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000000-000000-000000 · 17 days ago

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eyeless jack medical kink smut ?! please please please 🙏🙏🙏

YESSIR 🗣️🗣️ rubbing my hands, plotting, scheming... i might be bullshitting a bit because i have close to 0 medical knowledge lmao. also writer's block actually made me rip my hair out w this one for some reason. i read and reread this shit like...... an embarrassing amount of times and i literally got writing dysmorphia or whatever you call it 💀 BUT ANYWAY HOPE YOU ENJOY ANON!!! 🫶🏻🫶🏻

Loose Hinges (Eyeless Jack x F!Reader)

CW: med examination, a little sadism kinda maybe if you squint, biting and blood, oral (f giving), orgasm denial, squirt, creampie, overall clinical feel... most of it anyhow :P

word count 5.2k

It’s not like he ever applied for the job.

There was no moment where Jack stepped forward, cracked his knuckles, and offered his services as the mansion’s unofficial medic. No CV given to Slender. No stethoscope slung around his neck, no degrees on the wall.

It started when Jeff dislocated his shoulder during some feral knife tantrum—most definitely over nothing. No one else even looked twice at his slinging arm—it's not like a house full of maimed psychopaths possessed the medical knowledge or the fucks to give. Jack hadn’t even blinked. Just walked over, expression unreadable as always, and popped the joint back in with the ease of someone tying a shoelace. No warning. No hesitation.

Since then, it just happened. One by one, the mansion’s walking disasters started coming to him. Concussions. Lacerations. Broken ribs. Nothing experimental. Nothing fancy. Just quiet, competent fixes. He didn’t like doing it. He didn’t complain either. It was just… efficient. Someone had to do it, and he had the hands.

He wouldn't do it for free, however. Hence the rules. Don't come in empty handed—whether it's organs that would save him the headache of procuring himself, or stolen medical supplies, bring something or don't even bother dragging yourself there. Most importantly, hands to yourself. God forbid you touch his sterile equipment—he won't give you reasons to get stitches, but you will bleed out on your own moving forward.

So now, the old storage room down the hall is a makeshift infirmary. Bright overhead lighting. Stainless steel trays. Gauze stacked to the ceiling. It smells like antiseptic and cold metal. It’s quiet. No music, no décor. Just Jack, his gloves, and a collection of very sharp, very clean tools.

You’ve been avoiding it like the plague for two days.

Your jaw hasn’t stopped throbbing since your last mission—one bad punch across the face, and you’d felt something shift, something click. Now you can’t eat, can’t yawn, can’t speak more than a few words without biting down on pain. You’ve been living on ibuprofen and denial, but it’s not cutting it anymore.

So you’re here. Standing in front of the door with your hand curled around your jaw like it’ll stop your skull from splitting in half, the other tight around a plastic bag that hung with the weight of viscera from your hand. You stare at the peeling label on the door—just a fading piece of masking tape with “MEDICAL” scrawled in some unfamiliar hand—and knock once.

No answer.

You try again. Still nothing. You knew he smelled the organs in the bag from two hallways away, so he was just ignoring you, you realized.

You grit your teeth—mistake—and finally push the door open. You stepped inside with your hand still curled around the plastic grocery bag like it was radioactive. The contents shifted and sloshed wetly with each step, and despite your best efforts not to flinch, your lips curled slightly in subconscious disgust.

The infirmary is colder than the rest of the mansion. Jack probably keeps it that way to discourage loitering. The white light overhead buzzes faintly, casting sterile shadows over the clean stainless steel counter and shelves. No chairs. Just one padded table in the center, a stool, and a tray of gleaming metal tools so clean they almost sparkle.

He doesn’t look up at first. Just finishes changing the nitrile gloves on his hands—already prepped, like he expected you to just let yourself in. The scent hit you a second later—alcohol, something minty, clean, but sharp enough to keep you from getting too comfortable.

“Someone knocked you off alignment,” he said without turning. His voice was low, smooth, the usual emotionless timbre that somehow still managed to sound like an accusation. “Jaw?”

You nodded even though you knew he couldn’t see it. “Yeah,” you said quietly, jaw tight and throbbing behind your ears, setting the bag down on the metal table beside the door. “Some dude clocked me good. It fucking hurts and pops.”

That got him to glance your way, head tilting slightly, two gaping pits of darkness that house no sight meeting your gaze. Bottomless. Still. You stood a little straighter under the weight of his stare, even if it was only symbolic.

A moment passes in which you assumed he assessed the payment you brought, and his voice, calm as ever, slices through the tension in your shoulders like a scalpel.

“Sit,” he says flatly. “Close the door.”

You do both.

The door shuts with a quiet click, and you cross the room stiffly, dropping onto the edge of the padded table. Jack approaches without another word. There’s no greeting. No question. Just him stepping into your space, gloved fingers reaching for your chin like you’re an object in need of assessment.

You stiffen.

His touch is firm, not cruel. Cold from the gloves. He tilts your head to the left, then the right, thumbing along your jawline, pressing beneath the bone with a practiced kind of pressure that sends a deep ache skittering through your temples.

You wince.

“Open,” he says.

You part your lips. Slowly. It hurts.

He doesn’t acknowledge your reaction. Just tilts your head back further, inspecting the hinge of your jaw. His fingers move with mechanical efficiency, tracing muscle, bone, and tendon. His head tilts slightly to one side, like he’s calculating something.

“Left TMJ. Inflamed,” he murmurs. “Partial dislocation.”

His voice is low, expressionless, as if reading from a file you can’t see.

“Clench.”

You hesitate.

He repeats the word, this time slightly slower. Not louder. Not forceful. Just... lower.

“Clench.”

You obey, pressing your teeth together. The dull spike of pain nearly makes you gag. He feels your muscles shift beneath the skin, then finally releases your chin and steps back just enough to grab a tool you don't recognize right away from a nearby shelf.

“Inflammation’s aggravating the joint. I’ll reset it.”

Your stomach turns.

“You—what?”

His head tilts again, the black voids of his eyes unreadable.

“You’ll need to relax. The longer you wait, the worse it will get.” A pause. “I don’t offer sedation.”

Of course he doesn’t.

“Lie back.”

You hesitate for a second too long.

Jack waits, motionless, gloved hands poised in front of him like he’s prepping for surgery instead of resetting a jaw. His head tilts half a degree—just enough for you to feel the weight of his wordless stare pressing on your sternum.

"...Fine." You lie back.

The vinyl of the exam table is cold against your spine. You shift slightly, arms flat at your sides. Your eyes trail the overhead light until Jack steps into view again, eclipsing it. Towering, shadowed, cut like stone. The only sound is the soft creak of latex gloves as he flexes his fingers.

He moves with no wasted motion, tongue depressor in one hand and a small penlight in the other. Click.

“Open again. Wider.”

You try. It hurts again, surprise.

He doesn’t comment on the way your jaw trembles. Just braces your chin with one hand and shines the light into your mouth, scanning along your gums, the hinge, the roof. You expect it to end there—but then he trades the depressor for something worse.

His fingers. Gloved, cool, long.

He presses two between your lips, careful but firm, thumb anchoring your jaw from underneath while the others sweep along the inside of your cheek. Checking for torn tissue, maybe. Infection. Misalignment. Who knows. His knuckles brush your tongue. You swallow without meaning to.

The sound that leaves your throat is humiliating.

Jack doesn’t react. Doesn’t flinch, doesn’t shift, doesn’t even breathe different. His fingers curl slightly, pressing into the soft flesh near your molars. The texture of the glove drags. Slow. Thorough. Your jaw aches and your body lights up in response.

Not from pain.

He’s not doing anything wrong. That’s the problem.

He’s not being seductive. Not being coy. Not even looking at you, not really. Just working. Focused. Professional. Detached.

And it’s that—exactly that—that makes heat pool between your legs. You squeeze your thighs, trying to quiet your own body’s treachery. His fingers glide across the base of your tongue again, tipping your chin just slightly with the pad of his thumb. Your breath hitches. What the fuck is wrong with you.

He withdraws a little slower this time, still silent, still careful. You would've almost relaxed if it weren't for the impending intervention that would surely make you keel over in pain.

“I need to assess the displacement,” he mutters, already applying pressure to the hinge of your jaw. “Don’t talk.”

You weren’t planning to. Not anymore.

The pads of his thumbs press just under your ears, right where the mandible meets muscle. He rotates your jaw gently but firmly, thumbs pressing into the tension like he’s mapping your pain. He doesn’t wince at the faint click, or the flinch you fail to suppress. He just notes it.

“There’s swelling,” he murmurs. “One of the ligaments is likely strained.”

You nod a little, before realizing you weren’t supposed to move. But Jack doesn’t comment. He’s just quiet for a moment. Still.

...Too still.

Your heart is hammering, and it’s not subtle anymore. Not to him.

You realize, too late, what he’s actually doing—what’s got him so motionless, so tuned in.

He's fucking listening.

His head angles ever so slightly toward your chest, and you can feel the moment he registers your heartbeat spiking. Not just hears it, but tracks it. Listens to it as data.

Then he inhales, slow and silent.

Oh no.

He can smell it. You know he can. Arousal blooming like a warm, humid pulse between your legs, sweet and tentative and absolutely real. You can't help but panic, bracing to be humiliated right here on his table. This is precisely why you even put off coming in to begin with.

But instead of recoiling, or making some awful comment, or pretending it didn’t happen—

He keeps going. Calm. Professional.

He moves one hand to the back of your head, cradling it with unnerving gentleness. The other comes to your jaw again, fingers curled around it, his thumb bracing beneath your chin.

“I’m going to adjust it,” he says. “You may feel pressure. And pain.”

You exhale slow. “Okay.”

You’re practically vibrating now, your breath catching as he shifts even closer. He doesn’t need to touch more than necessary—never does—but his size alone is overwhelming, broad shoulders blocking out the harsh overhead light, his stance boxing you in like a shadow falling over prey.

He doesn't even give you a countdown. Doesn't brace you, doesn't warn you.

He just does it.

The crack is sharp—sickening to anyone else, but not to him. Your eyes blur for a second, and for a moment all you can register is the heat between your legs and the full-body jolt of pain-pleasure confusion ripping through your nerves.

His hands stay where they are. Steady. Silent.

Then his voice again, low and completely unbothered:

“Better?”

You nod, breath shallow. You can’t speak. Not yet. You can't yet rip yourself from the sharp flash of skull splitting pain, even as he leans in. Just barely.

He doesn't speak right away. His head remains tilted in that eerie, artificial way—listening. Not to your words, but to your body. The air feels too heavy, too thick.

"You’re flushed. Pulse elevated. Pupils dilated." His voice is calm, unbothered. “You're aroused.”

You look down, heart pounding even harder, like it’s trying to prove his point. You're in a closed room with a predator. Of course no pulse stammer, no change in scent escape him. And you stupidly, naively told yourself he'd at least not bring it up.

You almost defend yourself—almost—but your jaw still aches and your pride’s already halfway out the door.

He doesn’t accuse you. Doesn’t leer. Just continues peering down at you, seemingly toward your jaw, like calling you out on being horny on his table was just an afterthought.

Then, finally:

"You're at risk of muscular dysfunction," he says. “TMJ compression may recur if the surrounding joints aren’t conditioned.”

You blink.

“What?”

"Therapy for mandibular strength. Repetitive movement. Isometric pressure.”

"...That sounds fake," you say, eyes narrowing.

"It’s not. I can administer a routine exercise,” he says. “If you comply.”

Your heart skips. No fucking way.

You force yourself to scoff, weakly. “What, like... chewing gum?”

“No,” he says, utterly expressionless, voice dry as bleached bone. “Like sucking my cock.”

The room goes still. You stare at him, face slack, brain flatlining. He doesn’t shift.

You’d almost feel like you were being punked—if it weren’t for the clinical detachment in his voice. No grin. No teasing. Just prescription.

He gestures downward with a hand, slow and clear.

“On your knees.”

You're about to argue—but then you watch that same hand start undoing his belt. And you forget what you were going to say. Your legs move before your brain catches up.

The tile is cold beneath you as you lower. He doesn’t touch you—doesn’t help guide you down or force your head. Just lets you get into position, calm as ever, the way a doctor waits for a patient to position themselves on an exam table.

You stare—up at him, at the soft shadows where his eyes should be, into that void of unsettling silence. Your mouth is already falling open, your jaw aching but looser now, slightly. You're not sure if it's from his touch or the anticipation.

He watches you. Not hungrily. Not cruelly. Just assessing, patient.

“Begin."

The thing is, Jack doesn't get involved. That’s what the others say. And it’s true.

He doesn’t flirt. Doesn’t fuck. Doesn’t linger in the common rooms or hover near bedrooms or watch anyone with more than clinical interest.

Because frankly, there’s no one worth the effort. Not even during his mating season, when the heat is so overbearing and insufferable that he has to claw at his own raging cock to calm it down.

The women here are loud, violent, erratic. Jack learned early that entanglement breeds chaos. Even if his body hungers, his mind doesn’t. Not for them. So he keeps to himself. Detached. Controlled.

And then you showed up.

Not particularly warm. Not particularly broken. Just... quiet. Smart. Pretty in a way that didn't demand attention. Kept your distance, like him. And yet, here you are—kneeling on the tile floor of his makeshift infirmary, lips parted around the head of his cock with your jaw aching and your scent ripe with want.

He watches your mouth stretch open, just slightly at first, gauging the tension at the hinge.

“You’ll feel pressure,” he says, voice low but even, steady as his heartbeat. “Don’t force it. Let the joint relax.”

He’s big. Too big to take all at once without locking up, especially with your already-bruised jaw. So you ease into it—inch by slow, careful inch. His cock is heavy on your tongue, smooth and hot and stiffening by the second. You fight your gag reflex. Breathe through your nose. Let your lips seal slowly around the shaft.

Your jaw protests—dull pain radiating down into your neck. He hears your breathing shift.

“Discomfort?”

You nod faintly, but doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t stop you.

Instead, one hand lifts—settling under your chin, thumb pressing just beneath your ear as he begins to gently palpate the muscle, fingers feeling the give of the joint.

“Keep going,” he murmurs. “I need to feel the range.”

You suck in a slow breath. Take more of him in. It almost starts to feel like standard procedure by the way he acts. Almost.

The ache doesn’t disappear, but it starts to change. Dulls. Warms. The longer your mouth stays stretched, the looser the hinge feels, the less resistance there is in your jaw. Your tongue shifts around him, trying to ease the burn—and in doing so, draws a low hum from Jack’s chest.

“Good,” he says.

Definitely not standard procedure. You nearly moan.

Your spit starts to coat him, pooling around the base. It’s getting messy now—your tongue laps greedily, spit slicking his shaft in glistening ropes. Every soft choke earns you another steady hum of approval.

He doesn’t move his hips. Doesn’t thrust. Big palm still engulfing the underside of your jaw, claws twitching just barely into your skin every time you hollow your cheeks and suck back up to the tip.

You look up at him, half-dazed, spit slicking your chin, your jaw hanging looser than before. He looks down, impassive—but there's no hiding the pinch in his brows or the flare of his nostrils when the head of his cock kisses the back of your throat.

“That’s it,” he says, low, strained. “Take it. Just like that.”

Your thighs press together involuntarily, and your hand moves before you even register it—sliding under your waistband, fingers slipping past soaked underwear to your cunt.

You’re drenched. The cotton is soaked through, sticking to your knuckles. You rub slow circles around your clit, moaning softly around him, trying to time it with the slurp of your mouth to hide the sound. Your hips twitch.

But you forget who you’re with.

He stiffens above you—not in surprise, but stillness. His head tilts just barely to the side.

“...You’re touching yourself.”

You freeze for half a breath, almost even pull your hand out of your pants. But he doesn’t stop you. Instead, his chest rises subtly.

He smells it.

The scent of slick arousal is thicker in the air, heady and unmistakable. It mixes with the saline bite of sweat, the copper tang of blood from your payment, the chemical sharpness of antiseptic—but it’s yours that cuts through. Potent. Raw. Dripping down your thighs as you keep sucking.

He wasn’t planning on fucking you.

He didn’t need to. Your mouth would’ve sufficed—tight, warm, obedient. That would’ve been more than enough. A rare indulgence, a contained one.

But the sound.

That squelch of your pussy under your fingers—the slick wetness of it as your hips jerk and your moan stutters around his cock—

That changes everything.

He looks down at you then, fingers tightening ever so slightly in your hair.

“You’re soaked,” he says, tone low but not judgmental—observational, but something darker coils beneath it now. “From sucking my dick?”

You don’t respond—can’t—too full of him.

He leans forward, shadow cast across your flushed, fucked-out face.

“Get up,” he says. Calm. Firm. Final.

You blink up at him, dazed, lips red and wet.

“Up,” he repeats, slipping free of your mouth with a wet pop. “You’re not doing this on the floor.”

He pulls you to your feet with one smooth motion—strong, sure, impersonal as ever.

But his cock is still hard, glistening with spit, and when he steps in close, you feel the head nudge against your abdomen like an omen.

You look up at him as he pushes you back against the edge of the padded table, fully expecting another string of well measured medical excuses for wanting to sink into your pussy... But you were met with silence—thick, heavy, hungry even if he didn't outwardly show it. You didn't know whether to feel relieved or threatened.

He doesn’t undress with hunger or haste. His movements are smooth, methodical, devoid of showmanship. Just his fingers unfastening buttons, peeling away layers like they’re in the way—not like they’re what covers you, but what obstructs you. What obstructs him.

And then he’s looming between your spread legs, cock hanging heavy and thick between his thighs, glistening from your spit. The room is so quiet, you swear you can hear the shift of his weight when he steps closer.

His hands wrap around your thigh, latex squeaking as it slips over sweat. Your breath chokes short. He folds you in half, entirely—calmly forcing your thighs back until you’re bent near double. The stretch burns deliciously through your hamstrings, your hips, your spine.

And then he’s holding you there—palming the backs of your thighs as if anchoring you in place, cock nudging your entrance with zero urgency.

You squirm.

It earns you a hard slap to the inside of your thigh—sharp enough to make you jolt, wet enough that it echoes.

“Don’t move,” he says.

Then, slowly—almost cruelly—he presses in.

You gasp. It’s as much of a fill as it is a stretch. Thick, deep, unrelenting. Your cunt clenches around him instantly, fluttering as your walls fight to adjust. His cock drags inside you with obscene smoothness, and stops. He doesn’t thrust yet. Just holds. Buries himself to the hilt and lets your body adjust. Not a hint of frenzy—he splits you open like he’s measuring you.

He exhales—sharp, almost a sigh.

Your mouth drops open—but not in moan. It hangs. Your jaw slackens.

His hand is suddenly at your face, fingers curling under your chin, thumb pressing lightly into your jaw’s hinge, closing your mouth back up.

“You'll get lockjaw if you keep doing that,” he says coolly. “Hold it steady.”

The pressure increases. Not painful, not tenderly, but correcting.

His hips roll forward.

Slow, strong, deep—like he’s testing your depth, like he’s counting the inches it takes to pull another stifled moan from your throat.

You squeeze around him, clenching uncontrollably—already wound tight from your fingers, every nerve raw, oversensitive, like you'd been edged for hours. It was almost humiliating how close you were already.

“Shit,” he hisses, jaw tight, his impassivity fracturing just for a moment. “You’re—”

He cuts himself off.

His hand slides downward and finds your clit.

You barely have time to react before he pinches so hard that it makes your entire body arch and tense up. Sharp pressure blooms, pleasure laced with heat and pain and a stifled cry you can’t quite make with your mouth full of shallow panting.

Your hips jerk—he slams them back down.

“Don’t cum yet,” he growls—his voice now tinged, barely, with something darker, something less restrained. “You’re tighter when you’re close.”

He pinches again.

Your vision blurs.

“Control yourself,” he repeats as he slides in again, deeper. “You wanted this—then let it last.”

He starts fucking you—really fucking you—like your desperation and your body bursting at the seams in need was barely even an inconvenience to him.

But he's starting to crumble. Slowly, surely, a thrust every few rolls of his hips stuttering and pushing in too quickly. Slipping again and again, not immune to the warmth and wetness and tightness swallowing his cock whole like it was carved for this.

The table rocks under each thrust, his rhythm measured but no longer calculated, driving you into the vinyl with every pump of his hips. Your pussy makes obscene noises—slick, messy, greedy, sucking him back in every time he draws out.

He’s breathing harder now. No longer silent.

Low groans, thick and guttural, start slipping out—like they’re being torn from a throat that never lets itself make sound.

You swear you hear it: a cracked "fuck," deep in his chest, not quite meant to be spoken.

He grabs your jaw again—not with medical intent now, but need—fingers firm, his palm cupping your face to anchor you as he fucks in deeper, like he’s chasing the tightest part of you.

You’re shaking. You’re soaked. You’re held open, filled full, and denied again and again.

You don’t know when his hands started shaking.

Maybe the third or fourth time he smacked and pinched your clit to edge you, cunt suctioning wet around his cock and throbbing painfully. Maybe it was when you clenched on him during a particularly hard thrust and moaned like you were crying.

You hear it before you feel it—a snap, the high-pitched pop of nitrile tearing beneath too-sharp pressure. His claws rip clean through the gloves. You catch the gleam of black keratin as they flex in the light.

And then he’s grabbing at you—groping you.

No longer practical. No longer careful.

Claws rake up your ribs, scratch over your tits, dig into the soft skin of your hips and thighs, not deep enough to slice but enough to sting, to leave microscopic beads of crimson in their wake. It’s primal. Like he’s trying to ground himself in the tactile, in the way your body grips him back, in the way your skin gives under his nature.

His pace becomes erratic.

Thrusts slam in harder, faster, more ragged—driven not by logic but need. The sound of your slick, the wet, high-pitched slap of it echoing against the walls, drives him deeper into something bigger than him.

You barely catch your breath before he lunges forward—body folding over you, arms braced against the table, his face in the crook of your neck.

You can feel a rumble in his chest—barely a warning at all— before be clamps down on your skin.

He sinks sharp, inhuman teeth into your shoulder with a guttural growl, like he's tasting something sacred—savoring it. Your flesh parts around his fangs with a wet, horrible rip, and blood surges from the wound.

He doesn’t apologize as you shriek and claw at his biceps, his hair, anything to try and pry him off. Not even budging.

He laps. Licks deep, filthy stripes into your bleeding shoulder, groaning low, like he’s drinking down ambrosia.

You’re shaking beneath him, jaw slack with disbelief, pain, arousal.

He fucks into you harder, punishing, like he’s trying to weld his hips to yours. One hand slides down between your legs again—making you sob a pathetic little sound, bracing yourself for the worst again—but this time, he doesn’t pinch.

He finally rubs. Firm and fast, two fingers circling your clit with relentless pressure, dragging wet, slippery circles that sync with the piston of his cock.

“Cum,” he growls—against your neck, against your blood, breath hot and voice wrecked. "Cum on this cock. Fucking milk it."

You wail in relief, and your whole body shudders with built-up pressure finally released. It hits like a crash—blinding, consuming, full-body spasms wracking your frame, legs trembling, pussy squeezing in pulses so strong it drags a strangled groan from deep in his chest.

You squirt. Just little sharp, rhythmic gushes, splattering down his length and the table beneath, every spasm squeezing more out of you.

“Fuck,” Jack snarls—then bites you again, this time at the base of your neck.

The pain is searing. White-hot. It makes your cunt tighten like a fist, sight blurring at the edges. And somehow—somehow—it just makes your orgasm stronger.

You feel yourself convulsing, helpless against the wave, and all you can do is hang on while he fucks you through it—deep, brutal, unrelenting. One clawed hand grips your jaw to keep it steady, the other still working your clit until tears start rolling down your cheeks from the overstimulation.

You're too gone to feel much more than a blurred wave of too much. Too fucked out to feel him tense and stutter above you. You only feel it once he slams in to the hilt and stalls.

It’s guttural. Deep. A sound torn out of something that doesn’t make sounds like that. He pulses inside you—thick, hot, and neglected for too long—filling you to the brim as he drinks from your neck like you're bleeding syrup.

His claws curl into your hips. His cock twitches inside you, pumping every last drop. And then—for the first time—he moans.

Not quiet. Not deadpan. A raw, feral, wrecked sound that's almost too spent to have come from the throat of a demon.

It vibrates through your bones.

And when it’s over—when he finally slows, pulls back just enough to breathe—you’re shaking under him, your jaw sore, your pussy flooded, your blood still wet on his lips. He pulls out like a scalpel being sheathed, his cock dragging slick and heavy from your used cunt, no wince, no remark, no reaction to the cum leaking out of you like evidence of something intimate.

And Jack is just silent again. Panting slowly subsiding into inaudible, steady breaths.

There’s no tenderness to the way he moves—no shushing, no soft hands. Just the same methodical detachment as always. He steps away from your body like it’s just another case. Another mess to clean.

Your skin is slick with sweat, your neck sticky with blood, thighs trembling and dripping with both of you—but he doesn’t even pause to look.

He just peels off the shredded gloves, tosses them into the trash with a snap of latex, and reaches for a fresh pair.

You’re still folded over the table, chest heaving, mouth hanging slightly open, when you feel him back at your side—hands sterile, gloved, impersonal all over again.

“Don’t move.”

The command is soft, but it’s not kind. Just practical.

He starts with the neck.

The bite wound is deep—ugly, violent—but he doesn’t flinch at the sight. Doesn’t murmur an apology or ask if it hurts. He just cleans. Disinfects. Presses a thick pad of gauze to the bite, tapes it down with no lingering touches.

Your shoulder is next—swabbed, sealed, wrapped. Then your thighs, your ribs. You feel the sting of antiseptic where his claws broke skin. He doesn’t slow.

He doesn’t speak.

When he’s finished with the worst of it, he steps between your knees again, tilts your chin up with two fingers.

“You clenched through your orgasm,” he says, tone flat. “Let me check your jaw.”

Your lips part instinctively—even as your eyes roll, unimpressed—and he presses a thumb along the hinge—palpating, observing. There’s pressure. A little discomfort. No pain.

“Still aligned.” A pause. “Mobility improved.”

He wipes his hands on a cloth and turns away.

“You’re cleared.”

You blink.

That’s it?

No goodbye. No acknowledgment. Not even a fucking nod.

You half-expect him to say something—anything—about what just happened. About him fucking you raw, drinking from your neck, and cumming so deep inside you it’s still dripping out onto the floor. But no. Nothing. His back stays turned. Shoulders relaxed. Voice cool.

“Try to avoid impact to the jaw for the next 48 hours. If the pain persists or worsens, come back.”

...Predictable.

427 notes · View notes

multch · 6 months ago

Text

Caught.

Art the clown x Reader [18+]

CW: Smut\ afab Reader

Pt.1 (Thoughts)

Art just caught you red-handed pleasuring yourself but he doesn't seem to react… at first.

There stood Art the clown, leaning up against the wall with a shit eating grin- Oh God no.

Oh God no.

It was in this moment, you felt as small as a starved mouse. Has he always towered over you?

Holding your breath, your gaze hesitantly lifted to meet with his eyes.

Surely he couldn’t hear you in there… And obviously he couldn’t have been waiting outside the whole time.. right?

But what if he had. Would he be disgusted? His face contorted into a disturbed grimace. Could it change your relationship? Would he be so enraged as to consider you his next victim- ready to skin you with his bare hands. Gosh why did you ever think that was a good idea!

Your lust was your hamartia- the trigger that would spiral into your gruesome demise; a death without an ounce of dignity.

It was as if that doorway was a picture frame holding- you- a moment frozen in time. Your face was flushed bright red and your chest heaved up and down as if you had just ran a marathon.

Your eyes were wide in shock and pure terror.

As your gaze met his, you couldn’t help but sigh as he walked right past you. How could he be so calm? His smirk dropped as he practically shrugged you off as if you were translucent- as if you weren’t there…

What the hell?!

There it layed unfinished. It would only take you a few minutes to stitch back up the final rip.

Across your desk were numerous tools you used throughout the night; The jacket you worked on mere hours ago, several pairs of sharp fabric scissors and an array of pins and needles strung with thread.

Despite the busy crowd of your work-station, you remained alone.

Where could he be?

You looked up at the cheap clock sitting on the wall; 2:15am.

Clutched carefully in your hand, you carried his newly repaired costume with you. When you would return it to him, you would finally be able to go home- that is if you could find him…

It was your 4th time circling around the store and only one thought remained in your mind;

Where on earth was that damn clown!?

Walking into storage, you were met with the familiar dark and dusty sight you dreaded seeing so often. Luckily, since meeting Art, you were able to evade stock retrieval long enough during your shifts to delegate it to him at night. Unfortunately, every once in a while you would still have to venture out back during the day when issues were too urgent.

It wasn't rare for liminal spaces to creep you out so the avoidance was understood with a few simple honks of a horn.

“Hey Art… you in here?” You shivered.

The room was cramped and lined with unstable wire shelving overflowing with cardboard boxes of various sizes. As there were no windows, who knew what could be hiding in the shadows.

As your eyes adjusted to make out shapes within the darkness, your hand crept around the wall beside you for a light switch.

Aha! There it was.

As you went to flick the switch your heart suddenly dropped.

That’s not the switch…

Two cold hands grabbed your arm in an instant, pulling you towards a firm chest.

Shit!

“Art! Oh my goodness I am so sorry,” you blurted, “I was just looking for the lightswitch, I didn’t mean to-”

While what you could see was limited, what you knew was abundant. Your cheeks burned up as you realized what you just did. You didn’t flick the lightswitch, you just hit Art’s nipple- god that’s so embarrassing! You practically screamed at yourself.

What did you drag yourself into! First you think he caught you finger fucking yourself to the thought of him. Now you're in a dark storage cupboard and he's completely naked!

It's not even his fault, you sighed. You're the one carrying his repaired clothes- Damn it! You should've given him something to wear- you work in a costume shop for christ’s sake!

There, you continued to ramble on and on. Uttering something about an extra Santa costume. Suddenly, you gasped as Art pulled you closer towards himself.

Oh.

Seems like Art noticed your distraction and gave you something else to think about. Yes, he was naked but that didn't interest you when you knew you could lean into the tenderness of his sharp touch.

It ran through you- that burning, stinging sensation everywhere his skin touched yours. He was frozen. He kept pulling you closer into his chest like he needed you to survive. Like your warmth was addictive.

His arms wrapped around you like a snake while he tucked your legs between his thighs.

You looked up at him only to be met with the same shit-eating grin as last time.

What a pervert.

He was infectious. Once you had laid eyes on those disgusting tar black teeth and dark doe eyes, it was as if a command came over your soul. The corners of your lips unconsciously lifted into a smile. Maybe you would take advantage of this proximity for once…

Laying a quick peck on his bottom lip, you chuckled as you knew his facepaint had transferred to your own.

Art always knew how to make you laugh as he reared back to make an exaggerated shocked face. Quickly, he returned the offer by giving you a toothy grin before smashing his lips into yours.

Driving your bodies forward and away from the initial wall, Art bites your bottom lip as a plea for entry. Your back arches against the shelving as he pushes into the kiss. You let him- loving each and every second of pure bliss.

His tongue explored every inch, every tooth, every surface. It felt like you two stayed like that for eternity. It was as if once you would open your eyes, the night would be long gone.

You winced when you were forced to pull yourself away- heaving large gasps for air.

You couldn’t believe it. First thing you’re working a simple 9-5 and next thing you know you’re making out with the most infamous murderer in all of New York. The thought was enough to send a surge of energy rising through you.

But is this all? It’s been 3 whole years where you’ve spent countless nights fantasizing about and being subject to his mindless antics. 3 whole years.

You swallow the lump in your throat as you turn back to Art, placing your palm against his hollow cheek.

Whatever, you were happy to finally show your devotion to him at last…

As your lips hover over his, you gaze into his eyes. Pitch black with not a soul in sight, yet a carefulness he held while looking back at you. Back at you until…

You felt a strange sensation graze against your thigh.

It was in the moment you learnt it was possible for the white clown to turn a subtle shade of pink.

His eyes dodged down as he seemed to shuffle slightly further away. Choosing to hide in the shadows again, Art took a couple hefty steps backwards until all you could make out was the outline of his prominent features within the shadows.

“Oh shit..” you uttered under your breath. Art was hard. Oh my goodness, Art was hard and embarrassed.

Weighing up the pros and cons, you quickly bit the bullet and made up your mind. You were going to take that risk even if it could cost you your life. Art was everything you wanted and more. He had been so helpful over the past few years, you thought he deserved a small favor in return.

Stepping across the small storage room, you land in front of him- placing your hands on his chest. His skin was frigid and without a pulse.

“I can help you with that,” you whisper into his ear.

Despite the quick shocked expression Art played with, it was as if you caught his sincerity for a second before he snaped back into miming an over-emphasized swooning motion; fanning himself with his hand before pretending to faint.

His eyes stare far into yours as if seeking reassurance before acting on his own accord.

You nodded. Falling to your knees, you steadied yourself with both hands holding onto his legs.

There it was.

While you had seen it plenty of times, you had never imagined it from this angle. It was ample in length and wide in thickness. The sight was enough to make your mouth water.

You carefully grip the base and work your hands up and down his shaft before placing it in your mouth.

Paying attention to every ridge and bump, you slide your tongue across his length. As you begin bobbing your head back and forth, you look up to find Art’s embarrassment is long gone.

His eyes are shut tight and his mouth gapes open like he's lost for words. (if he had any, that is)

While you pulled closer and closer towards the base of his cock with every thrust, Art put his hands on the crown of your head, pulling you further into him.

Sliding down your throat, you gagged as Art thrusted his shaft into the roof of your mouth.

For someone so shy before, he’s taking control of this alot more than you expected..

Drool pools at the corners of your mouth, dribbling slowly down your chin. Art takes notice and drags his hand down to wipe it with his shaky thumb.

Fuck- he was so far down the back of your throat, you swore it was a miracle you were till breathing by now.

Thick white ropes coated the walls of your mouth. The action sent you bucking back as it forced you into a coughing fit. God was he bitter tasting.

He flung back before patting your head. It felt degrading- almost as if you were his pet in need of praise after completing a trick.

Lifting your gaze to look up at him, he sends back a dramatic shocked face before shifting to his usual wide grin.

As you stuck your tongue out, you chuckled before swallowing his seed.

Zipp! And that was the last of it. All that was left was to lock up the store and you were done. Your desk was cleaned, your repairs were finished and your clown friend was very happy.

While you loved your job, you were terribly excited to finally go home and have a long rest (maybe even a sweet treat too)

You let out a chuckle as you watched the live footage displayed on the security cameras. Despite being colorless and grainy, the expression on Art’s face was clear as day. There, he waved into the camera- his face imitating the pure joy of a small child* in a candy store; with a large smile and immense energy radiating from him.

(*As pure as he can get considering he’s a murderous hell spawn, but we won’t talk about that…)

He tipped his tiny top hat towards the camera, then swiftly turned on his heels to face the exit.

Ding! Ding! Ding! The bell rang out as Art made his exit, and it was as if he had suddenly vanished.

You couldn’t wait for tomorrow…

Maybe work could be a bit more exciting from now on, you thought.

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lordprettyflackotara · 4 months ago

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2005 || sam and colby

‘does someone wanna tell me, what is going on?’

sum: you died in 2005, trapped in the confines of the hotel you died at. twenty years later, two ghost hunters appear, begging for your attention. and as much as you hated to admit it, you’d be lying if you said you weren’t interested

tw: ghost!reader, ghost hunters!sam and colby, plot. just plot. soooo sorry to be one of those hoes with plot build up for smut. brief mention of suicide. reader is an absolute bitch, sorry not sorry

a/n: thank you spicychat we all say in unison

part two is here

You hated purgatory.

That’s what purgatory was supposed to be, a place you hated. Whatever overlord existed definitely did a good job at doing that. You gathered that only two kinds of death landed you in purgatory. Homicide or suicide. Unfortunately for you a grand total of twenty years ago you had chucked yourself off of the roof. Your death was ultimately nothing more than a blur to you, the news fizzling out fast and moving on to the next thing within a week.

However that meant your soul was confined to the hotel. Each step you took outside of the hotel teleported you back inside, stuck within the walls of crumpling wallpaper and revolting brick red carpet. Not much caught your attention these days, most guest beyond boring. Your only companion was Danny, a spirit who was a cook at the once restaurant that was next door. He stopped by ever so often, but he wasn’t the best company to keep. (Note to self: do not throw fryer grease on coworker, may result in death.)

You laid lazily in one of the main lobbies chairs, your legs dangling over one of the chair arms. No one told you death would be so utterly and completely boring.

It wasn’t until an odd high pitched noise caught your attention, that you perked up a bit. It reminded you of what you imagined a dog whistle would sound like. It was around midnight, the hotel mostly quiet. Even the receptionist was snoozing off at her desk. Curiously you rose from the chair, following the sound. It wasn’t too obnoxious or ground breaking, but it was something you hadn’t heard before. It led you down the basement, a cold and dark room you hadn’t visited in years. There wasn’t much down there anyways besides old pipes and storage.

Two male voices flooded your ears as you walked down the dusty stairs, each step making the ancient wood creek.

“Dude do you hear that?”

You raised an eyebrow, wondering if your steps were audible. Upon reaching the bottom of the stairs you raised an eyebrow, your sights landing on the two men. Equipment and technology foreign to you sat around them, a multi colored light going off when you took a step forward. Surprised, you jumped in response. “Sam, are you getting this? Something just stepped in front of the EMF meter,” The brunette asked. Both men looked utterly concentrated, their faces falling when you took a step back. You were sure they couldn’t see you, but the fucked up looking disco ball definitely lit up because of you.

“We’re not here to hurt you, we just wanna get to know you and find out why you’re here,” Sam said cautiously. Sassily you crossed your arms. Ghost hunters? Seriously? You knew they televised people actually trying to catch ghost, but you thought it was all fake news. Apparently you were wrong. There were those who genuinely believed in ghost like yourself. No matter how attractive both Sam and his friend seemed, no sane person would sit in a basement at midnight trying to get spooked. You tilted your head to the side, carefully walking around the disco ball of exposure.

They had dozens of tools laid out, each looking more high tech than the last. Fuck, when was the last time you had actually bothered paying attention to modern technology? “Fuck, it’s cold as hell over here Colby,” Sam whined, brushing the goosebumps that had spread across his skin.

Colby?

What kind of fuckin name was Colby?

Annoyed, you rubbed your temple. No matter how attractive the duo was, that didn’t take away your distaste from them playing around in your hotel. After all you died there. It was all yours, fair and square. Yet you couldn’t help but feel a sense of curiosity. It had been years since anyone had paid attention to you. Companionship was something you severely lacked, to an unsettling degree. As much as you wanted to turn on your heels and march the other way, you couldn’t. Something was drawing you to the two morons with giant cameras.

Whether or not that be loneliness or boredom was unforeseen, but you sure as shit planned on finding out.

Your transparent fingers brushed the flashlight, making it click on. This caught both boys attention, their icy blue eyes widening. Your simple actions were mesmerizing to them, even though you didn’t think you did much at all. “It’s moving around, it’s like it’s curious,” Colby concluded. You rolled your eyes, clicking the flashlight off, as if to confirm his suspicion. This made both of them jump, the camera almost slipping out of Sam’s hand. “Holy shit, I didn’t actually think we’d catch anything here dude. That’s crazy,” Sam admitted, readjusting his grip on the oversized camera. You studied it for a moment, concluding it looked so silly and dramatic it must’ve previously been used to shoot old school porn.

“I know just the thing to get this session heated up, check it,” Sam said, pulling out a tiny box. Obnoxious radio frequencies poured out of the speaker, causing you to cringe. “This is a spirit box. If you talk into it, we’ll be able to communicate with you,” Colby explained, glancing around the room. You wondered if they were anticipating more than just you or if Colby was just genuinely trying to see you. Sighing, you cleared your throat dramatically. When was the last time you had tried to speak? Like actual full sentences and not just grumbles of despair?

“You both look like fuckin morons.”

“Morons.”

Goddammit.

You audibly scoffed, offended the radio only picked up on your insult. You had more personality than a bully. “I don’t think they want us here, maybe we could head to the roof,” Colby pointed out. You leaned over, putting your mouth as close to the spirit box as possible.

“Your little do hickey here sucks, how am I supposed to communicate if you hear one word out of a dozen?”

“Little… How… Dozen…?”

Frustrated, you began to grow more and more irritated by the second. “They seem confused. If there’s a dozen of them in here it may be hard to talk to any of them,” Sam commented. Colby sighed, clicking off the spirit box. “Hey! I wasn’t done!” You bickered, the brunette packing it away. He shrugged his backpack on, grabbing the disco ball of doom and flashlights. “Guess we should head upstairs and try again. The roof shouldn’t be too windy so maybe the audio won’t be choppy,” He said, watching Sam put down the camera. You could practically feel the disappointment dripping off of them. Whether you liked it or not, it was oozing off of you too.

“Think about it this way dude, if there’s this many, some are bound to follow us, right?” Sam laughed, trying to encourage his friend. He pat his shoulder, Colby shrugging. They began walking towards the stairs, leaving you to trail eagerly after them. Sam went up first, dust spiraling in the air and the wood creaking under his weight. Colby reluctantly followed, giving the basement one final glance over. You felt helpless, knowing they couldn’t see you. In one final foolish attempt of making a connection, you reached out to grab Colby’s wrist as he turned to walk up the stairs.

“I guess so-”

The brunettes words hung in the air as he glanced over his shoulder, the feeling of someone holding his wrist keeping him frozen. You gripped his wrist tightly, a little too much so. You could feel the energy flowing through him, to a point where you almost felt like you could feel it too. “Are you seeing what i’m seeing?” Colby asked, his gaze locked on where you were standing. It was odd, feeling someone’s eyes genuinely see you for the first time after two decades of not worrying about your appearance. There was a registration in his eyes, one that made you jump back.

Sam missed the moment entirely, too busy fiddling with the camera to look up. “What is it? You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” The blonde teased, watching as Colby reached out to grab a handful of air. He abandoned the few stairs he had climbed up, his gaze searching for you. “I saw a girl or like, a flash of her hair and eyes,” He rambled, looking around the basement. It felt silly to hide, your face hardened and form crouching as you hid behind a bunch of old folding chairs. “Are you sure you aren’t seeing things? We haven’t slept in almost a day now, maybe we should just head back,” Sam suggested, worry spreading across his face.

Colby licked his dry lips, shrugging Sam off. “Dude i’m telling you, I felt her. It was a girl,” He insisted. Sam’s face ran through multiple emotions. Skepticism, worry, confusion, fear. “Are you high? We aren’t even sure ghost are real. Think for a second,” Sam said without thinking, his eyebrows furrowed. You felt bad, making both of them so utterly confused. Colby nervously ran a hand through his hair, before readjusting his jacket. “Hold out your hand,” He instructed Sam.

“Hold out my hand? I’m not holding out shit-”

“What are you? Scared? Hold out your hand. If you don’t feel anything, we can go.”

Colby’s voice was firm, the blonde setting the camera onto the floor. “This isn’t going to be the placebo effect you know,” Sam mumbled. Colby shushed him, his hypnotizing blue eyes searching the basement for any sign of you. “Hey, i’m sorry if I scared you. Can you touch my friend Sam here like you did me? I know you felt what I did,” Colby declared boldly. Hesitantly you peered from around the pile of dusty chairs, the cold basement making Sam shiver. You supposed it didn’t help you were standing in front of him either. Hesitantly you grabbed the blondes hair, his eyes flickering with the same sense of recognition.

“Holy fucking shit,” Sam muttered. Colby was warm to the touch, like a nice hot bath on a cold day. But Sam? Sam’s energy was what you imagined taking forty adderall at a concert felt like. You studied his face, silence echoing throughout the room. While still transparent, your form was visible if the boys squinted enough.

“Colby, there’s a ghost holding my hand,” Sam whispered, his gaze never straying from your smaller form.

“Great observation, so glad you believe me now,” Colby deadpanned.

“Does she speak? Can she speak?” Sam rambled.

You arched an eyebrow, refraining from laughing, “I spoke before, why not now?”

Your soft voice was unexpected, Sam jumping in response. As quick as you appeared you vanished, your being back to being invisible to the human eyes. “Shit, sorry,” Sam mumbled awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck.

“The energy transfer seems to give her the ability to solidify her state. The more energy we give her, the less transparent she’ll be,” Colby concluded, catching you and Sam up to speed on his theories. Sam straightened his back, trying to collect himself. “So what you’re saying is that if we touch her, she’ll use our energy to be visible?” Sam asked. Colby nodded, holding out his hand. Despite being completely transparent, it was as if the brunette could see directly through your soul.

“Don’t be scared, take my hand.”

Maybe it was anxiety. Maybe it was curiosity. Maybe it was because a handsome man told you to do so. Whatever it was, his words sounded just right, your hand wrapped around his.

Having a set of eyes, nevertheless two sets of eyes on you, was a quite bit overwhelming. They both seemed tongue tied, causing you to awkwardly clear your throat. “The longer you both stare the more awkward this gets you know,” You point out, which causes both of them to snap out of their daze.

“Well we’ve just never seen a ghost before you know-”

“Well you know not like this-”

“You’re just breath taking and beautiful-”

“How could we not stare-”

The compliments made you not only blush, but snort in response. “Do you guys get out much? Besides hunting ghost?” You asked teasingly. Colby gripped your hand, a cocky smirk dancing up his lips. “I’ll have you know we’re both quite famous youtubers,” He said proudly. Your confusion was visible, your eyes flickering to Sam for support. “That cheesy television site? No way people post on their now and get famous off of it,” You retorted in disbelief. Sam blinked, his gaze briefly flickering to your hand connected to Colby’s. Your name fell from his lips, as if he had just solved the world’s hardest puzzle.

“Holy fuck, you died in like, 2005 didn’t you? Youtube was like just made,” Sam said, astonished. You knew in most timelines you had never met these two. After all, you died at twenty two, but you were supposed to be forty two. Old enough to be one of their moms. Yet you had never matured past twenty two, their humanly charms making you more nervous by the moment. You began to overthink everything, down to every micro movement as you talked to them. It felt nice, to hear your own voice for once. What felt even better, was hearing two eager voices respond back.

The conversation bounced everywhere, a connection solidified between the three of you without much effort being given. “If she’s semi visible when we hold her hand, I wonder what we’d have to do to get her to look like us,” Colby wondered aloud. It was a cruel and harsh reality that had to be considered. The second you disconnected from Colby you were gone, erased from existence. “We could experiment and see what works,” You suggested meekly, the utter filth running through your mind. There were repercussions with the mere idea, taking away the fact you felt embarrassed to be practically drooling over two strangers.

“Yeah we can try hugging and embracing to see if that does anything more significant-”

“Or!”

“Or?”

“There are other ways to exchange energy,” You say slowly. Colby stares at you with furrowed eyebrows, his confusion written all across his face. Sam on the other hand, seemed to register exactly what you were insinuating.

“Are you asking us to fuck you?”

The bluntness of his question caught you off guard, Colby’s elbow colliding with his chest before you had a chance to answer. A lecture of disrespecting spirits was leaving Colby’s lips, the brunette rambling about being respectful. It wasn’t until you squeezed his hand that he stopped talking. “Actually Colby, he’s right,” You interjected. You hadn’t anticipated for your core to flutter at the sight of Colby’s cheeks turning a light pink.

“Both of us?” He questioned, as if processing the words to ensure he heard them correctly. You nodded affirmatively, trying to ignore how flustered you felt. “The more energy the better, right?” You asked, biting the inside of your cheek. Sam and Colby exchanged glances, as if communicating telepathically.

“For science, right?”

“Of course, for science.”

There was a brief moment of silence, the tension thicker than you could comprehend. A sick smile curled up Sam’s lips, the blonde met your gaze, cockiness practically oozing off of him.

“I can record this then, right?”

#sam and colby x you #sam golbach x you #sam goldbach smut #sam golbach x colby brock #sam and colby x reader #sam golbach x reader #sam golbach smut #sam and colby smut #sam golbach #colby brock x y/n #colby brock x you #colby brock x reader #colby brock smut #colby brock #sam and colby

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colebabey888 · 8 months ago

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Organize Your Life with Tips for a Stylish, Productive Space | IT GIRL DIARIES

In today's fast-paced world, staying organized and productive while keeping a stylish space is essential. Creating an environment that feels fresh, clean, and aesthetically pleasing can boost motivation and mental clarity.

Here's how you can organize your life and space like an "IT girl" to keep your productivity on point :

1. Keep It Clean and Clutter-free 🫧🧼

A clutter-free space reflects a clutter-free mind. Dedicate time each week to tidying up your environment. Pay special attention to your bed and work areas, where you spend the most time. Clean pillows regularly to promote good skin and hair health. A clean space not only looks chic but also fosters a sense of calm and order.

2. Incorporate Fresh and Greenery 🍏🪴

Fresh air and greenery can transform any room. Consider adding indoor plants or fresh flowers to your living space. If you’re into healthy habits, you can even take it further by preparing a daily green juice with spinach, kale, cucumber, and other vibrant ingredients to match the aesthetic! This not only adds color but helps maintain a healthy body and mind.

3. Stylish Organization Tools 📖📕

Invest in minimalistic, stylish storage solutions—think sleek organizers, chic bins, or gold-accented trays. Everything should have its place, from your skincare products to supplements like magnesium and zinc. Neat storage keeps your space looking polished and makes it easier to find everything you need.

4. Create a Wellness Corner 🧖🏽‍♀️

Set up a small area for your self-care routine. This could include your skincare products, supplements, a diffuser, and even a cozy chair for relaxing. This space can help you stay on top of your health habits, like drinking hot lemon water in the morning or taking your daily zinc and ashwagandha for stress relief.

5. Stay Hydrated and Energized 💧

Stylish glass water bottles or tumblers not only keep you hydrated but also serve as chic desk accessories. Infuse your water with lemon or fruit for added variety, and always keep it within reach while you work. Hydration is key to staying energized and productive throughout the day.

6. Incorporate a Fitness Routine🏋️

Your space should encourage movement and wellness. Keep a section free for indoor workouts like cycling or skipping, which you can do even if you're busy. A stylish yoga mat or exercise equipment can blend into your decor while reminding you to stay active.

7. Aesthetic Motivation

Use wall art, vision boards, or inspirational quotes that reflect your goals. Choose colors and designs that align with your personal style to keep your space motivating. Keeping your goals visible can help you stay productive, whether it's maintaining your fitness routine or sticking to a clean eating plan.

____

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elikajinnie · 6 months ago

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I Let The World Burn For You - N.R

P: Serial Killer!Ni-ki X Fem!Reader

Warnings: Graphic Descriptions, Murder, Manipulation, Attempted Murder, Injury/Blood, Teasing, Angst, Obsessive Behaviour, Bullying, Mind Games, Ni-ki is a nerd.

Synopsis: You’ve always loved crime shows, captivated by the mystery and mind games, but you never expected to live in one. When a killer develops an unsettling obsession with you, you’re thrust into a deadly game where you’re not just a target—you’re the centerpiece.

note! i have just finished 1/2 exams and i got a shining A+ (thanks to the allnighters) so i finally got more time to write :) requested by @totallynotj3zz

READ THE TEASER BELOW

Read part 1 and 2 at the end

You stumble down the creaking, narrow staircase, your breath coming in ragged gasps as panic claws at your chest. Tears blur your vision, streaking your face as the blood on your trembling hands smears across the banister. You don’t dare look back. You can’t.

Above you, his voice echoes through the decaying walls, low and mocking, sending chills down your spine.

“Run all you want,” he calls, his tone light, almost playful. “You know I’ll catch you.”

Your foot catches on a loose board, nearly sending you sprawling, but you grip the railing and push yourself forward. His words follow you, slithering into your ears like poison.

“You can’t hide from me. You know that, don’t you? I’ll always find you. Always.”

The air is heavy with the smell of dust and mildew, but it does nothing to muffle his voice.

“You and that little curiosity of yours,” he sneers, his footsteps steady and unhurried. “That’s what got you into this mess. You wanted to see what was behind the curtain, didn’t you?”

Your heart pounds in your chest, your legs screaming in protest as you take the steps two at a time.

“No one else deserves you,” he continues, his voice dipping into something darker, more possessive. “Only me. And if I can’t have you…”

You swallow back a sob as his words twist, their meaning sharp as a blade.

“…then no one can.”

Your foot hits the landing, and you dart into the next corridor, the peeling wallpaper and flickering lights a blur around you. Still, his voice lingers, wrapping around you like a noose.

“You’ll be mine in the end. You know it. Why keep running, darling? Why deny the inevitable?”

You bite down on your lip to stifle the cry threatening to escape. The hallway stretches endlessly before you, and the sound of his steps—slow, deliberate—echoes closer, as if he’s right behind you.

Your chest burns as you push forward, forcing your legs to move despite the overwhelming ache. The hallway feels endless, the dim, flickering lights above casting warped shadows that seem to close in on you. Each creak of the floorboards behind you makes your heart skip a beat, his taunting voice dripping into your ears like acid.

“You can’t run forever,” he hums, his tone like a lullaby meant to unsettle. “Every step you take just brings you closer to me. Don’t you see? This is fate. You were made for me.”

A sob escapes you before you can stifle it, your body betraying the terror that threatens to consume you whole. You glance frantically over your shoulder, but the staircase behind you is empty. He isn’t there, and yet his voice sounds as if it’s just over your shoulder, like he’s breathing down your neck.

You shove open a door at the end of the hall, the old wood groaning on its hinges as you stumble into what looks like a storage room. Rusted tools hang on the walls, their edges sharp and unforgiving, glinting faintly in the pale light from a single bare bulb swaying overhead. Your breath catches as you scan the room, desperately searching for a way out.

“There you go,” he purrs, his voice impossibly close now, like he’s whispering directly into your ear. “Hide, if it makes you feel safer. I like when you play hard to get. It makes it so much sweeter when I finally catch you.”

You slam the door shut and lock it, your shaking hands fumbling with the rusted bolt. The sound of his footsteps grows louder, heavier now, deliberate in their approach. You back away from the door, your eyes darting around the room. The windows are boarded up, thick planks of wood nailed across the frames, no hope of escape.

Your breathing is shallow, uneven. Your hands curl into fists, fingernails biting into your palms as you try to will yourself to think. Focus. Focus.

Then, silence.

The footsteps stop. His voice is gone.

Your heart pounds in the stillness, the quiet almost worse than his taunts. You strain your ears, listening for anything—any sign of movement, any sound that could tell you where he is. But there’s nothing.

A soft knock on the door shatters the quiet, making you jump back with a gasp.

“Are you scared?” he asks, his voice calm now, almost tender. “You don’t need to be. I’ll take care of you. I’ll make this quick.”

The doorknob jiggles. Once. Twice. Then, a violent bang as he slams against the door, rattling the frame.

You scramble backward, your hands blindly reaching for anything, and they land on something cold and solid—a wrench, heavy and covered in dust.

Another bang. The bolt starts to bend under the pressure.

“I’m coming in, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his voice filled with a sickening glee. “Let’s end this little game, shall we?”

The door bursts open, and there he is, silhouetted against the dim light of the hallway, his figure towering, his shadow stretching across the floor like it’s ready to swallow you whole.

But you’re ready this time. Your grip tightens on the wrench, and as he steps into the room, you swing.

Read the request here

Read part 1 here and part 2 here

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dadsbongos · 9 months ago

Text

dungeon meshi gave me an excuse to write clone porn

2.6 k words / warnings - readers have boobs and vagina, oral (laios + reader receiving), thigh fucking, porn without plot like none at all, not proofread + written while sleep deprived

summary - on your honeymoon, you and laios have a special kind of shapeshifter encounter

~~~

“Who keeps two towels in the whole house?” you grumble, pulling on the shoes you’d kicked off just minutes ago.

“Like I said, they probably keep some in the shed,” Laios is directly behind you, shoes on and wired to step outside, “Vacation houses out here are rare, but their sheds are more useful for storage than farming tools.”

“Still, did they not think to prepare a little more?” your frustration is not so easily tempered, “They knew a king was coming, didn’t they?”

“I’m sure they did,” Laios opens the front door for you, ushering you outside, “Marcille seemed pretty sure she set this up nicely for us. It’s just a short walk around the back, I could go by myself if you want to finish showering?”

His suggestion makes you sigh, you shake your head, huddling closer to him as chilled wind scathes your damp skin, “I’m just annoyed, it’s nothing for me to be so hostile about… Sorry for losing my mind.”

“I don’t mind,” he smooches the crown of your head and ventures around the house. You chase after, having to keep a hand dragging along the wall to avoid tripping.

“Laios!” you wail, unable to make him out with gray clogging your whole vision, “Laios!”

“Yeah?” you slam into his chest, letting out a muted ‘oomf!’ at the impact.

“It’s so foggy out here,” you grumble.

“It is, guess I forgot how terrible it could be.”

“Dunno how you could forget anything like this.”

Laios groans in irritation at the weather, blindly reaching out until he’s got a hand on your shoulder. Once he’s certain of your position, he reaches out again, “Here, take my hand, I don’t want you to get separated from me.”

You take the hand extended and let Laios tug you towards the shed. By the time you’re inside and the hanging overhead lantern is lit, a sudden discovery is made.

There are two extra bodies among you. You hold one Laios, and the Laios across from you holds the hand of your copy.

A gasp echoes through the room, distinctly Laios-like in passion.

Seems a monster has crossed your paths.

One Laios is taller, a mere two inches, and you think if you really stare that same Laios’ chest is slightly bigger too. He’s also smiling, beaming really, right off the bat while the second Laios’ excitement is more contained to shaking hands and meek giggles. To be fair to both, they thought they’d never see a monster again so you let the strange giddy slide.

However, your duplicate is scary in how precisely Laios remembers you. Your hair is a bit bouncier and lips more glossy than current, but she’s undeniably accurate. Its legs, the swell of its breasts, the mold of its waist -- almost as though you’re gazing through a mirror.

“This would probably be easier if it wasn’t just us,” you think aloud, looking at the two Laioses only to see them poking and prodding at one another.

“They don’t seem too keen on figuring out which is which,” your copy mumbles, earning a glare from you.

“It’s a shapeshifter!” the slightly shorter Laios (who you’re now electing to dub Laios A) shouts, “I haven’t seen one of these in forever! I thought I never would again!”

The other one, Laios B, nods and yanks Laios A’s hair experimentally, then groping his bicep, “It really feels just like I do! Soft, but firm skin and the hair texture’s exactly right!”

As if thinking in sync, the pair slowly turn towards the yous. Four hands turn unto you both to squeeze and roll down the planes of your body. Or, bodies, considering they’re petting down your copy as well.

“Practically identical!” Laios A squeals, kissing your cheek then your copy’s, “Even the plumpness of their cheeks feel the same!”

“Glad you’re having fun,” your dupe cuts in, “but shouldn’t we try getting rid of the fakes before they get rid of us?”

Oh, that little wench.

“Let Laios have fun,” you smack its arm, “You should know this is rare for him now.”

“That attitude’s terrible! He could die if we keep messing around!” it glares at you with an accusatory finger-wag, “I bet you want us to waste time, you fake!”

“You’re the fake, you fake!”

Laios A has to restrain you with both arms around your waist -- while Laios B does the same for your shifter -- to prevent you from knocking a fist into its stupid, fake face.

“There’s gotta be a way to figure out which ones the real one without breaking into fights,” Laios B fusses, hugging the shifter tighter to soothe her. Which, in turn, only agitates you more because what if that Laios is the real one, and he’s in horrible danger holding that monster?!

“We can’t just cut ourselves open,” Laios A’s chest reverberates at your back, then his hand skims down the front of your stomach, fingertips dipping just beneath your waistband, “But maybe we could tell each other’s behaviors apart some other way…”

“Oh, so it’s like that?” you tilt your head back to stare up at Laios A.

He nods, terminally serious despite the pinkish hue trailing from his cheeks to his neck, “It’s like that,” he then darts his eyes between you and your copy, “Can we?”

The real question seems to be: can you two get along for now?

Are you so devoted to Laios that you’re willing to play nice with something so grating?

You sigh and reach up to cup Laios A’s cheek, “Yeah, we can.”

Both Laioses rush to undo the tie of their trousers, only to be stopped by you and your copy -- the two of you falling onto your knees, creeping hands under Laios’ shirt and beneath his pants.

Yanking the soft material down to unveil thick thighs, Laios A above you gasps quietly at the cool air brushing his exposed skin. Your lips climb the meat of his leg, noting that Laios B’s thighs are looking a little rounder. Not that it matters, you’ll gladly bite and suck both.

Fingers dancing along the apple of your cheek redirect your attention, Laios A’s face tinged crimson. You smooch the bone of his hip, nails scaling along the back of his thighs to pull him closer. Beside your face, his cock hardens, color deepening towards his mushroom tip; he keens for more attention, unintentionally smearing leaky precum over your face as his erection twitches. You smooth a thumb along his underside before chastly pecking the weepy head.

Laios B’s hands strip your copy’s shirt, lifting it to paw at its breasts. He kisses down the column of its neck before reaching out for you as well. Rising onto your feet, you run your hands up Laios B’s back to shirk off his top -- Laios A awkwardly lingering behind your clone. His hands find the waistband of its pants, snaking beneath the lip to plunge into its panties.

You press a kiss to Laios B, he doesn’t turn to return the affection, but you recover quickly by pulling down both you and your duplicate’s bottoms. Laios A’s neck cranes over your copy’s shoulder to snatch your lips for himself. Laios B’s hands warm and calloused from labor as they careen up your waist to rid you of your shirt as well. He sucks a violet array from your shoulder to jaw, grinding his turgid girth between your thighs -- your wetness welcoming him.

Laios A moans at the sight of himself thrusting along your soaked slit, fingers quickening inside your copy until its own slick is rolling towards the floor. While Laios B releases muted groans and puffs into your ear.

“Need to be inside you,” Laios A whines, kissing your copy’s lips before striding past all three of you towards the center of the room. Laios B and you tilt to watch him.

Laios A quickly flattens his back against the floor, cobblestone acclimating to his rising body heat, he pulls you down by the waist -- then beckoning your copy via wave. One of his hands cradles your waist while the other smoothes along your copy’s thigh. Silently urging it to kneel over his face, all while his twitching cock bobs toward the apex of your thighs.

“Want to know if here’s the same, too,” Laios A murmurs into your dupe’s thighs, sharply jerking his hips towards yours.

Suddenly, large hands are burrowing into the thicket of your hair, swerving your eyes to Laios B. Your tongue lulls in time with your copy, lips brushing hers around the base of Laios B’s flushed head. Needily, he mushes your faces together, thrusting between the wet cavern of your mouths. Hands just as soft as yours slither beneath you to work Laios A inside you. Laios A snaps his knees up, feet on the floor, to aid your copy’s effort. His hips buck up, punching air from your chest as he pops into your hole.

A louder mewl slithers past your copy’s lips, Laios A’s tongue lathering its slit before pausing at its clit, bathing the bud in extra attention. His thumbs splay it open just for easier access to tongue-fuck. Meanwhile, your sleepy bouncing rhythm is interrupted by abrupt, sharp humping throwing you off balance. The only reason you don’t fall over is Laios B stubbornly holds your head still, fucking the sodden gap between yours and your clone’s faces; otherwise leaving you to your own devices. You manage to catch yourself on Laios A’s chest, firm muscles flexing beneath your palms with his throaty hums and whimpers of pleasure.

Your tongue clashes with your clone’s -- soft and wet and warm.

Pulling both your heads back, Laios B rearranges you so your clone is left squealing around his balls while he slaps the meaty weight of his cock on your tongue. Sliding toward the back of your throat, his face flushes as he hungrily coaxes your head further down. Until your molten cheeks meet the protrusions of his pelvic bones.

A hand bigger than yours (though smaller than the one in your hair) rests on your flexing tummy, pressing against the bulging evidence of which Laios is inside you. Laios A groans at the feeling, and you quickly fumble your hand over his, pressing harder with a delighted gasp that ends in a gag and choke. Their sizes are indecipherable, and if the mood were different you could almost be ashamed by how perverted it makes you seem.

Laios B throws his head back as your throat spasms around his tip, lip cinched between his teeth and brows furrowed. He forces your head side-to-side, reveling in the bend of your muscles shifting to accommodate his dick. Laios A, however, stretches his hand (a little uncomfortably) so his thumb can swish messily against your clit. Your volume grows, quickly overpowering both Laios B and your own duplicate. Spurring Laios A to hasten, jostling you with his powerful drilling paired with stimulating your clit.

The other hand of Laios A has found one of your clone’s tits, squeezing and padding the nipple with his thumb. She’s grinding down against his nose, hips jumping and muffled mewls just barely scratching past its lips into the sensitive sack of Laios B’s balls. Spit gurgling down its chin, drying against its breasts and Laios A’s hand.

Drool steadily pools at the pucker of your own lips, pushed out everytime B shoves in -- saliva splatters his hips, dripping down his thighs and soaking his base as well as your entire lower face. The quicker he fucks your face, the sloppier and wetter it gets. Which is certainly in character for Laios.

But so is the way the one on his back is staving off his burgeoning orgasm to make sure (both of) you finish first. Something he always tries.

Laios A’s hips snap up firmly, crooking up into you midair, deep as possible to ensure all his cum is milked by your cunt. He moans into your clone’s cunt, now content to let his tongue hang out as it fucks his face -- his hand still squishing its tit.

Yet something he always fails.

Laios usually cums before you, but he’s also got the stamina to soldier on until you drop.

Determined, Laios swirls your clit, fevered thrusts slowing to meet your bouncing on his cock. Another slush of saliva oozes past your lips, lubing the shapeshifter as you cry around its erection. Laios fucks you through your orgasm, evidently loving how cum spews from your weeping cunt -- leaking down his cock, over his nuts, and spilling onto the cobblestone below.

Faux Laios spits cum down your throat with a few final aggressive jerks. Your clone is the last, and the quietest, shy huffs scarcely audible between skin on skin and both you and Laios’ noisy crooning.

The shapeshifters tumble off, thoroughly exhausted, and you fare no better collapsing into Laios’ chest. He leisurely jabs the last of your energy from you before pulling out altogether. Sweetly pecking your forehead, Laios murmurs something you don’t quite catch before he rises -- still naked -- to drive off the imposters.

Snagging both by the back of their necks, Laios herds the pair towards the back wall, then scooping you up to carry towards the main house. Once your doppelgangers are locked outside, Laios can focus on getting you in bed.

You pinch the juncture of his neck, yawning into his chest, “Clothes…”

“I know, I know,” he slumps against the door upon getting inside, laying his head over yours -- eyes fluttering with drowsiness as soon as he crosses into the master bed, “I’ll go back when the shapeshifter’s dealt with. You brought more clothes, right?”

You nod clumsily. Then peek at him through heavy lashes, “How do you know I’m the right one anyway?”

(you trust him to know which you was which, you just want him to bask in this)

Laios grins, visibly excited to share as he slips you beneath the sheets, “You’re always loud when we have sex, so I knew the version of you trying to be quiet couldn’t be it. And it was too shy about sitting on my face -- we’ve been together a while so you should be used to it by now,” his expression grows somehow brighter before disappearing from your sight, voice lively from the bathroom, “Could you tell which me was me?”

“Mhm,” you wait for him to return with a damp washcloth before mumbling your own reasoning, “The other one was too rough, kept shovin’ my head. And he never kissed me,” you fling a hand out, and Laios moves his head so your palm lands on his cheek, “Which was very unlike you.”

“You’re so smart,” he muses, shifting to kiss your palm before lacing his free hand with yours and retucking it in bed so he can properly clean the mixed cum between your thighs. Then, suddenly, he’s frowning.

“Aw, what’s wrong?”

“This might actually be my last time seeing a monster, unless it's a corpse Izutsumi brings me…”

“Poor baby,” you’ll never understand his fascination -- monsters are deadly and terrible and most are ugly as sin, but you’re useless to denying Laios anything so you always indulge him, “You could sing me the mermaids’ song, would that help you feel better?”

Laios sits up straighter, finishing cleaning you off, “Can I sing to the end? I never get to finish it.”

“Of course, you can.”

Quiet, hysterical giggles leave Laios’ mouth as he slides into bed beside you, hugging you into his chest before clearing his throat to begin singing.

(you have to keep pinching yourself awake to actually let Laios finish the song before falling asleep, but his grateful little kisses on your hairline are enough thanks)

#laios touden x reader #laios touden smut #laios x reader #laios smut #dungeon meshi x reader

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merakiui · 1 month ago

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ouuuh my god hi i don't send messages in, ever, but that nerd azul thing got to me. imagine he catches on to the fact that you're only dating him because of his dick– it hurts his feelings and ego a bit, yes, but if it means he gets to have you, then of course he'll use the tools at his disposal to keep you close. you 'come to your senses' at some point and feel bad for stringing him along like this... so you're going to break up with him, but before you can get the words out, he whisks you away to some empty classroom or cramped storage closet to remind you why you love him so much. hope you didn't have anything else planned for your lunch period. 🫶 when he isn't dicking you down, he's love-bombing you and buying you expensive gifts and giving you a million other reasons to stay with him!!!!

Omg yes,,, dragging you into the storage closet and you keep trying to protest: “Azul, wait. Hold on. What’s going on? Wait just a minute! Let me… Let me speak!” all while he’s hurrying to tug your skirt/trousers down and drag your underwear aside. Hands grasping at your uniform blouse to roughly pull it open to expose your chest.

“Seriously, wait! I’m trying to—Azul, I need to have a conversation with you. It’s important.” But he’s not listening, pushing you up against the wall and holding tight to your hips when he bottoms out, and it knocks all the air from your lungs. You collapse against the wall, crying out in between confusion and pleasure. What’s gotten into him? You’re trying to break up with him, not have filthy sex in this dark space!!! >_<

It’s so hard to think when he’s teasing all your sensitive spots. He settles into a quick pace and all you can think about is dick and begging him to cum inside. You hate being addicted to his dumb dick!!!! It’s not fair. You want to break up, but now that conversation falls apart the minute he’s holding you close so he can cum as deeply inside you as possible, his mouth at your neck to kiss and bite possessively. And your brain blanks out completely when you climax, moaning like you’re in heat. It’s no good. You’ll try again another day…

But then that next day he’s spoiling you and lavishing you with so much love and expensive things that you can hardly say no. It’s impossible to break up with him now… you’re in too deep.

#twisted chit chat #n/sfw #tw: dubcon

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simp-ly-writes · 3 months ago

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The Master

─────── · · For All Time: The Series (pt.2)

─ · · PAIRING: 10th Doctor x F!Time Lord!Reader, 10th Doctor x Rose Tyler

─ · · SUMMARY: You are experiencing Heartbreak, a medical term for Time Lords and other long-living beings after a Soul Bond has been broken. So lost in your wallowing and left stranded in a sea of memories you become startled when a face from your past comes to the present.

─ · · TAGS: female pronouns used, second person perspective, canon divergence, soulmate au, emotional angst, depictions of anxiety attacks, coarse language, eventual happy ending (but not yet), not beta read.

─ · · A/N: 🗣️ LORE!- in today's chapter

─────── · ·

You sat in your TARDIS somewhere on the edge of the universe, where you observed a supernova spreading its way across the abyss of space. A thousand coloured gases blurred and blended into a forbidden palette in which you feasted your eyes upon, temporarily distracting you from the dull ache still rumbling in your chest.

The TARDIS hummed a sad, soft tune, rumbling gently at your feet as you paced up and down the halls, kicking at invisible stones before glaring at a speck on the wall. You were upset that you waited this long for him only to be paid back with what could be considered a slap to the face in the form of Rose Tyler. Younger, prettier, more charming… Sure, you considered her a lovely girl and it was silly of you to wait centuries for a man but the Doctor was no ordinary person, no, he was something extraordinary that made you feel more alive… and yet you felt dead as ever when a mere moments ago you could’ve seen him.

A part of you wondered what would have happened if you stayed… if he would greet you friend or foe, with a hug or a kiss to the temple like he used to, but that was something you’d never know for the rest of your long existence. If he’s happy with her then I won’t come in between the two of them, you remind yourself with a heavy sigh, If he’s happier with her…

You shouldn’t feel so bitter but how could you not? How could I not… you shake your head of these thoughts, trying to find your inner resolve once again as you make your way to the console room and check your flight data before tinkering and performing some general maintenance that soon turns into deep cleaning as you tunnel vision on the task, removing anything and everything that reminded you of the Doctor and placing the boxes into deep storage.

You don’t know if it had been hours, days, or years once you stopped, hair pointing in all directions atop your head, brow covered in a line of sweat that you try to wipe off while catching your breath. You think back to the Doctor whilst leaning against a railing, how good he would look maintaining his TARDIS, smirking up at you with every tool you passed him, a single strand of hair dipping across his forehead that your fingers ached to brush away- stop it! You commanded your brain, hitting your palm against your forehead repeatedly.

You cannot be some desperate ex, (name), you are not some desperate ex, you tell yourself like a mantra before heading to the showers and allowing the warm water to cover your skin as you hold yourself underneath the showerhead. Just because you bonded your souls together does not mean what you had was forever.

Lathering yourself in your favourite soap and moisturizing afterwards you take off to the library in a simple bathrobe and slippers in search of a story to distance yourself with but before you can even make it halfway, the Tardis suddenly rumbled before you heard a loud BANG! And you were falling against a wall clenching on a door frame to keep yourself somewhat upright. I just can’t catch a break now, can I? You thought to yourself, waiting an additional moment after the TARDIS stills again before standing straight and heading back towards the console room.

THE DOOR, THE DOOR! The TARDIS screams in your head as you quicken your pace, turning another corner to find the door wide open, space and stars clearly in view before becoming overshadowed by a TARDIS and a… dress shoe? What? You blink and rub your eyes, thinking yourself to either be going mad or tired in your current state. A voice calls down from the stairs that you can’t recognize but it must have been serious to find and catch me way out here.

“Is there a little lady in there?” you freeze, and they know my name atop of all that. You slowly peer up the steps, eyes trailing from a black leather shoe up to a matching black suit, white shirt and the smiling face of a man that you don’t recognize.

“Don’t tell me you don’t remember who I am. You mustn’t insult me that much when welcoming me into your home,” their smile does not falter, only growing as you grow more concerned by their forwardness and by how they tower over you once descending the stairs, standing above you on the last step.

You flinch at their sudden touch, their hand grips your jaw, caressing your cheek as you shiver and groan in pain, the aftermath of your soul-bond heartbreak still lingering in your system. You blink up at them, not wanting to seemingly offend the intruder anymore but silently demand for their name.

“It's me, the Master,” they deadpan, dropping your face and shoving you aside, the contrast of emotions has your head spinning as you race to close the door before carrying on after them.

“It cannot be… how’re you alive?” you gasp trying to solve the riddle in your head before suddenly remembering all those times you fell asleep on this very man’s shoulder while back at the Time Lord Academy or how he would always sweep you away to distant planets when you were in a mood. You remember how he sat at the front of your and the Doctors wedding, felt his stare throughout the entire night, and then… nothing well, nothing until now.

You stare at him more closely, walking up with caution as you raise your hand, tracing over his shoulder before gesturing to him to lean down further, you bite your lip to hide the bittersweet remembrance of the mischief that never seemed to leave his eyes since you were both young.

“I have my ways,” the Master laughs, nose scrunched at you in a teasing motion as you roll your eyes in reply, “of course, I should have known better than to ask.”

“That you should, know better,” he replies, you sense that even in the humor-cladded tone there is a degree of underlying seriousness to his words that have you looking down at your feet, wincing slightly at your appearance once seeing you only had one slipper on and were in fact, still in just your bathrobe.

“I heard you and the Doctor had a run-in, so-to-speak,” the Master continues talking as he taps his shoe near your feet, “don’t be embarrassed by your appearance, you still look as beautiful as the last time I saw you.”

You take a step back, once again confused by the duality of the Time Lord before you seemingly having two different conversations at once. “I don’t think I’m following… and how did you know about that?”

“What do you think my answers going to be?” the Master tuts, “we did just go over that material and I’ve seen you covered in mud during the ancient olympic games back in our 100s, or did you forget that too?”

“You have your ways?” you scoff, trying to use attitude to cover your blush of the memory of your more… wild days, “and to think I missed you and this ego and attitude of yours.”

“You missed me?” the Master coos, “I missed you too oddly enough. You should be honoured I temporarily stopped all my scheming at the mention of your name.”

“Consider me flattered then,” your tone flat yet eyes sparkling with humour that the Master does not miss instead lacing his arm around your own and leading you towards the library where you take seats across from one another.

“Now you didn’t answer my earlier question, how did your meeting with the Doctor go?” the Master asks again, taking a long drink of the tea you prepared for yourself earlier. You watch as he downs the cup fully before pouring himself another, casting you a wink partway and humming at the taste, awaiting your answer while leaning back.

“I ran away before I could meet him, I…” you pause, looking down at your hands, “...I thought I was the only one, that I was losing my mind still feeling him after all these regenerations since the Time Wars and yet,” you grit your teeth, “I- nevermind.” You reach across the table to fill your cup, grabbing a digestive along the way to dip in your tea.

“And yet he moved on, right? Got with that Rose girl, killed a few thousand species in order to ‘save others’ and forgot all about you… know that I never did, not for a moment. Trust me, I looked everywhere for you for at least a century,” the Master stares at you, every word spoken earnestly, not a spec of mischief to be seen within his irises.

Your lip quivers as you wrap your arms around yourself, nodding slowly. You both sit there for a moment and you are thankful that the Master is giving you time to process his words before you whisper, “Thank you for missing me… I’ve missed you too, old friend. It’s nice knowing someone else is out there in the abyss.” Your cold skin warms slightly upon seeing the first truthful smile from him of the night, it’s small and toothless, eyes squinted gently as he breathes softly through his nose.

“Space has been boring without you somewhere in it,” he murmurs, reaching over to refill your cup with what was left of the kettle. He sits forward, elbows resting on knees, head in hands as he simply observes you. “What?” you move your head from side to side watching as his gaze follows.

He shrugs, keeping his position and lingering stare, “just reminiscing.”

“About what?” you press, taking a sip from your cup.

“About all that was, about what could have been and what’s happened,” he lets out a long sigh, eyes cast aside and over your shoulder before continuing, “do you plan on ever talking to the Doctor?”

You pause mid-sip, slowly setting your cup down in your lap, “not for awhile at least. I think I need to do some work on myself before I try to speak with him.”

The Master nods, that small smile spreading yet eyes remaining distant, a cold draft suddenly surrounds the space making you shiver in your seat. “Good, you were always the wise one.”

You both sit in silence after his comment as you start picking at the fluffs on your bathrobe and counting the books across the shelves before the Master speaks up once more, “may I offer some parting words” You raise a brow, staying silent allowing him to continue, watching as he stands, stretching before adjusting his coat and tie- walking towards the door.

“I’m not a good man, I never plan on being one, but I am an honest one in admitting this to you, that is what makes the Doctor and I different from one another. He will always promise to do better, he’ll fix one thing and ruin ten others…he will ruin others while claiming good intentions. But you already know that… don’t you?”

The Master does not wait for your response as you hear the door closing behind himself, his footsteps trailing away and down before silence greets you like another old friend, sitting with you, sipping tea until it goes cold with time.

You wanted nothing more than to stand, run after and defend the Doctor, the man that you knew to be outspoken in the face of injustice and serve kindness, but this was the same man that broke your heart- almost killing you in the process. You did not know who the Doctor was anymore, you shouldn’t claim to know after centuries of separation. For the person you knew yourself to be then, happiest in the presence of the Doctor, was long gone and it only took until now to realize that you had to be a new Lady without their Doctor.

─────── · ·

“But you failed to listen here, didn’t you?” Rose stated, poking at the Doctor's chest. In her own pain she was feeling she failed to realize just how deeply the Doctor was hurting as he shoved her away, clutching at his shirt while heaving, coughing and choking on air.

Rose started back and into the console, he’s having the same reaction as her… why… how? Rose thought to herself. “Don’t touch me, please, it-” a sharp intake of air, his knuckles white as he grips a rail, “-it hurts. Feels like an ice-cold burn,” the Doctor explains his actions while hunched over himself.

Rose can hear the unshed tears in his vocals, he appears raw- feral even in pain, twitching at the lightest brush of air. Rose opens and closes her mouth, at a loss for words in having never seen her Doctor this way. “Is there anything I can do to help? What’s going on Doctor, I’m scared for you,” Rose whispers, taking a half-step forwards.

The Doctor does not respond. “I could get you some water? How about a snack? Blanket?” Rose rattles off a list of answers for him to nod to yet receives no answer again. She sees how tightly his jaw is clenched and swears to hear a tooth crack at the force. “Doctor?” she calls out again, taking another half-step forward before the Doctor quickly extends his arms forwards, keeping her at a distance. “Don’t. I’m fine. Just need a moment-”

“You said that ten minutes ago and you’re still like this! Just tell me what's wrong, let me help you, please!” Rose begs, her own eyes starting to burn.

“I’m going through a heartbreak,” the Doctor whispers before choking back a sob that lets way to the floodgates from speaking the words into a reality he thought he’d never have to face.

“I’ve gone through many of those, I know they hurt but pain is only temporary, I’m sure that-” Rose starts trying to console the Time Lord, crouching down further to make herself appear even smaller and sitting on the floor, back against a panel of the console before getting cut off, “no, this is not what you humans have, it's a medical condition, a state for us when we,” the Doctor hesitates to continue, he does not want to admit the truth, “...when we break a Soul Bond. Potentially deadly but mine was already weak- hurts like hell nevertheless.”

“A Soul Bond?” Rose tests the term on her tongue, “what's that?”

The Doctor manages to chuckle at her genuine curiosity breaking through the tension of this moment. He opens his eyes, blinking quickly to readjust to the lighting as the wave of pain has lessened. “For us Time Lords and other long-living beings it's like a more official marriage.”

“Oh, so… is there like some spell you recite or…?” Rose presses, catching the Doctor's eye as a weak smile spreads across his face. “Not entirely but you can say vows during it… It's a rather…” Rose blinks, eyes in disbelief at the fiery blush that starts appearing on the Doctor's ears before trailing down his neck, “...intimate ceremony where you bond your essences together.” The Doctor coughs before loosening his tie.

“Oh…” Rose starts to blush as well, lips pushed inwards and eyebrows raised. “Yeah,” the Doctor murmurs before sniffling. “So you and Lady…” Rose trails off hoping that the Doctor would pick up and clarify her words.

The Doctor stares at Rose, holding her stare for a moment, “yes, she was my partner for over 50 years before we committed to the bond. Before that we grew up together and attended the same Time Lord Academy. She focused her studies on other-planetary relations and texts throughout time while I studied stellar engineering and general history.”

Rose laughs, “general history? For an alien I thought your subjects would be more, well, alien, you know?” The Doctor joins her laughter while also taking a seat on the TARDIS’s metal floors within the console room.

“I’ll have you know that history is something all should learn no matter species or age, it's valuable to any and all,” The Doctor explains while pointing a finger forwards, wiggling it around in Rose’s face. Rose smiles widely while shaking her head at his actions, “but 50 years… wow.”

“That was just before we completed our bond, before the Time Wars sparked again we were together for almost one hundred years,” The Doctor's smile slowly slides off his face again, fingers tapping against the metal plates of the floor.

Rose takes a large gulp, she would never live long enough to ever experience something like that and in some way, it made her feel inferior to you even when she was the one currently sitting in front of the Doctor just within reach.

“Soul Bonds are meant to be a for-life thing, it's a reason why not many in my kind completed theirs. You give something a piece of your soul, never to return but trust in the other to keep it safe.”

“So you’re now missing a part of your existence… forever?” Rose asks.

The Doctor nods, head hung low, “forever and then some if we don’t reform the bond.”

“So if your bond was still fresh or strong, what would happen then?” Rose bites her lip, knowing that she shouldn’t have asked such a question but her interest in the subject matter grows with each silver of information the Doctor feeds her.

“I’d be dead,” the Doctor’s tone cold, “it’d be like I never existed in the first place.” He suddenly stands before flicking a switch and inputting a time and place, “How about a visit to your mum? I’m sure she’s missing you.” Rose looks up at the Doctor, watching as he focuses on his calculations, hands working subconsciously and at a rapid pace across the work surface.

─────── · ·

PART T ONE | PART THREE | PART FOUR

─ · · A/N: apologies for the lore dump but its what had to be done!

─ · · FOR ALL TIME TAGLIST: @posionapple24 @azriel64290 @smallerontheoutside @soniiyi @spirit-of-the-hollow @f0x33

#fanfic #fanfiction #simp-ly #simp-ly-writes #x reader #doctor who #doctor who fanfic #tenth doctor #10th doctor #doctor who fanfiction #doctor x reader #10th doctor x reader #doctor who x reader #tenth doctor x reader #david tennant x reader #for all time

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jweekgoji · 3 months ago

Note

Hi hi, I have a request, it's a TF one nsfw, I thought a Orion x Femme reader x D-16

I came up with maybe they're off the mining shift and Orion is with reader in a storage closet and they fragging and D-16 walks in looking for Orion or idk 😭and Orion offers him to join and they ravage reader

Orion Pax/Reader/D-16

tags: NSF///W (minors, don't read), slight voyeurism, threesome, dirty talk, light teasing, deep penetration, double penetration, m/f/m. additonal: femme!reader, cybertronian!reader, top!Orion Pax, sub!Reader, top!D-16 word count: ~2,9k

How many times have you been in this situation? Hiding in the cramped space of the storage room, nothing but drilling tools in this place...along with you.

Your back hurts so awfully, the lingering sensation down your spine making your circuits whine. After hours of long, hard shifts in the depths of the mines, this is quite the familiar state of every bot you know. Usually, you'd have been lying in the tiny recharge slab that you had a long time ago, but at least you'd get some time off before you'd have to repeat the day's cycle from the beginning in the early morning.

As Orion presses you against the wall, a light, almost barely audible exhale leaves your lips. The bright optics lose their usual light for only a moment. You instinctively arch your back, and the servo wraps itself neatly around your partner's neck.

You definitely need to stop giving in to him. He may not care that he's at the bottom of the promotion list for the umpteenth time, but you definitely don't want to repeat his fate!

That's why you, as an honorable and responsible worker, are definitely not going to give in to your less rational blue-and-red companion, and.... so now you let him get on with it.

Orion's servo rests gently on your waist, slowly sliding down every tiny detail of your back until it finally stops on the smooth surface of the aft.

It is so hard to keep himself away from you all day long, constantly listening to Darkwing's complaints or rude comments. There aren't many things in the life of an ordinary miner that can bring him as much pleasure as being with you. Surely, there were occasional sneaking out into the archives, some arcade game sessions with his best friend, but can all of that really compare to being so close to the one person you cherish so much?

Supporting your weight with his own, strong servos, Orion pressed you only closer to himself, nestling between your thighs, as you wrapped your legs around his waist.

Better, much, much better now.

That cocky little smirk always plastered on his faceplate. Whenever you two are together, there is rarely a moment where he actually tries to act serious around you. It takes a soothing effect on you in some way. Smiling and happy with life, as if you have hope for some bright future in this world.

Noticing your silence, Orion presses his lips lightly against your neck, the contrast of the colder metal against yours, more heated, creating a contrast between the two temperatures. So unfair...! He's barely coaxed you away to finally be alone together, and you're not giving him any attention he wants at all!

You notice those big blue optics looking at you from down below; your lower lip pulled forward, forming that familiar, unsatisfied face. Yes, you've remembered the reason why it's always so hard for you to tell him no. You roll your eyes demonstratively.

“You should cheer up a little,” Orion murmurs against your neck, peppering small kisses down your sensitive throat. “How often do we get to spend time like this?”

You tilt your head to the side only slightly in response, raising your optical ridge as your lips were pressed in a thin line. Is he serious now?

For a brief moment, Orion flaps his optics silently, the awkward pause between you causing him to smile awkwardly. “Okay, often, but my point still stands!”

Quietly tsking your tongue, your servo reaches down to grab his chin and pull him closer, initiating a kiss. In response, your mr-since-the-last-accident only gives a quiet moan. Trying to relieve the uncomfortable, tight knot down below, feeling his spike pressing against the interface panel, Orion squeezes your hips harder, angling you to grind your own interface panel against his.

His breath hitches, forcing you to break the kiss for a moment. Hips involuntarily canting forward into your touch, trying to coax out a response out of you. This was wrong; you knew it was wrong, probably not the best idea, especially doing it here...but it felt too good to stop.

Your hushed sighs, a soft ‘Orion...!’ music to his audials. If only you could see yourself from the other side. To see how sweetly you try not to make a noise, shivering in his tight embrace, maybe you would finally understand the motive behind his actions.

Crammed into the corner of the room where you were hiding, was the perfect place to finally get his way with you. The one servo on your hip neatly goes up, the rough metal pads of his fingers circle around the middle of your interface panel.

Slumped back against the wall, your metal frame shuddering with the pleasurable ripples of arousal coursing through your inner mechanisms. He tries so hard, always making sure you're really ready and genuinely enjoying every second of your time together. Lightly arching your back into his touch, without too much effort, your interface panel opens.

He can feel your chassis squirming against his own, and it takes every ounce of his willpower not to just take you then and there. But he resists the urge, wanting to make sure you're both fully satisfied before he loses himself completely.

Slowly, he slips two digits inside your valve, already dripping wet, making a honey looking mess between your thighs. You can tell how Orion's optics are already glued to the view, tongue licking the inside of his teeth, already anticipating himself, with his glossa cleaning every inch of you.

The quiet gasp escapes you as Orion's digits find that special spot inside you, drawing more of the sweet huffs of the hot air. He slips a single more finger, feeling the inner walls of your valve fluttering around his digits.

You gently squeeze Orion's shoulder, trying to control your own voice. You almost instinctively move your hips forward to his touch, meeting each thrust of his fingers inside you.

After a brief wait, Orion slowly pulls his fingers out. The optics are confined to his own fingertips, rubbing them one against the other before he slides them into his mouth, tasting you.

Another, quiet, but this time more demanding whimper escapes from you, causing Orion to momentarily pull away from his little moment of fantasy. A light, light blue pollen forming blush appears on his face after the brief realization that you are watching him.

“Yes- right, sorry,” Orion smiles awkwardly, wiping his mouth with the back of his wrist. So distracted by touching you, he's barely focused on his own state of being.

Carefully positioning himself between your legs, Orion's interface panel easily pops open, and if anything, just a mere brush against you would have triggered it to let loose, if you tried. Despite the overwhelming urge to just bury his spike to the halt, he restrains himself enough that with a slow, steady push, Orion begins to ease himself into you.

You tense up slightly, holding your breath for only a moment. The barely noticeable whirring of your coolers fills the room. Your state doesn't escape Orion's gaze, and with a gentle stroke on your back, he tries to reassure you.

“Come on, relax,” he flashes you that heartful smirk, trying to reassure you. “We've been doing this here for a long time and still no one caught-”

Orion's words are suddenly interrupted by the slight hiss of a door opening. And at that moment, everything seemed to freeze around you.

Orion immediately turns his head back to look behind him. You feel his servo gently squeezing your frame, pulling you closer, as if trying to hide from view. It seemed like you'd continue to look at each other like this before...

“Are you two crazy?” D-16 takes a few steps further into the storage room, just enough for the door to close behind him. Great, less chance of bringing someone else into this not at all embarrassing situation. “Couldn't you find a room any better?”

Oh, just a D-16. Just him? At least it's better than bumping into one of the guards.

Orion's iron grip on you visibly relaxes, and instead of a brief panic, a playful smile reappears on his face. Orion playfully rolls his optics in response to the lecture from his friend. Not that this is the first time he's been caught like this. Not that this is the first time his best friend has found him like this.

“It was our only best option,” Orion tries to defend himself, his servo gently moving to your hips, holding you tightly. “Can't blame a bot for trying to blow off some steam here.”

A tired sigh comes from D-16 as he drops his work tool to the floor with a dull thud. “Then learn how to close the door first.”

Now, you immediately turn your gaze in your partner's direction, looking at him with obvious frustration.

“Orion!” you say indignantly. “Again?!”

“I thought I did-” he averts his gaze to the side, unable to look into your optics at the moment.

Wonderful, now both of his dearest people in the world want to kick him. Not that he wasn't used to it...at least not all at once!

“Okay, look,” Orion, sensing you slowly moving away from him in an attempt to maintain some decency, only presses your frame closer to his own. “I know you two are mad at me right now, but, I have an idea!”

This seems to catch the attention of both D-16 and you. Orion's blue optics run between the two of you, as if trying to catch your reactions. Seeing that you are silent and willing to listen, he continues.

"How about we slip off today's shift and instead spend some time over something more enjoyable than a 24-hour shift in the mines? Hmm?" a confident smirk on his face, after voicing his most ingenious solution.

And after a short pause, instead of the expected approval, you only start to argue more. Okay, not quite what was expected...

“Did Elita hit you too hard?”

“Of all the things you could say...”

“I don't understand why I even stayed here.”

Orion and his inability to keep his mouth shut. How could you even suggest such a thing! I mean, you're not even...that close to D-16. Sure, you're as familiar with him as any other miner, and certainly as Orion's partner, you're destined to be the ones pulling the bum out of all sorts of dangers. Of course, you'd be lying if you said you didn't find him at least a little attractive, but that still doesn't give Orion the right to suggest such things. Even if even your seemingly outraged speeches sounded less and less convincing by the second.

“Come on, Dee, don't pretend you've never thought about it, I've known you for more than one cycle,” Orion backs up his words by slapping your ass lightly, making you shudder in his servo. "And I'm sure she doesn’t mind either. Right?"

You look away as if out of shame, but to deny the obvious would be pointless. The traitorous silence from D-16 lets you know everything. Hate to admit it, but Orion's right. Hard to believe it has to be even said.

“If we get caught and demoted because of you, it'll be your fault, Pax,” D-16 mutters unhappily, shooting Orion a stern look. And yet, he quickly shortens the distance between the two of you.

D-16's touch seems rougher. His servos are larger, and he has no difficulty easily supporting your weight in his own servos. Despite this, his actions seem more inexperienced, the pads of his fingers gently stroking the inside of your thighs as if afraid to leave the slightest mark on them.

Orion's servos slide higher, stopping at your waist, giving enough room for his friend to join you. Carefully changing position, now with his back pressed against the cold wall behind him, you are presented before D-16 in all your beauty.

D-16's vibrant yellow optics linger on your body. You notice his optics widening briefly and quickly flicker over every contour of your frame. It's endearing, in a way.

You're used to praise and compliments about your looks from Orion, but something in his look full of admiration says a lot more beyond words.

“Don't stare so much, or you'll just stand like that all day,” Orion teases his friend, nudging him lightly by the shoulder.

“Hey, I'm not staring,” D-16 defends himself, quickly raising his gaze towards the other mech, anxiously trying to prove otherwise.

A quiet chuckle escapes Orion, and he only responds by rolling his optics. As if you can't tell the obvious from one look. His friend is so hopeless, unable to even hide his own feelings for the two of you. Good thing. What kind of best friend would Orion be if he didn't agree to...help?

Pressing you back against D-16's chassis, Orion gently rubs the tip of his spike against your inner walls, sending a pleasant shiver along your back. Primus, with all this going on, you hardly notice. He's still inside you, needing relief. Fortunately, there's no possible distraction at this moment. Not when you're sandwiched between them, with barely enough space to move.

You feel D-16 pushes insistently against your tight entrance from behind, barely wasting any time you have for now until your coworkers will find out about your little trip to the storage rooms.

“Just relax, we'll start slow at the beginning, yeah?” Orion rubs your waist in an attempt to get you to relax, glancing in D-16's direction.

It took a good few seconds for a response before the silver mech behind you could quietly mumble a “...y-yeah,” hiding his face against your shoulder, trying so desperately to contain his own neediness.

Reluctantly, Dee thrusts forward, his hips rocking as he begins to move, before halting his movements, giving both of you some time to adjust.

“Aggh...so tight,” you hear from behind, as D-16's hot, heavy breath fanning against the side of your face. The sensation alone makes you sigh softly, your optics closed tight.

You can feel every twitch, every ridge dragging along your sensitive walls as both mechs carefully slow thrust forward. Orion's servo reaches out to cup your cheek, tilting your helm up to meet his own lips. Another muffled moan escapes you, and you instinctively press closer to Orion, trying not to go crazy with all the sensations you're feeling right now.

D-16's spike, already slick with lubricant, hits that one spot inside you, making you cry out into the kiss, arching your back to meet his movements. Orion slowly pulls away from the kiss, a thin stream of coolant running down his chin.

“Still want to leave, Dee?” Orion holds your face gently, rubbing your bottom lip with his thumb, removing some of the coolant.

In response to this jab, D-16 only utters another groan, and through gritted teeth, snarls back at Orion with a stern, “Just shut up already...!”, causing the latter to smile a little. Primus, and not the slightest ‘thank you’ is expected.

Heeding D-16's advice, Orion bucks his hips, pushing his spike deeper, to join D's. You can practically feel them both halted inside you, the tips of their spikes kissing each other against your stretched inner walls.

“Doing so, so well, love,” Orion praises between his heavy breaths, his grip on your chin tightened just a little, only to tilt your head up, exposing your neck to his lips. A soft, wet kisses and nips paint the sensitive metal of your throat, followed with a quiet murmur of words of encouragement from your lover. “You're the best thing to ever happen to us.”

You have no idea how, by some miracle, no one's heard you yet. You could swear that any bot that could walk past the storage room would probably have heard you long ago. The sickening sounds of metal against metal, the wet squelching of lubricant following along with your moans.

Your breathing becomes noticeably quicker, and judging by the slight shaking and twitches beside you, it's probably safe to say that neither of you will last much longer. You can barely keep your optics open, feeling that even if you closed your optics for a moment, you would hardly have the strength to open them again. The mere sensation of your walls tightening around their spikes was enough to trigger their overload.

Orion's grip on you tightened, holding you flush against him as his hips jerked forward one last time, and a moment later, you feel thick, hot ropes of lubricant coating the small of your back.

None of them seem to have any intention of letting you go at all. Orion's servo is still pressing you gently against him, while Dee is gently cradling you from behind. You rest your head on Orion's chassis, finally finding a quiet moment to rest. Slowly, the heat in your body begins to die down, and quite softly, your systems cool your heated frame.

Okay, maybe out of all Orion's ideas, not all of them are that terrible. But just for today.

Completely unnoticed by you, the doors to the storage room abruptly open, causing the three of you to jump up in surprise. To your great relief or regret, all you see in the doorway is the stern face of your squad leader, Elita One, who has just finished her shift in the mine.

Holding her work equipment at her side, you meet her face with nothing but disapproval and obvious irritation at what she has seen. Frag.

“Learn how to lock the doors,” she points at you, after a short pause. “Disgusting.”

Forget what I said.

#transformers x reader #transformers one x reader #orion pax x reader #optimus prime x reader #d 16 x reader #megatron x reader

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thisapplepielife · 4 months ago

Text

Written for @steddiebingo.

Black Velvet, If You Please

It's tacky. Kitsch. An oversized eyesore.

And it's perfect.

Steve couldn't be more pleased. It's exactly what he envisioned and more when he commissioned it.

He watches the artist carefully wrap it, then with their help, Steve picks up one side of the frame, both of them wrangling it carefully so they don't drop it, and carry it out to the waiting car. Gareth's behind the wheel, engine running, like he's the driver of a getaway car.

He kind of is. Eddie's gonna consider this a crime.

And Steve loves it.

They very carefully place it in the folded down backseat of Gareth's ridiculously huge SUV, which for the first time in history actually came in handy. Steve shakes the artist's hand, and then climbs in the passenger side.

"Well. Let me see it," Gareth says.

"It's wrapped, you can see it when we get it to the house," Steve explains. He's definitely not unwrapping it until they get it home safely.

Gareth mutters, but agrees, and puts the car into drive.

Heist over, bounty secured.

Once it's safely hidden away inside the pool house, Steve gently peels back the brown paper and cardboard that has been protecting it.

Gareth leans forward, as if that'll help him get a better look. It's huge. He could see it from across the lawn.

"Holy shit," Gareth says.

"I know," Steve laughs, delighted.

"It takes talent to craft something so magnificently ugly," Gareth says, and Steve agrees. It's ugly because it's on black velvet. That's kind of its thing. But it's not technically bad, nowhere near. It looks just like Eddie, and cost a pretty penny, but Steve definitely got his money's worth. Because the painting is damn good, and exactly what he commissioned.

But utterly and completely ridiculous.

Eddie — on black velvet.

Christmas is gonna be so good this year.

"Why are you talking all the pictures off the wall?" Eddie asks, laying on the couch, eating popcorn, watching the annual A Christmas Story marathon. He's said he isn't moving today, and Steve is taking advantage of that. Eddie won't ask too many questions, for once in his life. Because if he does, he's scared he'll have to help.

"Gonna dust the frames, maybe change things up," Steve says, clearing off the entire wall behind the couch.

Eddie just shrugs, and goes back to watching the Bumpus hounds wreak havoc on the turkey dinner.

And Steve turns back towards the wall, grinning to himself, as he carefully measures, then drills the new holes in the wall to anchor it.

It's like a black ops mission. Steve crawls out of bed just after four a.m. and when he gets downstairs, Gareth, Jeff and Goodie are all standing around waiting.

"Sorry. Overslept. I couldn't set an alarm," Steve whispers, and they just nod, looking tired. He appreciates them all getting up early on Christmas morning just to help pull this off.

Steve stands on one of the dining room chairs, Jeff on another while the other two hold the bottom of the giant frame.

"This is a ridiculous way to spend money," Goodie grumbles.

"Says the man with so many basses that he needs storage units, plural," Gareth banters back.

"Those are for work," Goodie snaps, a little too loudly.

"Sshh!" Steve shushes.

And in an unprecedented move, they stop fussing and fighting.

It's a Christmas miracle.

They get it hung, and the holes Steve drilled yesterday actually work perfectly. He was worried his measurements would be off, and then they'd be screwed. Eddie can sleep through anything, but maybe not power tools in the middle of the night.

"He's gonna shit," Jeff says, and Steve giggles. That about sums it up.

They scatter, back to their own homes, their own families, and Steve goes back to bed.

With no kids, Eddie isn't exactly raring to hop out of bed first thing in the morning, even on Christmas. This will work in their advantage.

Steve stays still in bed, waiting until he hears the first signs of movement from downstairs. They're back. After having Christmas morning with their families, they've all returned to see Eddie's face when he notices this thing for the first time.

Steve gets up, and heads down, and with help gets brunch started. They always do a full spread, the works, and today is no exception. Bacon, eggs, pancakes, biscuits and gravy, ham steak, hash browns, and every burner and the oven are being fired up all at once.

The kids are all screaming at a dull roar, showing each other their new toys from Santa, and Harrington House feels like a home in a way it never did while Steve was growing up.

He loves it.

They finally hear Eddie moving around upstairs. He's loud, by nature, so there was no chance he was gonna sneak up on them.

Steve carefully wrapped the front of the painting after it was hung, anyway, so even if he did, they wouldn't miss his reaction.

"He's coming," Gareth says, stating the obvious.

"He's gonna kill you," Goodie says to Steve, "and I'm gonna tell him Gareth helped."

Gareth makes a noise, and Jeff steps in to intervene. They can't have bloodshed before breakfast.

Then Eddie's coming, heavy feet bounding down the stairs, and they all freeze. Waiting for him to go through the living room.

"What the fuck is that?" Eddie hollers, "Steve?!"

Steve just smiles, and throws his tea towel over his shoulder. When he walks through the doorway, everybody following, Eddie is standing in front of the wrapped painting.

"I don't know. Santa must have brought it," Steve lies, and Eddie turns to look at him.

"What'd you do?"

"Open it and find out," Steve says, and Eddie grabs a corner of the wrapping paper and tears. It doesn't come off in full, but it reveals a hint at what's to come.

"You did not," Eddie says, as he pulls more of the paper loose.

Steve did. He definitely did.

Eddie bends over at the waist and laughs, "I hate you. I hate it."

Then, he stands up, throwing his arms around Steve's neck, "I love it. I love you."

Steve laughs, that's about what he expected. And Eddie pulls away to study it again, as all their friends hoot and holler in the background, riling him up further as they all look at it.

Eddie, painted in his onstage glory, young and wild, on black velvet.

Steve watches as Eddie reaches out to touch the canvas, "Black velvet. Like I'm Elvis."

Yep. That's exactly what Steve had in mind.

Eddie turns back to grin at Steve, "Has Wayne seen this yet?"

If you want to sign up for a future bingo event or see more entries for this challenge, pop on over to @steddiebingo and follow along with the fun!

Notes: The "painting" image is from this statue of Eddie that's for sale. I thought I could make it look more like a painting than an actual picture from the show.

The title come from the song Black Velvet by Alannah Myles.

#steddiebingo2025 #steddiebingo #prompt: velvet #bingo event: 12 days of christmas #steddie #steddie ficlet #eddie munson #steve harrington #steve x eddie #steddie fan fic #steddie fic #stranger things #thisapplepielife: short fic #thisapplepielife: steddiebingo #gareth stranger things #corroded coffin #jeff stranger things #freak stranger things

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areyoufuckingcrazy · 13 days ago

Text

“You Talk Too Much (And I Like It)”

Tech x Reader

You always had a lot to say. About everything. Planets, food, stories from childhood, dreams you had the night before, conspiracy theories, music recommendations, the absolute travesty that was the vending machine on Cid’s ship. Most people tuned you out after five minutes. Echo smiled politely. Wrecker nodded along even if he didn’t follow. Hunter gave that big brother, I’m listening but please stop look. But Tech—

Well, Tech never said much at all.

You were sitting beside him in the Marauder, your legs crossed on the seat, recounting—quite animatedly—a story about the time you tried to fix a speeder bike and ended up launching it through your neighbor’s wall. Your hands flailed in the air like you were directing a play.

“And I swear, it wasn’t even my fault! The wiring was labeled wrong, and boom! Gone. Just through the wall. Like—whoosh!” You gestured dramatically. “And the guy didn’t even get mad! He just looked at me like, ‘Again?’ Like it was normal! I mean, do you know how often something has to happen for someone to say ‘again’ like that?”

You laughed at your own story, expecting the usual silence or maybe a smirk.

But Tech didn’t even glance away from his datapad. “Statistically, it would take three prior incidents to normalize an event to that degree of resignation.”

You blinked.

“What?”

“Assuming he’s of average emotional intelligence,” Tech continued, typing something, “and factoring in a baseline tolerance for property damage, he would need to experience approximately three similar accidents before responding without distress.”

You stared at him for a moment, a grin creeping onto your face. “That’s… actually really interesting.”

“I ran a simulation once on behavioral desensitization. It was… enlightening,” he added, finally sparing you a glance over his lenses.

“Tech,” you said, leaning in slightly, “do you actually listen when I ramble?”

He looked confused. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“I dunno… I talk a lot. Like, a lot a lot. You’re always so quiet.”

“I am processing,” he replied. “You provide a considerable amount of verbal data, but I do not find it unappealing.”

“…That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said about me talking too much.”

He tilted his head, brows slightly raised. “It is?”

You laughed, this time softer. “You’re kind of weird, Tech.”

“Correct.”

“But I like that.”

He hesitated for a beat, then reached into his tool belt and held out a tiny, modified comm unit. “I made this for you.”

You blinked. “What is it?”

“It’s a personal recorder. For your stories. In case I’m not around to listen… or if you wish to remember them later.”

Your heart stuttered.

“Tech… that’s the sweetest, nerdiest thing anyone’s ever done for me.”

He adjusted his goggles. “You are enthusiastic and loud. But I find the consistency of your presence… statistically comforting.”

You bit your lip to keep from grinning too hard.

“Wanna hear another story?” you asked.

“I’ve already adjusted the comm’s storage capacity for it.”

You didn’t know how to describe the warmth blooming in your chest—but you didn’t need to.

Tech already had a formula for it.

⸻

It started with the recorder.

Then came the noise-canceling earpieces—not for him, but for you. “In case you ever want silence but don’t want to stop talking,” he’d explained, eyes glued to a schematic, oblivious to how much your heart melted.

He began cataloguing your favorite snacks and replicating them with a portable food synthesizer. “I’ve programmed your preferred balance of salt and sweetness,” he said one night, handing you a makeshift granola bar that tasted weirdly perfect.

The best part? He never made a big deal about it. Just slipped things into your life like you’d always been part of his code.

One evening, after a mission that left the team bruised but alive, you found yourselves alone in the cockpit of the Marauder. The others were sleeping, recovering. You weren’t tired. You rarely were when Tech was nearby.

You sat cross-legged in the copilot’s seat, chewing absently on a snack bar, eyeing him as he fiddled with his datapad.

“Tech,” you said, drawing his attention with a sing-song tone.

“Hm?”

“You always listen to me talk about my stuff. But you never tell me about yours.”

He didn’t look up. “That is because my interests are largely theoretical and statistically uninteresting to the average person.”

You snorted. “Okay, first, I’m not average. And second—says who?”

He paused. “I… suppose I assumed.”

“Well, you assumed wrong. Come on, tell me something. Anything. What do you like, Tech?”

He shifted in his seat, clearly uncomfortable. “I like many things. Theoretical physics, starship schematics, linguistic anomalies…”

You leaned in. “No, not like a list. Talk to me. Like I talk to you.”

He looked at you. Really looked. You’d never seen him nervous before. But this? This was vulnerable. And Tech didn’t do vulnerable. Not in the usual sense.

Still, after a moment, he gave a small nod.

“I find… gravitational lensing phenomena quite fascinating,” he began, almost shyly. “When a massive object distorts space-time, it bends light around it. It allows us to see stars that would otherwise be hidden. It’s a rare glimpse into the unreachable, a way to observe what we otherwise could not.”

You blinked, taken aback by the sudden spark in his voice.

“And—when you combine that with redshift patterns and the curvature metrics of distant galaxies—”

He was off.

Tech’s eyes lit up behind his goggles. His hands moved as he talked, describing invisible models in the air. The way he spoke was fast, clumsy, full of jargon, and absolutely beautiful. He was so excited. The same way you were when you told your stories.

You didn’t interrupt. You didn’t tease. You just smiled and let him go.

Eventually, his words slowed, and he caught himself, clearing his throat.

“I… apologize. I may have over-answered your question.”

“No,” you said softly. “You were perfect.”

His eyes met yours.

You reached over and touched his hand. He froze, then slowly turned his palm to hold yours.

“Tech,” you murmured, “when you talk like that, it makes me want to kiss you.”

He blinked. “Statistically, that is a highly favorable reaction.”

You grinned. “Tech.”

“Yes?”

“I’m gonna kiss you now.”

He hesitated a beat. “Proceed”

And when your lips touched his, soft and warm and a little clumsy, he exhaled like it was the first time he’d let go of logic and just felt something.

Afterward, still holding your hand, he said, “You make even chaos… feel structured.”

And you decided right then that you were never going to stop talking. Because if you kept talking long enough, Tech would keep listening—and maybe, just maybe, he’d keep answering too.

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