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bakugoushotwife · 1 year ago

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kinktober day eleven: monsterfucking kink

>>> guys this one may be my fav day ngl...as you can tell by my blog's entire theme that this is my biggest and most violent fantasy i need dragon king bakugou in the worst way please oh my god please

>>> EDIT 10/11: MHA LEAKS OMFG THIS DROPPED THE DAY MHA LEAKS BAKUGOU IS BACK MY GLORIOUS KING!!!!

>>> starring: dragon king!bakugou x curvy!fem!reader >>> cw: monsterfucking, bakugou is a hybrid, no prep, creampie, breeding, biting, blood, dark content, kinda forced marriage? mating bonds, uh, i think that's it. >>>wc: 2.9k >>> event masterlist

it was the new king’s coronation day, and as tradition demands, he shall have his pick of the finest women in his lands. you were brought forth amongst a host of other ladies deemed pretty enough for the young king to choose from. you were the only one of them that seemed irritated by the prospect, all the other girls were tittering and combing their hair while discussing their chances of being picked to be the dragon king’s new bride. he examined you all in a line, sneering at all the smiling and fluttering lashes—sending them crying from the room. he pauses on you, his gaze was stern and fiery but you didn’t hesitate to square your shoulders and meet it. he’s surprised; you don’t smile or extend your hand for him to kiss. you challenge him, you tell him with that strong set jaw and steel stare that you won’t be easy. he feels a pull on his heart, something he cannot yet explain. he likes you.

you tilt your chin up, almost like you’re the one sizing him up. you’re so regal and amusing to him that his mind is made up instantly, but he gives you a few more minutes of looking him over, hoping to see some semblance of interest on your face. king bakugou was a hulking form of a man, towering above everyone in the room. they always were bigger than the normal humans, but he was larger than any of the dragon shifters you had ever come across. the room almost didn’t seem big enough to contain him, and it was his castle. his burlap trousers balloon around his lower half, but it seems there were not shirts big enough to fit the new king of dragons, only a long fur cloak that fastened with a golden dragon broach stretching across the broad expanse of his chest. he was tanned and scarred from years of flight and battle, and muscled even more so. he had hints of sparkling scarlet scales trailing along his collarbones with pointy teeth that alluded to his other form. his biceps bulged as he folded his arms across his chest, admiring you as you admire him with a satisfied smirk on his face. you didn’t throw yourself at him like the rest, and he doubted you would yet still, but you weren’t shy to let your eyes linger on him. he likes you.

he smirks your way, grunting his approval. you were the perfect match. you certainly were the most beautiful creature of his kingdom, and your womanly figure assured him that he would sire several successful heirs with you. you captivated him and you had not yet spoken a word, though the young king could feel that fierce tugging on his heart again, something he now recognizes to be his mating bond the longer he looks at you and the stronger the feeling grows.

“mine.” he says simply, nodding at you in content. his right hand man and fellow dragon shifter steps closer, handing his friend and king a fur pelt similar to the one he wears before retreating back into the onlooking crowd. the king unclasps the matching golden dragon, swinging the covering over your shoulders and snapping the jewelry back into place with a surprising nimbleness. this was the first of many gifts the king would dole out for his mate and queen, but this is the first one to mark you as his. you’re shocked to be chosen, convinced he would take your surveying for disrespect and brutalize you here to send a message— but alas, the most explosive dragon ruler in all the lands chose you as his bride. “you are my mate. we will marry in two moons. dismissed.”

he looks over your head when he says this, ending the celebrations in favor of alone time with his chosen. his gaze has a hint of boredom to it as it glides around the room, red and fiery with unspoken strength and power behind them. you straighten yourself under the weight of your new cloak, bowing your head out of respect, albeit so quick it made the king exhale heavily through his nose as if to chuckle.

“you are amusing, mate.” he says, extending a warm battle-worn hand to push your hair away from your neck. he lets it rest against your shoulder, smirking at how small you were compared to him. it was overwhelmingly apparent that he could do anything he wanted to with you, and you weren’t necessarily opposed to the concept. you started this day with immense rage and dread at having to go before the king and be selected like a prize horse. but he surprised you, even being every bit as brute and brash as everyone said he’d be, his eyes sparkled when they came across you. he declared you his mate—-a huge deal for a dragon shifter, and shrouded you in the engagement cloak without so much as a second thought. there was no arguing with the king, nor his mating bond. your soul was created to nurture his, and vice versa. he felt this snap into place instantly, as a mortal, you probably wouldn’t feel the strength of your connection for several days to weeks. it was an honor, one you couldn’t believe was bestowed upon you—but you certainly weren’t complaining anymore. “i like you.”

you feel your body warm a bit from something as simple as his touch. he’s rough around the edges, and certainly doesn’t know how to be gentle or verbose, but his statement makes you smile warmly anyway. “thank you, my king. i’m quite amused as well.”

he lets his hand slide from your shoulder all the way to your hand, clutching it tight as he brings it to his lips, giving it a chaste kiss. your scent makes his heart skip a beat, and he wonders if he can make it through the next two months without ravaging his sweet maiden.

the days pass, slowly, but they pass. your king brings you several gifts and trinkets, filling your new chambers with tokens of his affection and fondness for his mate. the dragons were known for this, and your mate was the brightest and biggest of them all. so never did he go out to fly without returning with a clutch of presents. he was always so proud of himself as he showed them to you, shoving all the perfumes and jewels in your hands with a boastful grin.

“i found these for you. wear them.” he grunts, roughly pulling you into his arms for a crushing hug. he was working on it, but he manhandled you on accident a majority of the time, not used to interacting with women. you were getting used to it anyhow, only giggling and nodding your acceptance, cooing at how beautiful all the gifts were. he preens in your praise, eager to earn the deep affection that the bond produces.

you couldn’t deny that the bond was starting to affect you, as if you needed any help falling for the monster of a man meant to be your husband. he was kind and loving to you, and you couldn’t ask for much more. he was feared and revered, if you were dumb enough to cross him or his kingdom—soon to be your kingdom, then you earned the punishment of his hellfire tenfold. you wouldn’t find yourself begging for lives to be spared as you stand in the crowd while watching the king dole out sentences. he was brutal, and scary, vicious and primal in every way. his servants tremored in his wake, and though his people loved his protection, they feared his wrath. you were truly the only exception, and it was mystical for everyone to see the fierceness that abounds for his soon to be wife, his forever mate, his queen. and they could only hope your loving tenderness would tame the wild king.

he took meals with you, showed you around his dreary and plain castle, easily agreeing to your every decoration suggestion and insisting you do whatever you want—this is your home now too. he even took you on rides in his gorgeous dragon form, letting you see how beautiful the sun setting over the kingdom was, flying you to different nations, journeying close to the seawaters so you could feel the salty wind on your skin. he forced himself to sleep in his own quarters at night, trying and struggling to abide by common decency.

when your wedding day finally arrived, the king was more than ready to make you his queen officially—and then cart you to bed where decency would be the last thing on his mind. the ceremony is gorgeous, the image of you in your wedding gown was never to be forgotten on him, even though he couldn’t wait to rip it off of you. his brain had already geared into the darker side of things by the time you were being shown to your now shared chambers, and he could not resist his mate any longer.

you weren’t faring much better. however this mating bond usually affected mortal women, it had you ready to climb your king like a tree. as soon as the doors were closed, he was on you, shoving you backwards while hastily tearing at your dress. you assist him in getting it over your head with only minimal rips in the fabric. you can’t bring yourself to care as you fall back on the bed with his body covering yours like a blanket. he’s snarling, but he’s not angry, just eager and too impatient to think about all the lessons he’s learned in being gentle. he scoops you up and tosses you up towards headboard, and you swear you can see steam billow off his form as he eyes you down, watching you lay and spread for him.

“it’s been hard…waiting for you.” he complains, unfastening his cloak and letting it fall to the floor. the moment is so intense, you can feel the air thicken, smell the need permeating the air. he’s breathing heavily already, tugging at the weaving strings keeping his pants closed. your breath hitches when you see his scales glisten in the moonlight, the outline of his cock pressing against the troublesome burlap material. you pant out and nod, knowing the growth before you was only the first hint of what he had to pleasure his mate with. dragon shifters are larger than mortal men in every way, reflecting their dragon status in several different physical markers along their bodies, scales along their collarbones and spines, long mane-esque hairstyles, and of course their cocks. he steps out of the clothing, his massive leaking dick slapping up against his abs with a loud smack, you moan.

his ashy patch of hair and the scarlet scales glistening against his hip bones direct your attention to the monster cock you married. he’s long, thick, curved, lined with veins and a throbbing pink tip leaking his pre-cum in droplets on the bed. it was easily half the size of his thigh, both length and width wise. he fixes himself on the bed, shredding your panties with sharp talons and eyeing your tiny hole. he has all the intentions to stretch you a bit, to get you soaked to accommodate him but when he looks back up at you, you’re drooling.

you can’t imagine how good that’s going to feel inside you. all the times you had touched yourself out of curiosity or even genuine horniness would hardly compare to this, to the man it’s attached to—the way he watches you like a predator tells you there was nothing in this world that would prepare you for what he was about to do to you–what you wanted him to do to you. “i know…” you say after taking a deep breath, reaching for his face. “i’ve had to wait just as long.”

you squirm in place, lidded eyes flickering from his endowment to his eyes and then back again. “just wanna feel my king…i know you’ll fill me up so well.” you coo, batting your lashes.

he’s not in the right mind to banter with you, the only thoughts crossing his brain at the sight and scent of you was to ravage. he grips your hips tightly, trying to will himself to be stronger and give his new bride the treatment she deserves. he should prepare you like a gentleman, but unfortunately the young king is unable to will himself to be gentle. you seem to read his mind, nodding and spreading your legs a bit further, allowing him to get settled in the space you provide. he wastes no time in lining up with your entrance and bottoming out. he knows it’s sadistic that he enjoys the way your eyes cross at the sensation, the burning and splitting stretch ripping a sob from your throat. you clutch at his arms, the natural slick you produced just from your own anticipation aiding him in the glide. he stays still for a moment, letting you adjust to him so he can also adjust to the feeling of your virgin pussy gripping him like a hand-tailored glove. he can’t fight the groan that leaves his lips, mindfully keeping his talons retracted as he rakes his hands over your plush stomach and wide hips, stopping to paw at your thick thighs and fat ass. he’s already rendered speechless, only able to grunt and groan as he starts to move, putting your legs up to his shoulders as to not face any resistance. you cry out at the new angle, absolutely feeling the searing heat of him splitting you apart, but you love it. you move your hips against his, head digging back against the pillow at the newfound pleasure.

it’s so hard for him to go slow, especially as you fuck yourself into him and cry out for more. your body takes him so well, as it was designed to, but he still didn’t expect it to feel and look and sound so good. he can see himself in your stomach, the spikes along his base curling into you and hitting every spot so well. you didn’t even know it was possible to feel this good, his cockhead drilling into your womb so hard it has the corners of your vision turning white.

he’s growling, unable to repress his animalistic side completely. he leans forward, snapping his hips to yours as your wanton moans fill the room. he lets his tongue lave over your neck, making you gasp out at the feeling. “mate–i need to mark–bite..” he rumbles in your ear, goosebumps rippling over his body when you whine out and nod.

“please! bite me, got those teeth f’r a reason—” you plead, your small hand guiding his face to the crook of your neck. your eagerness makes his cock twitch, your enjoyment paramount to him just as much as claiming his mate for the first time. he abides by your wishes, sinking his teeth into your flesh and clamping down, feeling you do the same around his dick. you moan out, clawing at his back with your own kind of talons. he can’t stop, driving bruises and bloody spots all along your neck and chest. he’d never go too deep even in his lusty haze, his primal instinct to protect his other half would never allow him to cause permanent harm. he admires his work, “pretty mate, my teeth marks.”

he grunts out, gripping your hips and roughly turning you over, grabbing a fistful of your hair to yank you into a deep arch. you scream at the new angle, some blood trickling down your neck and pooling between your breasts. he’s entranced by the shape of your body beneath him, how his hands take up your entire waist and the way your ass ripples as he hammers into you. you’re struggling to hold your body up under the force of his thrusts, gripping the covers beneath you for dear life. he reaches around your hip, locating the sweet bundle of nerves at the apex of your thighs. your hips falter when he presses his touch to your clit, a little sob coming from your lips as you begin to fall apart.

“pretty. coat my cock.” he grunts, cock jumping again as you nod and fall forward, your pussy spasming around him like crazy. he feels the rush of you, sending him shuddering towards his end too. “g’nna take my heirs.” he groans, slamming your hips back into his as he spills into you for the first time.

he pulls out quickly to gather you up in his arms, laying on his back with you protected by the expanse of his chest. you’re incoherent as his seed trickles out of you, and as bewitching as the sight is, he wants you to give him several warrior princes and princesses. so he slides his hands between your legs and chuckles as you jerk when you feel his fingers stuffing his cum back inside. you whine, so sensitive but yearning for all of his touches. he grunts a bit, leaning over to smooth your tousled hair and gently kissing the bruises and shallow wounds he gave you. his kindness touches you, and you relax into his body with a grin, knowing he would hold you to his heart’s content and then have the servants run a bath for the new dragon queen.

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lorelune · 3 months ago

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of carnage

|| blade x reader || E/18+ || shared toxicity, band au || wc: 8.8k || ao3 ||

You and Blade are mutually assured destruction. You know this, and yet it does not stop you from chasing after him.

minors, antis and ageless blogs dni

notes: well hello :3c this fic is part of a trade i did for some LOVELY selfship art with MOST BELOVED @rabbbitseason!! they asked for toxic bladie and reader and i come to DELIVER 🙏 setting and au are heavily inspired by my time in my local music scene and all of the 💀that came with it. i'm glad it can be all get repurposed into blade smut 🫶 THANK YOU!! to bitti for giving me so many fun wants to craft around!! THANK YOU!!! as well to @ofmermaidstories and @2kmps for beta reading!! now, please mind the tags on this one and enjoy <3

CW: dark content, band au, dubcon, pain during sex, bleeding during sex, toxic relationship between blade and reader, angst, hurt/a little comfort, manipulation, gaslighting by blade and the reader @ themselves, face slapping, spanking, spitting, reader smokes cigarettes, reader drinks, self destructive reader, past blade/dan heng, implied unrequited jing yuan/dan heng, kernels of jing yuan/reader

“Are you going to the gig tonight? Fu Xuan asks as if the answer isn’t obvious already.

You crane your neck back to look at her from your roost in front of your full-length mirror. Your knees dig into the carpet and the tips of your fingers are tinged with black. You’ve spent the better part of the last thirty minutes attempting to perfectly smudge the smoky line of eyeliner on your lower lash line. A tube of dark, red lipstick (his color) and sticky gloss rests on the fluffy carpet beside your folded knees.

“Of course.” You can’t make yourself smile, not when your stomach is in knots. “Are you?”

“I should if you are going,” she huffs, leaning against your doorframe. “You need a chaperone.”

(She’s probably right.)

“Please tell me you’re joking.” You grimace and turn away, unable to meet her gaze. She’s too good at reading you. “I’ll be just fine on my own, thank you very much.”

“... He’s playing, isn’t he?”

“I mean, yeah.” You rub more aggressively at the widening smears around your eyes. “But that’s not the only reason.”

“Sure.”

“It’s not, really.” You meet her gaze with a glance in the mirror. It’s hard to keep, her stare intense and full of judgment— (And worry.) “There’s a bunch of good bands tonight. There’s a touring group— all the way from Pier Point.”

“Uh-huh.”

“You have no faith in me, do you?” You pout, keeping your voice light, and hoping it comes off as a bit of a jest.

When you finally turn to face Fu Xuan fully, she dips to sit beside you, on her own folded knees. She plucks your soon-to-be-worn lipstick off the ground and uncaps it, just long enough to see the color, before sighing and closing it once more with a pop.

“Not really, no.” Fu Xuan leans against your side, cheeks puffing out. “Not when it comes to him—”

“You can say his name, you know.” You smear chalky highlighter on your cheeks with your fingertips. “It’s not a slur. He’s just some guy.”

“‘Some guy’,” She groans. “If he’s really just some guy, why don’t we skip the gig tonight and stay home? We can order in some nice food, and I could invite Qingque.”

“... I—”

“You know that going is a bad idea, right?” Fu Xuan sighs. “We’ve gone over this before.”

“I’m aware of that.” You can’t suppress your scowl any longer, turning to face her. “Blade is fine—”

“He treats you like shit.”

“He treats everyone like that.”

“That doesn’t make it better. If anything, that makes it worse. You deserve better.” Fu Xuan sounds genuinely upset. “And you can do better. Easily. With literally anyone else, even if you find them at one of your nasty house shows. Try entertaining the thought?”

“You don’t have to be so—” You turn to her, fist balling up on your knees— “So mean about it.”

“It’s messy.”

“And it’s not your business.”

“It’s not!” Fu Xuan says, exasperated as she rolls her eyes. “I really shouldn’t even be bothering, but you are my friend. And it is painful to watch you chase the tail of a man who will hardly give you the time of day or bare minimum respect. Excuse me for showing concern.”

“Your concern is noted.” As it has been before. “But I’m fine. I wasn’t lying earlier— there’s other groups I want to see tonight. You... don’t have to come along just to babysit. I’ll be alright. I know you hate them.”

“I do.”

Fu Xuan crosses her arms and exhales, something angry and burning. “At least let me drive you. I can pick you up later too. Rather I do than some stranger or him—”

“Blade. His name, Fu Xuan.”

“Blade.”

“God, you do say it like a slur.” You roll your eyes, the pit in your stomach having become larger and darker. You swipe below your eyes and thank an Aeon or two that your eyeliner is waterproof.

...

The house venue is a bit out of town, in the rural suburbs on a lot that’s big enough to host a crowd and not bother the nearest neighbors. Fields streak by during your journey, humming with junebugs and chirping with late- summer crickets. Low hills roll by as a harvest moon rises, waxing and half-full.

Fu Xuan drops you at the curb and idles as you collect yourself. A crossbody bag carries your essentials (your phone, your sticky lip products, a lighter to go with the pack of cigarettes that you actually don’t smoke, and two condoms shoved against the bottom). You fiddle with the strap against your shoulder.

“Call me when you need me to pick you up, okay?” Fu Xuan taps the steering wheel. “I’ll be awake.”

“Okay, mom.”

“I mean it—”

“I know.”

“Don’t go home with Blade. Or let him drive you home. He handles a car like he’s trying to kill himself.”

It’s a fair assessment but you still shake your head, trying to seem good-natured despite the rot you feel curling in the back of your throat. Bile, rising, before you have a drop of liquor in you. It’s a little pathetic; you’ll really think so in retrospect. For now, you walk toward the venue itching for a drink in your hand or familiar company. Thundering bass and ripping guitar vibrate from the basement windows, shaking the ground beneath your feet.

A crowd clusters at the back of the house. Folks swap cigarettes and clutch cans of cheap beer and flasks decorated with stickers. You quickly survey, looking for, searching for him—

(He’s usually out here before his set, hiding away somewhere with Kafka sharing cigarettes and glaring at anyone dumb enough to make a pass at her.)

A hand grabs you by the shoulder, and you nearly jump out of your skin. “Oh my gosh, you’re here! I didn’t know you’d be coming to the gig!”

It’s March, you know. She is easy to identify with the sweet, candy-like perfume she wears and the slight press of her almond-shaped gel manicure into your shoulder. March turns you abruptly, throwing her arms around your shoulders and squeezing. Too tightly, knocking the air out of you in an instant. You give her a tentative hug back and pull away quickly. The contact scalds you.

“Have you seen—?”

“Blade?” March pouts and tilts her head. “You know, I feel like you only come to these things to see that guy. He’s nothing special. And I have seen him. He was off sulking a while ago, by the sheds in the back of the lot.”

“... I’ll have to check. Thanks, March.”

She sighs as you walk away from her, before calling out to Stelle (who is always a step or two behind her anyways.)

You feel— bad about how you treat them. They’re both good people. So is the third in their trio, Dan Heng, a man with a beautiful face and an eerily calm demeanor, especially when compared to his companions. The group of them was introduced to you back when you first started attending these shows, hanging around the scene, and sweating in the basement of mildew-filled houses. They were some of your first friends, and easy to mesh with when you gave yourself the time and space to. Stelle always had a flask with lukewarm vodka or tequila, and March kept a case of seltzers in her trunk. Dan Heng was the ever-reliable sober cab.

(It was nice back then. Before you had become so entangled with Blade and the subsequent social politics that came with chasing and occasionally fucking the hot, albeit emotionally-unavailable bassist of HUNTERS. It was far easier to hold those friendships than to orbit around a man who you can never tell if he hates you or wants to fuck you in his back seat.)

You find Blade tucked away around the side of the house, cloaked in shadow while taking long drags of a cigarette. The cherry glows in the dim light. From the basement window peeking out from the ground, a red glow pours out, illuminating the well-worn combat boots he wears. They’re crusted in filth, falling apart at the toe.

(You’d still lick them if he asked you to. Hump them if he asked you twice.)

Another figure stands across from him. Serene, arms crossed, with storm eyes visible even in the poor lighting. Dan Heng keeps a perfectly neutral expression as he speaks, hushed, to Blade who wears a scowl so perfectly that it looks like he’s carved of immovable stone rather than not flesh.

You’re not quite within earshot. You can’t make out their words, only their tone. It’s an angry exchange, one that’s charged with heat lighting and ire. Blade spits something at Dan Heng, venomous in his tone like he so easily is. Dan Heng replies back something so cooly that it’s like a low-tide wave lapping at your feet.

If you were better, you would turn around and leave. Neither of them know that you’re here, so close. It’s invasive to listen, but you know that there’s... history between Blade and Dan Heng. You’ve always wondered what it is, and considering that Blade has the emotional availability of a rotting vegetable, you won’t be getting those details out of him.

Maybe witnessing their dynamic (yet again) could provide you some clarity—?

(And maybe, if you know why Blade was so, so hurt by Dan Heng, you can do better. You can be the exact thing that Blade wants, and then he will want you, just as much as you want him.)

You listen more keenly:

“I’ve asked you to stop booking shows where the Express is already playing.”

“And I’ve asked you to get off my dick and stop being such a priss, but it doesn’t look like you’ll ever do that.”

“I’m asking you to be reasonable.”

“Sure, because clearly asking me to not play prime gigs is ‘reasonable’. Not to mention you should be taking this up with Kafka or Elio, not me. Did you just want an excuse to talk, Imbibitor Lunae—”

“Don’t call me that.”

“What, have something else you’d prefer to be called? I remember plenty of things you liked hearing. Want me to name a few?”

“Hold your tongue—”

A stick cracks behind you and you nearly jump out of your skin.

“Bladie~” Kafka purrs behind you, hands sliding up over your shoulders, hot breath over the back of your neck. “We’re on soon. Soundcheck in five, Firefly has a vodka shot for you if you want.”

You’re frozen.

Blade grunts from around the house, and as he does, Dan Heng emerges from the shadows quickly, on hastened feet, and nearly stumbles when you see him. Your expression must be— fucking stupid. Wide-eyed and slack-jawed as Kafka runs her nails up and down your neck.

As Dan Heng practically sprints off, Kafka croons quietly into your ear, “And what are you doing all the way back here? Looking for Bladie again?”

You don’t need to speak for her to know your answer. Blade’s steps thud against the ground over the short, dry grass.

Part of you knows you should scramble away and pretend you weren’t just lurking like a stray dog begging for kitchen scraps. It’s humiliating to be caught by Kafka (yet again), doing the same shit on a different day. Another part of you, one which is much louder, more persuasive, and saccharine sweet, urges you to face Blade. If you get caught in his maw, good.

Your hands shake as Blade emerges from the dark.

He looks like death. Ghostly pale skin with deep purple eyebags, like bruises. His eyes are cut carnelian, ethereal and volcanic against his parlor. A cigarette hangs between his plump lips, threatening to burn and melt the pieces of his fringe that hang around his cheeks. Long, wild black hair, tipped in faded crimson, falls down his back in frizzy waves. His arms bulge obscenely in the tight, black shirt he wears. A carved jade pendant hangs off of his belt.

Blade stares you down and his scowl deepens, turning even more sour. He mutters something under his breath, something unintelligible but cruel. It’s not the first time he’s spoken to you that way. He’s done so more loudly and more brutally.

You—

(Hate it. You love it. Well, maybe not love, but you crave the way that Blade is awful to you. You’re horrible.)

“Better get inside now,” Kafka hands drift to your waist, tugging on the belt loop of your pants. You let out a little yip. “I’m sure the front row is filling up fast. No need to spy on Bladie if you get a prime spot during the actual set, hm?”

She’s right; she usually is.

Kafka leaves you with an elegant twirl, humming one of HUNTERS songs from their new EP under her breath. You know the tune. You’ve been playing it on repeat for the last two months.

It’s easy to follow the jarring trills of soundcheck as you float inside the home, following the trail of people headed toward the basement. Descending down the rickety, railingless stairs into thick, humid air that reeks of sweat, beer, and fledging mold. Down, down, down you go— maybe to hell, where you perhaps belong.

...

Moon Drinker by HUNTERS

You taught me that the high moon

Was our lovers’ sigil

How quickly did you throw away our runes

How empty is your cup

Moon Drinker

That you would break mine too

...

The gig is decent. That’s how these shows tend to be and you enjoy them just enough to tolerate the stench and humidity of grungy basements like this one.

Three bands play, IP3, the Express, and HUNTERS. The interest you expressed to Fu Xuan about Pier Point’s IP3 was a lie, but they’re not bad. The frontman, a blond with eyes like inverted crystals, has a sultry edge to his voice that verges on sexual. It’s a cleaner sound that rips into something dirtier, filthier, as their set goes on.

The Express follows IP3. You’ve seen them more times than you can count, but the trio is still nice to listen to, even now. March always plays with the crowd in between her harmonies in a way that riles folks up just enough without causing abject chaos. The band plays a new song you don’t know, one that is angry and loud and so unlike their normal sound. Dan Heng is on vocals, rather than solely on guitar, and you’re reminded of how mournful and melodic his voice can be. The exact words of the piece get eaten by the cement foundation of the basement, but you imagine that it’s an elegy.

HUNTERS is last on.

They usually are, as their music is the loudest and gnarliest, and they’re typically the most well-known (even if they have a shit reputation and their crowds leave trashed venues in their wake). You feel— insane when they start playing. You know all of their songs, even if you don’t really like their music. Kafka’s voice is hypnotic in a way that’s disarming, even on a recording. Silver Wolf is too good of a drummer for the caliber of band that they are, and Firefly shreds easily on guitar, trained on strings since childhood, but using her talents in a grunge band rather than on a world stage.

Blade’s bass playing is messy. Though his tempo is sure and unwavering, the actual rhythm drags and punches in intervals that verge on unnerving. You have never been able to place if this is due to whatever rage and poison he carries into music making, or if his fingers are as arthritic as Kafka jokes that they are.

It doesn’t really matter, in the end. The sound blends together in a cacophony that sounds like the way bursted flesh looks. If you could taste the way their newest EP sounded, it would be the iron tang of blood and the acrid burn of bile.

You’re fucked for it— for Blade. You’ve been since you first became tangled in this web.

A pit opens in the middle of the crowd, small at first, but rapidly widening, with more and more people throwing themselves into it. They bounce around and bash against the individuals at the sides of the pit, only to be shoved back in a moment later.

You try to stay away from it. Instead, you watch Blade like a fucking pervert.

The basement has gotten hot. Steamy, if you look hard enough at the air that barely circulates against the low, pipe-ridden ceiling. Blade has thrown his hair up in a high ponytail, wisps of hair still cling to his neck and temples, sweat visibly rolling down his neck. His shirt sticks to his toned chest as the overclocked speakers try to keep up with the HUNTERS most recently released song— ‘MOON DRINKER’.

Blade doesn’t look at you. Not once.

His eyes are fixed elsewhere, deeper in the crowd, beyond the bodies in the pit and those who hang at the outskirts by the house’s ancient boiler. Blade’s attention is fixed on— something (someone. You can assume who.) Not once does his gaze drift down his instrument, and never does he acknowledge the way you stand in the front row, so close, with your attention squarely on him.

(This is normal. So normal, it’s painful.)

The pit expands even further, widening as more gig-goers jump into mosh as one song bleeds into the next. You almost get swirled in yourself as a stranger slams into your side with enough force to nearly knock you to the ground.

A broad, warm hand catches you by your bicep, hoisting you up before you even have a chance to fall.

“Be careful now,” It’s Jing Yuan (who is much too powerful and rich to be at a basement show, but yearning pushes you both to do stupid, nonsensical things) who speaks directly into your ear, so you can hear him even as your ears ring muffled. “Are you alright?”

You turn to nod at him, flashing him a thumbs up and nervous smile. The cologne he wears permeates the space around you, overpowering the sweat and mildew with ease. He gives you an easy smile and a squeeze, before letting you. He sidesteps your frame to be closer to the pit, crossing his arms over his chest and shielding you from the worst of the throng.

You’re grateful for the cover; it would be embarrassing to topple over right in front of Blade.

It takes you a moment to recenter yourself, lost in Jing Yuan’s scent and the roar of Firefly’s final, aching guitar riffs. You look back to HUNTERS once more as they finish out their set in a loud, carnal flourish. The expensive speakers they’ve dragged with them are going to fucking blow out—

Blade is staring at you.

Not into the crowd, toward the placid face and cold heart that so clearly plague him, not to his bandmates or instrument, but looking at you.

In the red-lit basement, his eyes nearly glow, unnatural in their anger as they always are. It seemed more concentrated, feral and crystallized in its intensity. Rage. You want to cower under it while your insides feel hot and frigid all at once. He pierces so easily, so thoughtlessly. As the crowd erupts into cheers and shouts as the set ends, you cannot move. Staked in place.

Not once does Blade look away from you, and his mouth does not deviate from the twisted frown he wears.

...

Swordmaker by HUNTERS

If I were forged alongside you,

Do you think I would forgive you then?

If iron was your skin,

Steel your lungs

and lead your heart,

You would be easier to hold.

Empty are memories

Full is the garden

And bloody is the blade.

…

You should be better than this.

Blade slams you up against the back of the shed, the motion jarring and far too fast to be pleasant. Your head knocks painfully against the wood and peeling paint, and despite how you whimper with the impact, Blade doesn’t react. He doesn’t seem to care.

(You know he doesn’t.)

He hikes your leg up over his hip and grinds against your core through your pants. The motion is rough, clumsy and far too harsh to be pleasurable. The dry friction through your panties makes you squirm and dig your nails into his shoulders. Blade grunts in your ear. You think he likes the pain.

The gig was only let out half an hour ago, and plenty of people are still milling around. Whispers are circulating about if and where there will be an afterparty. You weren’t paying much attention to them— they’re easy to ignore— especially when Blade had been dragging you by the wrist just far enough away from the main house to fuck without being overtly noticeable.

(Barely, though. Blade can be loud and you can be loud when you’re with him. You’re tempting fate to be caught, seen with him in this way. It’s an open secret that you’re the scraps that Blade entertains himself with, but you would rather not be caught with your literal pants down.)

Blade smells like cigarettes and sweat. The scent of unclean smoke tangles in his unruly hair as you get a grip on it and tug. The juncture of his neck has the faintest hint of some cologne you’re sure he doesn’t know the name of and stale sweat. You press your lips there and dare to drag your tongue across his skin and taste him. It’s not a good taste, not necessarily, but you love it. Salty and filthy. (It’s disgusting, but familiar and morosely comforting.) You are drunk on it and it makes you feel pathetic at the same time.

A growl sounds in your ear as Blade pins you with his weight to the shed. Dragging you back from his neck, he grabs your jaw, forcing you to look at him fully.

“Don’t leave marks.” He paralyzes you with his stare and sneer.

“I’d never.” You try to sound earnest, even if it’s a lie. Because you would— you’d bite and tear at his neck (like he does at yours) until the skin there is black and blue. Happily, you would leave hickies above his collar. Split his lip and bite his jaw hard enough to bleed. You could wear his blood on your teeth and smile for once at these fucking gigs.

Instead, you do not bite him. You just let Blade maul you as he desires.

He grinds against your core. The pressure is unpleasant at this point, too much and too little all at the same time. When you whimper now, he just ignores you and slips his hands under your shirt. He grabs your waist in both hands and squeezes.

“Turn around,” says Blade, already twisting you himself, so your front is pressed against the shed.

“H-Here?” You laugh nervously. Despite your... reputation, something cold, unwelcome and uncomfortable settles in you. “C-Can’t we go to your car? Or inside?”

“Maybe later.”

(It’s awful. It’s sick, the way your heart flutters at the implications of ‘later’. ‘Later’ means more of him. More of Blade’s time, his touch, his hardly-there care. More scraps for you to gorge yourself on, more time to beg for more. It’s sick. It’s sick how fucked you are for him.)

Blade reaches around your front to undo the button at the top of your trousers. In a swift motion, he has them around your thighs. Just enough that he can bend you over and access your cunt with some amount of ease. He keeps your panties on at first (he usually does this. You’re never sure why. You can delude yourself into thinking it’s him taking his time with you, but you know that that is a lie).

Blade places one of his hands on the back of your neck to flatten you against the shed, while the other must be unbuttoning his own pants to get his cock out, based on the jingling of metal and shred of a zipper. You swallow, your mouth dry. You’re dry, but you know that if you try to touch yourself to prep at this point, Blade will only be meaner.

The most he does is run two fingers over your slit, over your panties. It’s barely enough contact on your clit to be felt, but you gasp and shudder anyway. Canting your hips back, you try to encourage more contact. Anything he’ll give you.

He sighs behind you. Disappointed. Aggravated. It makes you want to cry.

Blade peels down your panties. The cold air shocks you, your core tightening up, but you hardly have time to adjust to the temperature before Blade’s equally cold hands fully part your folds. He sighs again, pulling away only to spit on his fingers, and smear his saliva around your hole. It feels dirty. You feel dirty.

When Blade pulls away, you whine at the loss of contact (at how cold it is, at how the crowd milling around smoking cigarettes and cheap weed is just on the other side of this dilapidated shed crows and laughs into the night). You swear you can recognize March’s giggle above the din of conversation.

You’re brought back to your entanglement with a harsh slap to your ass. Harsh and audible. The sound that escapes your lips is choked and high.

“Don’t get distracted,” Blade huffs. He spits again, presumably on his dick.

You nod, latching onto the pain radiating from slap to your ass. As if sensing it, Blade lays down another strike. This one is hotter, harder. He isn’t holding back. It is sure to bruise the tender flesh there. A mark. Something that will tangibly ache, something leftover from your tryst.

You could cry.

The velvety head of Blade’s cock nudges your folds. He brackets you into the wall, arms on either side of you. Heat radiates off his chest and sinks into your spine.

“‘Feels good?” He asks, voice hoarse as he coats himself in your meager slick.

“Y-yeah,” you lie. It’s not enough to feel good. You don’t care.

Blade seems content enough with your answer as he bears down on you. Flattening you to the dirt-covered shed, he hitches his hip down, then up, trying to fit the tip of his cock into your hole. He maneuvers your hips as he pleases, grunting when the tip of him catches on your cunt. When you dare to whine, even the smallest sound, he cracks his hand down on your ass again. Your vision speckles into darkness with the shot of pain and—

(The roar of anxiety and subsequent shame when you realize how much quieter the milling crowd nearby has become.)

“Hold still.” Blade's voice has sunk low, gravely with the cigarettes he’s been smoking all evening.

The next time his cock touches your opening, he presses in without hesitation.

It’s—

It’s too fucking much.

It is, it always is, every single fucking time he fucks you. Any prep he gives you is perfunctory. Blade will never lavish you with attention, not in the way that you probably need. That you—

(Might even deserve.)

No, the most that Blade will do is fuck you filthy behind a shed, near some of his more well-adjusted peers and probably come inside of you. On past occasions, he has let you suck him off in the backseat of his car. He’s only accidentally (‘accidentally’) came on your face a few times. Less than ten, more than five. Once, he ate you out for a few minutes, but you swear to god he was groaning someone else’s name as he did.

(You’re fucking pathetic.)

This is always too much. Blade is too big. Too big, even if you were stretched and primed with a few fingers like would be right and proper. As tight and dry as you are, it’s painful. He has to grind into your cunt with rolling little thrust so he can fit himself in at all. Each one shocks a breath out of you, a shattering, fragile sound.

When Blade bottoms out, he lays flat over your back. The weight of him is suffocating. His corded muscle is all dead weight above you as his cock twitches inside you. You can’t tell if he’s idling to allow you some time to adjust, or purely for his own leisure. You can’t be sure. You don’t want to ask him either.

“You’re tight.” Blade’s voice threatens to break.

(Of course you are. He’s the only person you will let fuck you, and these trysts only occur every few weeks, when there’s a show that you can be cornered at.)

He bucks into you, deeper still. The head of his cock is touching parts of you that shouldn’t be touched.

You whimper, “Blade—”

He growls in response. It’s a raspy and low tone that makes arousal burn in your gut and leak down your thighs. (You hope so anyway— it’s more wet and you don’t think it hurts enough that you’re bleeding.) Blade fucks you in earnest, then. There’s no delay, no waiting, no potential for momentary, perceived niceties. He pulls out of you almost completely, then thrusts back into you in one single motion. The friction burns and your vision wavers.

(You still moan like a whore.)

You feel— dirty. Disgusting. Pathetic as he fucks you like. You don’t feel like a person as he fucks you; you never do. How could you? The grip he uses on your hips is too bruising and the force and strength he’s using to brutalize your cunt is just too much. He fucks you like he’s taking anger out on a piece of drywall. Blade shares physically with you in the way a dog shreds a chew toy to bits, then leaves it on the ground to fester.

Blade grunts next to your ear, nipping there.

He doesn’t kiss you— well, not often. He can’t with your current position. You wouldn’t expect him to anyway. Sometimes he leaves a ring of dark hickies across your neck, like a collar. You like those, but he always waits an extra long time to see you after he marks you like that.

(You presume to make sure that the bruises have fully yellowed, then faded. A clean canvas.)

Blade’s pace increases, just before he pulls out. His cock rests on the cleft of your ass and he tips his forehead to rest on the shed, just beside yours.

“You’re still dry.”

“Sorry—”

He cuts you off. “It’s fine.”

...

It apparently isn’t fine.

Blade drags you toward the house. He barks at someone, then Kafka, to find a room. You feel dazed as he does. Out of your body, as you receive a number of knowing and unknowing stares from the lingering show-goers who cluster around a firepit.

(How many of them heard you just now? How many know the exact sounds you make when in barely-there pleasure? In certainly-there pain? How many of them know the sound of Blade’s too-big cock slapping into your too-dry cunt?)

It makes you feel sick to think about.

A room must be found for the two of you, as Blade drags you up the stairs of the back porch.

As he does, he hesitates.

(He has so rarely done this.)

His gaze is not on you; it pierces elsewhere in the dark. A floodlight off the back of the house illuminates a section of the yard, and just beyond its reach, nestled somewhere between the dark and light, he fixates. His jaw sets and locks.

There are figures, you realize.

They’re easy to identify once you actually focus. One is lithe and short-haired, the other broad-shouldered and long-haired. Dan Heng and Jing Yuan. Speaking on the outskirts. It feels private. Their attention turns from their hushed conversation to the two of you as Blade stares daggers and swords into them. As if he could pierce them with nothing more than his silent rage and angry eyes.

You freeze.

Their expressions are obscured in the lowlight, but you can almost feel the looks they give you. Like a sickly mucus that gets stuck to you and rolls down your flesh in slow, cold globs.

Dan Heng (once so dear to you, still probably dear to you—) looks guarded, thought darkened. Contempt twists his expression, anger following just after. You’d ever wager that he’s disgusted, maybe. Probably with you, because he knows you’re better than this. Beside him, Jing Yuan wears an expression of careful passivity, of geniality, as he always does, but it’s tinged with something sad and old. For all parties involved in this silent, momentary exchange.

Jing Yuan regards you directly, slowly blinking at you, as though he was a large house cat intent on making you feel safe, and not a presence that only drives the bubbling anxiety in you higher.

It’s a seconds-long encounter that stretches for an eternity. You cannot make yourself move. You cannot feel anything other than rotten and small.

Blade lets out a harsh exhale and yanks you away. The scene breaks and you’re dragged inside. He whispers under his breath, vitriol-tinging his tone. Your panties feel sticky and wet as you walk.

Kafka had found a room for you, on the second floor of the house. God knows whose it actually is. You don’t get a good look at the room as Blade pushes you inside.. It’s dim, the only light is licking in from the dirty window, an afterburn from the raging bonfire outside. You hear muffled voices still, leaking in like a draft.

Blade locks the door and pushes you onto the unmade bed.

It’s a cheap mattress with flannel sheets. It smells like old weed smoke and cheap incense. Fu Xuan would tell you that you deserve better than this. You think you might.

Blade climbs on top of you, jaw still locked, and eyes far away.

(You do wonder what happened between him and Dan Heng. Something did. Something gutting and heartbreaking— you hear it when Blade sings. A betrayal, an intangible knife cut but still so painful. Dan Heng has always spoken about Blade with a type of protective neutrality. He warned you to never get involved with Blade. To stay away, to not get on Blade’s bad side, and if something did entangle you with him, Dan Heng could sort it out. He has always cared so fiercely for those he loves; it’s a shame that you have squandered it.)

(Blade is a sentimentalist. Blade is so held in the past that it chokes him. It always has, during every moment you’ve shared with him. He lingers in the bloody past, he holds it in his hands with a grip that’s meant to snap bird wings and flay flesh. He hates Dan Heng. He still loves him, though. You see it on his face sometimes. You hear it in Blade’s music. The ache, the death, the unending grief and mourning and rage that the man simply won’t let go of.)

(It is obsession.)

It shouldn’t make you bitter to think about. Yet, it does. It’s not your place to hold those types of feelings, let alone express them. For so many reasons, Blade will never see you as anything more than a cheap fuck. You think Dan Heng is the primary one. Over time, you’ve grown bitter. Resentful.

Blade pulls off your shirt in one swift move. He’s slower than he usually is. More deliberate. His hands are shaking, like how they do just after he finishes a set. It’s… off—

You hate it. You hate that the lingering pain of someone else will effect Blade more than you ever, ever could in the present.

You grab a fistful of his hair and tug. His breath catches as you do.

”What the fuck is your deal?” You sneer at him. There’s a cruel edge in your voice that does not sound like you. Blade brings out the worst in you, and you fall prey to it, so easily.

Blade glances up at you, eyes sharp like cut gems. He says nothing.

”You and Dan Heng,” you laugh. You don’t mean to— you don’t, you don’t— and you yank Blade’s hair so he has to look at you better. “It’s pathetic, you know. How you look at him like a kicked fucking dog. What happened between the two of you, anyways?”

Blade freezes. So do you.

You’ve misstepped so brutally. So stupidly and tragically and idiotically. You’ve pushed too hard for what—?

Blade is on his haunches in an instance and he slaps you across the face.

Your head follows the force of the impact, forcing your face to the side. Your cheek smarts. It wasn’t— that hard. Blade is strong. He could do worse. Still, it shocks you. The pain is enough to make you gasp and reel.

”What the fuck—“

”Don’t,” Blade grabs your jaw, “open your mouth about things you know nothing about. You should know better.”

You should. You do.

”I could know more, if you ever told me, I don’t know— anything?” You laugh in his face, manic behind your eyes. You’re crushing the delicate nature of your cheap arrangement like how a child would crush a flighty butterfly’s papery wings.

Blade shakes his head, smothering a laugh. He wrangles you forward, half-off risen from the bed, and parts your lips with his thumb. Before you can react, bite, claw— he is raising himself higher than you, dwarfing you in height, and spitting down into your mouth, onto your tongue.

”You don’t know when to shut up, do you?” He pats the side of your face, over the cheek that he struck. It burns. In another world, this touch would be tender. Here, you can only wince.

Before you can reply, continue to run your mouth and rile him up further, Blade kisses you.

It shocks you, stuns you.

He— he hasn’t ever kissed you before. It’s never been an explicit boundary, but never once during these trysts has Blade ever initiated this type of contact. It has felt dangerous to do so yourself. Something that’s too intimate, too personal to share. The core of your entanglement is the way he uses you. It’s impersonal.

A kiss, you think, implies something more tender.

You gasp into his lips, and he takes the opportunity to all but violate the inside of your mouth. His tongue plunders inside, licking at his own spit that you have yet to swallow. A noise chokes off in the back of your throat. Something desperate and shocked that you hardly recognize. It’s filthy. He nips at your lips and pushes you back down.

Blade devours you.

It’s too much, really. It’s a gesture of tenderness that has been so thoroughly mutilated, calling it a kiss feels paltry. The way his lips are on your own is much more like an argument and a subsequent conquest. One in which you lose ground. He nips at your lower lip, snags it between his teeth, and tugs it as he pulls away.

You pant, the sound of your own breath roars in your own ears. Your hands are still buried in his hair, grip unyielding, anchoring you.

Blade smiles, something poisonous and satisfied. You are too drunk on the singular kiss he gives you to care that much.

“That’s all it takes, is it?” He laughs, the sound dark and rolling, like the sound of an earthquake cracking the earth.

He already knows you’ll beg for scraps. God forbid he gives you even a morsel more.

The bed squeaks as he flips you by your hips so you’re laid flat, belly-down on the dirty sheets. Blade spanks your still-clothed ass for good measure before rustling around behind you. Assumedly to disrobe, just enough to fuck you. Assumedly, to ignore the condoms you brought (knowing he would disregard them—). Assumedly, to fuck you with every inch of your life.

You want it. You want him so badly it physically hurts.

(Or, maybe you tore while he had you behind the shed. Who is to say?)

Blade clamors behind you, shaking, arthritic hands tugging your pants by the waistband. He doesn’t even bother to unzip them this time. Your panties get pulled down along with them, and they get tossed elsewhere in the barely-lit room. Blade spits behind you, and a sound of too-dry stroking follows.

“D-do you want me to suck you off?” you ask with a hum. You’d let him fuck your face, if he asked. Or, if he wanted. Blade wouldn’t ask.

“No.”

“Just let me know.”

Blade sighs behind you, but you think little of it.

You brace yourself up on your elbows, lowering your upper half to be flat against the bed, and arching your hips as high as they’ll go. It’s as if to make yourself look appetizing. You hope it entices Blade, even a little.

(Please, you need him to want you. You need him to want you so badly. Please, please, please—)

The head of Blade’s cock rubs as your hole, down to your clit, then back up again a few times. He’s so hot, it’s like he is burning you. Contact that scalds. The contact against your clit is... nice. It’s the most warm up he has graced you with in a while. You could crave more, but settle for this.

“C’mon Blade,” you whine. Your voice sounds airy. “Fuck me.”

He doesn’t reply, not with his voice. The rocking of his hips becomes more pronounced, and the slide of him against you becomes slicker. Still too big, too hot, but wet at least. Which is a bonus. Pre and blood are probably leaking onto the shaft at least a little bit too.

It makes it easier once he slides home in a single blow.

It’s too fucking deep— especially with this angle. The head of his cock presses against your deepest parts, bruises them in a place where no one can see or feel but you. Blade is huge, the girth of him stretches you as his hips rest against your ass.

A wretched noise bubbles up past your lips. Something between a cry and a plea, for more, for less— to go home, to be in a warm, clean bed with someone who actually cares— you aren’t sure. Your desires have been twisted up and wrong for so long, you can’t tell what you really want.

It makes you feel rotten, and then there’s only one thing you want.

(To hurt.)

Blade fucks you, then. Fully in, fully out of. Long and deep thrusts that carve out your insides in a brutal way. It’s violent. He leans over your back, and braces himself over you. You feel small, stupid, and hurt. A horrible swirl of things that make tears spring up at the corners of your eyes. You bury your face in the crusty pillow you’d manage to snag nearby—

And Blade tugs it away immediately. His big, calloused hand curls to hold your jaw up, so every pitiful whine and whimper you let out can’t be muffled. The bed squeaks as his thrusts slow.

“Don’t hide.”

“I-I won’t.”

“You were.”

“I won’t a-again—”

“You want this, don’t you?” Blade growls in your ears, then moves to the most fragile skin of your neck and bites.

(You do, you do— god you do. You need this.)

You nod, and Blade keeps biting. His jaw nearly locks. You’re sure that you’ll be bruised for a week.

Blade scoffs and rears back, grabs your hips in both hands for leverage. And he fucks you.

That’s all it can be, really. You can’t get a solid hold on anything. The pillow has been thrown off the bed, and you struggle to find purchase on the sheets. All you do is take it. Pleasure, or something like it, builds in your core and goes nowhere. It simmers but never crests anywhere near orgasm.

You don’t mind. This is enough.

Blade’s pace increases, never frantic. Never with him. Manic maybe, insane, tortured and damaged, but never frantic. Not with you. His rhythm falters as his cock slides in and out of you, slick beginning to stick to the inside of your thighs.

His hand comes down on his ass. The other cheek, this time. It’s enough force to bruise again. You’ll have trouble sitting for a week.

As Blade nears his peak, his rhythm stutters. His breath grows harsher and more strained. His grip goes from bruising to breaking. You gasp with the pain, but don’t tell him to stop. His cock brushes against your cervix, and never your sweet spot.

Blade flattens you to bed, prone, and puts his entire weight on top of you as his orgasm hits him. A strangled cry shatters from his lips into your ear as he fucks you too fast and too hard. A gush of warmth fills your insides, spilling to your outsides when there isn’t enough of you to hold all of him.

The bed frame slams into the wall with his final few thrusts.

You lay there, in the filth, in the pain and the dissatisfaction of the tryst, and rot.

...

Blade leaves you there, at some point.

Not right away, but eventually. He rolls off you at some point, catches his breath for a while, checks his phone, then rises to right himself.

You cannot make yourself move. The only thing you can make yourself do is take slow, measured breaths. Each ache in your body is punctuated, loud and unignorable now that the fizzling pleasure of sex has dissipated. What’s left of it is this: carnage.

“You have a ride home?” Blade asks. He must be near the door, based on the sound of his voice.

Fu Xuan’s warning words come to mind, and shame fills your belly.

“Yeah.”

“Good.”

And he leaves.

You rot for a while longer.

This is not the first encounter that has gone this way. Blade fucks you like this and leaves. There’s no reverie or sweetness. There is using and being used, and the conclusion that always follows is this. Cooling, soon-to-be dry cum leaking out of you in thick droplets and a bite mark on your neck you’ll need to conceal for the next two weeks. Blade will ignore you like he doesn’t know you, next time he sees. But still fucks you like a toy.

It’s awful. It’s all you want.

You force yourself up at some point.

You’re surprised to find that your pants and panties are in a heap on the end of the bed. You are sure that they were tossed farther, but perhaps you misremember. Painstakingly, you rerobe yourself. Moving your legs in such ways hurts so bad, you could cry. You probably did cry while Blade fucked you.

The quick stop in the squalid bathroom confirms this. Mascara smudges around your eyes and down your cheeks. The sticky gloss you were wearing has been smeared away. Not even a stain of the crimson remains.

You feel hollow as you walk down the stairs, outside, toward the bonfire and its rapidly dwindling flames. A few folks still millaround, people you recognize, just barely, though no one you could call a friend remains around the pit. Stelle, March, and Dan Heng are long gone, probably. You’d feel too ashamed to look them in the eye anyway.

Someone offers you a warm beer and you take it. Your hands shake.

Hollow and wordless, you move around the backyard like a specter. Part of you wishes you were one, just something mostly formless and shapeless. Transparent. No one could see you make a fool of yourself that way. There would be no witnesses to your desperation and perversion.

You swallow back bile when it rises in your throat, and wash it down with a chug from the can.

You’re surprised to find Jing Yuan idling around the corner of the house. He looks up when you near him, and he greets you with the same genial smile he always wears. He nods to the space next him, already plucking a pack of cigarettes from the breast pocket on his shirt. You take one, and he lights it for you in the next instant.

“It looks like you needed that,” he hums. He doesn't take one for himself, only tucking the carton away and out of sight.

“Maybe.” You want to vomit. Or slide down the wall of the house and rot there.

He laughs then. It’s too... warm of a sound for how you feel. For how dirty these venues are, and for the company that you have come to hold, it feels dissonant. Jing Yuan is too kind, too patient.

(He cannot be your friend because your ruin would spread to him, maybe.)

“Take as many as you like,” he urges with a hum, and settles next to you.

Silently, you ruminate. Descend into yourself. You suppose, given the events you’ve seen tonight, that you’re both stewing in something akin to yearning.

(Jing Yuan is better than you for it. He, at least, doesn’t sleep with his unrequited adored in someone else’s bed after a messy house show.)

“Do you have a way home?” asks Jing Yuan, breaking you from your slow-rolling spiral.

You shake your head. It would be rude to call Fu Xuan so late. You— you hadn’t really thought about a ride. Not yet.

Jing Yuan looks you up and down and his smile looks sadder, “How about a ride home?”

“Sure.” You nod.

The ride back home in Jing Yuan’s (too nice, too expensive, too decadent) car is quiet. An album from a band you don’t recognize plays at a low volume. Soothing, soft voices, so juxtaposed from the venue you leave behind. Maybe you just can’t recognize the words because you’re decaying. Your phone lays in your lap, over your aching thighs.

[no new messages]

(Because Blade never messages you after a fuck. You’re not worth that much to him.)

...

Gingerly, you unlock your front door and enter your little apartment. Fu Xuan lays on the couch, on her back, with her phone against her collarbone. Her mouth is parted in peaceful sleep, though her hair is still done up, all of her pins are still in.

(She waited for you, again. And you failed her, again.)

You don’t know how she puts up with you. Or why either.

Some part of you wants to vomit. Wretch, like it’ll purge the awful, disgusting thoughts warming you. They do not serve you. You should just—

(Know better. You gain nothing from entangling yourself from Blade. The sex is... enough. Because Blade doesn’t know his own strength sometimes and makes it hurt, unintentionally toeing the line between too little and too much. It’s still not worth it. It shouldn’t be worth it. You’d be better off never going to any gigs, ever again. You wouldn’t have to disappoint and embarrass yourself to your old friends then. You wouldn’t have to linger in the yearning of others while never having that affection given to you.)

You collapse atop your bed. Your makeup has been roughly scrubbed off with an old towel, and you can feel the crunchy remnants of mascara clinging around your eyes. You can’t make yourself care. Burying your face in your pillow, you burrow into your blankets. You’ll probably be sore and hungover tomorrow... today? The songbirds are just beginning to chirp their morning arias. It makes you sick to your stomach.

As you begin to doze, your phone vibrates.

[one new message]

blade: did you get home

Your mouth feels dry and your chest feels so tight you could die.

you: yeah. jing yuan drove me.

[seen: 5:11 AM]

You hold your breath as Blade begins to type. Then stops typing. Then begins again. It goes on for several volleys and you really do think you might puke.

blade: get some sleep

You drop your phone somewhere in your sheets. Giddiness fills your chest, despite the exhaustion and ache and bone-rotting fatigue. Elation causes you to smile, something wide and girlish that you have to hide in your pillow, lest it be beared to the world.

(It’s a scrap. It’s nothing. It’s worse than the bare minimum and the bar is already in hell.)

But, it’s something.

A morsel. Something to clutch onto and hold and cherish.

You want to put his words between your teeth and swallow.

#lore writes #blade x reader #ren x reader #hsr x reader #thank you to bitti for giving me so much juice to work with!!!#thank you to my early 20s and my time in the local music scene to reach about the most toxic men you can imagine <3 #ENJOY LOVES <3

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dottiro · 5 months ago

Text

Lethal Pursuer

Unreliable summary: You’re at a club with friends when you meet Ajax—a charming ginger, whose company you’re starting to enjoy. // When your friends abandon you without a way home, Ajax offers you to stay at his place until your friends pick you up. Warnings: Yandere, clubbing, mentions of alcohol, being drugged, kidnapping, GN reader. Note: This is a rewrite of THIS fic from my old blog. Big thanks to @teabutmakeitazure for encouraging me with the emojis and comments on my doc <3

Over the sound of music, a voice calls out to you.

“What’s your name?”

When you turn around, the colourful lights that spin around the club hit a stranger's face. Freckles that were previously hidden appear on the bridge of his nose, creating constellations on his skin before they fade when the lights move.

I’m Y/n. You?”

A pair of dull blue eyes are locked on you. With a boyish smile, the stranger watches you sway to the beats of music echoing around the club.

“I’m Ajax.” He answers as he brushes the ginger hair that had fallen before his eyes. With inspecting eyes you notice a streak of lighter hair amongst his untamed locks.

To your surprise, the name is native to Snezhnaya. However, you can’t help but raise an eyebrow at the unusual clothing and tanning—which are uncommon.

“You’re a local?”

When he tilts his head towards the side, you move closer, repeating your question.

“Morepesok.” His leg bounces unmatched to the beat of the music. With him leaning in closer, you feel the strands of his hair brush against your cheek. “I grew up there. It’s a seaside village. Though, recently, I’ve been spending my days in the capital.”

You repeat his answer in your mind. Morepesok… it sounds familiar.

Ajax leans back, a charming smile spreading along his cheeks as he points at you. Through the sounds of music, you’re unable to hear him.

When he repeats it, you focus on the way his lips part and you understand his words;

‘You?’

You entered the club with friends a few hours before your quid-pro-quo with Ajax. It was a Friday that had lasted an eternity, and once you were cleared from your duties, you decided through text to go clubbing. That way, you could catch up while simultaneously destressing over drinks.

Then, after assigning your designated driver for the night, the alcohol did the rest.

With your friends on the dancefloor, some alcohol buzzing through your body, and the loud music; you were able to forget the stress that had accumulated over the past weeks.

Soon, you found yourself an admirer. Then, a free drink. Then…

“Another one?” You say with a hint of a joke as Ajax approaches—again.

A mischievous smile forms on his lips. He swirls the cup in his left hand while bringing the other to his lips. He teases you. “Don’t tell me, you’re a lightweight?”

You roll your eyes at him.

It’s been a while since you’ve strayed from your friends and found company in your stranger. Though, you suppose ‘strangers’ is no longer the right word for him.

Ajax hands you the cup from his left hand. “You seem tired. Did you have a long day?”

“Yes, but I’m not ready to go home yet.” You take the drink to your lips and let the liquid slide past your lips.

Ajax’s eyes strain when he forces them to move from yours. Between looks, he scans the area. Eventually, he finds a place and gestures his head to the bar. “Need a break? I can search for your friends while you’ll take a rest.”

His offering solidifies that his act of tonight has been genuine.

You can’t help but smile.

“Thank you, but it’s alright. I know you’ll keep me company, right?”

“I’d be offended if you’d assume otherwise.” He places his hands on his hips. A dramatic huff escapes his lips, but you catch the corner of his lip curling into a cheeky smile.

Escaping your problems only works for a short while. Before long, no matter how hard you run, you’re confronted with them again. As much as you love to hang out with your friends—to dance the night away with Ajax, you’ve grown tired of the music and the happy faces, knowing it’s all temporary.

Yet, you hang on as tightly as possible.

Under the colourful lights, you share a brief, knowing, glance; a silent whisper to each other, hoping the night would last for just a while longer.

As you head toward the bar together, the lively atmosphere of the club wraps around you. With most people on the dancefloor and away from the seats, finding a place isolated from the crowd takes no effort.

Settling into a darker corner of the bar, you take a deep breath. Here, the noise of the music and people seems to fade, giving you a sense of privacy amidst the chaos.

Those dark blue eyes meet yours again. This time, the recognition in them speaks volumes.

“So, Ajax.” You emphasise his name, letting the two vowels slur into each other. “What do you do?”

Despite the music being in the background, he furrows his eyebrows and hesitates. With the lack of dancing lights, you can’t grasp the emotion in his eyes. Darkness has cast a shadow over you, making you huddle up to him.

Believing he didn’t hear you, you specify; “Your work?”

The ginger leans back, then forces a smile, and finally raises an eyebrow. “I do a bit of everything, I guess.”

He’s leaning closer again. The smell of his cologne makes you feel dizzy.

Playfully you roll your eyes. The drinks you’ve drank have made you bolder. “Come on, tell me! You can’t say that without expecting me to be curious.”

“Okay, so, I’m serious. Please don’t laugh.” His finger mindlessly caresses the rim of the empty glass on the table. Then, with a look of despair, Childe answers with the unexpected. “I'm a toyseller.”

You put your hand up to your mouth to hide a smile. His answer, not to mention the buildup, makes you unable to hide your chuckle. The thought of him surrounded by stuffed bears and wooden cars creeps into your mind. While it’s a cute scenario, it seems silly when he is physically built to win battles.

Carefully, you remove your hands, revealing a broad smile. “No way. You’re kidding.”

He bashfully smiles and gives a light shrug. “What, you don’t think I’m capable enough? I’ll have you know that my little brother says I’m the best toymaker in Teyvat.”

“You also make them?”

He crosses his arms, leaning forward like you did moments ago, his voice whispering in your ear. “Enough about me. Tell me more about you.”

Your cheeks warm up and you’re grateful for the darkness. “Me? Well…”

Something about his playful yet clumsy attitude leaves you entranced, easing you to open up to him—something that normally doesn't come easy.

“I might've teased you, but at least your life sounds entertaining. My job is hardly anything to boast about. Sure, it brings money, but I hardly get time off and my boss is an uptight prick who thinks he’s above everyone else.”

There is a short silence before you continue,

“At least I can say I’ve decided to chase my dreams. Despite ending up with an ordinary life, I’ve at least escaped my hometown.”

Ajax frowns. “What about your boss?” He spreads his legs further, becoming more intruding physically and in conversation as he unknowingly presses the subject. “Why? Is he giving you any problems?”

You shrug. “It's not like he picks on me specifically. He's the kind of person that can't be pleased, no matter how perfect one might be.”

A silence falls over your perfect stranger.

You try to lighten the air. “Don’t worry about it. Tonight has made me forget all about it. In the end, it’s just work.”

“Yeah,” He forces a smile that fails to hide his frustration with the topic. “Just work.”

“Take it like this; if he didn’t give me such a rough workload, I likely wouldn’t have gone clubbing tonight, which means I would’ve missed meeting you.” You push your elbow against his arm. “So for all the things he does wrong, he did one thing right.”

In the background, you hear the energetic lyrics and melody from the songs. You turn your eyes towards the crowd and fail to see any of your friends.

For the first time since Ajax approached you, you decide to check your phone.

Lockscreen— time: 1:03.

6 missed calls, 99+ unread messages.

What? Is it this late already?

You stand abruptly, leaving your drink unfinished with Ajax. Your eyes fly over the notifications, reading the messages you’ve missed—starting from the first at 21:42 to the last sent at 00:46.

In your group chat, many missed messages cheer for the night.

It starts with a few videos of you and your friends dancing, still together at the start of the night. Then, after an hour, wishes for you and the ‘hot ginger’ to have a ‘safe’ night start. Between the teases, you capture a picture of you and him talking on the dancefloor, still having fun. Then, more pictures and conversations with your drunk friends follow. Until, finally, the message; ‘We went back home, if you need a ride, call us.’

You feel your heart sink to the bottom of your toes.

There is no doubt that your friends are good people. They mean well, meant well, but a feeling of betrayal slithers through the cracks of your love for them. It makes you feel guilty, yet angry with them.

In frustration, you swipe away the notifications for the missed calls.

“Are you alright?” Ajax’s voice is next to you when he speaks. You instinctively turn off your phone and face him. Quickly, he holds up his arms, giving you space. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“No, that’s not—” You frown. “I didn’t mean to cut our conversation off. I was surprised by the time.”

Ajax lowers his hands to his sides and tries to comfort you. “Did anything happen?”

You close your eyes. Your words come out mangled and wrong. “I think I’m going to go out for a moment. I just saw that my friends left the club without me and I need to call them, or else they’ll pass out and I’ll have no ride home.”

Already a step ahead, Ajax puts a hand on your shoulder, stopping you in your tracks. With one arm, he hands you your jacket which went forgotten by you.

“Will you be alright, Y/n?”

A lump forms in your throat and you purse your lips to keep yourself grounded.

Bright lights in many shades hit the side of Ajax’s face, bringing forward his best features, not to mention a strong determined expression. During the night he has in no way forced himself on you, and you consider your choices.

Either you can call your friends and hope for the best as you wait alone outside the club; which will be cold, dark, and uncomfortable for many more reasons. Not to mention that there is no guarantee your friends won't be passed out—they might not pick up. Worst case scenario: you’ll be stranded for the night.

Or (and this option is preferable), you can call your friends and ask Ajax to wait with you. Worst case scenario: he turns out to be a creep and you’ll have to retreat into the club.

You flash your eyes to him once more, finding nothing in them.

Eventually, you decide to let go of your doubt. While it’s not a ride home, Ajax would be at your side, willing to stay there if you’d ask.

You really need to ask for his number before the night ends.

Your fingers subconsciously fiddle with the case of your phone, finding comfort in the repeating motion. “Is it alright if you could stay by my side until I find my friends?” Your eyes dart to the crowd, then back at him. “I’m not in the mood to be bothered by some creep.”

“Of course, I get that.” The lights have left him and his expression is left in the void again. You can guess from his tone he is trying to lighten the mood with a joke. With a puffed-out chest, he bows down slightly. “Tonight, I’ll be your loyal knight.”

The lights and people blur into one mass. Since he’s taller and broader, you follow Ajax’s lead as he paves a way through the crowd, helping you avoid bumping into distracted or drunk clubbers.

When he opens the doors and you step outside, the harsh Snezhnayan breeze hits your face, making your mind clearer within a moment.

“Huh, it seems like most people have already left.” Ajax lets the door fall behind him as he looks around the area. “There are hardly any people left.”

Clinging onto your jacket, you resist a shiver from the cold. “Compared to the club, even Our Majesty’s palace can be considered empty.”

He turns around. “Let’s go to the side. We wouldn’t want to block the exit for any drunk people.”

Compared to the space you have just left, the abandoned streets in Snezhnaya are as silent as a graveyard. Only a few people linger around; either sitting in the snow against the buildings or smoking in a group.

Snowflakes from the night sky dance down, falling on your head and melting against your skin. Tonight’s clouds are broken apart and far from each other. When you look up, you can see the stars in the sky.

“What happened?” Childe asks as he guides you through the snow.

“With my friends?” He nods. “I think they misunderstood the situation. Jumped to conclusions and decided they knew what was fact before I could respond.”

“I can’t defend them, but I know they must be good people if they’re your friends.” Childe kicks the snow in front of his feet. His hands are in his pocket and a puff of air escapes his lips. “Try to stay calm. I’m sure they’re waiting for your call.”

You stop at the corner of the club. On your phone, you click open the group app’s information to reveal the contacts of everyone. Without much hesitation, you open the number of your designated driver—and supposedly the only one sober.

When you push the call button, Ajax takes a few steps back to give you privacy.

After a few long moments, you reach voicemail.

“You good over there?” When you look at Childe, he also has a phone in hand. His lower back is leaning onto the side of the building, watching you pace back and forth on the pavement.

“Yeah, but it went to voicemail.” You focus on your phone again. “I’ll try someone else.”

With haste, you dial the next friend. They’re not sober but knowing how often they look on their phone, they’re likely to pick up.

Unfortunately, again; voicemail.

You frown and the uncomfortable feeling in your stomach grows bigger. The last text message had been 30 minutes ago. They should be home by now.

“Nothing?”

You look up at Ajax. Once again, you shake your head.

“Hey, it’s okay. If you want we can go back inside and wait till they call back?” Ajax puts his phone in his pocket and walks up to you. When he’s at your side he puts a hand on the small of your back, rubbing it back and forth to bring you warmth.

You put your hands in your hair and walk away from him, only to pace back. “I’m just worried something has happened. This sucks, but it’s so unlike them. I can’t imagine them leaving me behind in a club like this.”

“I…” He hesitates, “I might not have a car to drive you home, but if you’re comfortable enough, I live nearby. You can send my address to your friends and crash there until they call. Only if you want to, of course. I can wait with you in the club if you'd rather.”

Your first instinct is to reject him and to continue calling, trusting your friends will pick up eventually. Then, you realise you’re too drunk to find help elsewhere, lest you’d want to trust the bartenders who have their hands full and will have you crash in the back of the club without surveillance.

And on your face, these thoughts must come through, because Ajax shakes his hands before him. “Just an offering. A stupid one, maybe. But a genuine one. Again, if you’d prefer, I can wait with you here. I thought you might consider something else because you’ve been swaying for a while now.”

Through his rushed words, you realise your options are narrowing down. Could you walk home? Are you drunk to the point where you’re unable to stand? A warm home to wait in does sound nice…

Plus, Ajax is nice, right?

The headache that’s been looming over you intensifies.

“Okay, but let me message your address to my friends first. So, they know where to pick me up, ”

Snowflakes from the sky twirl down until they land on the ground.

Patiently, he watches you open the location app. Then, when you ask for it, he tells you his address—which is close to the club as promised. The soles of his shoes tap against the pavement as he watches the brightness of your screen flash. —You’ve sent it to your friends.

You turn off your phone and drop it in your pocket once you’re done.

“I just wanted to say this out loud so you can’t say I’m leading you on, but I’m only joining you to wait until my friends can pick me up. That’s alright, right?”

Childe doesn’t miss the hesitation in your eyes when you look at him.

Deep inside, hidden in an abyss, he wants to tear away all your doubts and carve his name for you to trust. Deep inside, he hopes you know he’d conquer the world in your name—if only you’d let him.

Then, as soon as it comes, it leaves. Ajax gives you a boyish grin. “Of course. It’d hardly be justified if I were to leave you abandoned here, so it’s the least I can do.”

The sound of his carefree voice is enough to make that warm feeling return, and for a split second, you believe you saw the stars reflected in his eyes. Though, it must’ve been the lighting, because when the shadows fall upon him again, it fades away.

Before you walk out of the street, Childe puts one of his arms out with a playful wink.

You intertwine yours around it.

The streets are empty and dark, but silence does not fill them in Ajax’s presence.

Noticing your stress early on, he asks silly questions to bring your mind away from negative thoughts, returning you to the start of the night; enjoying his presence, and feeling light.

Innocent questions; ‘Hey, what’s your favourite colour?’, teasing ones; ‘Got an eye on anyone at the moment?’, and serious follow;

“You should get better friends. What would’ve happened if you were all alone? It’s concerning no one called back.”

The streetlights set for a sober mood. Empty streets, dark homes and a dimly lit sidewalk.

You frown at the pavement below your feet.

“They didn’t abandon me. They assumed I went home with you and then decided to leave themselves.”

A chuckle leaves his lips and he turns his head to you with a tilt. “You didn’t strike me as someone who’d go home with some guy from the club.”

“I don’t,” You trip over your words, not wanting to offend Ajax. “Well, not normally.”

“If you want, we can always return to the club. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

You had walked a while with the world swaying from side to side. A few more houses and you’d be at his home, yet he offers to take return if you feel uncomfortable.

He is almost too nice.

“No, I’m alright.” You smile before frowning. “I guess I’m a bit worried though.”

“About your friends?”

You nod. “The situation feels off.”

You’re unsure why it does.

On your side, Ajax stares straight ahead. He gestures forward. “My home is at the end of this street. I don’t have a car, but I can call a friend in the morning to drive you home. It’s only a few more hours till sunrise. Think you can hold out for a bit longer?”

You smile when you turn to face him. “Thank you. I’d appreciate that. And—” You shake your hands in front of you and an awkward laugh escapes your lips. “I’m sorry about this mess.”

He shrugs. “I had no reason to stay in the club, at least, until I saw you. Once you were stranded, I knew I could offer help, so I did. There is nothing more to it.”

“Were you not with friends though?” You raise an eyebrow at the thought of someone coming to the club alone. Though, perhaps, that’s your prejudices talking.

“I know the owner of the club. He sometimes bartends himself, though—lucky for you, he didn’t have a shift today, so I was fortunate to have spotted you.”

He cuts himself off and turns his hand towards a house towards the right, stopping in front of it with a smile. If this is his home, it’s surprisingly ordinary. Hidden amongst other houses, it goes unnoticed. There are no decorations in front of the windows, nothing at all.

“Welcome to my humble abode,” Childe says dramatically while he jokingly bows. “It’s nothing big—, but we all have to start somewhere, right?”

He grabs a single key from his pockets. There’s no charm attached, no other keys.

As weird as it looks, you don’t comment on it.

With a twist of his wrist, Ajax opens the door, holding it and gesturing for you to come in.

“Feel free to leave your jacket anywhere, shoes too if they bother you.” He throws you a smile over his shoulder as he walks further into the house. You hear him exclaim, “Mi casa, es tu casa.”

Before you enter the place, you check your phone once more.

No new messages or missed calls. Angrily you send a message, updating and explaining you’ll get a ride from one of his friends if yours keeps ignoring you.

In another one, you send a few crying emojis, followed by a single angry one.

Once some of your embarrassment is thrown at your friends, you put the phone in your pocket and close the door when you walk in.

The hallway leading up further into the house is dimly lit. On the side, a set of stairs goes up, indicating another level, as you assumed from the height outside. The walls are painted a cream colour and are devoid of any hanging decorations. You see a set of formal shoes tucked underneath a chest of drawers.

When you walk along the hallway, you notice under the stairs another door—possibly leading up to an attic, although, that’s speculation. Then, at the end of the hallway, a bright light shines through the cracks of the door Ajax had entered.

When you enter the living room you see him fly around in the kitchen. It’s nothing grand and fairly empty compared to your living arrangement, although in theme with the bland hallway.

You realise he must spend the majority of his time away from home—using the house only to sleep and eat in.

“Here,” Tartaglia turns around with a glass of water, followed by a white pill in his other hand. “You mentioned you were feeling unwell so I thought a painkiller would help you settle down.”

With a smile and a thank you, you accept the offer; downing the pill and water nearly instantly. After you place the empty glass on the kitchen table, you feel drowsiness kick in. You shrug it off to exhaustion.

“Feel free to look around.” Childe walks by you. “It’s past midnight so all the good TV programs are gone, but if you’re interested in commercials, feel free to turn it on.”

“You’re still on cable?” You look at the bulky television which contradicts his brand-new still-sparkling phone.

Childe looks at the bulky box with you. “What? Not standard?”

“No way.”

Your eyes move to the other things in the living room. Closer to the window and facing the television, two small sofas stand coated in dust. A small rounded table divides them, giving enough room to walk in front of the television to reach the window, and possibly, the thick curtains.

Gently, you place your jacket over one of the sofas before wandering further.

Placed against the wall is a single bookshelf. It’s filled with many books, related to classical literature or military topics—something you didn’t expect but don’t judge upon. Further, you notice the thin layer of dust, making the clean picture frames stand out.

“Are these your siblings?”

You grab the picture in your hands and lift it closer. A young boy, with the same ginger-coloured hair, smiles into the lens. His eyes are open and noticeably brighter than Ajax’s. Next to him is a girl with similar features, longer hair, and the same smile—although her eyes are closed instead.

Behind the two children stands Ajax wearing formal clothes.

Military? No, different.

Childe hums as he approaches you. “Yes, Teucer and Tonia. Though, they’ve both grown significantly since this picture was taken. I have a few older siblings as well.”

He reaches for another picture frame, set higher. After brushing his finger against the glass he shows it to you. “Here are the others.”

With slow movements, you take the picture frame from his hands. Your fingers move across the picture. He’s much smaller here, but it’s still undoubtedly Ajax.

“You seem so… happy.”

“I was much younger then. Teucer was still a baby so should’ve been, what, twelve?”

After committing the picture to memory, you place them in their original spots.

When you move to place the higher picture, your head spins. Fortunately, you quickly rebalance yourself.

With a few harsh blinks, you’re able to ease the spinning. You quickly take another picture frame to distract yourself.

After a quick look, you realise this picture seems different.

“Who’s this? Teucer?”

Ajax shakes his head. “No. That’s me.”

The ginger in the picture has the same spread of freckles Ajax does. His hair is in the same wild style as he wears it now, but he misses the streak of white.

Another thing you can’t help but notice is the difference in his smile.

There is no doubt that Ajax had fun tonight, but his smile never lit up to the smile of this smaller boy.

In the picture, at his side, you see a child of the same age.

Even from this picture, it is safe to assume that Ajax was social, if not sometimes obnoxious, when younger. In comparison, this child seems more shy and reclusive. Their head is turned away and you can’t make out their appearance, except for their hair colour.

You point your finger towards the figure. “And this?”

While brushing your finger over the glass, you wonder how the two met. Were they no longer friends? Is this the only picture he has of them?

Ajax is silent.

He mumbles something under his breath.

When you hum in confusion, he speaks louder.

“You don’t remember?”

You turn your gaze up to him. Your mind remains unsteady and you feel your vision blur again. Like last time, you try to force it away. However, this time you fail and lose your balance.

When you try to break your fall by stepping backwards, you lose all your strength in your legs. You feel them shake as the world spins back, your vision turning from the books on the shelves to the stained ceiling.

With a loud crash, the frame falls to the ground, breaking beyond repair by the sounds of it.

Your crash, however, does not happen.

“▓re yo▒ alr▓▒ht?”

When your eyes flutter open, you are met with Ajax’s blue eyes. His arms are around you, one supporting your back, and the other wrapped around you to keep you steady on your weak limbs.

“...what?”

His voice blurs in and out.

You’re only able to make out mumbles.

You barely register moving to the sofa.

You do however clearly hear your ringtone.

Gathering any strength you have left, you reach for your pocket, instinctively moving to accept the call.

With a slurred voice you answer, “Hello?”

“Y/░. Li▒▒▓n, y░u ne▓d to ▓et aw░y Rig▓t. ▓ow.”

You blink a few times. “...what?”

“▒e’s o▒▓ of the H▓rbi▒gers, the Fatui—“

Th▒ phone call ends ▓bruptly.

The phone ▓s taken fr▒m your hands.

You friends—

Thoughts r▒ce into your m▒nd.

D▓d you hear it c▓rrectly? Fat▒i? ▓re your fri▓nds in d▓ng▓r? Did you h░t yo░r he▓d? W░y is ▒v▒ryt▓▓ng f▓d▒ng?

Y▓u se▓ ▓ sp▓t of ░r░nge-br▒wn, bl▓░, ░nd g▓▓y m▓v▓ int░ y▒ur v░s▓▒n, ▓nd th░▒—

“Goodnight.”

You wake up surrounded by blankets and pillows. The bed you wake in is foreign. So is the harsh light that peaks out from between the cracks of the curtains. Your head continues to hurt, but after remembering the loud music from last night, you don’t blame it.

Once the initial fear of an unknown place fades away, you can deduct what has happened.

This must be Ajax’s room…

The king-sized pencil post bed is filled with blankets and warmth. On each side is a nightstand with a lamp. The closest to you has a glass of water. The other is empty.

When you step out of bed, you notice a sudden drop in temperature, although it’s not unexpected. Without any other sounds, the breeze coming in from the window is quite loud. Since there is no sign of Ajax in this room, you assume he must’ve slept on the couch, forgetting to close the window during the night as a result.

A chill falls over you, but there is no harm in it.

You’re grateful for Ajax allowing you to sleep in his bed.

With your arms wrapped around you, you approach the window—feeling like closing the windows now might help Ajax later. But, when you open the curtains to close it for him, you’re met with something… astonishing.

An abundance of white stretches in front of the house. It is undisturbed by footsteps from passing strangers or animals, creating a serene picture with the help of the treeline made from tall pines. Unlike what you remember, it seems as if you’re on the ground floor of the building, on an equal level to the world outside.

If you didn’t know better, you’d believe you were in the middle of a forest.

But… you aren’t.

You turn around, moving to the window on the other side of the room. When you open the curtains, you’re met with the same sight. Snow and trees. Your eyes confirm this is real, but your mind can’t grasp how it could be. You move your head around, seeing if you can catch any clues in the corner of your vision.

There are no forests anywhere near the club. Not within walking distance, and only miles outside of the capital.

Where are you?

Snowflakes catch on the outside of the window, and you decide to close it.

Further in the room, you notice a set of wardrobes. Like the other furniture, the room seems divided into two. Two nightstands, two wardrobes, two windows…

After a few helpless spins and trying to grasp your mind around the current situation, you decide to test your luck by searching around.

First, you try to open the wardrobe to the right.

You twist the round door handle, but it doesn’t bulge. When you try the other, it opens.

The inside seems normal. Ajax’s clothes are all neatly folded or hung. You see a variety of outfits for different occasions. Some are more casual, though you see suits as well.

You lift a few piles of shirts, finding nothing out of the ordinary.

With a sigh, you close the door.

A wardrobe full of clothes. So much for answers.

You turn back around and try the same for the nightstands. You find a single toothbrush, an unused brush, and a small mirror inside the nightstand on the right—the side you woke up from.

The other nightstand is more peculiar.

Inside the drawer, you find a letter addressed to “Ajax”. The handwriting is clumsy as if a child had written it. When you turn it around, you see signs of ageing despite it being preserved well.

Without any words, you deduct that this item is of great importance to him.

With a hint of guilt, you put it back amongst the handful of other letters.

Then, the only door left is the one leading outside.

You cross the room, and once opened, you are met by a short hallway. The walls and floors are made from sturdy wood, like the bedroom you exited. The thought of being inside a cabin crosses your mind for a second.

Quietly, you close the door behind you before continuing.

Unlike what you remember, this house appears to be a one-floor building. There are no stairways leading down, and the place has many windows allowing you to see the forest surrounding you and bringing in natural light.

When the hallway ends and connects to a large living room, you see Ajax on the couch asleep.

And given your lack of knowledge on how you ended up here, you decide it’s lucky that your presence goes unnoticed.

Your eyes graze over the living room. It is cosy—homey in many ways. Unlike the bookshelves you remember, these are filled with novels and stories from your childhood; fairytales, romance novels, fantasies, and nearly every other genre you can imagine.

A large square carpet muffles your footsteps as you walk closer to the large table in the middle of the room. Thrown over the back of one of the chairs is your jacket, at its feet; your shoes, and in front of it on the table…

Your phone.

You turn your head to Ajax. He hasn’t moved since you walked into the room. He is still asleep.

Carefully you walk closer.

Unlike what the situation makes you expect to have happened, your phone remains as you remember. It has a low battery percentage but can survive for at least a few more hours if you turn on saving mode.

You open your messages.

○ Has anyone heard from Y/n? ○ Not since last night. I heard someone had a run-in with the Fatui, what was that about? ○ Yeah, I heard that too. Can everyone reply ASAP?? ○ I told you to keep an eye out for each other. How do 4 people go missing in one night? ○ Do we file a report? Like, for missing people? ○ File a report??? To whom? The Fatui??

You scroll down, reaching the most recent message in the early morning. When you type a short sos, it goes undelivered. When you try again, you’re met with the same outcome.

There is no available internet.

It seems you’re too far from civilisation to have access to a network.

And finally, you try to call.

The entire service has been cut.

This makes you panic. Rightfully so. With a quick look out of the windows, you’re met with the sight of the forest taunting you. You’re in an unfamiliar place and your memories do not add up to the current situation.

You turn around to check up on Ajax.

“Your phone won’t work here.”

He sits upright on the couch. A strand of hair sticks out. He really had been asleep, and somehow, you had woken him up.

He adds, “I’ve got cable TV, though.”

His voice isn’t laced with much of anything. There are no signs of exhaustion or sleep, no emotions either.

He is clear of mind; as if everything is normal—expected.

You narrow your eyes and your mouth gapes open. A whisper falls out of you. “...what?”

Ajax lets his head hang. A troubled sigh escapes his lips before he stands up.

In response, you take a step back.

He stops for a moment. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

The snappy tone in his voice puts you on edge.

In turn, you react similarly.

“Then what is going on? Where are we?”

“I suppose you weren’t lying.” He circles the couch, coming into full view to face you. “You did forget me.”

You furrow your eyebrows.

“Sit with me, please.” Ajax sits back down, patting the place next to him as he looks back at you.

You move your eyes from him to the couch. There is no malice in his words. With no one to call out to, you feel as if the best move is to be compliant for as long as he remains kind.

You sit on the place furthest away from him.

“Do you know how hard it is to find someone without a name or information? Ever since I grew strong enough to search, for years… I’ve been trying to find you.”

A broken picture frame lies on the low table near the couch. On top of it, is a picture you vaguely remember from last night.

Childe lets a chuckle escape his lips. He is desperate, clinging onto hope for you to believe him. “You can’t remember?”

“Ajax…” You shake your head, and he tries to cut you off. “I do not know you. I don’t know where I am or how I got here, but I would appreciate it if you’d bring me back, now.”

Childe scooches closer, leaning forward and reaching for you. “It’s fine, I’m not upset. I’m sure you’ll remember me if we talk a bit more. After all, last night was like all those years ago. Surely you remember how much fun we had as kids? During the winters when my family would visit your town, you’d always seek me out.”

You pull away, and a serious expression falls upon his face, something that’s unlike him—something foul.

“Stop that. You know I’m not going to hurt you.”

“Can you promise that?” You narrow your eyes at him before diverting your eyes. His eyes are too empty. Ajax has nothing to give, nothing but a mask made of lies. “I don’t know where I am or what happened, you refuse to tell me what’s going on, and I don’t trust you.”

“But you should.”

A cold silence falls into the room.

“I missed you. And I know you don’t, but you will.”

He says it in such a gentle voice, you’re unsure what to make of it.

Inch by inch, he comes closer until you’re sitting side by side.

Ajax wraps his arms around you, and you let him.

He’s unable to bring any comfort when tears escape your eyes.

Confused.

Scared.

ㅤ

A broken picture frame lies on the low table near the couch.

On top of it, is a picture of a young Ajax and a child with the same hair colour as you.

©dottiro. Do not copy, repost, translate, feed to AI, or take heavy inspiration from my content. Thank you for reading ♡

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atierrorian · 5 months ago

Note

Hello! It nice to meet you I adore your blogs they are so wonderful! May I ask for Diasomnia if you write for all of them. Having there lover being like severely injured but the lover doesn’t even notice. Like yeah they have a sword sticking out of there shoulder but they thought they could pull it out later.

Hii! It's nice to meet you too! And ofc you may!

And please do note that I haven't been keeping up with Twisted Wonderland for quite awhile now so they might be ooc or I'm possibly missing something!

Note: I excluded Sebek because I just had no idea how to write for him, I'm so sorry! And it's not proofread by the way.

WORD COUNT: 243

"My, what happened to you, my gem?" Malleus questioned at your state, you looked in terrible condition he couldn't help but worry for you.

You had a few wounds with shards impaling your skin, but he was most concerned about the huge blood pooling out of your stomach.

"Hm? What are you talking about? I feel fine!" You weren't, but you thought you'd go to the infirmary later, first you needed to spend time with your dragon yk. Set your priorities straight!

Your lover was amused by your carefree attitude. But he couldn't let you walk around anymore longer with injuries like that. Not on his watch at least. Besides, he doesn't want you passing out on him now during your walks together.

"You really are something else, my treasure. But let's get you patched up first." You sighed but complied and allowed him to heal you. You both sat underneath a tree as the fireflies watched and lit up as Malleus works his magic.

No matter how many times you've seen it, seeing it in action with his green luminous magic was always impressive. After a minute, you felt better and sighed in relief that the pain was gone especially in your stomach.

"There, you're all better now. And please do be careful next time." You sheepishly smiled.

"Alright alright, I promise."

He smiled at your response, and you continued walking together side by side.

WORD COUNT: 302

"Oh little bat! Whatever happened to you?~"

"AHH!" Lilia suddenly did his famous surprise attacks on you once again and you did not appreciate getting scared after what had happened today. Damn Ace.

"Hehe~ Why the face?" He got down from his spot and took a closer look at you. You backed up a bit but he got closer and closer until your back hit the wall.

The feeling of uneasiness crept onto you and sweat dripping from your face as his eyes wondered until it landed on the small knife that penetrated your palm.

Noticing his where his gaze was, you quickly tried to hide the injured hand out of guilt for trying to conceal your wound until he stopped you by grabbing your wrist. You winced at the contact and upon noticing your discomfort, he loosened his grip just enough to avoid hurting you further.

Lilia sighed in disappointment, where you were walking certainly wasn't towards the infirmary. In fact, you were going to the opposite way of where it is.

"My! This won't be good for you my little bat, let's go to the infirmary together shall we?"

"Huh-"

Without giving any more further explanation, you both were now at the infirmary and gently laid you on the bed. You felt yourself flushed from the action but glad that you were gonna get treated soon for the wound.

"Do rest well, little bat. When you recover, we can have as much as adventure as we want! Alright?" He smiled, damn him. You couldn't resist his charming smile even if you wanted to.

So, you had no choice but lay your head on the pillow and rest your eyes. And as you were about to go to the dream world, you suddenly heard a lullaby and felt a pair of lips kissed your forehead.

WORD COUNT: 368

Silver opened his eyes and felt someone leaning on his shoulder. And as he expected, it's you. He smiled softly and admired you and took in your features as you continued to snooze. But, as doing so, he noticed something... Is that a sword piercing your leg???

Silver at the moment felt conflicted, he didn't want to disturb you sleeping. You looked so peaceful and seemed to enjoy whatever dream you had with that smile of yours. And on the other hand, you were literally bleeding from your leg. How did you even manage to walk to him with such condition??

But, your safety was the most important to Silver. He gently nudged you in hopes of trying to wake you up and bring you to the infirmary to get your wound checked and for you to recover.

And he was successful. You slowly opened your eyes and saw Silver looking at you worriedly and a few animals looking at your leg where the sword was impaled.

"Ah, this is awkward ahaha..." You sheepishly smiled.

"[Name]... What happened?" Worry was evident in his eyes and you couldn't help but feel guilty making him so worried over your safety. It was so obvious on how much he loves and cares for you.

"I'll bring you to the infirmary alright? That could get an infection." As much as Silver wanted to ask questions and for the full details, he concluded that could be later, for now, he's going to focus on you and your recovery.

Silver got up and carried you bridal style despite your flustered protests. The animals also sat up and followed you both to the infirmary. A few students here and there watched you being carried by your knight and shining army with a sword jabbed on your leg and animals following you both.

The pain sure was cruciating, but if it meant you got to be saved like this by your prince charming? It was pretty worth it. However you're still gonna go and talk to those dumb airheads about NOT to touch things that don't belong to them.

But for now, you leaned in closer to his chest as you both arrived at the infirmary.

Is it obvious who I favorite? No. Totally not. (While writing this I was listening to "Mori no chiisana restaurant" you guys should listen to it as well!)

#atier's works✎#twisted wonderland x reader #twst x reader #twst fluff #Malleus Draconia x reader #Lilia Vanrouge x reader #Silver x reader #Silver Vanrouge x reader #twst Silver x reader

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superblysubpar · 5 months ago

Text

<- part five | part seven -> | series masterlist

chapter summary: Is the game over?

the song: Pretty Please by Dua Lipa

also for your listening pleasure: Need You Tonight by INXS, Drive by The Cars, and...any guesses?

4,377 words | please see masterlist for gen warnings / brief descriptions of scars / brief mentions of alcohol-being sober / SPICE/SMUT - fingering (reader receiving), hand job (reader performing), semi-public but not “caught” or visible | my blog is 18+

Hawkins, Indiana - the past

“Hey,” he greeted you.

Like it was normal.

Like he’d done it hundreds of times before.

Steve Harrington stood on the sidewalk in front of The Hawk, smiling at you. A timid, tight lipped one, with hands shoved into the front pocket of his Levi’s.

You nodded your head, trying and failing to look anywhere but him, scuffing the toe of your sneaker against the sidewalk. His hair much longer than the last you spoke, curled around his ears and neck, a few pieces falling over his forehead. Broad shoulders and long legs, scruff dotting his jaw.

He leaned against the brick building now, hand removing his keys from his pocket so he could throw them and catch them, loop the ring around his finger and spin it. He looked at you and raised his eyebrows, “They’re late.”

You mistook it as a question, answering agitated with a glare down the empty main street, “Yeah, they’re always late,” you sighed, then clarified,

“I’m meeting some friends.”

Steve blinked at you, and then laughed, but covered it with a cough, rubbing at his jaw. “Yeah, me too.”

Your shoulders rose at the thought, snarky Tommy and bitchy Carol who were sure to say something nasty to you and ruin your whole night. The awful pair showing up, while you were alone with Steve Harrington was not how your Friday night was supposed to go.

“Not Tommy and Carol,” Steve spoke softly to the tension filled shoulders in front of him, swallowing thickly, “Not friends with them anymore.”

“Wow,” you crossed your arms, shielding yourself from memories and any possible outcome of this conversation, “Must have done something really high on the asshole meter for them to drop you.”

Steve’s lips twitched when you looked at him, a slight smirk, a shoulder shrug before he admitted, “You could say that.”

Your shoulders relaxed but your arms stayed wrapped around you, squeezing yourself when Steve’s tongue slipped out over his top lip before he gestured to you, gaze unwavering from your face. “Ya know, I don’t think we’ve talked since-“

“Sorry! Sorrysorrysorry!” Robin was running down the sidewalk, waving her hands and panting. Eddie was a few steps behind her, looking at you worried and with his hands in his leather jacket’s pockets.

“Eddie would like it known that he was not late, and that it was entirely my fault. But I could not find a pair of socks for the life of me and then the pair I found I couldn’t wear with my shoes and-“

“Robin,” you laughed, interrupting the explanation that had no end in sight, “I told you the movie started a half hour before it did, you’re right on time.”

She gasped, and pointed an accusatory finger at you but then frowned, turning to the boy still leaning against the brick. “But Dingus told me the same time.”

Steve stood up straight and walked over slowly, explaining, “I did the same thing. Great minds think a like, I guess.”

You stared at him. He stared at you. Your mouth parted to say absolutely not, hell no, over your dead body or some form of: you are not going to a movie with Steve Harrington, but Robin clapped and said, “Well, that popcorn’s not gonna eat itself!”

She smiled at you nervously and then spun, grabbing Steve’s arm and pushing him towards the line in front of the ticket booth.

Leaving Eddie to face your wrath alone. His cheek pulled between his teeth and big, sorry eyes blinked at you as he leaned in with an offered hand, “You can squeeze it every time you feel like punching him.”

You laced your fingers with his and squeezed as hard as you could until Eddie was shrieking, “Sweetheart! I have to play tomorrow, don’t break the money makers.”

Steve looked over his shoulder to see you laughing, holding Eddie Munson’s hand.

Family Video - Friday

Steve Harrington kisses like you thought he would.

Not that you’d thought about kissing him.

He’s confident and practiced, as his lips slip over yours, slotting together like you’d done it before. He’s a little eager, messy, hands squeezing at your hips as his tongue begs you to open for him. He’s unable to shut up, even when his mouth is preoccupied, a groan from his throat, a sigh from his nose against your cheek, a gasped pant of your name against your lips.

You kiss him like he didn’t expect.

You’re a little mean, which, okay, maybe he should have guessed that. Fingers tugging his hair in a way you couldn’t possibly know he likes but do as your teeth nip at his bottom lip. You’re needy with it, desperate, maybe frantic is the right word - mouth opening for him eagerly, hands slipping from his hair and tugging on his shirt collar, noses squished together when you kiss him with more power.

Both of you stumble backwards, Steve’s hands roaming so one can support your back and the other drifts lower, grazing over your thigh, past the hem of your dress to your knee, lifting your leg so it’s hitched on his hip as you fall backwards on top of the table.

He wishes he could have recorded the sound you made when the new position has you feeling how hard he is pressed up between your spread legs. His hand lays flat on the table, slipping on scattered papers as yours cling to his neck so you can roll your hips against the bulge of his Levi’s.

“We-fuck,” Steve speaks into your mouth, breath hitching when your back arches and you sigh underneath him again, “We should-“

“Stop talking, Harrington,” you breathe into his mouth, fingers drifting to between the buttons of his polo.

He kisses you with increased urgency, a clash of lips and tongue and teeth while the fingers on your knee squeeze. A large hand skates up your thigh, taking the red cotton with it. You whimper when it stops at your hip, thumb swiping over the exposed skin, brushing at lace. He’s seeing stars behind his closed lids, mixed with images of pink lace beneath his sweatshirt. He needs to breathe, to wave the white flag, to talk about this.

His thumb drags over the lace, following the crease of your thigh, as you gasp into his mouth the word please.

He’ll breathe later.

Steve’s thumb finds wet lace and travels higher with precision and care that has your stomach dropping, flipping, and filling with warmth. Like you’re about to face a big fear, about to do something really stupid but exhilarating.

About to feel Steve Harrington’s fingers on you where you’ve always wanted them but would never admit.

And then the door chimes and someone is calling out about a deliver from somewhere that feels far away and also incredibly too close.

Steve jumps off of you, gasping for air as you shove at his shoulders.

His hair is messier than usual, and all you can think about is how good it felt beneath and between your fingers. Cheeks pink and pupils blown have pride shooting through your veins like a drug. Lips kiss slick and swollen and your stomach aches that they’re not on you anymore. A noticeably tight crotch of his jeans that has your chest sparking and fizzing and your legs clamping closed when his hand rubs at it.

You jump off of the table, and Steve’s cock twitches when you seem a little wobbly, a little dazed. A strap of cherry red fallen from your shoulder, chest heaving and begging for his lips and teeth to devour it. Lips glossy and eyes glassy reminding him of the word please.

“I,” you gasp, “I have…”

You’re gone, without finishing the thought, racing out of the back room, and only pausing long enough to grab your bag.

Steve races past a delivery guy who blinks at him, bored, when he flashes a one second finger at him.

He follows you right out of the store and into the parking lot, calling your name and begging you to stop.

You do, facing him timidly, hands shaking.

Steve takes a step closer to you, forehead furrowed and looking like a kicked puppy as you avoid eye contact and gesture to the store.

“I’ll…I’ll do the shipment unloading tomorrow morning. You can lock up and go home, I’ll-“

“Where are you going? We need to talk about-“

“No,” you close your eyes when he takes another step towards you, holding up your hand.

“Yes,” Steve says strongly, fingers slipping around your wrist when your palm meets his chest.

Your eyes open to find your fingers close to the polo’s buttons you just undid, the bob of his adams apple and jaw clenched, the stare coming from honey eyes intent on trapping you and keeping you stuck there.

“No,” you say more confidently than you feel, “I’m going home and you’re going home and we’re going to forget about what just happened.”

“What just happened?” Steve asks quietly.

“Exactly,” you nod.

“No,” Steve laughs, his thumb brushing over the inside of your wrist, “What just happened?”

The summer sunset is beginning, golden and tangerine light casting him in unfairly flattering light. It’s making the green stand out in the gold and brown of his eyes. Making freckles along his nose and next to those eyes beg to be brushed by your lips. Making his pink lips even more kissable. It’s making you pretty sure you hear Peter Gabriel singing and Huey Lewis and that one song Steve’s always whistling playing like the soundtrack to a movie.

“Nothing,” you whisper, finger touching the button on the polo, “Nothing just happened and we’re gonna forget the nothing.”

Steve’s fingers slip from your wrist into your palm, curling around your fingers as he lifts it to his lips and presses a gentle kiss there.

“As you wish.”

With one last precise blow to your defenses, you stumble backwards, blinking at him.

Nothing stands between Steve Harrington and his conquest anymore.

Neither of you is sure who’s more afraid of the thought.

You’re certain you don’t want to stick around and find out, spinning away from him and not daring to look over your shoulder to find him watching you walk away with real, genuine, hope in his eyes.

A house on Cornwallis Street - Saturday

“How is it?”

Your tongue slips out over your bottom lip, catching stray cherry slurpee.

“Mm it’s okay, something’s different though…” you note the street name as you round the corner, the long line of cars already parked along the curb.

Eddie swallows in the driver’s seat, “Oh?”

You indulge him, frowning as you take another long sip, “Yeah…cherry…mixed with…” you smack your lips, “Bribery?”

He purses his, “Weird.”

“Eddie,” you sigh as he pulls up to an open spot near a house that a party is clearly happening at. “I’m not dressed for this.”

“What are you talking about,” Eddie gestures to your red tank top, your shorts and sneakers, “You look like a million bucks.”

A frown deepens around the slurpee straw.

He raises his hands in surrender, “Listen, a Munson is always prepared for the worst, and it’s becoming a real possibility that I’ll be needing that million bucks when you sleep with the enemy.”

Your body heats up at the insinuation, at the flashes of Steve’s lips on yours, but you dryly say, “Ha-ha.”

When you worked your shift this morning after a sleepless night, you’d arrived at Family Video early only to find Steve had done all of the work last night, after you left. You’d spent your entire shift watching and re-watching The Princess Bride glaring at Westley and cursing Steve Harrington for existing.

Eddie hops out of the van, rounding the hood while you sit in the passenger seat and pout. He comes over to the open window and mimics your jutted out lips. “An hour. Two tops.”

Which is how you find yourself, two hours later, in the quiet basement of a stranger’s house, still Munson-less, with no end in sight.

The music from the main floor vibrates the ceiling, stomping of peoples shoes competing for the loudest volume. Splashes from a pool and giggles in the pitch of flirting float in through a sliding door. You sip a lemonade out of a solo cup and fiddle with the eight ball on the pool table under the dim lighting. The ball falls to the floor and rolls between two Nike’s when his voice scares you.

“New top?”

Steve bends to pick up the ball, looking up at you as he stands and you whisper, “No.”

He swallows as he takes a step closer, then another slowly, waiting to see if you’ll run like a scared animal as he approaches, but you just back up with each step, till your butt hits the edge of the pool table.

Each step makes the three words ringing in both of your heads louder and louder.

As you wish. As you wish. As you wish. As you-

“What are you doing here?”

Steve’s lips twist and he sighs, “Funny,” another step and he’s almost right in front of you, “Was just about to ask you the same thing.”

Your heart thuds louder than the beat of the INXS song playing above you both and you’re certain being in a dimly lit basement with Steve Harrington twice in one week is not good for your health.

“I-“

Steve presses a finger to your lips, adams apple bobbing as he shakes his head no and rasps, “I have a proposition.”

When you don’t say anything he removes his finger, unable to help himself and let’s the pad of it drag your bottom lip so he can watch it bounce back into place.

“Big brain word,” you murmur, “Want a prize?”

Steve nods and you’re certain the house is on fire, you’re not sure how your lungs are working, or how your brain communicates to your mouth to say, “What’re you proposing?”

He takes the last step, your legs falling apart without even thinking about it so he can stand between them. He lets the ball go on the green felt, hands pressed to the wood on either side of your hips.

“I wanna play a game,” he says it so quietly, you find yourself leaning in, noses almost touching as he nods to the pool table. He smirks, continuing to whisper, “Might even let you win.”

Steve grabs the solo cup between your hands, setting it out of the way and making you wonder what hands are for other than to grab collars of shirts to tug lips closer while he keeps talking, “If I win, we’re gonna talk about what we’re supposed to forget.”

To avoid the temptation, you press your hands to the pool table behind you, scratchy felt scraped by your fingers as you resist touching him when you ask, “And when I win, what do I get?”

He grabs your hips, he tilts his head, tip of his nose tapping yours, as his heartbeat throbs in his ears, muffling The Cars playing above him. He’s not sure how he manages to ask, “What do you want?”

“I’ll tell you,” your bottom lip brushes his as you talk, “When I think of something.”

Steve says your name so softly, so tenderly, if there was any wall surrounding yourself, it’d have crumbled into dust. He shakes his head no, lip skimming yours, breath exhaled against your cheek, “Need to hear what you want.”

“Why? Afraid you’re gonna lose and you won’t like my prize?” You tease, hand dragging across felt as you do, temptation beginning to pull ahead in the war.

The two of you are fighting for and against the same things, and it doesn’t matter anymore, you both just want to win - whatever that means. All Steve wants is for you to know the bet means nothing to him, and all you want is him to know how much you want him to kiss you again, the consequences of toying with your heart be damned.

Your hand grabs his bicep, squeezing before roaming higher as your lips remain close, but not kissing as he groans, “I can’t…” Steve’s eyelashes flutter, “I can’t think straight when you wear this color.”

A smile bumps your lips together again as your hand curls around the back of his neck, murmuring against his mouth, “Sounds like a poor excuse from a guy who knows he’s already lost.”

Steve nods, noses bumping together as he does. His chest rises and falls with each heavy breath as his hands adjust on your waist, stepping closer and pushing you up onto the pool table.

“You win,” he agrees, “Gonna tell me what you want, now?”

Your fingers curl into the hair at the nape of his neck and you nod, tugging your body closer to his.

“A kiss.”

Steve exhales a sigh, hands roaming back down to your hips as he tsks, “Ask me nicely.”

You laugh quietly, your free hand grabbing at his belt loops as you add on sweetly, “A kiss, please.”

He ducks his head, lips skimming over your jaw and pressing a kiss lightly to the hinge.

You squeeze the back of his neck, “Stop messing around.”

His smile can’t be hidden when it’s pressed to your skin, voice muffled against your throat, “Ask me nicer.”

“More nicely,” you correct quietly, awarded with a scrape of his teeth just below your ear making it hard to focus. But somehow you manage, “Harrington please kiss me.”

He kisses the spot his teeth just were, dragging his lips down your throat and pressing another there, then another on your shoulder, another in the center of your chest, memorizing every sigh he gets, every squeeze of your fingers on his neck. He stands up straight again, nose to nose, looking like he’s just woken up from a deep dream.

His iris’ are taken over by dark pupils, yours blink at him under fluttering eyelids. The dim light above you both sways from the bouncing floor above it, casting shadows over freckles and laugh lines, scars old and new in almost identical spots. Chests heave in time with anticipation. Nervous fingers slip against skin, tongues wet lips, breaths are inhaled then exhaled between closer than ever mouths.

It all happens quickly after that, and yet, each moment lingers, like it’s making sure you’re both committing it all to memory.

There’s one, where you softly, sweetly, genuinely, sincerely, ask:

“Steve, please kiss me.”

Several that feel like he’s moving through jello, or that his body is made of jello and doesn’t know how to work like a normal human body without immense concentration. Hands on your hips leaving so he can cup your jaw and support the back of your head, then leans the smallest bit forward, closing the centimeters of space between your lips.

One where he stops, just before they meet, where he glances down at your lips and you nod and nothing can be heard except an inhale in and thunderous hearts threatening to crack out of chests.

Then, Steve Harrington is kissing you.

And you’re kissing him back.

This kiss, is different. This kiss is like Summer.

It's softer, slower - but not lazy. His hand cupping your cheeks adjusts purposefully, spread fingers over your jaw to tilt it how he wants you. So he can savor the taste of cherries and lemonade on your lower lip when his tongue traces it.

He holds your top lip between his, breathing into your mouth as it parts for him, tongues sweeping together as he adjusts his head. His nose nudges your cheek as you kiss each other deeply, fingers sliding back on your jaw, thumb brushing your ear and down your neck. He feels like someone has set his entire body on fire, bones cracking from his lungs fighting for air when you relax against him, sighing.

There's a warmth radiating and spreading from both of you, slow building but all consuming. It makes you want to lay and bask in the glow but also shield yourself from the burn that’s sure to come when your fingers tug on the strands of caramel locks and your name slips past his lips against yours.

It’s not unlike a sudden summer storm, the way it changes quickly.

Kissing that’s warm and sweet turning a little balmy, sticky, almost unbearably hot.

Your fingers push at the back of his head, needing him closer, his roam lower to your hips once more, tugging on belt loops. One can’t help but go up again, pulling fabric with it so the pads of his fingers can touch the bare skin of your ribs.

Steve can’t breathe when your legs wrap around his waist and you gasp into his mouth, “More.”

He pants into your mouth, fingers squeezing at bare skin and brushing lace, “Ask nicely.”

You nip at his bottom lip and he laughs into your mouth, both of you feeling drunk despite being one hundred percent sober.

Steve thinks someone cruel developed lungs and he settles for kissing your neck and shoulders as he tries to catch his breath, hand toying with the button of your shorts. He thinks he’s been transported to space when your back arches and you grip his biceps as his mouth latches onto the juncture between your neck and shoulder. His tongue swipes over the skin a little sloppy as you stutter out the word please.

He removes himself from your neck, breathing heavily as you stare at each other. His grin cocky and somehow endearing now as he asks breathlessly, “See, was that so hard honey?”

Honey.

Steve swallows when blink up at him dazed at the endearment. You swallow from the way he looks when he says it.

Like he means it. Like you’re his.

Then, the music upstairs changes, the melody familiar, tugging on something in your brain as Steve works on the button and zipper of your shorts.

He leans over you, supporting himself with a flat palm to the table as he looks down at the small space between your bodies. His fingers skim the black lace band, traveling back and forth over the skin and watching goosebumps rise to the surface.

As Steve’s fingers move beneath the band of your underwear you gasp, your hands grab at his shoulders. Two fingers slip past your clit, spreading your folds and teasing at your entrance then back up. His nose nudges your cheek, kissing your jaw as he practically growls, “You’re so wet, baby.”

He circles your clit with soaked fingers, making you roll against his wrist, your head turn so you can catch his lips.

It’s the heart of the storm now, messy and unpredictable as he swirls precisely over your nerves with his thumb and slowly pushes his finger then a second one quickly inside of you. He pumps them in and out as his mouth works over you in time with his thumb. He memorizes every hitch of your breath against his lips, cataloging every sound so he remembers what you like. He removes his mouth from yours as you tug at the back of his head, his name leaving your lips in a way he’d only every dreamed of hearing.

He kisses along your jaw as your head falls backwards, doubling down on his finger’s movements in the same spots. His mouth moves against your ear, “You gonna come for me?”

The storm swallows you whole, all defenses crumbled long ago so there’s nothing to ease the damage anymore. Your stomach tightens as Steve keeps talking, his words making your eyelids flutter as your orgasm crashes over you.

“Come on, trouble, I win. Gonna give me what I want?”

You clench around his fingers, and he captures your mouth with his again as you begin to yell his name.

Steve’s fingers eventually slow, then slip out of you. Your lips part, noses and foreheads touching. You keep your eyes closed, not sure if you can face the storms destruction if you open them.

His hands run up and down your thighs, making you shiver as he murmurs, “Told you I was back.”

Your hands are still wrapped around his neck, nose bumping his as you open your eyes. Words lost in your laugh as you say, “Shut up, Harrington.”

Steve smirks, eyes flashing with something dangerous.

“Make me.”

Your hands fall to his waist, fingers on his belt and a smile fit for a winner on your lips when he bites his and moans as your palm presses over denim, relieving only a fraction of the tension.

“This what we did, Steve?” You quietly ask as the sound of his belt clicking together and the drag of his zipper bring you one step closer to confirming it’s not a rumor.

“Wh-what?” He asks, voice desperate as your hand grabs him through the black Calvins and you grin.

Not rumors.

“In your dreams,” you remind him of something he told you that feels like years ago but was in fact this same week.

You press a kiss to his jaw as it opens in a gasp when your hand slips beneath his boxers. Unable to help noting you’ve gotten the upper hand again. You murmur in his ear as you tug on his length once.

“It’s what we do in mine.”

Your name is a whimper, along with the word, “More.”

You grin against his neck.

“Ask me nicely.”

Steve laughs with a groan, forehead pressed to your shoulder in defeat.

“Ple-“

The call of your name from the top of the stairs cuts him off. Eddie’s voice calling down into the dimly lit space, “You down here?”

“Coming!” You call up loudly as you let go of Steve.

Gently, you push him away, hopping off of the table and righting your shorts.

You kiss his cheek and whisper, “Thanks for the game, Steve.”

Your heartbeat is erratic as he catches your wrist and he asks, just as quiet, “Do…can we…is the game over?”

The way he genuinely, sincerely asks you has that spark in your chest sputtering, frayed wire live and dangerous as you dare to admit,

“I hope so.”

BICFTF TAGLIST: Sorry for the delay in posting today, and thank you for your continued support 💛

@ash5monster01 @madaboutjoe @foreverinwanderlust @the-fairy-anon @scarletwitchgf

@curlsincriminology @siriuslysmoking @redbarn1995 @starry--sarah @starksbabie

@taccobelle @angst-lasagna @blckburd @crownofdecit @torntaltos

@sanniegirl1214 @yourmommilf @khena @ytgus @starryeyedpoet17

#superbly subpar's writing #BICFTF #steve harrington #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington series #steve harrington smut #steve harrington fic #cw alcohol mention #cw scar mention

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prentissluvr · 3 months ago

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campus library, 7:00 a.m. — sam winchester

cw : gn!reader, fluff, stanford!era, unedited, 658 words. requested ! for my 800 followers event [ closed ] .

summary : a nervous first year (sam) asks the cute libary worker (you) for help printing and accidentally develops a crush on the first day of classes.

MOVED BLOGS TO @sammyluvr !! no longer active on this blog! all fics can be found there!

it’s a good thing for the library patrons that you’re in a particularly pleasant mood, which is a rare occurrence at seven a.m., especially on the first day of a new semester. the poor first years are stressed. you’re leisurely as you walk behind the circulation desk, setting your bag down by the chair and settling there with your laptop. it only takes about a second for someone to approach, holding his own laptop in nervous hands.

he does a pretty good jop of hiding that he’s nervous, but it’s clear to you that he feels out of place and maybe even a little lost.

“hi,” you greet him with a smile, inviting him closer and encouraging him to ask for whatever help he needs when he hesitates.

“hi.” he gives a tight lipped smile back, relaxing just a touch. “could you maybe help me with printing something, or…?” he’s clearly unsure if you’re the right person to ask. that’s a classic question, and one that further confirms your suspicions that he’s a first year. (though once you helped a junior print for the first time as a first year yourself last spring semester).

“absolutely!” you confirm, keeping the friendly smile on your face to hopefully put him at ease. “have you been able to connect your computer to the printers at all yet?” you’re pretty sure you know the answer, but ask anyway.

the student, who’s taller than he looks, all folded in on himself, shakes his head sheepishly. “i’m stuck there,” he explains.

“that’s alright. here,” you nod your head towards the nearest printer, standing up and leading him over. he follows, laptop cradled in his big hands. “do you mind?” you ask, hands hovering over the touchpad when he sets it down on the table.

“no, no, of course not. go ahead.” he gives you quick permission to touch his computer, and you spend the next minute explaining and showing him how to connect to the printer. in the system settings, you catch his name. maybe you’re a little curious about him. sam winchester.

he makes the attempt to print out the syllabus for a political science class. and, as often happens, it doesn’t work.

“the printers here sort of suck,” you explain quickly, so that he doesn’t feel bad or more nervous. “sometimes it’s because you’re using a personal computer. unfortunately, i don’t know how to fix that issue, but the tech services desk opens at eight and should be able to help you! if you need to print now, you can head to the computer lab, sign in with your stanford email and password, then select the same printer that i showed you.”

“okay,” he sighs out. “thank you so much,” he says sincerely, looking relieved that there’s a second solution.

“of course,” you smile, then walk off back to your seat as he heads for the computer lab. about a minute later, he returns, looking slightly embarrassed. it turns out that he still can’t quite get it to work. he’s very apologetic for bothering you, but you assure him quickly and easily that it’s no problem at all. he’s so kind and frankly, cute, so you have no qualms with helping him.

the syllabus prints, and he thanks you several times. each time, you assure him that it’s no problem, that you’re happy to help. something about him makes you want to ease his nerves. you hope that your adamant kindness makes a good impression for his first day.

it must have at least a little, because you see him in the library often. then, you see his name in the list of new hires for the library this semester. the next time you meet him is the day that your boss asks you to show him how to shelve books and take inventory. you work together once a week. he’s easily your favorite coworker, and you’re pretty sure that you’re his.

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sunlightgalaxy · 3 months ago

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crash & burn

emily prentiss x surgical resident!fem!reader

what happens when your one night stand ends up on your operating table?

warnings: angst, surgery, blood, smut, mention of drugs/drug use, alcohol & drinking, mentions of (fake) major character death

a/n: repost from my previous blog about 3 years ago but also slightly edited. based off of my grey’s anatomy knowledge so there are definitely inaccuracies also one of my fav things I ever wrote

(gif is mine)

“incoming trauma! y/l/n, you’re on it with me,” your attending yelled. nodding at her as you made your way to the door, you grabbed a gown and threw it on. a rush of excitement coursed through you, with this being your first real trauma you were working. working the ER was always hit or miss, with everything that had swept through the emergency room doors during your previous rotations either ended up cleared from needing surgery or were “all hands on deck” situations, which usually ended up with every resident fighting for at least three surgeries. and you never seemed to be picked for one.

you had been itching to get into an OR for weeks, as being on the ICU rotation stopped that from happening. technically, you were doing simple procedures on patients when they needed to be done, but you weren’t able to actually operate. and that’s what you loved to do most.

silently wishing that this trauma would need surgery, you jogged out of the e.r. and met your attending at the ambulance bay. “what do we have?” you asked, watching as the paramedic opened the ambulance doors.

“agent emily prentiss, fbi, 40 years old; penetrating stab wound to the lower abdomen, weapon still lodged in place, already coded once in the ambulance,” the paramedic rattled off.

“is that a chair leg?” you asked, mouth open. something about this patient was off, you couldn’t figure it out.

“table leg, actually,” the paramedic said, shaking his head.

“that’s good, it’s the only thing keeping her alive right now,” the attending said, scanning the agent’s body. “what are her stats?”

you didn’t hear a word either of them said, eyes focused on the unconscious woman in front of you. she looked so familiar. and you also recognized her name. “emily,” you muttered, eyes widening when everything came back to you.

“can i buy you a drink?” a dark-haired woman asked, sitting down next to you with a smile. “sorry, i know that’s a bit forward,” she said softly. “i’m emily. and you’re absolutely gorgeous.”

“oh, thank you,” you blushed. “you’re pretty hot yourself. not to be too forward or anything,” you smirked. “i’m y/n.”

“it’s nice to meet you.”

her laugh was like a drug, you heard it once and were instantly drawn closer. if you weren’t careful, you’d get addicted. “thank you,” she beamed, brushing her hand over yours. “so, about that drink?”

“i’d love one,” you murmured. “thank you.” emily squeezed your hand, calling over the bartender and ordering two glasses of red wine. “how’d you know red was my favorite?” you asked curiously, taking a sip.

“lucky guess,” emily shrugged, changing the subject. “so, what do you do for work?”

“oh, i’m a surgical resident at the hospital downtown,” you smiled. “what about you?”

“i, uh, i work for the fbi,” she murmured, smiling sheepishly. “nothing too crazy, though.”

“that’s actually pretty cool,” you laughed. “what about the fbi brought you to boston?”

“i’m just here on business,” she spoke softly. “trying to find something for my team.”

“have you been here before?”

“once, a long time ago,” she sighed, looking down for barely a second. “but, that’s in the past. and i’m all about the present.”

you giggled, sipping your wine. the night carried on in a similar fashion, more and more drinks purchased as the conversation traveled. from favorite books to dream vacations to childhood fears, you two talked about nearly everything.

and as the night grew longer, emily ended up in your apartment. shirts ditched in the entryway, emily leaving sloppy kisses along your jawline as she carried you to the bedroom.

she placed you onto the bed, hands trailing down your sides. a soft moan escaped your lips, eliciting a laugh from hers. “you like that, don’t you?” she teased, hands moving up your thighs. one, two fingers inside of you, hitting that perfect spot with each thrust. her tongue swiping your entrance before her lips encased your clit, your vision nearly blacking out. pulling her hair, emily’s moans sent vibrations straight to your core and pleasure through your veins.

it wasn’t long before your hips bucked into her face, her tongue tasting every bit of you as you came.

and then you were on your knees for her, worshipping her body like it was the last time you would ever see it. which, it technically was. but that was the last thing on your mind as your tongue swiped her clit. she groaned softly, squeezing your breasts as if to tell you to keep going. and you did, until her cum was dripping down your face.

emily leaned down, grabbing you by the waist and pulling you into her arms. “thank you for this,” she whispered, smiling softly. “i really needed it.”

“of course,” you murmured. “and you can stay the night, since it’s so late.”

“thank you,” she sighed, rolling over. “goodnight, y/n.”

“goodnight, emily.”

emily said she would stay. and not even an hour later, she was running out of your house like she had just seen a ghost. she had said something about a work emergency, then proceeded to give you a quick kiss as a thank you for the night.

and as your apartment door closed, you assumed that was it. it was a one night stand, you would never see her again. and you were fine with that.

“something wrong, y/l/n?”

“oh, no, everything’s fine,” you muttered, shaking your head.

“alright then, let’s get her to the OR.”

***

“on my count, we’re going to pull out the wood,” dr. canning said, looking at you. “ready?”

“ready,” you responded, leaning over and grabbing the top of the leg.

“one, two, three.”

you and canning pulled it out as quickly as you could, leading you to hand it to a scrub nurse. “bag this and get it to the police upstairs,” you ordered, shifting your attention to emily.

“scalpel,” canning spoke, taking the blade handed to her and extending the cut that the wood had previously made in order to get better access.

there was so much blood pooling in her abdomen, it honestly scared you a bit. not because the extent of her injuries were so severe - after all, you had seen much worse. it was because you knew the person on the operating table, and even if it had been just one night, you hadn’t stopped thinking about her all day. but, it’s not like you knew her, so it didn’t matter. right now, she was your patient. and as far as you were concerned, that’s all she would continue to be.

“where is all this blood coming from?” canning yelled angrily. it seemed that no matter how much suction there was, more blood would keep pouring out. “hang another unit, she’s losing blood too quickly!”

“wait, i think i found the source,” you muttered, lightly pressing a finger to her pancreas, eyes widening as the blood stopped momentarily. “there’s a small cut on her pancreas!” you yelled.

“nice catch, y/l/n,” canning said, handing you sutures. “go ahead and finish up.”

you gasped softly, slightly taken aback by the order. nevertheless, you smiled under your mask and took the sutures. delicately, you were able to carefully fix her remaining injuries.

together, you and canning worked to make sure there was nothing you two were missing. closing her up quickly and carefully, you both headed into the scrub room to clean up.

when canning asked you to go tell her team about the surgery, you agreed rather eagerly. there was no reason for you to do that, it shouldn’t even matter whether you met them or not - there was no way you’d ever see them again.

“we’re under strict rules not to let anyone see her except for agents hotchner and jareau,” your attending explained to you, scrubbing her hands under the water. “understand?”

“yes ma’am,” you replied. “what should i tell them?”

“ask for agent jareau, and tell her that agent prentiss is stable and ready for transport to bethesda when they’re ready.”

nodding quickly, you exited the operating room and made your way to the waiting area. upon arriving, you stood out of view for a moment, taking in the people in the room.

a brightly dressed woman - who’s outfit did not match the tone of the room - leaning against a taller man. a skinny guy sat next to another blonde woman, who looked too uncomfortable - even for a hospital. an older man sat away from everyone else, fiddling with a rosary and murmuring what could only be a prayer under his breath. and then there were two, one taller man and one shorter woman, whispering to each other in the corner of the room.

this was her team, her family.

it felt odd that you were about to tell them how you saved her life, despite them not even knowing you two had hooked up barely 24 hours ago.

“excuse me, i’m looking for agent jareau?” you asked shyly, stepping into the room.

the woman standing stepped away from her teaming, giving them all a small smile. “why don’t we speak in private?” agent jareau suggested, nodding when you agreed.

you both stepped into the hallway, away from her team’s prying eyes. “agent jareau-”

“is she alive?” she asked, her voice breaking slightly.

“yes,” you murmured, the blonde woman sighing with relief. “agent prentiss is stable for now, and she’s ready for transport when your team is.”

“thank you,” agent jareau whispered, tears in her eyes. “thank you for saving her.”

“it’s no problem,” you smiled, watching as the woman walked off.

making your way back to emily’s room, you passed the waiting room, expecting to see smiles and joyous remarks. instead, you found the team in tears. the strangest part was what agent jareau told them.

“she never made it off the table.”

those words followed you all the way back to emily’s room, your mind spinning with what that could mean. it’s not even like it was your business, you two slept together once and nobody even knew. it didn’t matter, so you pushed it to the back of your mind.

you didn’t dare stay in her room for longer than you had to. as soon as you finished checking emily’s post-op vitals and making sure everything was in order, you left, shutting the door behind you.

instead of walking away - like you knew you should - you just stood in front of her room. not watching her, but just staring.

“you know, that agent has quite an interesting life” canning said softly, coming up next to you. “agent hotchner had asked me how long until she was cleared to leave the country.”

“did he say why?” you asked, looking between canning and emily.

“something about a paid vacation, but i don’t believe him,” she laughed. “apparently they’re profilers, but i didn’t need to be trained in behavioral analysis to know he was lying.”

“agent jareau told her team that she died,” you said quietly, staring at emily’s unconscious figure.

“damn,” canning sighed, looking ahead as well. “well, i know i wouldn’t want to be caught up in all of the trauma that’s bound to leave. i feel bad for her.”

“yeah,” you sighed. “me too.”

phones beeping after a few minutes, you and canning looked down, frowning. “there’s another trauma, y/l/n,” she said, looking at you. “let’s go.”

sighing, you took one last look at emily. she was still as beautiful as that night in your apartment, maybe even more.

turning around a moment later, you followed after canning

maybe it was a good thing emily had fled in a hurry after all.

#criminal minds #emily prentiss x reader #emily prentiss #emily prentiss smut #emily prentiss fic #emily prentiss fanfiction #criminal minds smut #criminal minds fanfiction #mine*#fic*

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inkbybambi · 1 month ago

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Oh my gosh I love the Graves rescuing reader fic, it was so good. I imagine if she does join them eventually the whole shadow company just loves her, they're always around in some way. If it progresses to something more like poly!shadows I feel like if word got back to 141 they'd be so pissed but also would feel guilty as shit too. Sorry if this is incoherent, Im half asleep but I already love your blog and your writing, went through a bunch of your posts and it's a FEAST thank you

(hi darling i’m so sorry this is so late ): thank you for your patience and your wonderful idea !!!! i adore poly!shadow company !!! you’re the sweetest ever and i’m so so flattered that you like my writhing so much. thank you so much <33)

joining the shadows wasn’t a question of if, but when. and when, according to graves, was when you were fully healed. you were impatient to get back out there. prove yourself to — you want to say yourself, but you know it’s not true. you want to prove to them that you were worthy of saving.

it takes longer than you want to be field-ready. your impatience sometimes gets the better of you, storming into graves’ office during meetings you definitely weren’t invited to, demanding to be allowed to do something, anything. fuck physical therapy, you were fine. fuck the therapists, you didn’t need to talk to them any longer and if another one asked “and how does that make you feel?” you’re going to lose your god damn mind. he would give you a look, cup you by the nape of your neck and bring himself close, the heat of him comforting in a way you didn’t realize you were missing until he was almost pressed up against you.

“the moment you’re ready, i’ll send you out. swear it.”

the more you were around the shadows, the more you got used to them. you didn’t want to get used to them. you didn’t need yet another reason for feeling weak, nothing like a liability and something to throw away when they were done with you.

but they never did.

a shadow — or two — always joined you to your physical therapy appointments. it made them better. less like you were trying to fix a broken toy and more like you were trying to become part of something bigger than yourself. there was a shadow that has wanted to become a therapist but couldn’t see himself sticking to an office. so he offered to help you, off the books, filled with coffee and tea and ways to keep you talking but not cornered, caged, a specimen on display to be torn to shreds.

you were welcomed to the team with open arms. fit right into them, into a place you didn’t even know you were missing from. they kept you safe, and you kept them in kind.

it wasn’t a surprise when you kissed graves after a successful mission and a little too much wine. it wasn’t unwelcome when he took you home, stripped you of your clothes and made you feel like a dream. it was a surprise when two other shadows joined you, but you weren’t about to say no and they weren’t about to take it easy on you.

you were prized among them, their little lamb with bloodied teeth and claws to kill. you were one of them.

(how the 141 found out, you’ll never know. you were partnered with them, unfortunately, for something or another. just another mission to get your boys home safe. you didn’t care much to interact with them or deign their apology — if it could be called that — with any real acknowledgment. just a leveled look so they knew you heard and then your attention was stolen by a shadow that tended to be in your bed more than the others. no one ever complained, you all shared. you could feel their looks on the plane. the lingering heat from the gaze as you talked with graves, strapped a shadow in and checked to make sure another had extra magazines. you’ll never know what they’re thinking. you don’t think you particularly care.)

#ink by bambi #phillip graves x reader #phillip graves x you #phillip graves imagine #shadow company x reader #shadow company x you #shadow company imagine #poly!shadow company #modern warfare imagine #cod x you #cod x reader #asks #anons

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tip-top-cloud-surfer · 9 months ago

Text

Life's Too Short - Rooster

Pairing: Rooster / GN!Reader

Length: 1.3k

This work, all my works, and my entire blog are 18+ Only

Warnings: Mentions of Toxic Work Environment; Shitty Coworkers; Crying; Angst; Career Change; Gender Neutral Reader; No Use of Y/N; No Physical Description of Reader

Summary: Your life has been completely taken over by your toxic job. Rooster gives you the support you need to leave it behind.

Master List

Driving to meet your boyfriend for dinner after work, you sniffled and tried to hold your composure. You didn’t want to spend your entire time with Bradley just ranting about the assholes who were currently making your life a living hell, but it felt like the second that you started talking about work, you couldn’t stop.

Your whole life was just becoming consumed by it, and you just felt powerless to stop it.

Parking next to the Bronco, you got out of your car and walked down to where Bradley was waiting for you with a bag of takeout. He looked up and smiled when he saw you approach, but when he noticed your expression, he quickly stood up.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” you told him, trying to be mindful of how much energy you expended on work. Bradley reached out and gently grabbed your shoulders, causing you to look at him, still forcing yourself to try to hold it in. “I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not,” he insisted, which made your lips wobble. “What happened?”

Breaking down and rambling in an octave that you weren’t quite sure was audible to the human ear, you collapsed against your boyfriend. Bradley wrapped you in his arms and gave you a squeeze, supporting you as you just let it all out, like the dam just burst.

“And they just blow up at me for the stupidest little things while I’m busting my ass and working longer hours to get all of the work done and I just can’t do it anymore!” you sobbed, making Bradley’s hold on you tighten. “I’m so tired, Brad. I’m so fucking tired.”

Bradley let out get it all out, simply giving you the support that you needed in that moment. Leading you down to the picnic blanket that he set out for the two of you, Bradley gave you a water bottle and continued to hold you until you stopped shaking. Pressing a kiss to your neck, he rubbed his thumb on your hip.

“I don’t want to go back. I don’t want to go back,” you repeated, burying your face further into Bradley’s chest.

“So don’t,” Bradley stated, causing you to pick your head up.

“It’s not that simple,” you sighed, feeling your headache building.

“Why not?”

“I need to make rent. And pay for food to eat and everything else.”

“I know that, but . . . I’m really worried about you,” Bradley replied softly.

“I know,” you returned, causing Bradley to shake his head.

“I don’t think you do.” Gently nudging your chin up so that you looked at him, Bradley added softly, “Baby, I don’t want to see you like this every day. And I’m honestly more worried about the nights where you go home to your apartment without me.”

“I’ve tried applying for other jobs, but it just hasn’t gone anywhere,” you reminded him.

“I know that, but, Baby, I’m worried about you. You’re not yourself. You’re not living because you’re just consumed by this shit—and it’s not your fault. You need to get out.” He wiped your tears away gently. “How much do you have saved up?”

“Nothing crazy.”

“Well, how many months do you think you could make it without a paycheck?”

“I don’t know. Three?”

“Alright, well, if you quit your job tomorrow, you have three months to find a new job. That’s completely doable.”

“But what if it’s not?”

“You can move in with me,” Bradley stated, causing you to turn back to him. “I’ll support you.”

“I can’t ask you to do that, Brad.”

“Why not?”

“It’s . . .” you trailed off, trying and failing at coming up with a reason.

“It’s?” Bradley pressed, causing you to get emotional again.

“You’d really let me move in with you?”

“I want you to move in with me,” Bradley stated, giving your hips a loving squeeze. “I love you. And I want to see you happy and being your normal self. Life is too goddamn short to let those assholes break you down.”

You struggled to not cry again from the emotion of the moment. Wrapping your arms around Bradley’s shoulders, you pressed yourself against him, nearly knocking the two of you over. He pressed a kiss to your head as you buried your face in his neck.

“You win best boyfriend,” you joked, causing Bradley to scoff.

“Of course, I win best boyfriend. Who was my competition?”

“I don’t know,” you mused, picking your head up.

Cupping his cheeks, you pressed a soft kiss to his lips before resting your head on his shoulder again. You let out a breath, thinking through everything. Bradley gave you some space, occasionally rubbing your thigh or arm, but otherwise remaining quiet.

“I’m going to do it,” you stated, digging your fingers into his shirt. “I’m going to finally do it.”

~~~~~

Two Weeks Later . . .

“Are you sure that there’s nothing that we can offer to keep you here?” your manager asked as you cleaned up your desk.

“Nope,” you replied with fake niceness. “Thank you though.”

Making sure that you had everything, you strutted past your asshole manager and the office bitches who terrorized you for too goddamn long. Well, all of the time that they used to scold you, send you passive aggressive or just outright aggressive emails, and mock you in front of your coworkers would now have to be used to do your job.

And you may or may not have deleted or shredded all of the personal notes and guides for how to do your specific job. But what were they going to do about it? Fire you?

Walking out of the building with your head held high, you practically beamed when you spotted Bradley standing in the parking lot. He leaned back against the Bronco with his broad arms folded against his chest, looking like a dream. You put your bag and box in the trunk before nearly leaping into his arms.

“You did it,” Bradley praised you as you pressed a kiss to his lips.

“I did it,” you agreed, so excited. “I’m free.”

“Let’s go celebrate then,” Bradley offered, pulling open the door to the passenger side for you. “Get in, Roomie.”

Pressing one last victorious kiss to his lips, you slid into the Bronco. Bradley hopped in on the other side and started the car. Pulling away from the building that held a mountain of negative emotions for you for the very last time, you held your hands up and let out a cheer, causing Bradley to crack up.

Grabbing your hand, he threaded your fingers together and pressed a kiss to the back of your hand. When the two of you came to a stoplight, you leaned over and pressed an extended kiss to his lips.

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

A.N. This was something I wrote right after work one day because I wish I had a Rooster to give me this kind of support.

#bradley bradshaw #bradley rooster bradshaw #bradley rooster bradshaw x reader #bradley rooster bradshaw x you #bradley bradshaw x you #top gun fanfiction #top gun maverick #top gun: maverick #top gun #tgm #tgm fanfiction #rooster x you #bradley bradshaw fic #bradley bradshaw imagine #bradley bradshaw fanfiction #rooster x reader #rooster #rooster top gun

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ramp-it-up · 1 month ago

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Sugar, Cubed II:

Simple Sugar

Summary: I revisited Sugar and the boys from the Sugar is Sweet séries, and let me tell you. Bucky and Steve sure have grown up from their college days. They are no longer playing around. And they are coming for you. You're forced to be roommates with Steve again. But you can establish boundaries. It'll be simple, right?

Word Count: 3K

Pairings: Steve Rogers x Reader; mention of Bucky Barnes x Reader; boss Tony Stark x reader

Warnings: 18+ Only, Minors DNI. Not Beta’d. SMUT. Read at your own risk. Roommate/Co-worker au, S MUT! Angst, Tony is a shit boss, massive debt. forced proximity. Tattoo talk, Steve apologizes, accidental, then purposeful voyeurism, reference to porn and sex toys, masturbation, talk of impotence, raw p in v, rough sex, dirty talk, lots of cum, eventual polyandry. Basically, you are doomed. Porn with plot.

A/N: This is related to the Sugar is Sweet au, but can be read alone. This is part two to Sugar, Cubed. The next part is soon come! I hope you like it. This is part of Falloween 2024.

I no longer have a taglist. Please follow @rampitupandread and turn on notifications to learn when I post! 😘

I Do NOT Consent to my work being reposted, translated or presented on any other blog or site other than by myself.

——

After three days of calling in sick, you were summoned for a sit down with Mr. Stark.

This was not a, ”have a drink while Black Sabbath plays and you admire Tony’s t-shirt as he rambles” type of chat. This was, a “let’s review the terms of your contract in the boardroom with suits” type of meeting.

Tony’s eyes admired you in your silk blouse and pencil skirt as you arrived, then watched you pointedly at you as you reviewed the numbers on the page.

Half a million for your bachelor’s and masters degree at NYU. Almost as much for housing. Not to mention the penalty for breaking your contract early. Even if you were paid a pretty penny and you had a ton of savings, you’d still be digging yourself out of a hole for the rest of your life if you quit.

Tony Stark owned your ass.

But you were on the verge of not caring.

“I know, you are over your current working situation, Sugar. But I still believe in you. I believe in the team of BuckySugarSteve.”

You gave him a confused look.

“Still trying to find a hashtag, look that doesn’t matter. It’s come to my attention that a certain plucky Bucky took things a little too far the other night. I’m sorry you had to deal with that on my watch.”

Tony looked sincere. But you eyed him warily.

“Thinking back on what you said last week, I now agree that you need a break. So I’m sending you to the Tokyo lab. But only for a limited time.”

“How long?”

Tony stood and turned his back on you, looking out over the Hudson.

“Depends on the progress made on the project there.”

You stared at his back and his jet black hair and chewed your lip. You wanted out from the tension between the three of you. But there had to be a catch.

“What does the work entail?”

Tony turned back around with a smirk and explained the research and answered a few more questions from you. It seemed right in your skill set. Tony sat back down and crossed his ankle over his leg while he templed his fingers. He stared at you over the conference table.

“So what do you say Sugar?”

“I’m in.”

—--

You should have asked more questions.

Rage boiled inside you as you put up the partition on your business class seat and you typed away angrily on your phone. You shouldn’t have been surprised that your seatmate was Steve Rogers, but you were.

You just cursed as he greeted you and pulled out your phone as the flight attendant gave you the stink eye. Steve arrived just at the doors were closing. And there was no escape.

You wanted to throw your phone after you saw Tony’s response.

“I said you needed a break from Barnes, not Rogers. Suck it up and enjoy your time in Japan. Check out the expense account and your digs in Asakusa. You have to share, because space is at a premium in Tokyo, but you’ll survive.”

You didn’t bother to click the links that Tony sent. The living arrangements were sure to be top notch and the money was probably going to be great, but living with and working next to Steve was not what you were looking forward to.

You popped a sleeping pill and tried to sleep most of the 14 hour flight. After managing to get some rest, you were not as rude to Steve when you had to put down your partition. Luckily, he didn’t try to speak to you and you deboarded the plane and got your luggage and to your driver without incident.

When you got to your place, you were impressed, but anxious.

The place was modern and well placed within walking distance of the trains, but Tony was right. Your apartment in New York was twice the size of this place, and it was only you.

You went to investigate the sleeping situation. There were two small bedrooms and they were right next to each other. Only one had an en-suite.

You were chewing your lip, deep in thought when Steve interrupted reverie. His voice was hoarse from half a day of not being used.

“It’s close quarters, but I will make it so you don’t even know I’m here.”

You turned around to see Steve standing in the doorway of the room you’d silently called dibs on.

He looked like a kid, in his rumpled t-shirt and hands deep in the pockets of his jeans. You almost felt something.

But not quite.

“Look, Sugar. I’m sorry. I really am. What happened in the elevator was… Bucky’s got a lot going on–”

He stopped once he noticed that you had stiffened up at Bucky’s name.

“Don’t make excuses for him. If you want to apologize, take responsibility for what you’ve done. Or not done. On. Your. Own.”

You sat on the ground and opened up your suitcase. Steve watched you as you started to unpack, thoughtful.

“You’re right. I’m sorry I didn’t punch him in the mouth to shut the jerk up.”

You just shook your head, refusing to smile, even though you thought about it.

“And I am so very sorry for lying to you. No matter what the reason. I should not have done that.”

You looked up at him and you could see Steve’s adam’s apple bob in his throat multiple times. His nervous tell. But you continued to look him in the eye.

“You were right to react the way you did. And you’re right to want to be as far away from u- me as you want to be. I’ve lost the best thing that ever happened to me and it was entirely my fault.”

You had to break eye contact then. You didn’t want to cave. You turned the sweater you were folding over and over in your hands. You could hear Steve take a deep breath.

“I just want–”

He cleared his throat again.

“Shit, I want a lot of things, Sugar, but I hope we can be cordial, friends even? We used to be friends. We're in a new city, a new country, a new continent. We can have a lot of fun together.”

You looked back up at him.

“Like we used to?”

“A lot has happened since ‘we used to,’ Steven.”

His shoulders slumped.

“Well, I will stay out of your way.”

He turned around to get out of your space and you felt a pang of some kind of emotion that you did not want to name.

“Hey.”

Steve stopped and turned around, his face guarded.

“I’ve been on a plane for an entire day, and I just want breakfast even though it’s 4pm here. I think I’m hangry. Let me think about it.” That smile. Oh, if you still had a heart, he might do something to it.

“I think I saw some eggs and American breakfast fixins in the fridge. I’ll make you an omelet.”

Steve knew you were a slut for breakfast. Among other things.

—--

After eating and chatting, you conceded that you did want a shopping partner; you planned to hit up all the thrift stores and you wanted someone to take day trips with on the weekend. You decided on a truce. It may have been food induced, but you thought that you could set good boundaries with Steve, so you lay down some ground rules.

Steve agreed to everything you said.

After trying to stay up as long as you could, you were ready to turn in for the night. You had a couple of days before you needed to report to the lab, so you and Steve decided to explore your neighborhood and maybe do some touristy things, since Tokyo Tower and the Asahi brewery were right outside your window.

And then it happened.

You were minding your own business after your shower, in your thin cotton tank and sleep shorts, going to the kitchen to fill your water bottle. Suddenly, the hallway door opened and you ran into Steve coming out of the bathroom, naked except for a towel slung low on his waist and beads of water running down the planes of his extremely well made torso.

He almost ran into you.

“Oh, shit Sugar, I’m sorry….”

You’d stopped short and were staring at his left pectoral. There was new ink on the golden boy’s body.

And you couldn’t believe it.

Among the beads of water diving down his body to disappear under the towel, because why wouldn’t they, there was a chemical formula. And you couldn’t believe which one it was.

“How long have you had that?”

You were staring, and your hand reached out to touch it, but you pulled back before you made contact. You looked up into his eyes and then back down at the tattoo because you didn’t want to drown in his eyes like you used to.

But it seemed kind of inevitable now.

Sometime in the six months that you’d been broken up, Steve had gotten the compound for simple sugar tattooed on his body, (CH2O)x

“Sugar–”

“How long?”

You whispered it. And then dove into the blue depths of his eyes again.

“Two weeks after we broke up.”

His voice was impossibly deep, and threatened to reach places that you wanted to be unreachable. But you didn’t ask why.

“What was the thought process behind that decision, Steve?”

You didn’t ask why. But you needed to know the reason.

“Because it’s pretty simple, Sugar. You just wanted honesty. And if I had been honest, maybe we’d still be together. So I got this tattoo to remind myself that this is all I have left of the girl I loved the most. So maybe when I fall in love again, I won’t be such an idiot.”

“Wow.”

You reached out again and touched the tattoo. It had been right over his heart, without you knowing, for the better part of half a year.

Steve’s eyes stuttered closed and he drew in a sharp breath when you touched him.

“Sugar. You gotta know how…

You shook your head, blown away and rocked by what he said. Mostly the “when I fall in love again” part. You don’t know why that phrase echoed around your head.

“I’ve got to tell it all. Sugar, I thought in the back of my head that if you knew Bucky was hurt, that you’d go back to him.”

You closed your eyes, not wanting to sympathize with this grown ass man who lied to you so hard about someone you both loved, but you understood.

“So I lied, partly because he asked me to. But mostly because I was trying to keep you to myself.”

You sagged against the wall, still touching him, fingers grazing the mark that he’d made on his body for you. Steve followed you, not wanting the contact to end, and stood before you in the narrow hallway, naked except for a towel. He was closer than you’d allowed him to be in a while.

Finally, you looked up at him.

“You’re right, It is simple. I just wanted honesty. I wouldn’t have abandoned you for Bucky, Steve.”

Steve moved impossibly closer as his eyes flicked down your body. You remembered he had it memorized. Your chemistry was amazing. Not just the formula tattooed on his skin, but the draw of you to him, and him to you. You weren’t over that.

But you wanted to be.

One of Steve’s hands was on his towel, and the other was above your head. You were looking up at him and he down at you, and it was the perfect moment to kiss. But he didn’t make another move. You looked down and noticed that his towel had changed shape.

“Sugar…”

You looked him in the eyes again. It was all up to you.Your breathing was erratic and your panties were damp. Reaching up, you put your hands up on his pecs again.

This time to push him back.

“I think we need some rest.”

Steve backed up, toward his bedroom.

“Right. We need…”

Your need was mighty. But you weren’t giving in. You took a deep breath.

“Goodnight, Steve.”

“Night, Sugar.”

—-

You breathed a sigh of relief at your narrow escape and went in the kitchen to drink water and cool down. You mindlessly scrolled your phone for a few minutes and decided that you were calm enough to go to sleep. You glanced at Steve’s door as you opened yours, and you just had to stop.

His door was cracked just enough so you could see Steve sprawled on his bed, towel still on, still tented, and he was scrolling on his phone. He looked delicious, from the tattoo on his pec to his tiny tan nipples to his amazing abs and the trail of hair pointing to the large cock that you had memorized, and which was standing at attention under his towel.

He looked good enough to eat. And you had plenty of times. But those days were over.

You bit your lip as he rubbed his erection over the towel, and moved closer as he groaned a little bit.

Was he looking at porn?

You totally understood his frustration after what happened, and he was in the privacy of his own room, but you couldn’t tear your eyes away from him. You felt guilty but you continued to watch him touch himself.

And as you wanted to touch yourself.

You stared at his open door as suddenly, the towel came off, and he was naked, and stunningly aroused, his face pure lust.

Steve Roger’s cock was gorgeous.

Your memories were nothing like the reality of him, thick and curved against his abs. He gripped the shaft, stroking it. Your hands found one of your nipples in the now-dark hallway, imagining kneeling for him.

You dreamed of his cock in your mouth and could practically feel yourself swirling tongue over his head and worshiping him as he told you what to do. The sensation him deep in your throat and letting him use it took over you.

You pinched your nipple tighter as he casually jerked himself off. You felt dirty, thinking how he’d feel knowing that you were watching him like this.

Would he be mad?

Or…

Stifling a whimper, you slid a hand into your shorts, smearing your wetness over your clit to trace fast, tight circles there. You hadn’t had anyone but electronic lovers and plastic since you broke up with Steve. And here he was, giving you a show.

You needed to see it. You wanted to see Steve cum, erupt, spill over his large, veiny hand, cream all over those abs. You moaned slightly as you imagined sucking it off those places.

His hand blurred on his shaft. Your clit hardened as you remembered his thick dick penetrating you, him fucking you well, calling you beautiful…

“Christ, Sugar, make me so hard. Take me so well. Cum with me Sweetheart…”

You were almost there and suddenly, Steve stopped. He got up, let go of his dick, walked to the light switch, give yon a look, and then plunged the room into darkness.

Then he closed the door.

You practically jumped into your room, pacing, shocked and excited, thoughts in a jumble.

Your phone buzzed in the pocket of your shorts.

It was a text from Steve.

“If you want more, just open my door. It’s unlocked. You can have anything you want. I want you. What do you want, Sugar?”

You are propelled into the hallway, to his door, hesitating only a moment. You’re just going to talk to him. Apologize. Tell him you would never do it again.

You were in his room now and the Tokyo moon cast shadows over his sleek torso. He was covered by the comforter, but you knew he was still hard.

“I always loved you in just tank tops. Those nipples are just begging to be sucked.”

His deep baritone made you launch yourself toward him. Steve caught you in his arms, both of you bouncing on the bed from the impact.

“What it’s gonna be, Sugar? What do you want?”

You are taking his hands and molding them to your breasts, throwing the covers off and straddling his thighs. You pulled your shorts and panties to the side so you could feel the slide and ridge of his cock catch on your clit as you slipped over him.

It felt electric.

“I want you Steve. Fuck it all. I want you.”

You’ve lost your mind. You’re creaming on his dick as his big, strong arms held you steady and you humped him like a mad woman.

“Fuck, it’s been so fucking difficult being hard as a rock all day working next to you in the lab, you ignoring me, and then not being able to get it up for anyone else…”

You were irrationally angry.

“Mine.”

You grabbed Steve’s cock and moved your thighs, lifting up and pushing his fat head into your cunt. You glared at him as you slowly sunk down on him, his thick shaft slowly opening you up.

It hurt so good.

Your head lolled back on your neck as Steve pulled your tank top down and started brutally sucking your nipples.

“Fuck yeah, it’s yours. Fit me like a fucking glove.”

Steve held you down for a few seconds as he pushed up into you as if he was going to lock on on his cock, then he lifted you up by your waist and started pounding you from beneath.

He stared up at you in the moonlight and you could feel his cock jump inside you.

“Didn’t matter what I did, who it was. Couldn’t fuck anyone else. Had to come home and pull up pictures of you.”

Steve was moving you now, just like a fleshlight, thumb at your clit.

“I’m about to fucking bust, and you better fucking cum around my cock before I do. Been too godamn long, Sugar.”

You moaned erotically at the thought of Steve impotent with everyone else but you.

He groaned in response and squeezed your nipple brutally. You quaked with your orgasm and Steve erupted mid pump, his spend spurting out as he moved in and out of you.

“Fuuuuu-uuuck!”

You collapsed backward on the bed as Steve continued to pump, impossibly still hard even after he came. You reached down into the copious wetness and circled your clit, wanting to prolong the sensation, and Steve groaned/laughed as you convulsed around him again.

You were a tangle of limbs, fluid, sweat and wet cloth as you came down.

Steve pulled you up, you got out of his bed and walked back to your bedroom, turning on the shower.

As you climbed into your bed, Steve was already there, re-showered himself. You fell asleep in Asakusa, Tokyo, Japan, tracing his tattoo, and wondering if it really was that simple, Sugar.

——

Did you like it? Let me know!

Next part soon. 😮‍💨

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wonwoonlight · 1 year ago

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Through the night, through the day - Seungcheol (unfinished)

A/n: a little something from my discontinued wip that i really wanted to finish but no longer has it in me to. Happy three years to this blog, here's to writing for yourself and not validation of others 🍻 thank you for all of you who have been reading my stuff up until now.

Loosely inspired by: AKMU - Last Goodbye, Adele - All I Ask

Seungcheol isn’t sure who’s to blame for the current situation he finds himself in.

Is it his because he fell out of love first?

Is it yours because you refused to break up with him even after he honestly told you what love he had left for you is barely romantic at this point?

Or is it his because he had let you refuse the break up simply because he felt too bad about forcing it on you?

But he believes as much as it’s a mutual decision to start a relationship, it’s also a mutual decision to end it. He certainly still loves and cares for you enough not to simply leave despite your refusal to end the relationship; but what he has for you is not something he thinks he should be feeling for a girlfriend.

He misses that spark. That thrilling sensation and the way his heartbeat would pick up at the sight of someone’s–your–smile.

And, unfortunately, it’s practically nonexistent now and, at some point, he hates himself for losing it because you still look at him like he holds the universe while he simply feels a pinch in his heart because he feels bad.

His phone lights up with notification, a picture of you and him grinning at the camera flashing before the screen turns black again. He sighs as he takes another sip of his drink, the alcohol burns his throat the same way your smile burns his heart.

Jeonghan’s right. He needs to be stern and stop dragging this more than necessary. The both of you deserve better; him, to finally stop feeling guilty because he can’t leave you behind, and you, e to find someone that will love you like you deserve to be loved.

At some point, Seungcheol knew the role was his to fill, but that’s no longer the case and prolonging this would only hurt the both of you in the future.

Like the two of you aren’t hurting on your own already now.

He bites his lip as he imagines the hurt in your eyes and the forced smile you’d give him.

Fuck.

He downs the shot and orders another.

Seungcheol imagined you’d be pressing your lips together as you suppress your tears, shoulders tense and jaws tight when he tells you once again he thinks it’d be better for you two to break up.

After all, that was your reaction the first time around.

What Seungcheol did not imagine, however, are your empty eyes and the way your hands limply stack against each other; your shoulders hunch in defeat and a corner of your lip twitch a faint smile for a millisecond before it turns straight once again.

Like you know it’s coming.

Like you’ve been bracing yourself for it.

There’s a painful squeeze in his heart at the way you’re not meeting his eyes, and he fights fights fights the urge to take your hands and apologize because he’s the one that’s ridding himself of that right.

How is he supposed to handle you like this?

Then again, isn’t this an attempt to let go of that responsibility? Because he doesn’t know anymore how to handle you without the romantic filter over his gaze towards you?

He’s starting to think it would be much better if you had been crying instead.

“Okay.” You say softly, voice barely even a whisper. But it doesn’t matter because he’s heard it and his eyes widen because he doesn’t think you’d agree so easily after the fight you put out last month. “But… Can I ask you one last favor?”

“Yeah?”

“Can you take me to that camping ground we went to two years ago?”

He blinks, not expecting it at all.

“The one we went to for our first anniversary?”

For the first time in so long, the smile you give him doesn’t make his heart lurch with guilt.

He suddenly tries to think back when was the last time you actually, genuinely smiled at him with happiness in your eyes.

You always have that fond look in your eyes–something so soft and full of love–even after he asked for the break up last month. You still look at him that way after that and even right this second.

But happy?

When was the last time you laughed happily in his presence?

“Yeah. I’ve always wanted to go back but don’t really have any reason to…” You frown to yourself, your lips purse in a way that makes him want to squish your cheeks like he used to. “A farewell trip… if you will. Is it okay?”

“Sure.” He says without thinking. That’s the least he can do for you; he hasn’t exactly been the best boyfriend nor even person in general the past month, and the fact that he’s staying with you out of obligation because he doesn’t know how to break it off after your argument has been eating him inside out. If this is what you need to finally let him go, he doesn’t see why it would be a bad idea.

He still cares for you. Just not in the way people in a romantic relationship should.

For you, he’d still do anything if it’s within his reach.

For you, he'd still do anything to make sure you're happy again.

You’re still his friend before anything and Seungcheol always always tries to do his best for his friends.

“When do you want to go?”

“This weekend is fine if you’re free.”

“It’s Mingyu’s birthday, I already promised we’d go out for a drink. Is next weekend okay?”

“Sure. Do you want me to make the booking?”

He shakes his head. Perhaps it’s him wanting to compensate, but if this is going to be a farewell trip, might as well do everything for you so he can convince himself it’s okay to let go of the guilt he’s been holding over himself if only a little.

“I’ll do everything. You just wait and be pretty, okay?” He smiles cheekily, which you can only smile back in return despite the way your heart cracks little by little at how easy the words tumble out of his lips.

And he wonders why you find it hard for you to let go.

“Why are you brooding like your screen has personally offended you?” Jeonghan asks, plopping on the sofa next to Seungcheol.

It’s game night, something he and his friends promised to hold at least once a month. It’s Jeonghan’s turn to host the night, and Seungcheol has come almost two hours early only to focus on his macbook and barely even says anything to him, the owner of the place.

Not that it’s a rare occurrence, Seungcheol does have the tendency to do this from time to time. Just barge into his place, grunts a greeting, and leaves after an hour or two.

“I’ve been trying to book this spot in the camping ground but it’s not available.” He sighs.

Jeonghan tilts his head, interested. Seungcheol hates planning with passion, yet he's apparently doing a very thorough research for some reason.

He looks at the amount of tabs open on his laptop, and when he asks about them, Seungcheol simply says he’s making an itinerary and is currently checking all the possible places he might visit around the camping ground. He points out some places, says their pros and cons and where he currently stands about visiting them.

“Who’re you going with again?” When he mutters your name, Jeonghan can’t help but get more interested. “Didn’t you say you’re breaking up with her?”

“Yeah. She said she wants to go there one last time… I don’t know. For old time’s sake, maybe? Anyway, I don’t see anything bad about it so I guess why not.”

“You’re breaking up with her.”

Seungcheol sighs and puts away his laptop. His best friend can get like this sometimes and, at the wrong times, it really gets on his nerves.

“I am. It’s a goodbye trip of some sort, okay? She said we’ll break it off after that. Just one last trip, that’s what she asked; how can I not give her that?”

“Why would you go on a trip with someone you’re breaking up with? Isn’t that kind of the point? To stop seeing each other?”

“Look, I’ve been with her for three years, almost four, even. And it’s not like we’re breaking up because we’re fighting or what–I fell out of love. It’s on me. And I still care about her and treasure the time I’ve shared with her. If there’s anything I can do to make this breakup bearable for her, I would.”

Seungcheol clenches his jaw at the way Jeonghan is looking at him; his eyes calling him stupid and pathetic at the same time without his lips saying anything.

“You’re just compensating because you feel guilty, then.”

“And it’s wrong for me to do that?” He fumes, not getting where his best friend is going with the talk. If he thinks this is one of those days when it’s fun to push all his buttons just for the sake of it, Jeonghan definitely chose the wrong topic to do so. “Why are you complaining, anyway? It’s not like I’m making you come with me. Do you not like the idea of me giving her closure? Do you secretly dislike her all this time?”

Jeonghan looks at him sharply, daring him to say more about how he feels about you. He knows Seungcheol threw the last sentence just to spite him, because of all his friends, you’re closest with Jeonghan and the feeling is pretty much mutual. Of all the partners Seungcheol has had, you’re the one that clicks with him the most; you seem to care about Seungcheol’s friends the same way you would your own friends. If there’s anything Jeonghan appreciates, it’s loyalty.

Always loyalty.

He’s sure he would also be devastated due to your break up with Seungcheol if it means he might lose someone he treasures as much as you.

“It’d only be harder for her, you asshole.” He grits his teeth. “Why would you give her hope by doing this much preparation for a fucking goodbye trip?”

“Because she asked for the trip!”

“What you’re arranging is a romantic getaway not a goodbye trip!”

Seungcheol falters a little at this, and before he can say more, the intercom beeps, signaling the other guys’ arrival. They share one last look with each other before Jeonghan gets up and opens the door, Mingyu’s rowdy voice followed by Wonwoo and Seokmin immediately dissipates the tense in the living room.

A few hours later, it’s still a little awkward between Seungcheol and Jeonghan, Wonwoo and Seokmin approaches them separately, and when the only thing they get is a set of reassurance that they simply had a disagreement, they let it go and decide it’d be best not to bring it up for now.

“By the way,” Seokmin opens the talk as Mingyu puts down cans of beer on the table. Seungcheol immediately reaches for one and the others wait for Seokmin to continue talking. “Is your girlfriend okay? I saw her in the hospital today.”

The way Seungcheol immediately chokes on his drink would’ve been funny otherwise. He wants to make sure that it’s his girlfriend Seokmin is referring to, but he’s currently one of the only two people with a partner in this room and one of them is Seokmin himself.

“I–what?”

“Oh… you didn’t know?” The younger guy winces, though he thinks it’d be best to tell Seungcheol anyway. No matter how small it might’ve been, he would want to know if his girlfriend somehow had to visit the hospital. “I was visiting a friend and I saw her walk out of the building but she didn’t see me and she was already too far away for me to call for her.”

“She didn’t say… I didn’t even know she went to the hospital.”

Jeonghan holds back a snicker, of course he wouldn’t know. Seungcheol hasn’t exactly been attentive to you since the moment he realized he’s falling out of you, head too deep in guilt and his own thoughts that he forgets to actually take a look at what’s in front of him.

The conversation goes elsewhere, and once Seungcheol is sure the attention is no longer on him, he whips out his phone and texts you to ask if anything happened.

[20:31] did you go to the hospital today? seokmin said he saw you

[20:44] 💜: oh, yeah. severe cold case, no worries tho! Is seokmin ok?

[20:45] you literally said severe, how am i supposed not to worry?

[20:35] why didn’t you tell me? I would’ve gone with you to the hospital

[20:47] 💜: it’s still just a cold haha. i simply got checked just in case. but they made sure it’s nothing but cold.

[20:47] Calling 💜

“Please stop trying to make it look like you’re not sick.” Seungcheol cuts immediately into the case, standing in the kitchen where it’s less noisy. “Why didn’t you tell me? I was with you a few days ago.”

Huh. Wait.

Was that why you looked a little out of it?

He closes his eyes in contempt and curses himself for not noticing. No wonder you looked so lethargic. So much for a boyfriend.

“It’s really just a cold, Cheol.” You try to reassure him, though your strained voice nor the cough that follows right after aren’t really doing a good job doing so. “You know the weather has been crazy these days.”

“Still. Why would you go to the hospital alone?”

It’s not easy for you to blink back your tears as you press your lips together, hoping Seungcheol would mistake your heavy breathing is due to your cold. You wonder if Seungcheol does all of this purposely. What a cruel man he is, asking you to break up with him and then scolding you for not telling him you’re sick, that he’s worried and asked if you want him to come over tonight.

Does he or does not want to cut ties with you?

“Cheol… Look–I… I simply thought you’re busy and it’s no big deal. I should be fine after a few good night sleep, they didn’t even prescribe me that much medicine and that should say something, right?”

Something stirs in him at how exhausted you sound, and he imagines you’re laying down in your room by the sound of rustling he hears across the phone.

“Have you had dinner?” He asks instead, looking at the digital clock on Jeonghan’s fridge.

“Not yet. Maybe later.”

“Alright, I’ll just wrap it up here and come over.”

“What?” You immediately sit up, not exactly pleased with the way this conversation is going. “No, Cheol. Just hang out with the guys, I’ll be fine.”

“You’re sick, why would I be here?” He argues.

You sigh, not sure anymore the cause of your headache.

Is it your cold?

Is it him?

Probably both.

Why is Seungcheol so adamant in taking care of you when he has asked to break up last month and then asked once again not even a week ago?

Why couldn’t he be a jerk and just leave you alone?

Why does he feel the need to make sure your feelings are still intact when he has, according to himself, no longer felt the same intensity he thought one should have when they’re in a relationship?

It’s really your fucking fault for asking for him to reconsider. But, then again, you didn’t expect him to accept it at once–what was even the point of asking for a break up if you’re going to crumble after one refusal?

You didn’t know what to say the first time he asked for it. Because you know… you know it’s coming. You’ve felt the way he’s been pulling away, the way he’s been less and less interested in what you have to say, and how he’s been enjoying his time not talking to you than the other way around.

It hurts.

It hurts so much because this is the person who used to listen to you like you personally hang every single star in the universe by yourself, one that used to stare at you and pay attention to everything you say because he said he doesn’t want to miss anything only to miss half the things you’re saying because he’s too busy staring at you.

And when he asked the second time… you pretend to cough to hide your sniffle, wiping the tears that have managed to escape your eyes before you try to hurriedly hang up the phone.

“Cheol, I need to–”

“I’ll be there in forty minutes.”

He arrives in thirty, fusses over dinner and your air conditioner system and forces you to rest even after you relay what the doctor told you; that you should be okay in a few days.

It’s 1 in the morning when he leaves your place, and he only does so after you pretend to be asleep in hope he’d go home instead of staying over.

You feel him caresses your cheek softly and pats your head before he leaves, and you’re pretty sure you can feel him staring at you for a good three minutes before you hear your front door click.

You fall asleep an hour later because you’re too exhausted from crying and your head is pounding because of the same reason.

Fuck Choi Seungcheol.

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