real harm (though emotionally, his history begs to differ).

Looking back at it, he supposes he should've manoeuvred this situation better—and that's what it is, he bitterly thinks—a fucking situation.

Too much champagne, not enough common sense; your bedroom eyes begging him to unravel the layers behind your double meaning, and two weeks later, he's staring at a text on his blurry screen telling him how your period was worryingly and undoubtedly late.

He steps down from the treadmill, grabs his water bottle and unscrews it with too much force. Chugging down the cold liquid, he remembers how you told him you were safe—that you could be trusted with this little... indiscretion.

One slip up and now he's done for life.

That's eighteen years of payments and court visits and in-laws breathing down his neck and Sae's disappointment and his entire football career shooting up in flames. He can already see the headlines.

Breaking news: Blue Lock's ace, Itoshi Rin, trades cleats for diapers.

Fuck. He's furious.

If he'd known how much you had fucked up, he wouldn't even take the risk. Wouldn't even bother going along with your lame attempts at flirting or wandering away from the club to sneak behind the back of his Range Rover with your lips glued to his.

He wouldn't have caved to Shidou's egging in the first place or tried to show off his prowess by giving into the other boys making fun of his sparse sex life.

Rin had proven their point by taking you home and now, he was reaping the consequences.

Scowling and seeing red, he furiously brings up your name, reads through your text at least four times.

I think I'm pregnant and you're the last man I was with. Please, call me when you have the time, Rin. It's an emergency.

He swears under his breath, slams his locker door shut. The dark-haired man should've never given you his number. He should've never even locked eyes with you across the smoky, crowded room from the very beginning.

A part of him, that sick, twisted part, wonders if he could get away with it: block your number, forget you ever existed and call for a restraining order if you decided to push him for a heftier child support bill.

After all, everything's fair in disputes and disloyalties.

But, he decides to see you; to pay you off and buy your silence before it gets out of hand.

Rin doesn't bother to shower, getting into his car and driving to your apartment still saved under his GPS app. He drives like a man possessed, slamming the brakes right in front of your decent condo and barking out your unit name to the poor, old guard.

He finds your place soon enough, retraces the steps he took on that drunken night with his surprisingly sharp memory to find himself right in front of your door. Ringing the door bell, it doesn't take long for his keen ears to catch your footsteps, every muscle in his body tensing when you slide the door open and he catches the first sight of your red-rimmed eyes.

"I'm not taking responsibility for it."

The harsh words tumble out of his mouth and right onto your unsuspecting threshold, stunning you into an awkward silence.

You look tired, dressed in a ratty old band t-shirt he remembers vaguely listening to in his teenage years and nothing else. Your hair is sticking out in odd ends and you're in a pair of socks a size too big, the bands sagging around your ankles.

Though you don't say a word, he knows you're reeling from his callous statement, lashes fluttering against your cheek as you blink, once—twice. Trying to chase off the tears smarting in the corners of your eyes.

He notices a gold bracelet around your wrist—Cartier, or some other shitty brand the rest of the guys were always clamouring to get for their side pieces. Rin crosses his arms, the compression black shirt he's wearing stretches tightly over his chest, and he hopes his heart isn't beating too fast to be seen past the flimsy material.

"Okay," you eventually croak, bobbing your head once in an clumsy nod. "Thank you for letting me know... I guess."

You make to close the door, but in a fit of rage, he stops you with a foot wedged between the door and its frame.

"Don't tell me you're planning to keep it?" You don't dare look into those stormy teal eyes, shaking your head.

"I don't know what to do with the baby yet, Rin. I'll keep you posted if I change my mind."

Something despairing drags its talons right into his chest, and he drops his arms, scrutinises you from head to toe.

"You're not financially stable enough to make that choice."

Deep hurt flashes behind your eyes, and it translates to an insurmountable anger exploding across your face, almost blinding him with your fury.

"And who are you to make that decision for me, huh?"

Nudging his foot off the frame, you mimic his stance, crossing your arms and shooting him a terrifying scowl. Rin almost feels the heat of your glare burning into his skin—almost.

"What if I wanted to keep it? You will have no say in what I do or do not do with this baby, Itoshi. So, I suggest you shut the fuck up."

His nostrils flare, and he leans forward, towering over you with his bigger and muscular build. "So, you're admitting it. You wanted to trap me. This was your plan all along, huh? What was in it for you? The child support money? The clout?"

Every piercing accusation results in one step forward until you have no choice but to unwittingly let him into your home. He backs you up to the wall, overpowering you with his intangible wrath, like he was about to make the game play that would ruin you for life.

"All you sluts are the same. Parading around in miniskirts, trying to shackle up with footballers because no real man would ever pay you a lick of attention—"

His head snaps to the side, the force of your slap ricocheting off the walls. You gasp, as if you hadn't meant to do it, palms flying right to your mouth.

"Rin—"

He lunges at you, trapping you with his bigger build, and you swear he's about to kill you with how those teal eyes are gouging right into your soul. But, he grips your cheeks, forcing you to look him square in the eyes...

... and devour your lips with a harsh kiss.

Your soft squeak is lost in the throes of his moan, hot and sticky hands sliding underneath your shirt to grip your naked hips, driving you right against his pelvis where you feel his insistence and need poking you on the thigh.

Rin stuffs his tongue down your throat, kneads your fleshy hips in his much, much bigger palms.

You can't resist him, not when you're already weak from the heartbreak and carrying a piece of him deep in your body.

"Rin," you whine, and he feverishly suckles more kisses and bites down your lower lip, your jaw, your chin.

"Fuck you," he hisses, reaching your pulse point and sloppily painting more biting kisses on the sensitive strip of skin. "You're such a fucking lukewarm problem."

He grasps your hips, hitches you up in his arms so you're forced to wrap your legs around his narrow waist.

"How could you do this to me?" he moans, ecstatic and in pain, the tips of his eyelashes prickling your cheek when he nibbles on your lobe. His hot breath sends ripples of pleasure down your spine, and you cry out when he slaps your ass with both hands. "Thought I could fuck you with no consequences... you're too damn sexy for your own good... had to put a fucking baby in you—fuck!"

He yelps when you tug on his hair, the pinch of pain going straight to his throbbing length.

"Go away," you gasp, pressing your palms flush to his broad chest and giving a good push. He loses his grip on you and you tumble right to the floor, landing on your ass.

"Ow—!"

You swear, rubbing your aching hip bone and scramble to stand with the last of your dignity intact. Still buzzing and thrumming with lust, Rin sweeps his glacial gaze over you, noting the hurt bleeding all over your sweet face; how you're close to tears and your lower lip is wobbling.

He can't keep his eyes off your bare thighs, or your nipples poking past the thin fabric of your old shirt.

Wrapping your arms around your torso, you back away from him, putting a good few feet between your cold body and his painfully aroused one.

"Get out of my home," you gasp, trying hard not to give into the flurry of tears desperately clogging the back of your throat. "Get out, Itoshi. You're fucking confusing me. I need you to leave."

The anger overshadows his urges, and he takes one step forward, only for you to flinch hard and take one hard step back, as if...

He comes to a stop, teal eyes wide and flashing.

As if you thought he was going to hurt you.

Rin senses what he must look like to you now—emotionally charged, spewing words of hate only to turn around and kiss you like he was a starved man...

You couldn't predict his next move.

Worst, you were afraid of him.

His shoulders droop, eyes falling to the ground. He senses more than notices that you're shaking, your instincts telling you to protect yourself from any perceived harm in your way... going as far to protect the child you were carrying from its unstable father with your arms wrapped around your torso.

Rin straightens, about to apologize when you're tugging his arm, pushing him out of your home.

"I-I'll deal with it myself," you promise in a thick voice. "I won't ask you for money or help. Just g-go, Rin. Please."

Despite weighing more in muscle than your entire frame, you succeed in pushing the famous footballer out of your home, slamming the door close right in front of his stunned face.

Rin doesn't even have time to compute what had just happened, staring at the chipped wood of the barrier right in front of him.

Despite the harsh exit you bestowed to him, he can't find the capacity to be understanding of your needs, arms folded, glare stuck on his handsome face.

I'm gonna get her back for this, he seethes. No matter how long it takes. I'll make you pay, Y/N.

Rin spends the rest of the week lingering outside your apartment when he has a spare moment after practice. He watches your back like a hawk, keeping his eyes steadfast on your belly. You had taken to wearing looser clothing, no more skin tight skirts and tank tops, but modest knee length skirts and flowy blouses.

He shadows your shadow in grocery stores, and observes in displeasure how you're struggling with the heavy bags. When you least expects it, he strides over to you, lifting the bundle you were holding with barely a grimace.

"Rin—!" you double back, unsure if you're seeing things.

Those icy teal eyes appraise you, and in his black windbreaker and windswept hair, he takes your breath away like he did all those weeks ago in the club.

"Get in. I'm driving."

"Were you following me?" you almost screech, glancing around as if you expect a swarm of cameras and someone to yell gotcha!

There was no way he would be here on his own choice.

It didn't make any sense, but he doesn't stop to say another word, marching towards your old sedan.

You hurry after him, tugging on his sleeve. "Hey! You can't just pop out of nowhere and boss me around!"

Rin pauses, stares you down the line of his nose. "I can. I just did. Now, are you going to continue putting the baby in danger or are you going to do as I say and get in the car?"

He's insane. You're fuming, wondering who exactly this asshole thought he was.

"I—"

"Don't argue with me. Not now. Let's just go home." Scrutinizing you from head to toe, he sets down the bags and shrugs off his jacket, slinging it around your shoulders without paying any attention to your protests.

"Put this on. Your blouse is too thin."

Without another word, he trudges back to the car, and you hesitantly follow after him.

Seeing Rin after what had happened all those days ago feels like the world's strongest whiplash; like you had stepped out from a rollercoaster only to be greeted by an entirely different reality.

He drives your car in a stony silence, as if nothing had happened. As if he hadn't told you to fend for yourself after renouncing his responsibility for you and the baby.

Perturbed, you touch your stomach absentmindedly and he notices.

"Have you been eating enough?" he murmurs tersely.

You nod, unsure why you were conceding so easily to his questions. Perhaps, it was the novelty of having someone as gorgeous and willing as Rin to take care of you. You feel both elated and disgruntled; confused and brimming with happiness.

"Why're you here?" you finally ask, a tremble in your question.

Rin expertly navigates his way back to your apartment, and you're thrown off by how easily he recognizes where to park; how seamlessly he gets out and gestures for you to do the same.

The star striker doesn't answer your question, and you mutely trail behind him. Once the groceries were set on your table, you quickly unload them, an awkward 6'4 statue of a man standing in the middle of your living room watching your every move.

Only when you perch your knee on the counter to reach the highest cabinet to stow your cans of tomato soup did he move to action, grunting in displeasure and gently easing you back to the ground; taking over your task.

"Rin," you hiss, shooting him a glare.

Not one to back down, he returns your glare tenfold, an expression that quells any further protests. Rin quickly attends to your groceries, and then, much to your fury, settles himself on your couch.

"Um," you start, "Not to be an ass or anything, but aren't you going to leave?"

He shrugs. "Do you need me to leave?"

You open your mouth, close it. Feeling like he had got the better of you.

But, two can play at this game.

Approaching him, you trap him to the sofa with your hands clawed on the plush velvet, glaring down at him with every drop of anger and disgust you could muster.

"Who the hell do you think you are, Itoshi Rin?"

This close, you notice how long his lashes are—how they cast shadows over his perfect cheekbones. The tip of his nose is red from the cold, and the corners of his lips were slightly chapped.

"Listen here, Itoshi," you snarl, and he tilts his head up, calmly appraising your anger.

She's like a kitten, hissing and chomping at any sign of affection.

It's amusing that he almost reaches out to brush a stray lock of hair from your face—almost.

"I don't know what's gotten into that stupid head of yours, but need I remind you that you were the one who told me you hated me and wanted nothing to do with me or the baby? Or, did you conveniently forget?"

Rin cocks a brow, unfazed by your accusations or your proxomity.

"I never did say I hated you."

Your eyes widen, taken off guard by his admittance. Rin uses this opportunity to strike, folding his larger hands around your waist and twisting you onto the couch so he was looming over you.

The navy cashmere sweater he's wearing rides up a bit, showing off a sliver of his pale waist. You flush, remembering the compromising position he once put you in those nights ago; how he's relieving it together with you now.

Those teal eyes... I never knew such a shade of icy blue could look like twin flames.

There's no sound in the room except for both of your heavy breathing.

Rin can't stop himself from his impulses this time, pushing back a loose lock from your forehead, his touch searing every inch of skin he inadvertently caresses.

You feel like your cheeks are on fire, but Rin doesn't even look fazed. That calm and collectedness he contains behind such a monster on the field plays with your mind, and you don't know how else to react but to turn your face away.

"I changed my mind," he simply says. "I want to be here for you."

"What about your career?" you finally muster up the courage to ask. "I can't sit around and wait for you to toss me aside again. I... I won't let you play with my emotions like that, Rin."

He doesn't apologize, and he never will. Itoshi Rin is infuriatingly stubborn that way.

We don't even know each other that well. He finds himself falling into your gaze, how they enraptured and trapped him all those nights ago. The taste of your lips and how soft they felt pressed against his own.

Fuck it. Fuck everything. I want this. I want her.

He wishes he could say all that. But, what comes out of his mouth is something else entirely.

"Shut up and stop whining," he mumbles, those teal eyes searing through every doubt you had.

"I won't leave you. I'm here for good."

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