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strangemagicc · 6 months

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WADWSH | Chapter Two - The Date

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pairings: 2000s!actor!Steve x fem!Reader, 2000s!bestfriend!Eddie x fem!Reader, love triangle, (based loosely on the movie Win a Date with Tad Hamilton)

summary: your date with Steve Harrington 🩵

author’s note: Are any of us surprised that Steve won the poll? No. Does that mean I will reveal who steals reader's heart? Still no, we're on this ride together 😉 but you might get one final chance to persuade me

w/c: 6.4k - this one got away from me lol

warnings: pining / angst, mentions of parental death, living in poverty, let me know if I missed anything!

The trailer was warm, fans blowing high in anticipation of the nearing heatwave. Sweat clung to your chest as you paced your small kitchen, the microwave hummed, kernels heating in small spurts. You waited for the popcorn to finish, head in the clouds as the seconds ticked down. It had been nearly a month since you entered the drawing to win a date with your favorite Hollywood hunk and still you heard nothing. It felt silly to think you had a chance among the thousands, millions, of fans who had probably entered more times than you could afford. You were slowly coming to terms that your dream date was a figment of your imagination. The microwave beeped loud and shrill, the tone dying at the end of its last alert. The clunker was on its final leg. You shook the bag of popcorn, hoping the butter would stick to each kernel instead of the paper bag, and plopped the contents into a communal bowl. You grabbed more snacks, cherry Twizzlers for Eddie and mini-butterfingers for Holly who were both over for movie night and griping about what exactly the three of you would watch.

“Eddie we are not watching Friday the 13th again and plus you chose last time,” Holly rolled her eyes and made grabby hands for the remote that Eddie was holding just out of her reach.

“Excuse me for not wanting to spend ninety minutes watching Steve Harrington struggle through his lines,” he mocked, remote still lifted away from the blonde’s reach. You swooped in from the kitchen with the bowl of popcorn in one hand and grabbed the remote from his outstretched grasp with the other.

“Hey,” Eddie whined, head thrown back onto the couch.

“Sorry Ed, majority rules,” you stuck your tongue out as you climbed over his outstretched legs and settled into the cushion beside him on the couch, coils squeaking as you did. Eddie grabbed a handful of kernels and chucked them at you as he spread his legs wider, thigh brushing yours as he got comfortable. You returned the favor and watched the popcorn stick to his curls, tangling in his hair. He huffed a small chuckle, untangling them and plopping them into his mouth with an exaggerated crunch, eyes trained on you as he chewed obnoxiously.

“Ugh,” you rolled your eyes and focused on the opening credits. Mood shifting as you anticipated the moment Steve’s face appeared on the screen. The movie was a period piece set during World War Two. Lovers torn apart by war and time, never destined to be. You held in your sobs as Steve’s character confessed his love before he boarded a train. A passionate kiss and a final goodbye. His character dead before the end of the war. Eddie watched you from the corner of his eye as you shed silent tears, wiping at them to no avail as they left splotches on your shirt.

“Oh brother,” he griped around a mouthful of licorice, watching you and Holly sob as the credits rolled.

“Wasn’t that so good?” The blonde asked, eyes jumping between you and the grump at the other end of the couch.

“The last twenty minutes were my favorite,” he nodded, a knowing grin situated on his face as he looked at the two of you. The last twenty minutes Steve was noticeably absent.

“You just don’t appreciate true talent,” you wiped the remainder of your tears as Eddie laughed at you.

“Babe, I have more talent in this little pinky than Harrington has in his whole body,” he argued, grin a little smug as he stared you down, pinky wagging for emphasis.

“Oh really, I don’t recall seeing your name in lights or in any magazines,” Holly chimed in.

“That’s because I won’t sell my soul to the Hollywood machine, baby girl,” and she scoffed at the nickname.

“Sounds a lot like an excuse Munson,” she said his name as though it were a swear word.

You hopped from the couch as they bickered, tiny jabs poked into each other while you cleaned their snacks from the coffee table. Their voices were muffled over the noise of the sink but you watched as they argued, animated hands emphasizing their opposing points and chuckled to yourself. The three of you had been friends since you were kids and every Thursday night since middle school played out the same. Arguments over what movie to watch, Eddie sardonic and a little condescending whenever your latest celebrity crush was the focus of that week’s movie night. He was into blood and gore, slasher flicks from the eighties. Anything that didn’t include Steve Harrington on the cast list.

“What’s that?” Eddie’s voice was loud above the sound of the sink, grabbing your attention. You looked at him first and saw the question in his gaze before looking to where his finger pointed. Bright lights showed through your curtains casting shadows along your walls. You turned the sink off and wiped your hands with a kitchen towel, eyebrows pulled inward as you walked closer to the window.

“I have no idea,” you muttered and pulled the curtains back. A news van was lined up in front of your trailer, rows of people facing your front door and you turned back to your friends.

“It’s the news,” you stated, still unsure of why they would be at your front door.

“Eddie, what did you do?” Holly accused, shooting a side-eye his way.

“What makes you think it was something I did?” He questioned, tone only slightly offended by the accusation but the conversation was cut off by a sharp knock at the door. You stood still, eyes bulging as you looked at the door unsure of what to do.

“Well, are you going to answer it?” Eddie asked and you looked at him, panic rising. He rolled his eyes, moved off the couch with a huff, and flung open the door.

“Good evening, I’m Alexa with Fox59 is (Y/N) home?” Eddie turned to you, nodding his head in the newscaster's direction and you stared at him with a slack jaw. Unable to move or form a sentence. He shook his head at you, moving the few steps it took to grab your hand and bring you to the front door.

“Are you (Y/N)?” The newscaster asked, white teeth framed by a bold pink lipstick. You recognized her from TV, nights spent watching the late-night news. You nodded rapidly at her question still unable to find your voice.

“Congratulations!” Her voice was loud, exaggerated excitement and you weren’t sure what she was congratulating you about. Eddie took in the scene, neighbors standing in your small slice of a yard and gawking at you. The newscaster with her big red hair and overdone face smiling at you waiting for your response. The lights of the cameras were bright, almost overwhelming under their beams and Eddie could feel the heat rising to his neck at the amount of eyes that were currently on the both of you. Not to mention all those who were watching from home.

“Uh, what is this about?” He asked Alexa quietly.

“She just won a date with Steve Harrington!” The newscaster explained and Holly screamed from her place on the couch, running toward you to celebrate. Grabbing your arm as she jumped up and down at the news. Eddie stood statuesque, face a mask as he processed the news.

“Oh my god, we are so excited!” Holly screamed once more but you were stunned silent, unable to process your fortune. You’d never thought you’d call yourself lucky. The world kept spinning, Alexa talking at what felt like a mile a minute detailing your prize.

“You’ve won a first-class flight to LA, all expenses paid suite, and a shopping spree to prepare you for your date night with one of America’s biggest stars.” Your eyes grew wide as you gulped at the news, realization finally creeping in.

You won a date with Steve fucking Harrington.

“Tell me why I have to go on a date with someone from my hometown?” Steve scoffed as he turned off his TV, eyebrows set in an angry scowl.

“We need to remind everyone that you are the boy next door, that you have blue-collar roots, and that you’re not just some playboy running around tinsel town,” Jones stated as though this were obvious.

“My dad worked as the COO for a Fortune 500 and my mom got to retire early, not exactly blue-collar,” Steve huffed.

“Details schmetails, all they need to see is a big-time star returning to his roots in small-town America even if that’s just a date with a girl from Hawkins, Indiana,”

“What’s her name again?” Dennis told him, patience wearing thin.

“Oh she sounds real cute,” Steve muttered sarcastically, eyes rolling to the back of his head as he poured himself a drink.

“It doesn’t matter if she’s the next Angelina Jolie or if she looks like something from the county fair, you’re going on a date with her and you’re going to be nice,” Dennis hung up before Steve had time to argue.

“H-hello?” Steve stammered into the dead tone before throwing his earpiece off and taking a large gulp of whiskey, wincing at the sting of the alcohol. He repeated your name to himself, checking how it felt on his tongue. Steve rolled his shoulders as he thought about your date, frustration settling into his muscles.

“You have to give me every detail, how he smells, how bright his eyes really are in person,” Holly grabbed your hands as the three of you stood outside of the TSA line.

“I’ll tell you everything,” you promised.

“I want a report so good that I can smell him too, and if you kiss-“

“I doubt that’s going to happen,” you laughed, nerves settling into your stomach.

“Oh please, he’ll get one look at you and have to.”

“Don’t go wishing hell on her,” Eddie scoffed and nudged Holly out of the way pulling you into his arms. His lips settled by your ear, warm breath fanning against your skin. He smelled of bergamot and tobacco, a small hint of the spearmint gum he was chewing so he could try to kick the bad habit.

“Just have fun okay? Don’t let him be a creep or try anything slick. I will drive to Hollywood and kick his ass if he does, I promise,” you laughed against his chest knowing that he was sincere, and nodded at his words.

“I’ll try my best,” Eddie’s eyes started to turn into saucers, “to have fun.” You corrected. The time to take off was ticking down and you still had to get through security. You turned to check the line and back to your friends.

“I guess I should go before I miss my flight,” you pointed a thumb at the throng of people.

“We’ll see you Sunday,” Eddie nodded and waved you off, looking at you with a gaze you didn’t recognize. Holly watched him as he watched you, a knowing grin finding its way onto her face.

“You loooove her,” she teased after you disappeared into the line, poking at his side and Eddie guffawed. Laugh forced as his cheeks blossomed pink.

“Like a friend,” he corrected.

“Friends don’t look at each other with hearts in their eyes, you look like one of those Looney Tunes characters. Heart practically hammering out of your chest,” she was on a roll and Eddie began to walk away.

“Do you want to walk home?” He asked, attention still trained on the exit and she immediately shut up. The click of her heels light against the linoleum floors as they left the airport.

You walked off the escalator, eyes trained on the sunny streets of Los Angeles. Smile wide and eyes full of excitement. You couldn’t believe that you were here, that this was real, and that you finally made it out of the Midwest even if just for one day. There was a line of drivers situated by the exit doors, signs with last names printed on them of their lucky passengers being driven around LA. You noticed a limo behind the line of them. Black and sleek. What a dream, you thought as you continued to walk towards the front door. You stopped in your tracks, your brain finally catching up with what you had seen. You turned back around and noticed your name on one of those signs. You looked up to the burly man who held the paper and pointed to yourself.

“That’s me!” Your voice was an excited squeal.

“Right this way, miss,” and he moved to the side, hand pointed to the stretch limousine parked along the curb, the same one you had been gawking at.

“Holy cannoli,” you muttered, following him in a stupor.

“Can I take your bags?” He asked you, pointing to the only one you had with you.

“Oh you don’t have to,” you waved him off and he chuckled.

“I insist,” and he moved to grab your belongings. Freeing you of carrying the heavy weight on your shoulder. The sun’s rays were warm against your skin, air mild and cool against your cheeks. The airport was busy, cars and shuttle buses scurrying by like a little city within a much larger one. The sounds of it all were nearly overwhelming. The driver opened your door and showed you in.

“What was your name?” You asked, not noticing a name tag anywhere on his blazer.

“Anthony,” he smiled politely.

“Thanks, Anthony,” you grinned and slid into the car. The dark roof was dotted with white lights to give the illusion of the night sky, black leather seats curved on your right with a small bar situated on your left. Fully stocked with snacks and champagne, a small TV with a built-in DVD player beside it.

“This is amazing,” you beamed and looked at Anthony through the opening between the front cab and the rest of the limo. He chuckled at your enthusiasm.

“Your first time in a limo?” He asked even though it was very apparent. Still, you nodded in response.

“And LA, I’ve never been out of Indiana before,” you mentioned.

“Well, welcome to Hollywood,” he greeted. “Looks like we’re going to Noell’s. Fancy place, you have a big event tonight?” Your heart fluttered at the reminder.

“A date,” you started, “with Steve Harrington,” you squealed and it was the first time you’d said it out loud. The driver whistled at the news, eyebrows perked high on his forehead.

“You be careful with them actor types,” he suggested and you nodded wondering exactly what he meant.

The rest of the ride was spent in silence as he drove through the congested streets and you gawked at the sights. It was the first time you’d seen the ocean and you watched fascinated as the deep blue glimmered with the reflection of the sun. Dogs wore costumes, kids were dressed to the nines, and everyone had a cell phone. It was the talk of the town when the first shipment arrived in Hawkins but it seemed the norm here, like no one batted an eye at the arrival, and it’d be more of an oddity that you didn’t have one. The car slowed to a stop, idling in front of a boutique with beautiful gowns displayed in the front window.

“I’ll be waiting out here until you’re done,” Anthony stated, looking at you through the rearview as you looked at the shop and the busy sidewalks filled with people. You slid out of the car, the bright sky greeting you again. You’d imagined the air would smell like the ocean or a floral breeze, but the reality of it was far from pleasant. The smell of tobacco and stale urine filled your nose as you walked the short distance and through the front door of the shop.

“Hi there, welcome to Noell’s! I’m Amy. What are we looking for today?” The associate was petite, her small frame barely seen above the front counter she stood behind. She had a heart-shaped face, vibrant green eyes, and brunette hair down to her shoulders.

“I have a date tonight and just needed to get something to wear,” you shrugged and played absently with your hair, suddenly shy.

“Are you (Y/N)?”

“Uh yes, that’s me?” You weren’t sure how she knew your name.

“They told me the lucky girl would be stopping by today. We already pulled a few choices for you,” she waved you on and walked toward the back, assuming you would follow. Your steps were quiet behind the clack of her heels against the hardwood floors. The store was massive, a rainbow of tulle and sequins that left you gawking as you followed her through rows of dresses organized by color. Amy stopped in front of a dressing room, a large rack of dresses situated next to it with what appeared to be a dress in each color.

“We pulled these for you, but feel free to look around. You can have anything you’d like,” your eyebrows shot up as you watched her walk away and retreat to the front desk. You stood in front of the dresses and ran your hands along the fabrics, the lace of the bodices, and the intricate details of each. You wanted something that would make Steve’s jaw drop and leave him at a loss for words. Be the hot, mysterious date you told Eddie you would be. You giggled to yourself in the silence, giddy with the prospect of shocking the Steve Harrington. You pushed through the dresses they provided, but none of them were quite you. You looked outside the dressing room to the sea of dresses to choose from and began wandering the aisles, admiring the purple and blue fabrics, until your eyes stumbled upon a dress that you knew was the one. You pulled it off the rack and admired the details. It was a long deep red dress that hung from one shoulder with a black mesh overlay and a high slit.

“Would you like to try that on?” Amy was walking towards you, brunette curls bouncing as she did.

“Uh, yeah,” you nodded and handed her the dress. She walked you back to the dressing room, placing the dress on one of the hooks inside the small space.

“Just let me know if you need anything else,” she stated as she sauntered away. You stared at the dress, a little intimidated by the high slit that would reveal your upper thigh. You shook your head and swallowed your fears away as you pulled off your jeans and your shirt. The dress was smooth against your skin as you pulled it on and closed the zipper. The silk and mesh hung over your curves and fit like a glove, accentuating the fat of your ass and the size of your boobs. It was more daring than anything you had ever worn, but you felt beautiful, and this was how you wanted Steve to see you.

“How’s that one working for you?” Amy asked through the door and you unlocked it to gauge her reaction. Her green eyes widened and she smiled up at you.

“That dress was made for you,” she commented and it didn’t sound like a typical sales associate spiel.

“I’ll take it,” you affirmed as the nerves unfurled and in their place butterflies took flight.

You sat on the edge of your hotel bed, a large king-size mattress situated in the middle of the suite you were provided. The room was dipped in luxury, with a crystal chandelier hanging from the high ceilings, and a plasma TV placed on an intricate entertainment stand surrounded by cream-colored couches. You felt like Cinderella, like you were walking in a dream, and at any moment you’d wake back up in the four walls of the small trailer you’d always lived in. The butterflies were in your chest now threatening to strangle the little air you could get to your lungs as you took deep breaths and ran sweaty palms against the fabric of your dress. You’d have thrown yourself into the soft fabric of the blankets to hide if you weren’t worried about ruining the makeup you’d spent so long on. Your lips were a deep red that accentuated your pout, eyes framed by a dramatic smoky eye that made the color of them all that more intense. There was a knock at your door that broke through your thoughts and you craned your head towards the noise, eyes glued to the wood frame. Unable to will your feet to move. Another knock came, more urgent, a little less patient, and finally your feet moved. You rushed to the door, pulling it open a little klutzy and almost catching your dress on the handle. You looked down to pull it away, not even noticing the hazel eyes roaming over your frame.

“Wow,” Steve breathed, shocked by your appearance. How stunning you were. You looked at him, a small smile forming on your lips as the butterflies moved into your throat and cut your vocal cords from working. You were full-on malfunctioning.

“Hi, I’m Steve,” he extended his hand towards you and you nodded, nervous giggles erupting from your lips as you slipped your hand into his warm grasp.

“You look amazing,” he motioned to your dress as he pulled his hand from yours. Your cheeks turned a shade darker at the compliment, your smile widening.

“Y-you do too,” you stammered, having trouble not being star-struck. Steve was even more handsome in person. His hazel eyes were framed by the longest lashes you’d seen, freckles dotting his cheekbones and the line of his jaw. His sun-kissed skin was draped in a white dinner coat, a black button-up underneath only buttoned to the middle of his chest revealing a smidge of hair. You swallowed hard at the sight resisting the urge to run over fingers over the muscled flesh. Not wanting to look like one of those stalker weirdos. Steve tilted his head to the hallway, thumb pointing behind him and you finally noticed the security guards who were standing nearby.

“Should we head to dinner?”

“Yeah, sounds good,” you breathed. The words were coming easier now as the two of you walked down the hall and to the back entrance of the hotel.

“I should warn you,” he started and began digging in his jacket pockets pulling out a pair of sunglasses and handing them to you. You looked at them curiously, unfolding them and looking up at him for an explanation.

“It can get a little bright, a little intimidating.” He slid a pair of his own over the line of his nose, eyes hidden behind the dark lenses. You didn’t know what he meant but you slid them on as you descended the stairs into the private parking garage. At the bottom of the steps you were met by a swarm of photographers, the bulbs of their cameras flashing and nearly blinding as you tried to maneuver around them. Steve grabbed your hand, pulling you through the mass of paparazzi and towards the waiting limousine. You slid against the leather seat, breath coming out in anxious spurts as he closed the door behind him. Still, the photographers continued, cameras flashing and pressed against the windows for a secret shot.

“Is it always like that?” You asked, listening to their muffled voices and watching as they swarmed the car. Steve removed his sunglasses, playing with the temples but not meeting your gaze.

“Yeah, it is. The sunglasses don’t really block the lights out but at least you can hide behind them you know?” And you understood, a little hedge of protection in a flood of people wanting to intrude.

“I’m sorry,” you apologized sincerely, just now realizing how the photographers got those candid shots of Steve you always gushed over.

“Don’t be,” he smirked and looked at you, “'s what I signed up for right?” And you knew that was the common consensus, celebrities took center stage so they wanted the nonstop attention right?

“Seems pretty intrusive is all,” you shrugged and looked at your fingers resting in your lap. Steve watched you, scanning the length of your legs and the way the material hugged your curves once again.

“Let’s just have fun tonight,” he suggested, not wanting to dwell on the downside of celebrity.

“Let’s,” you agreed with a broader smile.

The restaurant was fancier than any of the ones Hawkins had to offer. The ceiling boasted an intricate pattern of hexagons and copper chandeliers, the lights set dim to create an ambiance. On one side of the restaurant, there was a glass case of wine bottles stacked from floor to ceiling, and in front of the case was a large granite bar with bar stools scattered around it. The other wall was floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city, the lights of the skyscrapers like constellations. You were shown to your table by the maître d’, a private table in a room away from prying eyes. The two of you settled across from each other, a rolling table brought over with a chilled bottle of champagne and a flute filled for each of you.

“Compliments of the house,” the waiter stated and Steve smiled politely as he looked at you scan the menu with a creased brow.

“I’ll be back in just a moment to get your orders,” the man stated and walked back through the doors of the private dining area. You stared at a page of the menu, French words you didn’t understand, or entrees you’d never tasted. It was…a lot, and you felt like you were over your head.

“Not sure what to get?” He asked and you shook your head before placing your menu on the table to look at him.

“You know what I haven’t had in a while?”

“What is that?” You rested your chin into your palm as you waited for him to elaborate.

“A good burger.” Your eyebrows shot up in surprise at his cheeky grin.

“You mean to tell me,” you opened the menu, “that foie gras isn’t your cup of tea?” You looked at him over your lashes as he laughed and took a sip of champagne.

“Not really into eating liver.”

“That’s what that is?” You couldn’t hide the horror of his revelation and his chuckle grew louder.

“Want to get out of here? Get something that isn’t a filter?” You nodded your head, eyes big and full of alarm. Steve stood first extending his hand toward you to usher you out of the dining space and into the main restaurant. Just as he opened the door the waiter returned.

“Will you not be dining with us today?” He asked, concerned.

“Not feeling it tonight, but thank you for your hospitality,” Steve responded and placed folded-up bills into the guy’s shirt pocket before extending his arm for you to take. Anthony was waiting for you where you left him, a little surprised by your sudden reappearance.

“That was a fast dinner,” he commented, looking at you through his rearview to make sure nothing went awry.

“Fine dining just isn’t for me,” you assured and he nodded with a knowing grin.

“Where to?”

“Know a good burger joint?” Steve asked him as he poured the two of you more champagne from the bar.

“There’s the Seaside Kitchen right near Venice Beach,” Anthony offered with a shrug of his shoulder.

“Oh, the beach, I've never been!" You clapped excitedly.

“Let’s go there,” Steve smiled and watched your giddy excitement the entire drive.

The air smelled of salt, and the noise of the waves covered the sound of the lingering seagulls overhead. You took in your surroundings, noticing that there weren't many tourists roaming the sands with the sun long set. You spotted a bonfire in the distance, a small group crowded around it. The beach was dark and only illuminated by the nearby lampposts that glimmered a bright white. It was serene, the first quiet moment since you stepped off the plane. You and Steve wadded through the sand barefoot, feet sinking into the cold as you walked closer to the water.

“Sorry it’s not much of a view since the sun isn’t up,” Steve remarked setting a blanket he got from the limo down onto the sand as you held a box full of burgers, fries, and two cokes. Your stomach was grumbling, hunger roaring and making you queasy. You looked around once more and smiled to yourself before turning back to Steve.

“It’s perfect, I never thought I’d get to see it,” you told him and sat with your legs stretched in front of you, feet buried into the sand.

“You and your family never vacationed anywhere when you were young?” You shook your head as you chewed the bite of burger you took, swallowing it down to explain.

“My mom and dad passed when I was young so my grandma took me in. Not much you can get on social security let alone beach vacations,” you laughed and sipped on your coke. You were used to explaining and answering any child or adult when they questioned why your parents weren't at a school function or recital. Why your grandma was the only one in attendance. The sting of their deaths was now a dull wound, one that didn't make you choke back tears or want to hide behind closed doors like before.

“I’m so sorry,” he muttered and you shooed his apology.

“Don’t be sorry, I didn’t have a lot but my grandma loved me and this is extra special since I’m experiencing it with you,” you took another bite and looked off into the waves. Dark blue, almost black, pushing against the white of the sand. Steve looked at you and traced the line of your cheekbones to your jaw with his gaze. A little struck. Entranced by how beautiful you were.

“Hawkins any different from when I lived there?” You looked up thoughtfully and thought of what was different.

“Well the grocery store is open until ten now but other than that I’d say it’s much the same since you left,” you giggled. Steve chewed on some fries and thought of his hometown. Thought of Hawkins High and his time as King Steve, the drives to Lover’s Lake, the nights spent at house parties or drinking by the golf course at the country club until the sun came up.

“You ever miss it?” You questioned, taking another bite as you waited for his response. He swallowed his food and took a sip of soda.

“Believe it or not sometimes this all gets old,” he waved around the scenery. “Sometimes I just miss being home in my own bubble, hanging out with friends without prying eyes and just the lack of sound. It’s so loud here.”

“It really is! I don’t know how anyone sleeps,” you chuckled around your food, holding your hand in front of your mouth so he didn’t catch sight of your chewed food.

“I didn’t sleep for the first few weeks until I adjusted to the noise, now I don’t know how I’ll sleep if I ever leave,” he shook his head and the two of you continued to eat in comfortable silence.

“What about you? Do you ever wish you could leave?”

“Sometimes, but I don’t think I’d be away for long. There’s nothing like feeling at home somewhere and that’s what I have,” you thought for a moment, “but I would get something better than what I have if I could.”

“Something better?”

“I live in the trailer my grandma left me when she passed a few years ago, and it’s cozy but I’ve never had anything that’s mine. Everything has been passed down or thrifted. Always belonged to someone else first.”

“Ever thought of your ideal place?” You dabbed the napkin against your mouth and wiped your hands, squeezing the napkin as you gave a thoughtful nod.

“Pretty sure I’ve thought of it every day since I was twelve,” you sighed as you thought of those daydreams, “My parents used to have a spread of land, acres that seemed never-ending. I used to play all day and get lost in the trees. I miss that. If I ever got my own land I would fill it up with animals and have my own garden. Maybe a library if I was lucky,” you pushed your lips together as the silence settled over you, your dreams on display for him to see.

“Like little goats and pigs?” He shared in the picture you painted, adding his own details.

“Cows too. Heard there’s nothing like snuggling one,” he choked on the soda he drank, laughing at the image of a cow lying on top of him.

“I don’t know about the snuggling,” he dismissed the idea.

“Ugh, but the little babies? Especially the furry ones? How could you not!” He stared at you with a wide smirk, eyes glimmering at your enthusiasm. A wave of embarrassment flooded through you as to how you might sound to him. The big Hollywood star who had already experienced so much, things bigger than a farm with baby cows and goats. More than you could dare to dream. You rubbed awkwardly at your hair suddenly self-conscious.

“Sorry, I must sound so small town,” you apologized and he shook his head at you reaching for your wrist so that you’d look at him. You looked where you were connected, his warm skin against yours, electricity wherever his fingers grasped.

“Don’t do that,” he chided softly, “it’s refreshing. Like I said, this gets old. I have the same industry conversations every night droning on about the next project or award season. Even in interviews I’m asked the same questions but no one really cares about the answers anymore,” he laughed as he cut his ranting off.

“Sorry about that,” he muttered, flashing an awkward smile in your direction. You placed your hand over his, rubbing your thumb against his knuckles.

“What did we say about sorry?” You chided and he nodded with a slight roll of his eyes.

“Plus, I care about the answers,” you added nonchalantly. He beamed, taking your hand as he stood and pulled you to your feet.

“Let’s dip our toes in,” he suggested and began peeling off his shoes. You kicked off your heels leaving them beside the blanket as the two of walked near the shore. The sound of the waves grew louder as you approached, the sand cold and wet but easier to walk through. You waited until the water drew closer and dipped your toe in squealing with the temperature.

“Holy shit, it’s freezing,” you turned to him but he was already watching you enthralled by your childlike wonder.

“You can’t just dip a toe in, got to go in feet first so you can’t second guess it,” he suggested but you were nervous. Afraid of the shock of the water and Steve noticed.

“Here, take my hand,” you looked at his outstretched arm, palm face up in an offering. A life raft before you plunged deeper and you took it, twining your fingers with his as you took the leap. Jumping feet first into the cold waves, squealing only slightly as they crashed over your shins and dampened the bottom of your dress. You jumped and Steve held you closer, your back to his warm chest as your toes sank into the ocean floor gradually. You could feel his heart hammering against you, felt the way his eyes were trained on you and you turned. His face was illuminated by the moon, bronze skin a little less vibrant in the evening glow. Eyes trained on your lips, face inching towards yours. Your eyelashes fluttered as you moved closer to him, your noses brushing, and his lips were a whisper against yours. He pressed fully into your pout, his lips soft and warm against yours as they moved gently. A small gasp escaped as he learned the shape of your lips, the way you liked to be kissed. Sweet and sensual. You tangled your fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck, chest pressed into his and his warm palms traced the line of your waist until they rested just above your ass. Steve brought your bottom lip into his mouth sucking gently and releasing it with a small pop. You hummed against his mouth, kissing him deeper and swiping his bottom lip asking for entrance. He opened for you, tongue darting against yours as he kneaded the dough of your ass. The kiss turned needy, a different kind of hunger settling into your gut but you pulled away looking into Steve’s wide gaze.

“Did I do something wrong?” He asked, hands moving back up to the middle of your back. You rubbed your nose against his fondly and shook your head.

“No, no. I just,” you sighed. You didn’t want this to be a one-time thing, a speedy hookup on the beach. You wanted more and you knew you had no right to it.

“It’s getting late, and I just thought I should head back to the hotel. Get some rest. Think your agent has me on the first flight out,” you grinned at him apprehensively and worried he’d be mad.

“Sounds like the bastard,” he shook his head and nodded towards the car.

“C'mon I’ll make sure you get back,” you cleaned up your makeshift picnic and settled into the back of the limo, sitting a little closer to Steve than when the night first started. His hand settled on the skin of your exposed thigh. Rubbing circles, creating goosebumps.

Anthony pulled into the private garage and it was a relief when you saw no sight of paparazzi around you. Steve turned his attention to you after scanning the lot, hazel gaze fixed on yours.

“I had a really fun time tonight, thank you,” and he meant it, sincerity written on his face. You smiled at him, less shy than before, and placed a chaste kiss on his pinked lips.

“Thank you,” you emphasized and turned to open the door. Steve squeezed your hand one last time and watched you walk back up the stairs the two of you had descended at the beginning of the night. He was wrapped in his thoughts and completely struck by you.

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hornyhornyhimbos · 1 year

Note

hiiii

Can I request either a Spencer or Hotch with the prompts

23. “Say my name.”

11. “Louder. Let me hear you.”

17. “Hands behind your back.”

Thaaaaank youuuu 💕

"Better Than Italian Food" ~ A. Hotchner

Summary: uh idk, Reader makes Hotch dinner and somehow it gets spicy, don't ask me for summaries LMAO

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 1,369

Content Warning: MINORS DNI (18+ content), unprotected piv sex, oral f!receiving, fingering, slight masturbation from both parties, use of restraints, overstimulation, orgasm denial/delay, use of nicknames (one use of gorgeous), explicit language, mentions of food, lmk if i missed anything else

Extra Notes: this is my first time writing full on smut so pls don't judge

Based On the Prompts: "Say my name." ☆ "Louder. Let me hear you." ☆ "Hands behind your back."

Originally Written: 12/09/2022

smut prompts can be found here!

hornyhornyhimbos ask box can be found here!

"Knock knock," Aaron called as he entered the house before bending down to untie his dress shoes. His arms flexed in his suit jacket as he did so, a sight that was somehow simple yet reminded me just how lucky I was to call him mine.

"Come in," I giggled, sashaying my way from the couch over to him. "How was work?"

He let out a sound that was somewhere between a groan and a chuckle. "Exhausting, as usual." He barely let his sentence slip into the air before leaning in and pressing his lips tightly against mine.

We stayed like that for a moment, just as we usually did when he made it home after a long workday. His palms settled on my waist as he pulled away.

My arms slithered around his shoulders. "Do you wanna talk about it?"

He shook his head. "You wanna know what I do want to talk about though?"

My eyebrows creased together as I tried to dissect his tone. "What would that be?"

"How good dinner smells, whatever it might be you're cooking," he chuckled, ambling toward the kitchen.

I followed after him, my hands fixed on his hips. "It's Alfredo. Courtesy of the recipe Rossi emailed me. Bread's in the oven."

He turned to face me, leaving another kiss on my lips. Upon pulling away, he commented, "I have no clue how I could ever thank you for being the wonderful wife that you are."

My stomach knotted for a moment, my eyebrow cooking upward. "I think I know a way."

That was how I found myself spread open on the edge of the king-sized mattress, Aaron's mouth nuzzled against my clit, whimpering a string of obscenities.

The coil in my stomach tightened, my brain started to go fuzzy. I felt my legs tighten around Aaron's head, his raven hair brushing against the skin of my bare legs.

My vision went spotty for a moment. My orgasm was close. I let out a low mewl, my hips bucking up into his tongue. My veins burned as-

Beep! Beep! Beep!

I let out an aggravated groan as I assumed one of the two of us would have to get the bread from the oven.

The bread must've been the furthest thing from Aaron's mind as he left his head buried in my cunt.

"B-baby," I moaned in an attempt to get his attention.

He pulled away just long enough to utter, "Say my name."

My breathing became heavy as my orgasm inched closer again. "A-A-" I struggled, my hips rutting in betrayal.

"Say. My. Name."

"A-Aaron, the bread," I managed, fists clenched tight around the silk bed sheets beneath me.

"Frankly," he mumbled against my clit, eliciting another mewl from my lips, "the only thing I'm worried about eating is this pretty pussy."

"Frankly," I copied weakly, "I don't want our house to burn down."

He huffed, the air hitting my naked core and sending a shiver up my spine. "Be right back," he mumbled, wiping his lip with his thumb.

As he walked away, my mind wandered deviously. I felt betrayed by my hand as a finger hooked into my hole, chasing down the orgasm I'd nearly lost.

I let out a whimper as it pumped in and out, the coil in my belly tightening once again. My vision went spotty as I nearly reached the edge.

Aaron entered the room, tsk-ing his tongue against the roof of his mouth. "What have we here?"

"A-Aaron," I gasped, moving my hand away from my center. "I can ex-"

"Give me your hand," he demanded.

Hesitantly, I lifted my hand to his. He brought my hand to his lips, sucking on the end of my pointer finger. "Tastes good," he smirked. "Bet it felt good too."

My eyes widened as a breath hitched in my throat. I tried to swallow it down, but instead, it lingered there, causing both my throat and mouth to feel suddenly dry.

"You can say it," he said, dropping my hand.

I opted not to verbally answer. Instead I just nodded, a moan perched on the edge of my tongue as I watched the change in his behavior.

"Hands behind your back."

I did as told, standing up from the bed and letting my arms settle behind me.

He scrambled to undo his tie, wrapping it so tight around my wrists I wasn't sure it wouldn't leave bruises. He lowered me onto the mattress before unbuttoning his slacks, sliding them down along with his boxers. As quickly as possible, he undid his shirt too, throwing it into the pile with the rest of our discarded clothing.

He lowered his hand to my mouth before demanding, "Spit."

I didn't hesitate. I managed to spit into his palm, though I was unsure how, given the state of my parched throat.

He ran his hand along his hardened dick, and the sight elicited another sinful groan from my mouth.

He ran the tip along my slit teasingly. The sound of my wetness mixing with his pre-cum was something that could only be described as unholy.

After a moment more of teasing me, he pushed in, the stretch making me gasp. "You cum when I say you cum. Got it?"

Somehow, I successfully nodded again, a soft yelp falling from my tongue as he maneuvered the angle of my hips.

He pushed in and out repeatedly, both of our orgasms building quickly. I wasn't sure who'd cum first, but I knew both of our climaxes were approaching and fast.

Though, just as I feared, he pulled out, his hand meeting his cock, squeezing it hard. "I think this is only fair," he grunted, rocking against his palm, "since you got to finish yourself off too."

"But I didn't," I whined, humping at anything that would bring fiction to my pussy.

"Why do I not believe you?"

"Aaron, please, I promise," I whimpered.

He chuckled, his chest nearly heaving as he did so. "You'll need to do better than that, gorgeous."

My hips rutted against the fabric below me again. "Aaron, please let me cum," I begged, my skin feeling hot as I watched him pump himself again and again.

"Louder. Let me hear you," he ordered as he continued to squeeze his length. "I'm gonna need to hear you if you really want it."

My eyes fluttered into the back of my head and I cried out, "Please, Aaron, I need to cum."

He released his shaft before lining himself up with me once more. "I knew you could do it," he praised, sinking into me again.

He slammed in and out of me, his balls slamming against my ass with every thrust. He growled at the feeling of my walls clenching around his cock.

For what felt like the hundredth time that night, my orgasm approached, my veins burning hot again.

"In or out?" Aaron asked. I didn't even need an explanation.

"In," I choked out. "Need to feel you fill me up."

I wasn't sure how, but we both released in sync, his seed warm inside me as I arched away from the bed.

I felt stuffed as he lay down on top of me, the smell of sweat prominent in the air. His hair was sticky as he placed his head on my chest, mumbling sweet nothings into the valley of my breasts.

I let out a whimper as he finally removed himself. Suddenly, I missed the feeling of being stretched open by him.

His fingers moved down to my cunt, pumping fast. I let out a, "Hnnnngg, fuck, Aaron," as two digits worked at my core.

"You wanted it in, didn't you?" he groaned, watching as his cum pushed into me.

Eventually, he moved his hand away from me, upon noticing me writhing from the overstimulation.

He moved up to lay beside me on the bed, collapsing back beside me. A nearly childish chuckle escaped his mouth, his cheeks flushing even redder than they already were.

"What's so funny?" I panted, running my hand along the hairs on his chest.

"Nothing," he chuckled once more. "Anyone ever tell you that you taste way better than Italian food?"

-> Taglist will be found here!

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mrsbbradshaw · 2 years

Text

Miscalculation

Jake "Hangman" Seresin x Fem! Reader

(slight) Rooster x Fem! Reader

Warnings : Top Gun Maverick spoilers, character deaths, angst, unrequited love, PTSD

Synopsis : Instead of Hangman saving both Maverick and Rooster, it was her. But at what cost ?

Reader's Callsign : 'Ghost' ( She likes going so fast that she could vanish from radar, making her one of the best stealth & combat pilot ) << Thanks @americaarse & @mercury-mae >>

Reader's Lastname : Jones

Part 2 : "A Minute Too Late"

Italics are flashback scenes !

She couldn't remember why she was running.

The small flakes of snow above the freezing air continued to fall as she took every step she could to run for her life.

With the speed she was running, the fresh, airy, cold wind blew her hair stronger. Her hair was normally in a tight and neat bun, regularly pulled back from her face, twisted and wrapped in a circular coil around itself. Yet in her current state, her hair was all over the place, especially after tripping on a log in attempt of escaping enemy territory.

Her breath came in short gasps, forming clouds in the air as her calves burn, her boots pounded heavily into the layers of snow on the ground.

She darted past multiple trees, even when she was in an area she didn't recognize. Her legs took her to wherever was far enough.

Stealing a few glances on her back to check whether there were still people and german shepherds on the run for her, their voices were already inaudible.

Ghost went to the nearest tree to catch her breath, releasing heavy pants with her palms on her knees. She looked at her surrounding.

She was in a forest covered with snow.

The navy must've presumed her as KIA (Killed in Action) by now. The fighter pilot scoffed, releasing another breath, thinking what would people's reaction be when they get the news that she's dead.

She blinked twice, eyeing her decorated helmet. Her thoughts were right, there was no one else to fight for.

'This is it' she thought to herself. but How is it that on the few moments before her death, one person popped up onto her mind, the one person who made her fall in love when she knew she can't have him.

How was it possible that the man who didn't love her back and treated her poorly on her head ?

Why was Jake "Hangman" Seresin on her head ?

Y/n recalled the tragic incident that fell on her a few years back during a similar mission.

Ghost and her mission leader, Apollo were amongst the elite Top Gun fresh graduates sent to strike a uranium enrichment facility that caused danger.

The mission was a success.

The facility was bombed by the two foxtrot teams along with Apollo and Ghost herself. The enemy base were annihilated by the bombs as well, so there was no way a fighter jet could've still been able to fly.

The naval aviators hung their head high, proud of the mission they have conducted, all they had to do was fly home and celebrate.

"How 'bout this, dinner's on me tonight" Apollo said, giving a thumbs up to his wingman flying beside him, Ghost.

"Nah, let me treat y'all, have dinner at my place tonight, it's my son's birthday today" The curly brown haired man with hazel eyes, often known as Tree replied to his mission leader.

Cheers and Woos were heard from her helmet.

"Happiest birthday to little Ryan" Ghost chuckled, eyes focused on the clouds.

"How old is he turning, man ?" One of the two foxtrot team's backseater, Phantom asked

"He's turning one"

"Congratulations, Taylor !" Berlin, one of the other pilots called his first name.

"I can't wait to eat Mrs Taylor's cooking, especially her roast beef" Coma complimented with his southern accent

"Goddamit, Coma, some of us hadn't eaten our lunch yet" Apollo laughed.

All of them were so focused with their conversation, it was too late when a rapid beeping sound was heard from Apollo's jet.

Someone had a missile lock on him.

Too late to think, his jet was blown into pieces right in front of the whole squad.

No parachutes, the mission leader was dead instantly.

"Shit ! Hostile ahead ! Thunder 1 is down, I repeat, Thunder 1 is down !" Ghost exclaimed frantically to the carrier ship.

Her eyes shot open, her mouth hung open loosely, processing what had just happened to her mission leader.

From the black ashes of Apollo's jet, the enemy appeared in fifth generation fighter jets, two more appeared on their left and another two on their right.

"Thunder 2, do you have vision on the enemy ?" An officer from the carrier spoke

"We have 2 hostiles on our right, 2 more on our left and the leader right in front ! We're surrounded !" she replied, raising her voice, filling it with panic.

Where the hell did they come from ? They destroyed all fighter jets at the enemy base.

Shit.

This was a miscalculation by them. A miscalculation that would cost them their lives.

"Thunder 2,3 and 4, immediately retreat to the carrier ship immediately"

"Negative, they're all over the place, It's a dogfight alright." Tree replied, breaking left, destroying their formation with two of the enemy jets following him, enabling a missile lock on him and Phantom.

"Shit dude, Apollo's dead" Berlin said

The two foxtrot teams along with Ghost broke their formation, spreading themselves away from each other. Ghost pulled her lever as hard as possible, in attempt of going above the fighter jet that shot down Apollo's plane.

The beeping sound on her plane was easily recognisable by her, meaning that she had been missile locked, punching the flare buttons, while immediately breaking right, escaping the missile and the jet for a short while.

The corners of her eye caught Tree and Phantom being chased by two fighter jets, they were trying their best to shake them off, she took this opportunity by increasing her flight speed, placing a missile lock on one of the jets from behind, Ghost successfully shot one down.

"Smoke in the air ! Release flares !" She could hear the voices of Phantom, eyeing the yellow lights that were flying to smash the missile that was fired by the surviving enemy jet.

"Tree ! Fly above, play high ! let them be in front of you !" She yelled, before hearing Coma's southern accent, warning her.

"Ghost, you've got company on your back !"

"I see it" The jet that was previously chasing her came back.

Berlin and Coma fired a missile in attempt to help Ghost, only for the fifth generation jet spinning around, completely evading it. They had managed to shook of the jets who were chasing them.

"You guys save your missiles, save yourselves ! I'll be okay !" Ghost pulled her lever to the left, taking a sharp turn to the direction away from her friends.

With her fast speed, she was able to fly a circle fast enough to get behind the jet.

"Gotcha" The missile from her plane blew up her enemy's jet almost immediately.

"They have a missile lock on us, releasing flares" Berlin yelled

"Shit ! We're out of flares, Coma, We're out of-"

An intense yellow and orange color mixed with a low and deep noise was all visible to her the moment she gasped.

Not them, not them.

She lost her fellow pilots in front of her again.

Her breath became rapid while her heart beat faster, her eyes widened, immediately breaking the news to the carrier ship

"Thunder 3 is down, Their jets have been d-destroyed completely, z-zero survivors in sight !" She could hear Phantom's voice that were shaky but firm.

Releasing a missile on the enemy for revenge, Tree and Phantom managed to blow it up.

"Ghost ! You get out of here !" Phantom yelled

"Are you mental ? Do you think I can leave you two like that !" She yelled, angry.

"You're the only one fast enough to escape them, we'll grab their attention and you make a run for it !"

"What are you talking about ? Hell no ! I'm not leaving until all enemy jets are destroyed !"

"Ghost, if you don't go now, none of us are going to survive"

"No, you will survive. You go ! You two !" She eyed the jet Tree and Phantom were in.

"You guys go and I'll stay here." she proposed

"Thunder 2, you are ordered to retreat immediately." A voice on their ear spoke, they knew who and where it came from.

Even the carrier knew that the chances of the three of them surviving were really low. But her alone, with her speed of flying ? Her chance of surviving was 90%

Y/n "Ghost" Jones was one of the elite. Best of the best, and the navy couldn't afford to lose her.

"No ! I'm not leaving them to die !"

"Y/n, this isn't a debate !" Tree raised his voice

"We all know that you're the only one who can escape"

"Uh no ? For shit's sake Taylor, you have a kid who just turned one !"

"He has a mother who's gonna take care of him" His voice softened, tears beginning to blur her vision, she shook her head vigorously.

"Y/n...go" Phantom's voice ordered her

"Lieutenant Jones, you are ordered to return to the carrier ship immediately !" Her superior ordered, raising his voice

"you have backup, send backup..."

"Please..." a tear escaped her eyes, her voice cracked and shaky, her voice was practically begging to them that they would let her stay.

"Lieutenant Jones !"

Y/n let out a scream of agony, shutting her eyes close, breaking left sharply, maxing up her speed, flying as fast as the wind back as she was ordered to.

"Hey Jones ? Tell my family I love t-"

She could hear it again. The same explosion that blew up the other two jets of her friends. However, this time, it was louder.

She was already flying far away from where the enemy shot them down but the sound, the flashes of yellow, it would haunt her for the rest of her life.

"Thunder 4 is down.....I repeat," Her tone was like a whisper, whimpering with tears cascading her eyes.

She stopped for a while, a sob escaped her, covering her face with a shaking hand.

"Thunder 4 is down...."

Her jet sped through the clouds, Ghost disappeared from the enemy's radar just as expected, but her tears won't stop spilling.

She landed her plane safely, but what happened after that was, vague.

She rung the doorbell of Taylor's house that day, a smile plastered across his wife's face, expecting Ghost to be Mrs Taylor's husband.

They were waiting for his arrival, the interior of the house decorated beautifully with banners, the table was set for a family dinner, celebrating their son who had just turn one that day.

Yet it had to be her to break the tragic news to his wife, explaining, Lieutenant Jonathan "Tree" Taylor isn't coming back - ever.

A single drop of grief welled up from the corner of her eye as soon as she eyed Taylor's one year old son who wore a blue party hat with a cake in front of him, topped with a candle numbered '1'.

Her bottom lip quivered, and her shoulders dropped, her vision was blurry; it was difficult for her to see clearly. As more tears came, more thought whirled through her head, the guilt consuming her.

"I'm sorry"

No amount of apologies could bring him back.

Rosario Taylor fell to the floor in a disheveled heap as her grief poured out in uncontrollable tears.

The young lieutenant faced her friend's son, wanting to take her eyes off him so bad, it was hurting her even more.

The thought of it - losing a father on his first birthday, his son has to grow up without a father.

She blamed herself constantly, convincing herself that she was part of the reason why he died.

How she wished to die that very moment and every moment afterwards.

She couldn't remember what had happen after that, In a blink, she stood in front of five black caskets with no bodies in it.

The somber atmosphere surrounded her, she placed her palms onto each of their casket, guilt came after her again.

She constantly thought that it was better for her to die with them. It should've been her. Not them. If she did fight that day, she would've died and it would be fine for her.

Her parents were deceased and she has no family left. She was supposed to die, not him.

Not the people who left behind their family.

Her black navy uniform was stained with tears again, she had wiped her eyes so much they were red and swollen. The place was dark where the coffins were placed before the funeral.

She stood amongst her other comrades, giving a salute with her tear stained cheeks, as their caskets were lowered.

Five people were dead.

No, they weren't just 'people'.

Five of her friends died, leaving her alone in this cruel world.

The memories they spent together during Top Gun came back to her, how they spent their time together almost everyday, creating an unreplacable bond between them.

She remembered being in Top Gun with her other friends, Bradley, Jake, Natasha, Robert and others.

She was particularly close to Natasha, remembering the first time she laid eyes on Jake Seresin while Natasha instantly figured out that she liked him.

The time they had in Top Gun reminded her how hard they had to train to be there. Yet, when she thought she was a great pilot, five people died.

They could see the tears she was holding back, people said how she literally looked like her callsign.

Ghost.

But not everyone knew she was the only survivor of the mission. To their eyes, she was only close to the victims.

She made a formal request after the funeral, keep her name as classified so no one would know that she was the only survivor that day.

She did not want people to look down on her and pity her.

Still, the stories of their mission was soon spread amongst the navy. They later called the mission as "The Miscalculation Tragedy". The information of who was the only survivor of The Miscalculation Tragedy was classified.

Ghost carried on with life, conducting missions as ordered. She acted like nothing happened, not wanting her secret to get out. The tragedy scarred her for life, her guilt consuming everyday.

Yet, she put her flawless public facade, masking her true state.

Successfully fooling everyone.

2 years had past when she got called back to Top Gun for a special detachment mission.

"Here she comes ! The woman, the legend, Ghost"

"Great to see you again, Coyote" She smiled, taking the beer coyote had offered. Her eyes lingered to the blonde haired man who was bending his body, aiming to shoot the 8 ball.

She could admire him all night, how he was so perfect in her eyes, how his ego makes him hotter.

She would always look for his face in every random crowd, but he wouldn't even look for hers if she was standing right in front of him.

"Hangman," She smiled, he looked at her for a second, ignoring her. Then eyeing back to his game of pool.

It was sad, really.

How he would treat ladies like a woman, but he would treat her like dirt, like she meant nothing to him.

She knew she was pathetic, how she would always try again and again but have herself ignored by him and her dignity ripped apart.

She couldn't explain how she felt, each time he walked over to a lady and flirt with her. She felt worse than pathetic, wanting to be flirted so bad.

Their friendship has gone to the drain the moment he found out she liked him. Every moment since, he treated her like a plague.

She should hate him, really, but she couldn't

"Still him ?"

Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw caressed her back, looking at the way she looked at him. The look of someone who was in love

"You deserve someone way better than him, Ghost."

She took a sip from her beer, looking at the brown eyes man who had just came into the bar.

"won't say anything to keep my dignity, Bradshaw" She chuckled, giving her best friend a hug

"It's good to see you again, Brad"

His heart skipped a beat, the way she called him by his nickname made his stomach filled with butterflies.

Hangman saw her through his peripheral vision, annoyed at the fact that she was hugging Rooster and not him.

But whose fault was it to neglect her feelings ?

He acted like he hated her the moment he found out that she liked him when he was in fact, the one who fell first.

He knows, she deserves someone better than him. He thought he wasn't good enough for her.

He wanted her the be treated by someone who's capable of loving her passionately. Jake Seresin was afraid of failing, so he made a plan. He needed her to hate him.

Something was different with her the moment she stepped in the bar, he was the one to sense it first.

Something was wrong with her, her smile didn't seem as genuine as it was two years ago.

Hangman kept quiet, he didn't have any right to straight up and ask her what was wrong. He lost that right ever since he saw her nothing more than a virus.

"Your mission will be destroying a uranium facility that's set to operate in three weeks time." Her mouth hung open when she heard that there was another uranium facility.

She's been called back for this ?

She's been called back to endure the same mission that killed her entire squad 2 years ago ?

"Now, I understand that 2 years ago, there was a similar uranium facility that has been destroyed by the naval aviator's strike team"

"Yeah, killing everyone but one" Hangman let out a low chuckle.

"But the mission was a success" Rooster defended

She felt her grip on her pen tighten, trying to keep a calm and professional expression.

She can't.

She can't face another mission like this.

"Which is why we do things differently now, We'll fly from below to avoid the SAMs that were placed, and we will anticipate the jets that are going to intercept our way out"

She blanked out, only for her to be left alone after class, Rooster tapping her shoulders after looking at the tear that escaped her eyes.

"Y/n ?"

"Huh ?" She wiped the tear that unknowingly trickled down

"You're crying, are you okay"

"I'm fine Bradley, I just have a lot in mind"

"Do you want to talk about it ?" He kneeled down to face her

"It's not something I like to talk about-"

"Lieutenant Jones ? A word please ?" Warlock called her, making her face him.

"I'll see you later, Rooster"

When she walked into Warlock's office, she didn't know that he was following her.

"You have been briefed, we completely understand if you would like to sit this one out, you know... after what happened last time with your squad, what were their callsigns again ?" Warlock was one of the people who knew about the miscalculation tragedy. Being one of the people inside the main carrier ship that day.

"Apollo, Phantom, Coma, Berlin and who's the other one who had a kid-"

"Tree, sir"

He nodded.

"Anyways, there will be no penalty if you decide that you're backing-"

"I would like to stay and conduct this mission, sir"

"Are you sure, even after-"

"Yes, sir"

Rooster eavesdropped their conversation, his brows knitted together, the callsigns he had just heard were the people who died during the miscalculation tragedy.

He began to put the pieces of puzzle together. There was only one person who survived, and they kept that information away from anyone. By the looks of it and Warlock's words, it could only mean one thing.

Y/n "Ghost" Jones was the only survivor to The Miscalculation Tragedy.

A/N : Hey @sicily1922 and anon ! Thanks for the request, I hope you like it ! There's not much angst and romance here, but I promise, the second part will be much more painful than this one ;) Reply on what you guys think on a second part. Cheers !

Taglist: @amandacavill @discoseal @ratcatcher2world @the-scribe-and-other-scribbles @valoraxx @starkleila @kanevill @autumnleaves1991-blog @tarohemianrocketmanapsody @ice-mans-world @multifandom-fangirl4 @typic4lpisces @needf0rspeed @miastuffsstuff @atthediscowithoutpanic @maellem @fangirlinc

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leeknowsintrusivethots · 1 month

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Marked By Him

| Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Pairings: Vampire!Lee Know/OC, Vampire!Bangchan/OC (suprise!!!!) Summary: Vampyres dominate the entertainment world with their otherworldly beauty and talent. It’s a world you must be born into, but a few lucky ones are Marked. Stripped from her home and everything she knows, Minji’s Marking means that she has to rely on the Devil himself, Lee Minho, to be her mentor. He’s cute and sweet to the public, but behind closed doors the monster comes out to play. Content: Angst, Slow burn, lotsa plot, eventual smut, vampires, dark themes, original characters, first person perspective, general 18+ content, alternate idol universe, asshole Lee Know, surprise love triangle, discussion of blood, discussions of death, depictions of violence, sexual tension, petnames/kitten, WC: 5937 Minors do not interact. Do not repost my content to other websites, this includes translations. Notes: beep boop oops. Tag List: @linocz

I could see him.

I could smell him.

I could feel him.

Lee Minho was so close that I could feel his breath fan across the bridge of my nose and feather against my eyelashes. His hands were at his sides, balled up into white fingered fists. His breaths were heavy, erratic. His body language said anger, but his eyes…

“Kitten,” he mumbled. His tone was soft, lulling. I found myself leaning into him, getting closer until my chest was pressed against his harder one. He felt solid, safe. Acting on instinct, I buried my face into the fabric of his shirt and inhaled. He smelled clean, but there's a hidden spice that lingered. It was tangy, enticing. I inhaled deeper in a desperate attempt for more.

“You're not making it easier, you know that?” He asked as I drank my fill of him. Every muscle in his body was tense, but he made no move to pull away or stop me. “Do you know how hard it is?”

“Minho,” I mumbled against the soft cotton of his shirt. I didn't know what was happening. I didn't know where we were, but something gnawed at me. There was a nagging feeling in my gut that told me something was off, but I couldn’t place it.

“I’ve been told something would be mine for so long, but when I get it: I can't have it,” he said. He didn't seem to be speaking to me. He was musing, thinking things he had been holding in out loud.

The nagging spread from my gut to my mind. I tore my face away from Minho’s chest to look up at him in confusion, but he was calm outside of the tension coiled in every muscle. His face was glowing in a dim golden light. It was a stark contrast to the way I usually saw him. He was not my own personal demon of torture, but an angel who had fallen. The notion was reflected in his eyes. I could see anger and sorrow: a longing for something that should be but wasn't.

I couldn't help myself. I reached up, hesitating for the briefest of moments as my fingers lingered above the smooth skin of his cheek. That nagging feeling never left, but I wanted to help him. I wanted to ease whatever was causing that beautifully distressing look. I wanted to be the solution – I wanted to be his solution. I let my reservations fall to the wayside as I cupped his cheek in my palm. His eyelashes fluttered over his wide eyes as he blinked: once, twice. The third time, they stayed closed and he leaned into my touch with a small sigh.

“It's okay,” I whispered. I was scared that if I spoke too loud or too much, whatever was happening would stop.

“You don't know that. You don't know anything.”

“I know you're beautiful. You try to hide it behind snarky comments and snears, but I know it. There's something about you, Lee Minho, that is soft and kind. Even if you don't want anyone else to know it.”

At my whispered confession, his eyes opened. I worried that I had said too much. I worried that I shattered the moment, but he simply looked at me. He didn't speak. He didn't do anything but stare, but it was a stare with a thousand unspoken words and thoughts. It was a stare with no mask, no barriers. I could see everything, and he was letting me.

But then everything shattered, and I woke up.

As the world around me came into focus, I felt my head spin with confusion. It was a dream, but it felt so real. I could still feel his skin under my hand. His scent still lingered, but the comforting golden glow of the dream had faded into reality.

I was in the comfort of my dorm with my blankets twisted around my legs. The room was dark, but in my new world that was never a good indicator of the time of day. The thick curtains covering the sole window blocked out any natural light, so I sucked it up and risked the neon glare of the alarm: 5:43pm.

The sun would be setting shortly, and it was the first time since being Marked that I woke up so close to my new ‘normal’ hours. Maybe I should have been happy about that, but it made me sad. I felt a sudden longing for the sun. I had never been one to bask in the sunshine during the summer months, but I couldn't help but feel like I was in my final parting moment with an old but distant friend.

Yoojin was sleeping soundly in her purple satin sheets. If I opened the curtains, I would be risking a lot more than just waking my two sleeping roommates, but I had to see it. In a strange way, it was a part of accepting my fate. I had to have one last moment – one last fully human moment where I was just a simple girl trying to decide my own future.

I carefully untangled myself from my bedding and stood as quietly as I could. I was halfway to the door of the room when I heard a rustling from behind me. Maeri was climbing out of her own bed. Without any comment from either of us, I opened the door with her following along behind me.

I didn't have a specific destination. I just wanted to feel the warmth. We made it out of the dorm as a whole in silence when Maeri finally spoke, “This way.”

She beckoned me in the opposite direction of the main entrance to the building. We went down a long hall filled with other dorm units before she popped open a door to a stairwell and ushered me to go first. I didn't question her. Even being a human, she seemed to understand.

At the top of the stairwell, I pushed through a heavy metal door before stepping out onto the flat roof of the dorm complex. The sun was just starting to dip into the horizon, and something inside of me twisted at the sight. My emotions simmered along with the heat of the concrete. I was learning better than trying to tame them. Minho had essentially told me it was pointless, so I just let myself feel.

The sun tickled my skin in an almost unpleasant way. I knew it wasn't normal. It was a sign of the Change. My physiology was morphing into something different. Different didn't equate to bad– I had known that all along. It was just a process of adjustment, and grieving. It was saying goodbye to something that could have been, but would no longer be and embracing something new.

As I contemplated, Maeri stepped closer and took my hand into her smaller one. She was warm and sturdy, and she always would be. She could enjoy hot summer days for the rest of her life. She would always be able to indulge in Chinese food. She would forever be human, whereas I would not. Strangely, I took comfort in that. She was a constant in my ever changing life. Even if the Change killed me, Maeri would live on.

“It takes time,” she finally broke the silence. Her normally bubbly and feisty attitude was gone. She was somber and strangely calm: two things I never expected from her.

“I’m not sure if I have time.” I trusted Maeri. I truly did. From the moment I had met her, she had been a constant presence. She had adopted me even if it was against my will, and I knew I could tell her anything and she would listen – she would even help if she could. A part of me wanted to tell her everything; Minho and Bangchan’s ominous warnings, my conspiracy that something was going on in the Association. I knew it would make me feel better, but I didn’t want to put her in danger.

“Of course you do,” Maeri said, squeezing my hand tighter. “You’re the first Mark I’ve ever met, but I’ve heard the girls around the dorms talk.”

“I have too. They are always very quick to make hushed comments just loud enough so I can hear about how I’m a mutant and not a true Vampyre.”

“They are elitist assholes, but surprisingly: I can listen when I want to. I can tell you things that they won’t,” Maeri informed me as she smiled at me with some of her mischievous humor back on her face.

“Like what luxury brand is out of style?” I asked back.

“I mean that is helpful, but they guard those secrets with their lives.” She gave a small giggle that I couldn’t help but mimic before continuing. “Yoojin has actually been guiding you in the right direction.”

“Yoojin doesn’t say much,” I said as I contemplated the thought. She was always mothering the both of us, but she never spoke much about the Change or being a Vampyre outside of the very surface level topics. I never pushed her to. I feared doing so would cause our relationship to shift. She would stop seeing me as a friend, and start seeing me as a genetic freak like every other Vampyre I had encountered.

“I think it’s a part of the whole ice queen act she has going on, but she is always nagging you to eat better. She is also the reason that you're going to be training in the gym instead of dance practice. She’s doing it because she cares, of course, but also because physical health and strength…”

“Will make the Change less likely to kill me?” I prompted when she hesitated. She grimaced, her hand squeezing mine so tight that it was going numb.

“Yes.”

“If it’s that simple, why isn't it in the damned textbook?” I asked in frustration.

“Maybe it is, but…”

“Maeri, I have enough people not being blunt with me. Don’t be one of them.”

“Don’t you-” She started only to stop to heave a frustrated sigh. “Isn’t it kind of weird that it isn’t the first thing they tell you when you're Marked?”

It was my turn to hesitate. Her question was very similar to the many I contemplated ever since the Tracker found me. It was full of uncertainty, confusion, and a dull sense of negligence. For the second time, I thought about telling her everything. I wanted to. The words were on the tip of my tongue, but the sun was falling below the horizon. In a matter of minutes, the city would be enveloped in darkness and the safety of day would be gone.

“When the going gets weird, the weird turn pro,” I quoted instead. I couldn’t answer her question just like I couldn’t answer my own, so I turned to the tried and true method of deflection. Minho told me to ask the right questions, but I got a feeling that Vampyric society would not take kindly to Maeri asking any questions at all.

She was still holding my hand, but her grip had loosened. I could feel the blood return to my deprived limb as I gestured with my other one at the door back into the building. “We should probably get ready. We have vocal lessons this morn- tonight”

She didn’t move immediately, and her stare was level enough to put Minho’s to the test. I could tell she could see right through me. She knew I was avoiding her question.

“Let’s go be professionals, then,” she nodded.

I always had a sneaking suspicion, but it was then that I knew Maeri was one of the greatest friends I would ever have.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

“Read the sheet music!”

“Follow the notes!”

“You're straining!”

“Your pitch is off!”

I had heard it all, and for a good constant few hours straight.

Ms. Yamamoto was a woman with decades of experience in vocal training. She had worked with some of the biggest names from the Japanese industry, but more importantly: she was human. Like all humans who managed to squeeze their way into the Vampyre dominated idol industry, she worked hard to earn her place and she was talented beyond imagination. She also didn't treat me any differently than she did the other trainees. She was strict, but she was that way with everyone.

Being scolded was a small price to pay for a refreshing break from Vampyre trainers who looked at me with distaste, and I found myself improving each time I left her class. I would most likely never be notable for my vocal abilities, but I was becoming passable. It was enough to have me smiling as I walked the halls of JYP to get to the basement level where the gym was housed.

Bangchan would be meeting me for our first workout session, and I didn't want to be late. He was doing me a favor – or he was doing Yoojin a favor – and I didn't want to disrespect his time in such a way. I especially didn't want to when I knew for a fact he was a very busy guy.

JYP’s basement was very much just a bare bones version of the upper floors. It wasn't nearly as decorative, and a few of the side halls were just as creepy as they were sparse. In my normal life, I wouldn't have even noticed but being around Vampyres had apparently made me prone to looking over my shoulder. I hastened my walk to a brisk pace.

I was about to step over the threshold of the gym when I heard it: hushed, but hurried whispers. They were a hum that could be heard even over the gym equipment in use. I couldn't make out the words, but the voices tickled a sense of familiarity in me. Curiosity killed the Mark. I followed the sounds, so distant but a vague buzzing in my ear. They had to be near, otherwise how in the world could I hear them?

My trail led me through the sparsely populated gym and down another hall towards the back of the cavernous room. With each passing step, the sounds became clearer. They came into focus enough so I could recognize syllables if not words.

“Ill– Lix. No.”

It was Bangchan. I was sure of it. And someone was ill?

I continued the trail like a hunting dog who had picked up a scent, and the closer I got and the more I heard: the more my newest friends paranoia and panic made themselves known. I was walking so fast that I was almost running, but then I wasn't. When the sounds came fully into focus, I halted abruptly. I didn't see anyone but there were closed doors to either side of me and I could hear the hushed conversation as if they were whispering into my ear.

“Do you want to make the risk greater for all of us?” Bangchan asked. There was authority in his words, but frustration as well.

“But I–”

“You were a special case, Felix. You're one of us,” he interrupted before Felix could finish his thought.

“That's selfish, Chan. That's not like you,” Felix scolded with sadness laced in every word. I found myself holding my breath, listening intently to something that clearly wasn't meant to be overheard.

“We have to look out for our own. You, the rest of the Kids: you're my priority.”

“She's tied to Minho. Nothing is going to change that unless she dies. You know that, Chan.”

My heart started beating so hard in my chest that I had to will myself to calm down so I could continue hearing. Tied to Minho and death? Maybe it was a leap of logic, but I knew in my gut they were talking about me. They had to be, but how was I tied to him?

“I know, and he likes it about as well as she probably would.”

“So we leave her to die?” Panic mixed with his sadness, and my heartbroke. As a casual fan, I knew Felix was known for being the sunshine. He was sweet, soft – almost innocent in a way. He was so caring even over a near stranger.

My hands balled up into fist. I suddenly felt protective. I wanted to murder anyone who so much as looked sideways at him. He was too good – too pure – to sound so melancholy. Images – not unlike the ones I had of Minho – flashed in my mind. They switched from a faceless enemy to Bangchan and back again.

“You know that's not what I'm saying. I don't want that and I wouldn't let that happen,” Bangchan rejected the notion. He sounded tired – exhausted even. My anger simmered from a rolling boil to something much easier to handle.

“But you are! You know what's going to happen if we don't say anything. It's happened so many times, I've lost count,” Felix argued with a whine in his voice.

“It didn't happen to you,” Bangchan pointed out.

“That’s because you told me. Had you not, I probably would have died too.”

“Lix, I only told you when you had adjusted enough to accept it. We have to give it time.”

“I don't think she has time. Her emotions are out of control, her Mark is expanding, and she tried to kill Minho. If the Association even got wind–”

“They haven't and they won't,” Bangchan interrupted with finality.

Felix’s tirade confirmed that they were talking about me, unless attempts on Minho's life were a common occurrence. I certainly shouldn't have listened in on a private conversation, but I could no longer just walk away. Their argument only brought me more answers than questions. Unanswered questions combined with danger ignited into another spiral. It wasn't red; it was the gray of steely determination.

“You can't–”

My entire body trembled. My hand shook so hard that I struggled with the metal door handle, my nails clacking against it clumsily. The sounds of hushed conversation immediately ceased. They knew I was coming.

Heart pounding, I entered their space and found myself staring into the dark eyes of Bangchan. He was right at the other side of the doorway, awaiting my arrival with irritation evident in his features. It probably would have had human me cowed into submission, but I was no longer human and I was finally starting to accept that unwanted fact.

“Explain,” I stated firmly as I stared at him with as much unwaveringly firmness as I could.

“Explain?” He repeated incredulously. “I wasn't the one eavesdropping on a private conversation.”

“No, but the conversation was about me. I should be involved,” I insisted. I had dealt with Minho's chaotic drama and threats, but Bangchan had been nothing but kind to me. He smiled easily, flashing his damned dimples like a get out of jail free card. It had been so easy to feel comfortable around him, but I was not prepared to face Leader Bangchan.

He wasn't particularly tall, but he had a way of extending his presence to oppress any rebellion with a simple look. It was a look of authority, command. I didn't want to give in. I didn't want to avert his gaze, but I found my eyes falling to my hands. They were unconsciously tugging at the hem of my own shirt– a nervous habit.

“I didn't mean to,” I interrupted his intense silence by way of apology.

“You didn't mean to snoop outside the door where a conversation that didn't involve you was taking place?” Christopher asked with eerily familiar sarcasm dripping from his every word. It didn't suit him, but it was reminiscent of something his much more sullen bandmate would say.

“I could hear you. I wasn't trying to!”

“How did you hear us?” Felix asked. Until his calming voice floated onto the air, I had forgotten he was there under the intense stare of Bangchan. My attention turned to him, and my breath hitched in the back of my throat. I had been out of my mind during my first encounter with Lee Felix. I didn't have the mental space at the time to fully take him in.

All of Stray Kids were unnaturally attractive. They all would make a Greek statue look like a pale imitation of perfection, but Felix’s beauty went even further. He was ethereal – so beautiful it was painful to look at but you couldn't bear to look away. It was the type of beauty that others – male or female – would kill to possess or protect. It was not the type of beauty that anyone would ever be immune to.

His stare made it all the more unbearable. It made me feel like I was drowning in thick, molten honey. It was a sweet suffocation that was stripping away all of my oxygen to reveal the very depths of my soul. It was not a death I could resist. I was not one that I wanted to resist.

“I don't know,” I answered him with full honesty. I didn't want to lie to him, but I had a strange feeling that I wouldn't have been able to even if I wanted to. “I got to the gym and I could just hear you.”

“The entrance?” Felix prodded.

“Yes.”

I saw him turn his honeyed stare to Bangchan. He looked at his group's leader pointedly. There was a silent exchange, one I was not privy to with no chance of deciphering.

“Call Minho,” Bangchan instructed suddenly with a solemn nod at Felix. He turned and did as he was told without hesitation.

“What's going on?” I asked warily.

“It's not our place to tell you,” Bangchan answered. His face was all hard lines firmly cut in stone. It was such a stark contrast to my other experience with him that it made my heart ache. His expression softened suddenly, as if sensing my emotions as easily as reading a book. “I'm sorry. My hands are tied here.”

His apology had me falling into an unsettling silence that was pierced only by the shrill sound of Felix’s phone as he called Minho. The noise rattled my frayed nerves as it droned endlessly. I could feel the emotions bubbling in the pit of my stomach. Of course Minho wouldn’t answer when it felt like my questions were on the cusps of answers.

My hands worked the hem of my shirt with a slight shake. I looked frantically around the room for something to distract myself, but the only things to be found were old gym mats and dust. It swirled in the fluorescent lighting, creating tiny tornadoes of allergens that would make most humans sneeze and run for the Benadryl.

Did Vampyres have allergies?

The thought had a cackle slipping from me like sand through fingers. It was ridiculous. I was ridiculous and Lee Minho was still firmly on my shitlist despite my dreams.

“Are you okay?” Bangchan asked. He was staring at me in a mixture of shock, amusement, and concern. It only made me laugh harder.

“Do you have allergies, Channie?” I asked breathlessly between fits of giggles. I didn’t even realize I used the nickname until the damage was done. Maybe I was mildly delirious, but it felt much better than calling him anything else. He raised a brow, contemplating something quietly.

“I don’t,” he shrugged after a moment. “I had a buddy during my trainee days who would break out in hives if he drank type A, but I think that had more to do with his donor than anything else.”

I sobered for just a moment, long enough for the information to register with my oddly disconnected brain. I pressed my lips together tightly, trying to contain the raucous laughter I knew was bubbling. Felix’s phone rang again, the outgoing call endlessly buzzing in my ears as I tried to contain myself.

“You know?” I wheezed. “I’m going to kill Lee Minho.”

“Are you, now?” Chan asked with mild humor.

“Yes. I might do it with my copy of Marked. They are both useless–”

“He should be here–” Felix interrupted me softly just as the door banged open and a very annoyed looking Minho burst made a bristling entrance. “Now.”

“No one looks dead to me, Lix,” he quipped with frustration as looked at each of us in turn. His gaze held mine when he found me, and my heart sped up in my chest to the point of being an arrhythmia. He looked perturbed beyond measure, and there was a faint smear of blood at one corner of his mouth. My mouth watered, and I huffed all the air in the room like it was a limited resource.

“Heart disease, Chan?” I asked weakly.

“Excuse me?” Chan asked in confusion.

“Can Vampyres have heart disease?” I clarified. I couldn’t bring myself to look away from Minho even as I spoke to Chan. He was all that I could see. He was all that I could smell, and he smelled sweet, spicy, and tangy all at once. It made me dizzy and lightheaded, but it also had fire burning to every inch of my body. It was consuming. It was burning every brain cell I had one by one until there was nothing left but him.

“In a manner of speaking, yes,” Chan answered.

“But that’s not what's wrong with you,” Felix supplied from wherever he was.

I didn’t see him, and I didn’t want to because Minho’s tongue had peeked out from his lips to lick the smear from the corner of his mouth. I watched the movement like I was watching the most important moment in world history. I watched like a predator stalking its prey. I watched like a stupid, hormonal Mark that wanted things she couldn’t have– shouldn’t even want to have.

“Bloodlust,” Minho said. I saw his lips moving. I heard the sound, but it took an embarrassing amount of time for both of those things to connect.

“Bloodlust?” I asked dumbly.

“The smell? The burning need? It’s bloodlust.” It wasn’t Minho who confirmed it, but Felix.

“For fucks sake, Min. Clean yourself up when you leave your donor,” Chan huffed in exasperation.

“I would have,” Minho grunted. His pupil-blown stare hadn’t left me since it found me, but finally he blinked and took a deep breath that made his chest rise harshly. On his exhale, he looked away to regard Felix with an accusatory stare. “But someone told me there was an emergency.”

“You wouldn’t have come, otherwise,” Felix responded with a nonchalant shrug at his older friend. “Besides, this could very well turn into an emergency.”

“It’s time to explain things,” Chan started with a hint of the hard authority he had used earlier in his tone.

“No,” Minho cut him off. He was certainly not as easily subdued as I had been. A strange, demented little part of my brain wondered which one of them would win in a fight. As I contemplated their differences in size and muscle density, the demented side spiraled.

Sweaty. Shirtless. Angry. Muscles taut.

Reality didn’t help my unbidden fantasy. Chan had stood straighter, giving him the facade of being taller than he actually was. The muscles under his smooth skin flexed with tension as he took a step closer to Minho. He was projecting an image of hard authority in the straight lines of his face, but Minho did not flinch.

“It’s not your responsibility, Chan.”

“But you are; you’re my responsibility. You can’t–”

“No.” Calm. Unaffected. Serene.

“Do you want it to happen?” Chan asked with incredulity. “Because I know you, Minho. I know you too well, and I don't think you do.”

“Minji”, Minho called suddenly. He was staring down his leader even as he snapped my name through the air. I jolted, every nerve alight and ready for… something. “Leave.”

“Abso-freaking-loutely not,” I snapped back. Despite my lungs expanding harshly for air and my heart beating erratically, my feet were planted firmly to the ground.

At my rebellion, Minho broke his staredown with his leader to turn to me. There was still a faint trace of blood at the corner of his lip, and his eyes held a slightly unhinged glint to them that had the fine hairs on my arms standing up. Alarm bells rang in my head, screeching a tune of danger and death as adrenaline coursed through my system.

This was not Dream Minho. This was Minho in reality, and he could ruin me if he so desired. I had no doubt in my mind that he would enjoy draining me – killing me.

“I command,” Minho started. At that word – that stupidly simple word – something inside of me broke. It was almost like I could physically feel it snap. It was a violent rumble that had my body standing at full attention and my focus solely on my mentor, my own personal devil. “That you leave this entire floor.”

I was moving, feet shuffling to the door even as my brain protested the motions. I couldn’t even form words of protest, just a simple cry of indignation that had me feeling more weak and pathetic than I ever had in my life. My hand shook as I pushed open the offending barrier and stepped out into the hall.

“That was cruel, Min, and you know it,” I heard Felix call as he hurried after me. I felt his hand on my shoulder, guiding me out even though there was no need. I couldn’t stop moving if I wanted to.

“Felix,” I managed as we shuffled the halls together. My feet were still moving without direction from me, and my voice was shaking with reckless panic. He made a hum of acknowledgement. It was a deep sound, but soothing. It wiped away some of the emotions that were choking me until I was finally able to voice my question. “What the hell was that?”

“It’s–” he sighed as he stopped himself. The only sounds were our feet hitting the tiled floors, a mop splashing in a bucket from a janitor I couldn’t see, and the distant rumble of exercise equipment from the gym we had left behind.

“I can hear things I shouldn’t be able to hear,” I explained at his hesitation. “I’m having dreams I shouldn’t be having. I could not physically stop myself from listening when Minho told me to leave. I’m starting to think I might actually be going crazy, because none of this seems like weird quirks of a genetic mutation but it almost seems like ma–”

“You’re Changing,” Felix cut me off, his voice still the smooth rumble that had my fear and panic ebbing to the wayside. It was like I could feel in my body, vibrating through until all I could feel was comfort and warmth. Human voices couldn’t do that, and I didn’t think it had anything to do with biology either. “Part of the Change is enhanced senses.”

“That doesn’t–”

“And Mentor relationships are really strong bonds,” he continued over my weak attempt at a protest. “It’s only natural you would listen when he tells you something.”

“Bullshit,” I huffed. It was only then that I noticed his hand was still on my shoulder. I shrugged it off and felt every ounce of warmth leave at the loss of contact. We stepped onto the main floor, and I finally had regained control of my body. Anger, fear, and panic caused its way through my veins – taking root in my blood like a virus I couldn’t control. “None of this is natural.”

“Nature can be manipulated,” he stated. His body language radiated calm, but his eyes told a story of helplessness. I was fuming, angry at the situation but also at the stubborn personalities I was in the thick of it with. Violence and I were becoming well acquainted, but I couldn’t take out my frustrations on Felix. I could never and would never.

“Through science? Yes, but this doesn’t seem like any form of science I was taught in school,” I said, the fight melting from me like wax.

“The Association,” Felix began, the words making his face twist in disgust. “They call Vampryic manipulation ‘Auras.’ They say it's a projection of Vampyre specific pheromones. All Vampyres have them, but not all of them act the same.”

“They say?”

“Yes.”

“What do you say?” I asked softly.

At my gentle prodding, Felix looked around us as if noticing our surroundings for the first time since we stepped out of the stairwell. We were on ground level, the main floor of JYP Entertainment. People in business attire wove their way through the hall and around us, but none of them were paying us much mind outside of a quizzical glance or two before disappearing down side halls or into unmarked rooms. They all seemed unremarkable: humans going about their business in low level positions within the company.

“I say the Association says a lot, and I’m still trying to figure out what’s true,” Felix whispered. It was such a low sound, that I wouldn’t have been able to hear it had I been human.

“Is that thing you do with your voice an Aura?” I asked, just as quietly.

“And touch, yes.”

“What about Minho being able to make me leave?”

“No.”

“What is it, then?” My palms were starting to sweat, as my mind raced. Our conversation was spoken in soft, hushed tones that no one would be able to hear unless they too possessed the enhanced senses of a Vampyre. Our body language was relaxed, giving the image of two friends simply having a casual albeit quiet word. It was a facade, as so many things in JYP were.

“Something different: natural, but twisted. A manipulated fate.”

I wanted to break the facade. I wanted to scream. Felix had given me more than anyone else had designed to, but it was confusing and vague.

Nature implied that something was inherently a part of the natural world. It was something that had been, and always would be. It was understandable, a product of biology and evolution that could be broken down into reason. It was complex, but there was always a cause and causation. It was grounded in reality.

Fate was much more murky. It could not be explained in such concise terms. It was the concept of destiny; something that had to be but had no reason to be. It was not something that could be manipulated, and it was something I had always thought of as hocus pocus. People decided their own destiny without the myth of a guiding hand nudging them down a preset path.

I hadn’t decided to be Marked. I hadn’t made the decision to enter JYP. I didn’t get a choice on who would be my mentor. These had all been factors out of my control: happenstance. It was not a divine act.

I refused to believe that Lee Minho had any role to play in my life outside of being a pain in my ass. He was a pain in my ass who made my blood boil and my emotions explode in uncontrollable fits. He was a pain in my ass who could have me at his beck and call with a simple ‘command.’ He was a pain in my ass, but he was not my fate.

“She's tied to Minho. Nothing is going to change that unless she dies.”

#stray kids smut #skz ff #skz smut #lee know fanfic #lee know ff #lee know smut #lee minho fanfic #lee minho smut #stray kids fanfic #skz fanfic #stray kids ff

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1800titz · 11 months

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Okay, author's note time, and this one has warnings, so please do read. I had to keep it (somewhat) short and sweet with this one, because the ideas didn't stop flowing and I was worried I'd go overboard in length. This once isn't quite as long as the last one, but it's still a solid 14.8K, so I hope it doesn't disappoint(✿◠‿◠) As I mentioned, this fic is pretty heavily centered on smut, but worry not readers — plot will be there (eventually lol)! Maybe a little blip of a star in a sky of smut, but it'll be there! WARNINGS — this one gets REALLY BDSM-y. Like, honestly, more than the last one, and we're just gonna keep turning up the heat so — be warned. This chapter features fear play and I really, really have to emphasize that although MC has a *dubious* reaction, everything that happens between the characters was previously discussed in depth. If any confusion arises refer back to chap 2 during the negotiation (where they agree to all of this stuff!). I think you'll also be able to gauge that H is pretty thorough about communication. ｡^‿^｡ Okay, warnings done. I hope you enjoy, and if you do, as always, I thrive off of feedback

PREVIOUS PARTS HERE

Sure enough, Isla lets Eros smack her around the following Friday evening. Also, the Friday after that.

And the one after that one, too.

It becomes a routine for the two of them — she'll show up at her usual time, a little after his own arrival, and he'll reserve the room. The fourth time, Eros books the room in advance, so by the time Isla turns up, a staff member is letting her know within only a handful of steps into the lounge that her room is ready. And the funny thing is, despite the circumstance of Eros arriving to the club before her, Isla always finds herself in the room of the night first, kneeling patiently in waiting for his ceremonial, climactic arrival. He doesn't keep her waiting long. And when he does show, the pair shed their work weeks, the pressures and burdens of the outside world, their clothes.

Well.

Isla discards her own. Sometimes, with his helping hand, if she asks very nicely. The dominant, though, always meticulously stays dressed, clad with his signature mask and his trademark, pleather gloves, (pleather, she'd learned, not authentic leather, when the topic had come up during a touchy, soft session of aftercare), always along with his commonplace, tailored slacks, a dress shirt, lavish shoes. He'll unease the first few buttons of the shirt, where glimpses of inky beaks catch her eye and leave her wondering what other illustrations lay beneath, etched into his skin. But that's as far as he ever goes to disrobe. He does cruel, vicious, filthy things to her, tearing her apart by the seams, and after, he sews her aplomb back together with gentle touches and soft coos. She looks forward to those ravenous Friday nights with her mysterious Eros.

Tonight is still Thursday night. Unfortunately.

Unfortunately, unfortunately, unfortunately.

It's Thursday night and unfortunately, the self-check out lane is incredibly stalled. The droll sounds of scanners beeping and Katy Perry's TGIF leaking softly from the overhead speakers infiltrate Isla's ears as she zones out. It's like an unpleasant, forced reverie. Under the bright, fluorescent lighting, she can see that the man ahead of her in line showcases a plumber's crack that peeks from skinny jeans that hang a smidge too low. So the young woman looks about, everywhere but ahead. He's wearing a belt, too, is the thing. Grocery stores are truly human zoos.

She's still in work wear — a pencil skirt, heels, and she holds her basket close as she bites into her cheek and waits. A slow step forward.

"That's a lot of cherries."

Isla turns. The man behind her is tall, attractive. She blinks. If his sculpted features, lightly moussed, coiled hair, and striking gaze hadn't already bewitched her into a wordless stare, the way he plucks and eats grapes, straight off the vine, straight from the bag, in the self checkout lane like an absolute maniac, would.

She casts her gaze to her basket. There's a variety of items on her buy-list, like a lone jar of salsa and ...some unsightly, extra absorbent tampons — anyways, why is this stranger ogling the contents of her basket? There are, in fact, three plastic carts of cherries, stacked, which take up the majority of the space.

She clears her throat, "Yeah there was, a, uh. Discount."

"Was there?"

She's still staring obnoxiously, and the man seems to catch on. He swallows the grape his strawberry mouth had closed around, lips curling softly as he expends a vague explanation, "I missed my lunch."

She purses her lips slightly, head tipping forwards in an understanding nod, and attempts to ease her way into politely disengaging back into that aimless stare ahead. She can't do it. She just can't force herself to manually avoid scrutinizing Baldo's crack in the impending foreground. Anyways, the intrusive stranger is certainly easier on the eyes.

"That's a — uh. A lot of grapes," Isla tells him after a beat.

"Is it, really? D'you think?" The attractive stranger moves the back in his obnoxiously large palm as if weighing it contemplatively, "I'd say, 32 ounces, maybe. Well."

The corners of her mouth buckle as he shoots it a sheepish glance and his pillowy mouth quirks in an obvious attempt to bridle a grin, "Less. Now."

The laugh that Isla releases is genuine.

"Probably, like, 31," the man nods and exhales, a laugh catching in the back of his throat at the look she gives him.

"I didn't—" her incredulous laughter bubbles as she pivots to face ahead, "I didn't see anything."

"Yes, well, perhaps you didn't, and I appreciate that, but that lady over there is giving me a horrible look for actively shoplifting grapes," The curly-haired brunette jests, and Isla clamps her mouth together to stifle her amusement.

"Honestly, shoplifting them with your stomach is the best thing you could have done, here."

"You don't reckon she'll ask for them back?"

Isla bites into her cheek, hard, to stop herself from expelling spit all over Baldo ahead in the midst of a wrested raspberry. The stranger laughs softly, and behind her, she hears him say, "No, honestly, I should probably stop eating these things. I think they do charge by weight."

"I think they might, yeah."

"Well, I've saved myself a few good cents."

"And — and," Isla motions with the hand that isn't clasped over the handle of her basket, "Satiated your hunger. Two birds with one stone, honestly."

The man hums in agreement. She hears plastic crinkle as, she assumes, he closes the bag. A comfortable silence falls over them, then. Another slow step forward.

"I'm sorry, I have to ask," she pivots back, a crease working between her brows, "You are just ...oddly familiar. And I can't place it, and if I don't, it's going to bug me for the rest of the night."

The good-looking stranger blinks, then his expression morphs into one of deliberation. His cushiony mouth purses, and he tells her, "Well, I don't do this," he lifts the bag of partly-shoplifted grapes, "often."

He breaks into soft laughter and Isla's face twists.

"If that helps narrow anything down."

"It's just," the young woman motions with her hand jerkily, her tone carrying notes of determination, "Your face. I know your face. I've seen it somewhere."

His features melt into something soft, something telltale, like he knows exactly what she means just off of the vagueness of her reasoning, and the corners of his mouth curl slowly as he supplies, "Probably on a bench."

"Yes!" Isla snaps, tone wildly expressive and pleased to scratch the itch, "A bench! With your face. For..."

"Selling houses," the stranger supplies, once again, helpfully. Another step forward.

"Selling houses! Yes. That's it. I pass a bench with your face on it, like, every morning, on the way to work," Isla waves with her arm, "I see your face all the time," she clears her throat, her voice dying off. The young woman takes a deep breath, then and tells him, with genuine gratitude interlacing the syllables, "Thank you. That was literally going to bug me all night long."

There's mirth weaved in the alluring man's cast, and a haughty tinge, if she's not mistaken, "My pleasure." Before she's taken it upon herself to turn back around, satisfied by simply unearthing the answer, he tells her, "I'm obligated to ask, actually, do you happen to be on the market?"

Isla blinks.

"To buy or sell a house?"

Another step. Baldo moves into the self check-out region from the line, a single cantaloupe wedged between his side and his arm, a pack of triple A batteries in the opposite hand.

"It's," the basket shifts in her grasp, "Actually, it's really funny you ask, because I am looking to buy a house."

"Really?" Isla watches the grin that paints its way over the stranger's mouth — there's hints of mischief, "Hoo-hoo, sorry, I love doing this — let me just give you my business card."

So she waits, basket in hand, as he reaches into his pocket and unearths one of those dainty little business card-holders professional-business-people have. He cradles the bag of grapes with his arm as he uses his opposite hand to retract a sleek little card, and he hands it off to her proudly.

Harry Styles, it reads. There's some contact information, a phone number, an email, a company name, and a rather dashing picture of him, as well.

"Thank you," she tells him, pupils bouncing from the card to his face.

"My pleasure — I think, that check-out's open, now, actually," he prompts, glancing over Isla's shoulder, and she twists.

"Oh! Yes, yeah."

"And I won't be eating any more of these, so y'don't have to babysit me, anymore," he jokes, gesturing with the bag of grapes.

"Yes — Yeah, no — yeah. Okay. Thank you. Yes, I will definitely look into — this," Isla motions with the business card, slipping into an awkward sort of back-walk towards the check out, "Harry Styles."

Dimples create little divots in his cheeks as Harry grins, "Yes, please do..."

"Isla Cleery," the young woman supplies, caught between stalling the rest of the lane with conversation and paying for her ridiculous supply of discounted cherries.

"Isla Cleery," Harry parrots, a rasp to his pleasant cadence. He clears his throat, stuck in the front of the line with his lone bag of dwindled grapes, "Give me a call."

"Let's talk," Eros says, and Isla lets herself be wrangled into his lap.

He didn't even have to waste his breath trying to convince Isla to nurse the beverage he always brought her in their sessions of aftercare — she'd downed half of the little cup in nearly one thirsty swallow. Now, she sits over his thighs, legs curled around him, and his gaze is ironically gentle through the slit in his mask, as it always is post whatever heinous things he does to her on Friday nights.

"What did we like," he tucks a stray bundle of hair behind her ear before Isla tucks her chin over his shoulder, "What didn't we like?"

"We liked ...the vibrator," she starts off easy, the clarity of her words somewhat muffled with the limited ability to move her jaw in the position. She doesn't really care to move, though.

Ever.

She will stay hooked onto him forever, like a little koala, Isla decides.

"Mm. Right, that one seems to be a fan favorite," even with his face out of view, she can make out traces of a smile in the statement.

"Yes," Isla agrees. The trusty vibrator, always a safe bet. Always pleasing. She ponders for a moment, which, honestly, is a little difficult to do given the mushy condition of her brain. The dependability of processing thoughts by the end of a Friday night, for her, always tiptoes into shoddy territory.

"We liked the — when you did the, the thing. With the — your hand, on my neck. The position."

Her explanation is ripply and vague, but it makes enough sense to Eros apparently, because he hums in acknowledgement. She means, of course, the slick little shift they did in the midst of doggy, as he'd grappled her up from the sheets by her arms from the back, until he'd only leaned over her slightly and her back pressed flush to the front of his dress shirt. He'd hammered into her from behind, (she's unsure how he'd managed given the limited range of motion), but whenever he'd slipped his gloved palm to hug over her pulse, cumber over her airway as he'd murmured filth against the shell of her ear, that was something magnificent.

"Did we?" his murmur carries notes of similarity, voice soft and teasing against her ear, and grazes of warm breath send chills running up her arms.

"Mhm."

"What else?" he prods gently.

"We liked ...the tape?" she says slowly, after a moment of reflective pause. He'd utilized bondage tape to restrain her tonight, rounding it over her skin in a handful of orbits rather than opting for their usual route of braided ropes or leather cuffs. It was new and exciting. But with Eros, new and exciting seemed to be a common theme.

"Did we like it, or did we like it?" the male pauses, questioning the questioning of her tone.

Anyways, this is all getting very confusing, Isla decides. She needs to lay under a blanket, get pet like a kitten, and think about nothing.

"Liked it. Loved it. It was good," she promises, voice soft and somewhat moony.

"Didn't get too bunched up?" she feels his hand skim down her side, "You wriggled a lot, tonight."

She answers, after a moment of exhaustive contemplation, "It did ...but I liked it. You're very safe with everything, I wasn't worried about, like, losing circulation, or anything."

The man squeezes the same side his palm had previously caressed over as an emphasis that her answer has pleased him, and Isla doesn't even have the energy in her to jolt at the tickle-inciting motion.

She does tense a bit, and Harry smirks into the yonder knowingly.

"Didn't like waiting to cum," she tells him after a moment, sounding sleepy, but he's well aware that she more than enjoyed the tear away from the precipice each and every time.

He pets her back in response as his mouth quirks, "Mm, why am I not surprised? We are quite impatient."

"Impatient is hardly the word I would use. Sane, maybe," Isla puts on a facade of griping, "You edged me four times,"

"And next time," he squeezes at a love handle sweetly, "I'll make you cum four times." The young woman barely has time to recover from the shudder that slinks down the knobs of her spine and the warmth that coils in her tummy at the ...promise? warning? (four??), before Eros inquires, "What about the strap, how did we feel about that?"

The strap. A window to tease and feign woe to cull more cuddles.

"Ooh — we did not like that," Isla answers decisively, squirming as the pad of his finger traces along her hip, just about around where the skin is heated and flushed. She's well aware, however, that the man is well aware there isn't all that much truth to her statement.

And tinges of this suspicion mingle in his voice as he tells her, a sadistic sort of smile dancing over his lips, "No? Not even a little bit?"

"Well," Harry feels Peitho jerk with laughter, amusement tugging at his own mouth as she admits, "Maybe a little."

They melt into soft laughter, then, with Harry's touch gentle on her skin in contrast and Peitho practically purring over him like a little cat. It's a nice sort of middle ground — personal in the sense of hormone floods and all sorts of happy chemicals that would bring two partners in kink together, but impersonal enough to where there are no breaches of any sort of intimate, privy boundaries of the real world. There's fictitious strings attached, fictitious based on anonymity, and they slow-dance along them like funambulists over tightrope.

"I want to make a contract," Peitho's confession, not the least bit small or vulnerable in its tone, nearly sends Harry flying hundreds of feet off the cord in pleased surprise.

"A contract?" he says after a second, " A just you and me sort of contract?"

"Well," Of course, Peitho wastes no opportunity in giving him good-natured lip, and the window seems to give her some life, "Like a — you, Herc, Cybele, and Faunus type of contract," Harry's sigh is exaggerated, "you can alternate rocking my shit — Oh! We can throw Felix in there too while we're at it. He doesn't say much, but you'd think someone who worked at a fetish club was into fetish, do you think he prefers to dom or sub—"

She squeaks when his fingers dig into sore flesh, a disparity from his priorly soft fondles, and Harry imagines her brows pinching indignantly behind the lace when she pulls back and chastises, whining, "Hey! T-L-C. I am a broken damsel in distress, who, may I remind you, you broke."

"Broken," he scoffs, and instead opts to pinch at her bum and send her jolting forward against him with a helpless gasp, "I think you're far from broken. Didn't fuck you proper enough? What happened to my sweet, quiet girl? Hm?"

Eros just had ...this thing to him. This thing that no other dominant she'd played with had. It was a particular characteristic, an air. It was the way he talked, the way he held her. The way he made her feel unique, like the only. His only.

My girl.

What happened to my sweet, quiet girl? Hm?

She loved when he talked like that — like he was talking down to her, condescension wrapped over the syllables like honey-coated barbed wire. He'd reassure her, promising through touches and words that she was all of the opposites and none of the mean words he'd call her in scenes, and in the same breath, he'd say things that made her feel useless and small in the best way. It made her feel like he had all of the control and all of the answers, and honestly, when she was all melty and mushy post a session, even when she had it in her to be joke-y, all she wanted to do was get cradled and talked down to like a she knew nothing and he knew everything.

"Your touch is truly rejuvenating," Isla tells him simply, feigning deadpan, but the corners of her mouth cave up when he pokes her side.

"Why in the world, darling, would I want a contract with such an incorrigible brat?" he pretends to ponder, but there's teasing to his cadence.

"You like me incorrigible, Sir," her following statement encourages Harry's eyebrows to raise, and she seems to sense the statement would cull a similar reaction, because she heads into it giggling, "So you can keep trying to break me."

The way he contemplates aloud, "Trying?" his tongue sticking to the inside of his cheek, jade eyes narrowed, has her laughter increasing in decibel. After a moment, he smooths his hand down her back, pinky lips curling in soft pleasure.

"I'll draw one out. We'll talk about it next Friday. Unless," Harry rounds his gaze on her, "you've got plans to alternate someone else rocking your shit, of course. Wouldn't want to impose."

Peitho winces, putting up an obvious act of deliberation over her schedule, and his gaze hardens when she jokes, wincing, "Ooh — you might be right, I'll have to check that."

Another pinch incites a squeak and she appeases, quickly, "I'll make room for your appointment."

She makes room. She makes room for him, and he takes up the entirety of Friday night, every Friday night.

"Commandments?" Isla's eyebrows raise.

They're back in the therapist office-esque negotiation room for (ding! ding! ding!) a negotiation. Which is funny, all things considered. They seem to do plenty of negotiating, both in play, with Isla making attempts to top from the bottom (to which, of course, the man never falls victim to), and afterwards when Eros interrogates her with a plethora of questions. But a big, fancy contract (evidently) requires a big, fancy room to sit in and discuss. They would be discussing first, not fucking, Eros had told her (Which Isla had followed up with, "But we already do so much discussing." She'd gotten pinched on the waist for that and was easily enough persuaded, just to stop the Torture by Tickling, which was not a particular fetish she had). So — fancy room, fancy chairs, it is.

God. She loves these chairs. Isla tucks her legs up and sits in the cushion all curled up because she can. She's sure Eros is far past judging.

He is. He was never judging, but.

"Issue?" the dominant returns, sounding vaguely unimpressed.

"No. No issue, just," Isla nods down at the print, "commandments."

"Mm. Learn them, live them, love them," the male returns, the whites of his teeth highlighted by the jet of the latex.

It's a simple list. There are only six; and they're entirely reasonable. In fact, they seem to be sculpted with the entire purpose being to appease her role and her best interests in play.

1. The submissive will endeavor to keep an open mind.

2. The submissive will abide by all rules and requests.

3. The submissive is acting with free will.

4. The submissive will accept discipline.

5. The submissive will communicate honestly, clearly, and respectfully with the dominant, even if this means they do not agree with a rule or request, are unable to abide by rules or perform requests, or otherwise worry about disappointing the dominant.

6. The submissive will utilize a safe word when necessary.

7. The submissive will use preferred honorifics in the presence of the dominant.

"Very fancy of you, Mr. Eros."

His gaze flashes up to her, and, with his tone showing inklings of mirth, he corrects her, "Sir."

"Oh, come on, I said Mister — that's so respectful. Added touch of formality, just for you," Isla pokes at him verbally, and she watches the feigned exasperation leak into his features, even with the majority hidden behind latex.

"Sir."

His voice is considerably harder on the second correction, and she sticks the end of the pen past her lips and shifts, her knees folded and feet planted against the cushion of the armchair, "O-kay, Mr. Eros."

"Number seven," his gloved digits drum over the arm of the chair, "Read number seven for me, aloud."

Isla's mouth purses and her pupils flit. She clears her throat, and ceremoniously reads off, tone ceremoniously exaggerated, "Number Seven; The submissive will use preferred honorifics in the presence of the dominant," the young woman casts her gaze up to him as she addresses, "I got that part."

Eros blinks at her.

"But — look, the thing is, you didn't emphasize whose preferred honorifics, right?" the cheeky loophole has the corners of his mouth jolting, "And maybe Mr. Eros is my preferred honorific in your presence. Fine print is a tricky thing," She tuts, waving her pen at him.

"The wellbeing of your arse is a tricky thing," Eros clears his throat, sitting up a bit, and Isla backtracks, nervous laughter suffusing her cadence.

"Hey, well — no, I think it's pretty simple to keep the wellbeing in the condition of well," the young woman tacks on, "and unbruised."

"You'd think so," the male ruminates aloud, amusement coating his voice, "But you just don't ever seem to learn. And you need reminders, over, and over, and over."

His grin is easygoing enough, but there's a wolfish quality to it, a lewd one, one that's off-color when he tells her, after she offers no response, "S'alright, sweetheart. We're not all quick learners. M'happy to oblige in reminding you," the man adds, pointedly, "Over, and over, and over."

Isla swallows, shifting in the seat. It's quite a comfortable armchair, in all honesty, but the combination of his words and the look he gives her leaves her lungs with difficulty expanding given that her legs are tucked up and she's all sort of smushed. Screw him and his stupid sexiness.

He cocks his head, tone still good-natured despite its implication, "You know I will."

"Yes. We are aware," Isla drums the pen over her mouth, then, once she's cast her gaze up at him and caught the expectant look he gives her, she gives in and tacks on, "Sir."

He sits back then, seemingly pleased, yummy arms draped over the back of the chair in a way that has her yearning to cut the middleman of conversation in lieu of getting bent at a ninety-degree angle over the back of her own and getting railed into next week to do it all over again. It's heinous, honestly, that he does these things to her. Just from ogling him, too. She wants to scrub her brain with a loofah to tame the untimely impurity of her thoughts.

Focus.

Her focus is interrupted by the dominant speaking, "I wanted to add some things on, clear some things up. How d'you feel about facials?"

Dear, Holy, Mother of Christ.

"Facials?" her toes curl and uncurl in her shoes.

"Facials — cum on your face," he tilts his head and jabs lightheartedly, "I'd hope you're not new to the concept."

"Yes," she clears her throat, unperturbed by his sarcastic dig, "Please."

"Lovely."

"I will return your question with a follow up," Isla shifts, intrigued by the topic, "Creampies?"

Eros purses his mouth, like he's pondering on the topic of creampies, and Isla can only blink blankly, somewhat stupefied, when he answers, with a rasp to his tantalizing voice, "Depends on the flavor, I guess. But generally, too sweet."

Once his joke clicks, like a plug stuffing into a slot, she kicks out with her foot in an impressive show of grace, "Come on, I answer," she glances to the paperwork, "'clearly and respectfully,' why don't you do the same, you—"

Upon witnessing the subtle warning dancing in his rises, Isla tucks her foot back against her, and the look he gives her seems to morph with each word, "You — you — very nice, Mr. Eros — Sir."

The great thing about Indulge, amongst a series of great things regarding Indulge, was that all members were subjected to varying series of STD testing throughout their memberships. It made the club exclusive, in a sense, but it was also safe in that it discouraged the club from becoming a petri dish stuffed full of chains and gags and HIV. Which was great. It was great for Indulge. Very safe sex of Indulge.

And It is a valid question. He hadn't listed it as a limit, initially, and hadn't brought it up during the first negotiation simply because it hadn't come up — the young woman hadn't expressed interest, and he hadn't felt the need to convey a limit that was unlikely to come up, until it came up.

So, it comes up. And Harry expresses.

"S'a limit. It's too ...personal," the man tells her.

Which, that's totally fair, Isla thinks. Coming in someone — that's, perhaps, as personal as it gets. Her limits involved kissing on the mouth, which, arguably, was a much more impersonal option than coming in someone. She nods in uninhibited understanding. His thighs are splayed, and Isla imagines herself between them, his cum painted over her face. A little droplet smudging over the hem of the lace—

Fuck. Focus. She steers her sight onto the contract in hopes of staving off the hyperfixation. Eventually, a crease works in between her brows.

"There's no dates here," Isla points out, blinking up at him, "For date effective and date of termination."

"Reading truly is a wonderful skill to possess," the man responds after a moment, good-natured in his sarcastic jab, "I'm glad we know how to do that."

Upon her tight smile and, Harry imagines, the bitterly narrowed gaze behind the lace, his bark of laughter catches in the back of his throat. It escapes him as a cut-off sound before he clears his throat and tells her, with a soft note to his statement, "That's a two-to-tango decision, pet."

They all are, really, but a time frame — that's something he can't just guesstimate, fathom, and print up. Harry can do loads of things. He can juggle, he can stay quite well in the lines when he paints his nails, he can charm just about everyone he's ever met out of a frown, he can sell just about anything with a few words and a showcase of dimples, and he can utilize a flogger just right, just enough, gauging that sweet spot expertly. He can do loads and loads and loads of things, but unfortunately, he can't read minds. He can't read her mind. He can't guess whether she'd requested a contract in hopes of pursuing a year of play with him, or a month, and he can only sort of hope that her intentions are closer to the former. Despite his own wants, numbers for time frames are a fragment he'd entirely left out of the document; too short would disappoint, and too long — well, that would perhaps be worse.

Peitho just sticks the end of the pen between her lips like she's contemplating, as if, maybe, she's having the same dilemma. His suspicions ring true when she withdraws the writing utensil and says, like she needs his guidance, his approval before she answers, "What do you think?"

The chair creaks as Harry shifts. He thinks six months, at least, and then more, because the play with her tastes too good to have a last bite. Regardless of what he thinks, he volleys the ball back into her court with a soft voice full of sincerity, fully intent on drawing her own interests into the spotlight of the topic, "S'up to you, really, darling. Just throw out a number, we can always alter it, if it comes down to it."

That seems to do the trick, because the young woman pauses as if in reflection, and then settles, "What about a month?"

A month.

A month is, generally, a generous hunk of time. It's an entire moon cycle, from new moon to waning crescent, all encompassed. It's a third of a season. A month is a plentiful time frame.

But really, it's not, Harry thinks.

Because they'd just done a month, and that month had flown by like a view driving through a rural landscape, of individual little pickets in a fence barring an endless grass plain from a car window, flying by at sixty miles per hour. Blurred and dissipated in a blink. A month is a ridiculously short hunk of time — it's four Fridays, which means four scenes, and if he's being entirely candid, four scenes cut far shorter than he's intrigued to explore with Peitho. Something coils dimly in Harry's chest, something like faint traces of disappointment, but he swallows whatever the sensation is down and clears his throat. A month is plenty reasonable to share time.

A month.

Isla could do far more than a month, she thinks. In fact, she could probably spend the rest of eternity wrapped about his finger, her hunger satiated by his touch and only his, but something within her bucks her to curb the enthusiasm. At least a smidge. She doesn't know him. She doesn't know this man beyond Eros, beyond a latex mask and whatever inches of skin she's managed to catch sight of in a strike of luck, so to have thoughts like the fact that she'd be satisfied with serving to his every command for the rest of eternity is beyond jarring.

"We can — like you said,'' the submissive, (who, more often than not, fights the actual submission part tooth and nail), gestures with her hand, "change it, if we want to. But I think that's a good place to start, right?"

A flicker of hope emerges from the heart of the fizzle at her expansion, and Harry tries not to let it show in his tone when he tells her, "Sure, darling. A month."

Just as he lifts his own respective pen in to scribble the dates over the lines of his copy, Peitho shifts, her voice obnoxiously loud, given that the space they're in is only a few square feet roomier than a broom closet, "Wait."

Harry blinks up at her, pen frozen comically, mid air.

"Can we—" she bites into her bottom lip, "Can we do, like, a month and two weeks? Or something?"

The bizarre request has the pillowy, muted berry of his lips curling up, "A month and two weeks?"

"Yeah, you know," the young woman shrugs, sinking down in her seat now that she'd grappled his attention and the ink is not near the papers, "A month is just so ...I don't know. It goes by fast. It's only four Fridays, but a month and two weeks would give us six."

His mouth twitches and he shakes his head down at the papers a bit, pen poised, "Okay. A month and two weeks."

A month and two weeks.

"Actually, I do have a question for you, regarding the scene tonight," he casts his gaze up to her, tone brimming with seriousness.

Isla looks up and listens. She discovers traces of a smile in his question, though.

"D'you have a particular attachment to the knickers you have on right now?"

"S'nice and easy with you, we can just put a blindfold on," he secures it snugly over her mask and clicks the buckle in below her ponytail to prevent sliding, "over this. Convenient, innit?"

The young woman can tell that he draws closer because hears his voice louder against her eardrums, a quality she notes because she has to focus on utilizing other senses, "Nice and snug? Can you see anything?"

Isla's mouth parts on an inhale as her sense of sight, typically already somewhat opaque through lace detailing, is veiled by dense darkness. It's nothingness, like staring up at a sky with no stars, and she's sure her own lacey mask aids in the total disconnect of light, even when she tests the theory and strains her irises around. "No."

So far, the extent of the scene hadn't gone far. They play in all different rooms, and she knows nearly all of them well from prior experience. Last week, they'd held a scene in the Neon Room, which Isla had deemed a limit all on its own, afterwards, solely based on its headache inducing qualities. The week before that had been the Red room (pretty literal title, it was like a Fifty-Shades-esque replication suffused with red from ceiling to floor). Each room harbored its own unique touches and pieces of equipment, from X crosses, to cages, to those that simply mirrored hotel room decors with a bed and an eyesore of tacky wallpaper.

They're playing in The Dungeon tonight, which Isla has fondly, internally dubbed the Torture Chamber — which isn't a tag with all that much individualism. Eros finds a way to uphold the moniker for every room they play in, but The Dungeon has these innate Torture Chamber qualities. The kind of character to a room that, upon first glance, sends a shudder prickling over your shoulders and slinking down your neck.

It's a set, is the thing, and Isla knows that. A really, very accurately handcrafted set, comprised of an eerie palette garnering neutral tones, from the scuffed concrete, to the marred brick along the walls, to the rusted detailing over the door (that looks as if it was taken straight off of an abandoned bar restroom door frame, after a lengthy lifespan enduring insobriety-spurred violence). It's as if screenshots of the infamous Armory featured on kink-dot-com were the primary basis in the design process. The ludicrously uncomfortable-in-appearance, twin-size spring mattress atop a metal bed frame (centered in the room) doesn't have sheets, and the seedy detailing of stains over the ticking are definitely, probably, she hopes fabric paint and dyes. There's all sorts of cleaning and sanitation protocols for these things, and Indulge is really thorough, so she knows they're not real stains. Despite this, the prospect of laying over a dubious, unsheeted mattress in a room made up to entirely incite fear and suspicion definitely spurs the unease. She's half-convinced she'll hear water dripping onto the floor from a stray, leaky pipe, at some point in the evening.

Regardless of the Torture Chamber, Eros hasn't taken part in much torture thus far — the only torture being in that he's afflictively knotted her ponytail and strung it up with a rope to one of the metal bars caging the headboard (evil, he's fucking evil for that one). The rest of the bindings are secured onto limbs in ways that don't otherwise incite discomfort (besides a raw, exciting sensation of anticipation and the commonplace humiliation that always comes along with having her legs tucked up), and she knows that he's deliberately tied in these ways so that she is comfortable for the duration of the scene. That fact soothes something unnerved in her chest.

"Good," he hears his voice, satisfied, and then makes out the sound of shoes over the floor as he walks ...away? Around? She's unsure.

Harry's outdone himself with the ropework, honestly.

Shibari is amazing. Intricate artworks of cords criss-crossing over skin are incredibly fun to tie and look at, and the way she's showcased, contorted by the ties he's created, is art. She looks like fucking art, and if he could save a picture of her tied like this and store it in his wallet, he fucking would.

He's opted for a simple enough crab tie, anchoring her calves behind her stretched forearms, and her legs are tucked up with the intent of exposing all the fun bits. The true pièce de résistance of the ensemble, though, he'd probably carve up to be the harness over her chest. It's composed of simple columns and patterns — simple, being that he's worked on knots for years — but they hug her body in such a way that emphasizes her tits, as if the body part is the star of the show. It's not meant to be, tonight, but he does quite enjoy looking at those, so he's pleased with the touch. And because he's such a gentleman, he's graciously allowed the panties to stay on, for now, particularly because it allows her to wallow in anticipation based on his question back in the negotiation room. He's sure she has her suspicions for what he plans, though.

Harry kneels ahead of his duffel against the wall on the opposite side of the room, tugs open the zipper, and rummages through for a flogger from his personal collection, unworried about the safety distance that would otherwise be required had she been standing with her arms tied. The male culls a wonderful elk option, running his fingers through the tendrils, partly to diffuse the tanglement situation, (which distresses him beyond words — he always hangs these things up on hooks at home as soon as he gets home — but he bites that back), and partly in consideration. He always preferred floggers from his personal collection. The play was definitely worth the sanitation process in his own time. Indulge offered a broad variety of implements, from paddles to crops to gags, which were always heavily sanitized after each usage, and getting away with a paddle was easy enough. Floggers, though — they were a tricky thing. An entirely different animal, altogether, because the options for variations essentially created entirely different toys, almost fabricated for entirely differing sensations.

The thing with the Indulge community catalog of toys was that the options were always the easiest to sanitize. And with floggers, easiest to sanitize didn't always entail the best fitting. Because floggers were — well, there were so many types. Thinner tails generally stung worse, and stiffer, leathery materials had a more brutal kick. Smaller, rubber floggers were ideal for more intimate areas, and Indulge offered plenty of those — rubbers, and silicones, easy to sanitize. But sometimes, perhaps, those didn't allow for a fitting warm up, nor did they allow to further work up the staircase of pain. Leathers — like elk, deer, moose (a personal, heavier favorite to throw), buffalo, all offered varying degrees of pain, but unfortunately were not so simple to disinfect. The cut of the tails, of course, played a part in the level of bite; V angles like forked tongues and flat cuts generally had a more intense effect, and nicely rounded falls carried that thuddier sensation. As he contemplates the rounded edges of the elk falls, he finds it suited. It's a reliable option for a warm up. Buttery enough for what he plans for her.

Once the toy's been culled and proper deliberated over, he gleans a few other objects for the night from various spots around the room; a dark, leather paddle, a cordless wand (he'd come in and manually changed the batteries himself prior to her arrival to avoid the unfortunate mood-killer of a vibrator dying mid-scene), a pair of safety scissors, a handful of condoms. Finally, he makes his way back to the bed. Harry sets the toys onto the floor and the flogger down beside her, just out of touch. He runs his fingers over various areas where the ropes dig into her flesh.

"Anything too tight? Anything uncomfortable?"

Slowly, Peitho shakes her head no in response, the motion within a limited range given that he's tied her hair to one of the metal bars, and a smirk plays at his mouth with the notion. He runs his digits over the ropes on her hips almost absent-mindedly.

Harry clears his throat, coaxing for a verbal response, "Pardon?"

"No, Sir."

Good. Very good. Great, even. He leans over her and his hand traces the binding over her ponytail thoughtfully, "Let me know if your neck starts cramping at all, yeah?"

"Will do," Isla tells him, but there's a degree of anticipation that comes with a blindfold in a Big Scary Torture Room that dampers her typical cheek, "Sir."

When the bed dips and nearly instantly bounces back, she assumes he's plucked something off the mattress.

"What are you planning?" she questions after a moment, adding on a tentative, "Sir."

Silence. She gets silence at first, which she doesn't think is all that fair considering he always expects a response from her, but then she makes out what vaguely resembles a wry huff of amusement, like he's enjoying her anticipation, because he is, and that makes her squirm.

"Wouldn't you like to know?" Eros tuts, and there's amusement garbling his low cadence.

"I would," she tells him, bridling a laugh at her own brazen words, considering her vulnerability in the circumstances, "It's why I asked."

He sighs, then, as if to ward the mirth off, and his next words nearly have incredulous laughter bubbling from her, despite her anxiety that crowds her chest, "Want to guess what I'm holding?"

It's a ridiculous thing to make an attempt to guess with no sight, no sensation, no sound, no scent. He could be holding a riding crop or a fucking ice cream cone, so Isla tells him, the bizarre statement flooding her with some form of her usual sarcasm, "An ice cream cone, Sir."

"She's a comedian. We'll see how long that lasts," is not exactly the response she hopes for, but expects. There's some mirth to his tone, though, still, which she thinks must be a good sign, "I'll give you a hint."

When a strike falls onto the back of one of her exposed thighs, it doesn't hurt, but it does startle her enough to jolt a smidge. Whatever it was, he certainly went light on it. Her toes curl as she contemplates perceptively.

"A flogger?" Peitho hypothesizes after a moment, tentatively.

"Good girl," Harry praises, his voice brimming with pride and his mouth tinged at the corners with a playful beam, "It is a flogger. S'nice and easy, I think. Elk. The tails, here," he pauses to drag the ends of the toy over her stomach, and the motion siphons a soft gasp from her, "are about a centimeter thick. So it's nice and thuddy. Soft hits. It's not a stiff leather and the tails aren't thin and stingy. This one's good for warm ups, usually — why are you smiling like that?"

"Well aren't you just a lovely, little pamphlet on impact play?"

The self-satisfaction in her voice fizzles out into a laughter-infused grunt when he bunches at the tails from the root, drawing the tails through the U-shaped dale of his fingers, and rolls his wrist in a way that makes the falls snap against her skin in, considerably, a far more stingy sensation than the first had been. Because, despite the buttery sensation the elk tends to dominate with, he can make it sting with the proper technique. His lips curl smugly in response.

"Better be nice to the mean man with the flogger," Harry sing-songs, and he watches her fingers flex and unflex in their bindings uselessly, as if yearning to rub over the afflicted area. When she doesn't formulate an immediate response, he hooks the root of the falls between his thumb and forefinger and focuses on another bite, this one aimed on the opposite thigh. Again, Peitho jolts, but the motion is futile in her restraints.

"Right? We should be nice?"

Her head falls back a bit, though that movement is also limited and causes the rope wrapping her hair to bundle, and the concurrence slips through cracks of gritted teeth, "Yes! We'll be nice! Jesus Christ."

"Fantastic. Glad we can be on the same page," Harry tells her, before stepping around to wander against the side of the bed and drag the tails of the toy over her skin slowly, from the back of her thigh, to her stomach, over her exposed breasts. Under the softness of that sensation, Peitho seems to melt, jerking slightly only when encountering particularly ticklish areas. The corners of Harry's mouth buckle.

He does that for a short while, just letting the tresses caress her, before he takes a knee ahead of the foot of the bed, which is footboard-less, mind you — a nice touch, and Harry thinks it works wonderfully for his intentions. When he sticks the end knot between his middle and ring finger, and starts drawing pretty, little figure 8's all over her ass, just letting his wrist work off the momentum, the young woman's breathing grows shallower as the sensation fails to abate.

"So, did we have a good day today, love?"

His cadence is airy and entirely nonchalant, and the inquiry has her nails gnawing into her fisted palms. Only a question Eros would ask her mid flogger warm-up. And the thing is, he's not just gliding the ends of the tresses over her backside — it's her cunt, too. The sensation is muffled by the underwear that cling to her, somewhat, but on each figure 8, the tails just manage to graze. That probably coaxes her soft, "Oh," far more than the rest does.

"No?" Harry's tongue digs against the inside of his cheek. There's thorough amusement to be had at his own jokes, sometimes. Especially when it entails Peitho mewling helplessly.

As the figure 8's slow, Isla finds that he hones the sensation exactly where she dreaded he would. At first, it comes as a tantalizing, fuck, this sucks snap against her inner thigh, too close, and then again, another, on the opposite, to mirror the first. Apparently, her hiss incites amusement, because, through the thick blood rush crowding her eardrums, she picks up that he's chuckling. And then the flogger falls against her panty-clad core — not nearly as stingy as it'd been against the bare skin of her most inner thighs, but it certainly causes her to jolt and squeal.

"That wasn't so bad, was it?"

Her teeth dig into her bottom lip, and she feels another snap between her legs, a prod from Eros, "Hm?"

"What do you mean?" Isla squawks incredulously, her abs aching from the consistent core workout of the position, "You're whipping my cunt!"

She hears a hum, and her irises loll back when she feels his fingers kiss her skin, as opposed to the bite of the flogger. The young woman feels him pull her underwear taut before he tuts, and states, deviously, "Peitho, Peitho, Peitho. I'm whipping your cunt, and you're sopping through."

There's truth to his words, and she doesn't exactly need her sense of sight to confirm it. She squirms under his scrutiny — she's warm, ludicrously, and the heat is only heightened by the light blows. Speaking of which, his touch retracts, and it's not long before another comes, this one sharper. Isla groans, her jaw clenched, and the male's enjoyment is devious. For a little while, the flogger focuses back on the globes of her presented backside, just skimming over her core with its biting caress, and then there's another snap against her thigh, and then comes the bloom of delectable pain!pain!pain! that satiates something deep within her. She braces for the next impact, but it doesn't come. Instead she feels gloved pads of fingers brush over the same area where the last strike had landed.

"You're already welting," his voice comes through low and almost focused, as if he's admiring the marks he's created, as if she's just something for him to mar and admire, and the tone sends something delicious wracking through her. The man tacks on, after a second, "Fuck. S'pretty," and gives the skin a final swipe before he withdraws.

Then comes the next several. Harry brushes the trails through the valley, keeping them straight and together, and then snaps the toy forward against her inner thigh, making her jerk in the intricately braided ties. He does it again, and then one more time until Peitho's whining and her thighs are trembling. The dominant follows through with a final strike for good measure, and her fingers spasm in the binds as her head thrashes. The young woman's breaths escape her as labored puffs. He gives her minimal cool down time before, with his free palm, he grapples for one of her bound feet, squeezing at the centermost region, and, in response, she thrashes more.

"No, no! Stop! Please!" Peitho's desperate pleas escape as waves through laughter, and as she flails at his touch, Harry's mouth crooks wickedly.

"Stop? I don't think I'm going to do that," amusement lingers over his words, and his digits digs into her with purpose.

He's never had a particular fetish for feet, but he can appreciate that hers are nice. They're pretty feet, just like the rest of her is pretty to him, and a neat, cutesy pedicure in a pinky-coral shade satisfyingly matches the hues blooming over her skin.

"Stop! Tickling is not one of my kinks! Pl— please!"

"No?" his tongue peeks out through plush strawberry, and his breath catches on a subdued laugh, "Maybe I just like seeing you writhe. All helpless," his cadence increases in volume as she squeals, "All tied up. Maybe I just like that I can do whatever I want to you, and you just have to take it."

"PLEASE!"

Finally, the horrid sensation ceases, and Isla's able to suck in some breaths for composure. Her heart hammers away behind her ribcage, and just as she feels herself regaining some form of stability over the sketchy semblance of her nervous system, she feels the flogger lick out over her clothed core.

"Shit!"

Two more times. It happens two more times, and then her toes curl and uncurl feebly as the man's gloved digits curl over her foot. She nearly shrieks. Another blow.

"What's worse?" she makes out over her involuntary laughter, "The feet, or your cunt?"

And she can't exactly form a steady response given that her nerve endings are under assault. She just screeches and does her very best to kick his hand off.

"What's worse?" he prods for a verbal response, "The feet—" he winds the flogger with his wrist, just letting it fall, fall, fall, over, and over, and over, "Stop trying to kick me off — or your cunt? Hm?"

"My — the — fuck! The feet!" Isla just barely manages to make out before the alternate sensations subside altogether. She blows out a breath, heart hammering away.

"The feet?" Eros parrots, a surprised sort of mischief to his tone, "Really?" He taps the back of her thigh with the neck of the flogger, where the tails are rooted, and then twists the handle around, just letting the tresses dance over her florid, whip-kissed skin.

Isla breathes, deep and wheeze-y, when he stops tickling her. Instead, her breath catches and stalls in her lungs when he tuts and swings the flogger harder, "Seems I haven't been doing a proper job with the flogger, then."

Her eyes screw shut further, if it's possible, behind the press her mask and the blindfold atop it, her brows pinch together, and the young woman's fingers spread, stiff and straining in their bindings. She blows out another breath through a puckered 'o' over her mouth when the onslaught ceases.

Harry lets her just breathe for a second, but it's moreso for her anticipation to spiral and skyrocket, because he's a horrible, devious, mean man. He's not exactly complaining over the view of her chest rolling with shudders beneath the designs of the rope, either. Then, he grips her knickers by the hem over the top, and just tugs up a bit.

"Look at that," Isla hears him say, tone low and lewd, before she feels him hook his forefinger and middle into her panties and tug away. The 'hngh' that the action plies out of her nearly leaves her simmering in as much humiliation as she feels with the knowledge that he's just ogling her cunt.

The sound causes Harry to raise a brow, and, in a playful feat of absolute evil, he leans forward a smidge and blows. The way she jerks in response provokes soft laughter from him, and the chuckle melts into a hum when he fixes his sight between her legs.

"You're so wet," he drawls, opting to spread her lips with his thumb and forefinger, while his other hand keeps the crotch of the cotton bikini-cut hooked to the side. The left corner of his mouth curves up smugly, his eyes cast down to her cunt, "Aren't you? Poor baby's wet just from being whipped?"

Peitho whines at his statement, and in response, he levels the knickers with her core and lets the crotch snap back into place lightly. She gasps. There's something delicious about those soft sounds she makes. Harry reaches for the wand beside him, tears open a condom wrapper and wrenches the rubber over the head, as he always does, because it's the polite thing to do. Peitho seems to be curiously drinking in the subtle hints, trying to decipher what's going on, but she doesn't have to do the sensory-based detective operation for long. Harry presses the head against her clothed cunt, coaxing another soft gasp as he toggles it to life.

"How long d'you think it'll take to soak these all the way through?" he ponders, thumbing at the hem of her knickers, and Peitho sinks back against the mattress, like the sensation is too much to bear when he shifts the setting to a higher one without warning.

"Oh..."

"Not too long, it seems," the man feels a cocky curve overtaking his mouth as he watches moisture rapidly over the fabric upon the assault of the rumbling.

Isla feels that familiar warmth slinking down through to the trench of her tummy, sinking, coiling, and as pleasure pulses through her at an increasingly alarming pace, she can only hope that he doesn't plan to reenact the Edging Fiasco from the prior week. Surely, he won't let her reach her peak so early in the night. Despite her best efforts, the pleasure swells and overtakes her, and with her voice lacking any sort of stability, the pleads spit off her tongue on their own accord, "Oh — Sir — I'm gonna—"

"No. Don't tell me. Ask me."

Regardless of any hankering to fight him and the rapturous sensation (he won't let her have the orgasm, anyways, she thinks, he won't), the craving to restrict his opportunity to shut her down with self-satisfaction, Isla feels her body giving in before her mind. She rocks in the ropes, tensed.

"Please, may I cum, Sir?" the young woman grits out, fully expecting to be shut down.

"Sure, darling. Cum."

The unbridled permission catches Isla so off guard that, for a moment, her jaw just unhinges in a mesh of a moan and a balk. Her nerve endings catch up quickly enough, though, and after only a short moment encompassing a buzzing and an otherwise patient lull from the dominant, her lips tremble and a crease works its way over her brow bone.

"Oh, fuck," she whines through it, frozen up, and then rocks and spasms as the tide ebbs. The toy shuts off, and she takes the break to breathe. Those seem to be sporadic and a generosity.

She had an inkling, is the thing; when he'd inquired whether she had a particular attachment to the panties she had on for the night. It implied one of two potentialities — that he was interested in tearing them off, or that he was interested in cutting them off. Regardless, as he'd tied her, winding ropes over flesh with cautious expertise, he'd left the underwear on — which had only further confirmed her suspicions.

He hammers the nail into the coffin when she feels the crotch of her fabric become tugged back, and she hears a low, "I think s'about time for these to come off, don't you?"

Her ears pick up a snip, and then another tug, this one to, she assumes, get access closer to the side. A second snip comes, and following that is an unceremonious yank that leaves Isla scrabbling for purchase in the ropes. He's just cut her panties off with safety scissors.

Self-satisfied, Harry discards the flimsy, tattered remains of the article. Well. It'd been an article. Now, it's just sort of a rag sullied with arousal. He can't curb the cocky smirk that snakes its way over his mouth. The thought of her fixing on the dress she'd worn to the club, disrobing her mask, and settling into the driver's side of her vehicle, pantiless and forced to recollect the night because she's pantiless, makes his libido stir.

"Much better," he smooths a palm over the right globe of her ass, and her toes twitch. Then, he removes his touch altogether and picks up the pretty, jet, leather paddle that he'd set beside him with his left hand, grasps the wand with the opposite, and stands to amble around to loom over her, behind the metal headboard.

Peitho seems to search for him with the senses she does have availability to, shifting and listening carefully. He allows for himself to indulge in her apprehension for a moment, and then clears his throat to cue that he's behind her.

"This is the fun part," his cadence is bright, but anything implied to be fun by Eros could suggest all sorts of cruelties, so Isla bites into her cheek, "You get two choices. Sort of a choose-your-own-fate type of thing."

The corners of his mouth jolt wickedly as she squirms, and then he lifts the paddle in his left grip, eyeing over the neat stitching, "Left—"

Isla's lips tremble at the sound of a whoosh and a deafening clang against the metal. It's not against her, but she jumps as if she bears the blow.

"Or," a pause, then. Nothing.

"Or?" Isla prods, ashamed that her voice comes out so small.

"Or ...right. Exciting, innit? You get to pick."

Isla contemplates his game, then tells him, after a second, "Can I hear what's behind door number two?"

"Nope," the dominant overhead tells her definitively, popping the 'p', "Wouldn't be fun if I made it so easy, pet. Come on."

Isla scoffs. A clang or nothingness. Those are her hints. He's a wicked, evil menace. She deliberates. The clang — surely it'd been an implement of some sort. He wouldn't just bash a vibrator against a headboard, and a set of clamps, or a gag — those wouldn't cause that clang. She ruminates over the potentiality of the implement — a paddle, a strap, a ...cane. The prospects wallop about her skull. Surely, not a cane. The opposite option was an animal she couldn't begin to decipher.

"Tick-tock," Harry goads, basking in her sharp inhale, "F'course, I could always choose for you. Just thought I'd be nice."

Her hands form into fists, and as he leans over her, his cadence is soft, "So what are we going with, sweetheart? Left or right?"

"The — the second one," Peitho tells him finally, shaking her head.

"The...?" the male raised an eyebrow for clarification.

"The right," her mouth sets into a line, and Harry eyes the vibrator, his gloved, right palm wrapped over the stem.

"The right. Very adventurous. S'that your final choice?" his tongue digs into his cheek when Peitho doesn't forge an immediate response, as if his teasing has dug her back into deliberation, and Harry's half-certain she'll appeal to swap choices when her mouth does open.

Instead, what he gets is a determined, "Yes, Sir."

So he winds around her, back to the foot of the bed, and sets the paddle onto the floor before settling into a criss-cross sit ahead of her cunt.

"Right it is."

Slowly, he trails a fingertip down the center of one of her feet. His mouth quirks. Her toes twitch. And then they tense and curl when he reintroduces the vibrator, already buzzing before it reaches her skin.

Helplessly, just the way Harry likes to see, Peitho writhes. For a little bit, he just pets over her backside, the backs of her thighs, keeping the wand pressed flush to her core, just reveling in the little sounds she makes. Occasionally, he'll grab out at a foot, teasingly, and he'll revel in the way she attempts to kick him off and fails, too. He watches the build of her pleasure, the climb up the staircase, imbibing in the subtle shifts of her body language; the way her breathing grows shallower, the way her feet twitch, the way her fingers scrunch. It's not long before her mouth falls open.

All that escapes is a breathy question harboring nearly no spaces in between words, as if she's held it in and simply no longer can, "MayIcumSir?"

"Cum," he responds, dominance coating the word.

Almost instantly, Peitho contorts, her back arching seemingly as much as it can in a limited range, and Harry watches veins strain divinely behind the skin of her neck. She's got a pleasant flush glowing all over her, he notes, then. Matchy-matchy, from the redness down her chest, to her backside, to the shade of polish on her toes. It's wonderful.

As the wand buzzes incessantly and doesn't let up over her cunt, Isla has difficulty herding a coherent strain of thoughts together. It's a ludicrously arduous task, all things considered. But the first thing she wonders, on the come-down of the crest, are the motives behind his uncharacteristic generosity. She flinches in the ropes, biting back a whine at the overstimulation.

"Stay still," Eros instructs, and though his tone carries no hardness in the command, there's certainly a patronizing air to it, "Know you've got another in you. We're not giving up already, are we, darling?"

And then it hits her.

And next time, I'll make you cum four times.

A shudder rolls down the knobs of her spine as it clicks, and, like he's recognized the recognition written over her face, Isla hears the dominant say, "Promised you four, didn't I? And, y'know, follow-through is so important."

Four? Isla shifts in the restraints, rocking and writhing.

"Stay still," his tone is harder as he repeats himself, but Isla just continues to writhe. When he pulls the vibrator away, only to tug up the hood of her clit, reintroduce the vibrator, and tells her, low and tantalizing and filthy, "Show me that little clit," she nearly rolls off the bed. She doesn't, partly because her hair is tied to the headboard, and mostly because he removes the hand that'd tucked up the hood of her clit in lieu of steadying her and making sure she doesn't roll off the bed and rip her hair out.

"No," she struggles, hips canting, and laughter tails her shriek as he smacks out at her inner thigh harshly.

"No? You're telling me no?" he shuts the vibrator off, and his voice is deceptively mirthy, "Y'don't wanna do it the nice way?"

"Not particularly," Isla chortles, and when he sighs, feigning exasperation, Isla laughs harder, her eyes squeezing shut even as he unclasps the blindfold, removes it, and winds about her to the other side of the room. When she does open her eyes, the buttery lightbulbs are near-blinding.

"Don't wanna just lay there and cum?" his voice carries from a distance, and Isla tries to twist in her restraints to see what he's doing, her attempt proving futile, "I've made it so easy for you, too. S'quite a simple task."

"I'm overstimulated!" the young woman reasons. All she gets, for a moment, is a hum of faux understanding in response.

"You," Harry's pupils rake over the wall of implements, "are such a brat. Honestly."

Even with an inkling of dread starting its flourish in her chest, Isla forces a smile, "You know, I've heard that one before. But it's no fun to just do things your way."

"No? No fun to be a good girl?" the racket of implements scraping and budging as he makes a selection makes her shoulders tense, "How about we make it miserable to be a brat? How's that sound?"

"That doesn't sound fun, either," she bites into her lip.

Another sigh that siphons a soft laugh to mask her anxiety, even as he winds about her, "Well there's no satisfying you, it seems, then."

Isla purses her lips. She thinks, maybe, he's wearing a grin, but it's impossible to tell from the angle and the haze her eyes have succumbed to in the expanse of time they'd spent blinded.

"What is," he leans over her, upside down through her perspective, just as she to him, "your fourth commandment of submission?"

That, she has an easy answer for. Isla blinks up through the lace, and then answers, cheekily, "Enjoy pleasures."

His head tilts in a way that daunts her, "Maybe that's your fourth commandment, but it's certainly not on the list that I gave you."

"I suppose it's not — but I follow my own commandments. They're my commandments to follow anyways, aren't they?"

The third sigh. The charm. He rounds the bed, to her side, and her pupils follow his figure.

"I think," when she watches Eros withdraw a long, thin cane from beside the bed, in mortified recognition, all composure crumbles, and she thrashes in the restraints, "this will help you remember."

The young woman attempts to kick out with one of her feet to ward the horrid object away, but the motion only jostles the rest of her slightly, and she stays woefully restrained.

"Right? This'll," Harry pauses to press the cane to her backside, siphoning a squeal from Peitho and another bout of hopeless writhing, "jog your memory? Won't it?"

She starts crying then, he thinks, just as she'd warned she would, if the jolt and tremble of her shoulders and her ribcage is any indication, and soft, pretty words finally spill from her typically insolent mouth, "Please, please, please."

"Please? Please, what? That's not your fourth commandment," the man laughs.

"Ple— please," Isla pauses to take a breath, her cadence shuddery, and she tenses as he presses the cane back against her skin, crying out, "Please don't use that!"

There's a wry mirth that curls and snakes around the syllables as they roll off his tongue. Eros tuts, "We're already begging? I've not done anything to you, yet."

Yet. The notion makes her groan and erupt in sobs that are only cut short only by a shriek in response to him feigning to draw the cane back and to only settle it back gently against the crease on the backs of her thighs. As he rubs a line with it, back and forth, her feet shake in their bindings. That does something for him — something for the dark, twisted, ugly part that rears itself only in play, that all-consuming fragment that just hungers for it.

"All I do is take out a big stick, and you're crying?" Harry speaks over her sobs, cocking his head and huffing a short laugh out through the unzipped slit over his lips, "Really? I haven't given you anything to cry about."

When she's unable to stifle her cries, whining and whimpering, he just gives her an incredulous look full of mockery, "Oh, come on, darling. It's not even the long one, s'the easy, short one, and you don't remember?"

She just whines, frozen up. So, naturally, the man tuts and slams the cane onto the mattress with a frightful whoosh, just in front of where she's on display for him. Isla shrieks. He leans over her, hovering over her side, and cradles her jawline in his palm, squeezing her cheeks.

And despite it all, that rush of adrenaline that shoots through her veins is only chased by want.

"Do you remember now, your fourth commandment?" Eros questions, tone hard and brimming with dominance.

His timbre is sharp and biting, but it doesn't coax her to melt under his touch as much as the reminder of the cane nestled to her skin does.

"I'm — I'm sorry, I don't — I don't..."

Eros tuts again (it's like a bad omen, honestly), and she shies away as best she can in her binds when he straightens up and reintroduces that mortifying implement, "Still don't remember? S'shame. Should I hit you with this four times?"

Isla sobs.

"Four times for your fourth commandment? You'll remember this as a lesson if I do."

"No!" the young woman thrashes, writhes, and she nearly slips off the edge in the process, "No! Don't — please, please!"

Instantly, his hand is on her leg to stabilize her, but the grip only incites her to flail further, so Harry tells her, with no jesting to his tone, "Stop. You're going to fall off the bed."

After a moment, once she's regulated her breathing into somewhat controlled hiccups, and her limbs have ceased in their attempts to thrash, Harry lets go of the back of her thigh.

"I'll help you out — discipline," he tilts his head a smidge, squishing her cheeks, "'The submissive will accept discipline.' Repeat it, so it sticks."

"The submissive will accept d-discipline," Isla blows out a shuddery breath.

"And do you accept your discipline, love?" he digs his thumb below her cheekbone harshly and the young woman keens.

"I — I..." she sort of melts into another bout of sobs at the prospect of accepting her discipline with a cane in order to please him.

What a shoddy commandment. She can feel herself seeping, is the thing, though — amidst the fear, amidst the panic, fiery warmth pulsing between her sweaty thighs. The link between her brain and her horny hormones is, like, beyond fucking broken or something, she decides.

For a second, Harry pauses. She's absolutely glistening, and she doesn't make any cues that she's inclined to safe, but the way she's opted to nearly flail off the bed and rip her hair out in the process is ...an intense reaction, to say the least. Fear play was a tricky thing — as all intense aspects of kink seemed to be (tricky). It was all about trust, it was all about acknowledging that the fear thing wouldn't inflict terror beyond the initial fear, right? But the way she just sort of ...succumbs to it, that leaves room for him to pause. She knows that they follow the limits, she should know, Harry thinks, and he's sure she does — that she recognizes that nothing goes beyond priorly negotiated play. But the reaction she has, although setting his libido ablaze, is a pretty fucking intense one, and given that fear play is intense, he figures being soft to check in on their first go-round won't kill the scene.

When he sets the cane down again, he does it quietly, and his touch is as gentle as his cadence, "Breathe. In and out." He strokes his thumb over her bottom lip, smearing her drool, "You're okay. In and out. M'not gonna hurt you." The sentiment is unsaid but there; do you need to safe out? He doesn't say it, because being soft is checking in enough, breaking character enough.

It's the right move, evidently, because she seems to focus on his words then, and him, taking on the task of regulating her breaths. He coaxes her to calm down, and after a little while, he withdraws, blowing out his own exhale for semblance, and runs his palm over the back of her nude thigh. Fuck. The way he's rock hard is proper evil.

"Are you going to be a good, sweet girl for me? Because," Eros pauses his manipulations, casting his gaze back and retrieving the cane to press it against her backside. Isla cries out. "If you're going to keep being a brat — and, darling, I didn't want it to come to this, but I can use the cane," he pretends to ponder over her pitiful, drawn out nooooo, "if that's what you're interested in."

"I'll be good, I'll be good," Isla promises, chest heaving, her nods jerky and small, "I'll be a good girl," she amends, taking a deep, shuddery breath as he pauses in contemplation.

"Then we don't need to use the cane."

Isla's eyes slip shut in a wave of relief beneath the veil of the mask. Eros palms over her jawline for a moment, and she melts into it. His grip is sturdy, but his tone is soft and alleviating. Then, his thumb grazes across her bottom lip, and he pats her cheek as he withdraws, "Do we?"

Peitho shakes her head slowly at him, sniffling, her voice small, "No, we don't, Sir."

And the softness of his touch, the way his tone contrasts against his words in such a provocative way, has her breath catching in her throat, "Fuck. Wish I could see those pretty tears."

When he sets the cane against the headboard, though, she's still squirming, so he raises a brow and leans over to roll it beneath the bed. That seems to do the trick. Out of sight, out of mind.

They're definitely going to talk about it, Harry decides.

For now, he works on unraveling the wrapping over her ponytail. Once that's freed, he tugs her hair tie off, mindful to grip at the base to avoid afflictive yanking, and he runs his fingers through the newly-loose tendrils to curb discomfort. She shakes her head. Next are her limbs, and he gets to work on the knots braided over her calves and her forearms. Peitho lets him, though he's sure she's bemused by the task, and he tugs the ropes off carefully, setting them beside her onto the mattress.

"Are we," Peitho clears her throat. There's no crying to her tone, anymore, but the statement still comes out with a bit of a rasp, "Are we done? Sir?"

If he's not mistaken, there's definitely a tinge of disappointment to her cadence. He looks up to her pointedly.

"No. You still owe me two more."

Despite the havoc the scene has reaped on her thus far, of course, arousal courses through her veins with each and every decision Eros makes, and his definitive words send thrilling want sparking through her.

"Unless you'd like to be done, pet?"

"No," her tongue peeks out to swipe over her pouty, raspberry lips, "No, Sir."

He pats her thigh and orders, "All fours."

So she clambers into the instructed position, earning a helping hand in the form of a smack (it's not nearly as hard as he can deliver, she's well aware) to the back of her thigh when she stalls.

"Put your arms down," she hears from behind, and then she feels his palm glide between her shoulder blades in coaxing, "Arch your back. Beautiful. And," he taps onto her tricep, "straighten your arms out, next to your legs."

Once she's done that, he gets to work with binding the ropes onto her wrists, joining them with her ankles, and securing knots deftly. And once that's wrapped up, he tests the knots, asking about her comfort, and knees his way off the bed to gather some more supplies. This time, he culls a roll of onyx bondage tape and a bottle of lubricant (from his own duffel).

"Having a good time, love?" he half-jests once he's kneed his way back onto the mattress behind her.

He expects a hum, or silence, or a jab back, but the "Yes, Sir," and the dreamy sigh he receives carries so much earnest sincerity that he can't help but to fondle over her backside fondly. Alas, he must break the caress to find the wand, and when he does, she whines.

"Be quiet," the dominant tells her, though there's no true chastising to his cadence, "Desperate, little thing."

Isla shivers in the restraints. Her ears pick up on the sound of tape unsticking (she presumes he uses his teeth to rip it off). Then, the head of the wand presses up between her splayed thighs, and she hears a click before it buzzes alive.

"S'good there?" Eros prods, but she's sure he can tell from her muscles melting that, yes, it's good.

"Mm-Mhm," is all she can manage, and a sliver of tape begins to wind over her thigh, fastening the stimulation of the toy. This time, when he withdraws, it's easier to focus her attention onto the buzzing against her cunt and not his lack of attention on her. When he comes back, Isla vaguely picks up on another click, a pause, a second click. And then something cold unfamiliarly presses to her hole. Her entire body twitches.

The motion doesn't seem to discourage Eros, though, because he just grips over her hip with his pleather-clad hand and grazes her skin with his thumb as whatever the other thing is strokes between her cheeks. It's his digit, Isla discovers — eventually, the stroking goes to prodding, and the prodding goes to dipping, and he dips the tip of his digit into her.

Helplessly, she squeaks, and the sensation from the vibrator swallows the initial discomfort of the stretch. As his finger delves deeper, however, she bites into her lip and attempts to stretch away. That he has a different reaction to.

"Excuse me?" the man pauses, and then smacks her with the hand that'd been holding onto her hip so sweetly only moments prior, "Don't move."

She's pretty good from there. She sighs into it as Harry lets his middle finger venture, sliding carefully and withdrawing slowly. It's a sight. This is the wallet picture, it's this one, he decides. Her hands bound to her ankles, her back arched beautifully, her hair cascading to one side of the mattress and the other showcasing a gorgeous view of her side-profile, her parted, swollen-from-teeth mouth. The gem of the image is, perhaps, the way her ass swallows his finger like it was fucking made for it.

"Christ, baby," he says after a little while, almost in awe, "F'you could just see the way your arse takes me."

Peitho moans. And it doesn't take long, not with the rumbling against her core, not with his finger prodding into her, for her to start absolutely mewling.

"Sir! Sir!"

"Mm?" he digs his digit in, to the hilt, and she groans.

"May I— may I cum?"

"Yes, you may," he tells her, cadence casual, and he fucks in and out slowly as the orgasm rips through her. Harry bridles a groan of his own at the way her muscles spasm over his digit. As her wave of pleasure ebbs, and she jerks, crying out softly from the instant overstimulation, he pulls the finger out carefully, and gets to work on his zipper.

"Oh— oh, Sir, it's a lot, it's, it's—"

"That's okay," he grunts, and her jaw unhinges, grappling for air as his tip tucks into her cunt, "You can give me four, sweetheart. I know you can do it."

He's devious, Isla thinks. He's the fucking devil — he's flayed at her nerve endings, both with the flogger and the vibrator, he's threatened her with a cane (all warranted and welcomed, of course), and now he expects her to give him a fourth climax? Around his dick? Isla thinks of plenty of not-so-nice things to call him, which would, more than likely, necessitate the reintroduction of that horrid, God awful cane, but she can't quite make her mouth move when her system is entirely on overdrive, pumping endorphins and adrenaline.

"Sir!" is the only thing that comes out, choppy and girlish.

The young woman hears his breathy chuckle, and she feels his palm splay over the small of her back as he rocks forward into her. Her lashes flutter behind lace — swirls and patterns turn to indecipherable, dark blurs. The man punches a soft unph when he plunges in, to the hilt, and Isla's thighs tremble pathetically.

She's divine, Harry decides. A fucking angel — taking any and everything he throws her way. The way she imbibes all of his whims and succumbs to him, even post fighting for the upper hand with such moxie, attests to it. Her mouth is a sharp vestibule that softens to his ministrations, and the softness of the sounds he's able to coax are pure fucking heaven. Even her hair seems to curl over the top of her head against the mattress in a makeshift halo, tufts of strands sloping like ethereal interweavings.

Christ, her cunt is pure bliss.

She's so wet around him, is the thing, he can feel her slick arousal seeping down his balls, he can hear it, and with each squishy plunge forward, he feels his resolve chipping away. When he grips onto her hips and starts to really hammer into her, that's when he feels the chips turn to the beginnings of crumbles.

"Christ— you're a nasty, little thing," Harry affirms, breaths jagged and jerky through his filthy, open-mouthed grin, "Aren't you? Let me," his tongue flicks out and sticks to the ends of his front teeth in focus as he hits something within her that incites a loud moan, "tie you up, whip you, let me make you cum, and cum, and cum, cried for me, and you're still begging for more, aren't you?"

In response to her, "yesyesyes," Harry leans forward and abandons one hip in lieu of pursuing a harsh grasp at the hair just above her nape, fingers wedging against her scalp. He jerks her head back so that her neck cranes and the muscles strain, and he plucks a garbled sound from her vocal chords, in the process, that has his balls tightening.

"Say it. Tell me. Tell me you're my dirty, little thing," the man hisses, a vulgar, vile demon overtaking any fragment of his tone that was formerly gentle.

"I'm— yours, your dirty— your dirty, little thing," Isla groans out, eyes unfocused and lazing back through fluttery eyelashes as his hips snap and the wand buzzes against her core.

"You are," the male punctuates his words with his thrusts, his thrusts with his words, "an absolute," an obscene slew of dialogue that has her toes curling and her cunt doing kegels over his cock, "bloody wet dream."

"Oh, God!" she sobs, and he digs the pads of his fingers back into her love handles as he drives his own hips to slam his balls against her.

"Eros, actually," Harry can't even manage a laugh at his own joke, just clinging to the rope over the formidable wave of rapture that wreaks havoc just below, "Eros is making you feel so good, isn't he?"

"Yes, shit, fuck — Eros!"

"I know, baby, I know — tell me how good that cock makes you feel, tell me how good I make you feel."

The way the young woman below him only manages a string of incoherent grunts and squeaks just leaves him breathlessly pummeling into her harder, harsher, faster.

"M'close, baby," he blows out a breath, grunting behind her, and like clockwork, Isla feels her own toes dipping into the waters beneath the precipice. They crash in waves and douse her until all she can accomplish are soft sounds and soft pleas. She's buzzing, buzzing, buzzing, much like the toy taped to her thigh, and vaguely, she recognizes that she's started to drift.

As her warmth spasms over him, Harry digs the pads of his fingers into her flesh, and when she whines out, begging, "May I," he doesn't even wait for her to finish the statement before he tips forward and beckons, "Cum, baby, come on. Give me one more."

When her climax hits her for the fourth and final time in the night, she sounds as if he's fucking murdering her. While she's tangled in the string of her curses and cries, Harry feels his own resolve stutter.

"Good fucking girl," are his final words before his abdomen clenches and the muscles ripple. His balls pulse, and he empties into the condom, groaning. As his hips stagnate falteringly, over the crowding of blood rushing against his eardrums, he vaguely makes out that she's still whimpering like she's being flayed. Carefully, the man withdraws himself and leans over to thumb at the buttons on the wand.

As the toy shuts off, Peitho doesn't seem to regain any semblance of resolve, just whimpering breathily against the mattress, and while he tugs the condom off carefully with one hand, the other occupies itself by petting sweetly over the small of her back, down her hip.

"Sh, sh," he coos as sob rips free at the retraction of his touch, "M'right here, sweetheart. Just cleaning up a bit. S'improper to just leave you like this, and chivalry's not dead, afterall."

His jest doesn't even cull a sniffle that demonstrates she's heard him, and instead she seems to wallow in the aftermath. So, he doesn't bother making it to the bin, and instead opts to tuck the condom into its tattered wrapper before getting to work on her. The first thing that comes off is the wand, and he unwinds the tapes delicately. The next to go are the ropes over her joints, and he discards those onto the floor beside her. She doesn't even slump as he removes the restraints, unwinding the harness over her chest. The young woman just lays there, pitifully, like she's stuck, and he stands to squat beside the bed and rake his fingers through her sweaty hair.

His mouth brushes against her ear and he presses to her and praises, "My sweet girl. M'so proud of you, pet." He lets his hand slip from her hair to her back, just petting down her spine, "Took everything I gave you so well, just like you always do. Such a good girl."

She melts beneath his touch, sighing softly, and he croons, "Need you to do one more thing for me, sweetheart. Need you to sit up a bit so I can hold you. Can you do that for me?"

Isla decides she absolutely cannot do anything. She'll always find herself sort of slipping with a particularly good scene, but for some reason or another, fear play always seems to do the trick. It sends her spiraling out into open ocean with nothing but a raft, where she basks in the sunlight thoughtlessly, until inevitably, she's tugged back to shore.

Peitho just hums.

She's always a mushy, dulcet mess once the toys go away, but Harry can sense that something has shifted ...further, tonight. Slowly, he presses a kiss to her temple and stands to sit her up manually. She goes easily enough, letting him steer her up and practically falls back against his chest once he's sat behind her. She's not dead weight for long, though, because the more he croons against the shell of her ear, the more inclined she seems to become to cling to him, and eventually, the submissive turns on her own accord and burrows into his chest.

"Wasn't too rough with my girl, was I?" he presses his chin to the top of her head, and she sticks her fingers past the space where a few buttons on his collar have gone loose. She holds onto his shirt like a lifeline, and for a moment, Harry's heart stutters in his chest. Then, she shakes her head. It's a minute movement, just barely, pressed against him, but it's an answer.

She needs water, Harry decides, and she needs to stretch. He needs to massage her neck, her shoulders, run soft touches over the areas of her skin where pretty rope tracks have imprinted. He needs to make her promise that she'll sit in a hot bath once she gets home. But that'll come later. For a little while, he just lets her burrow into him and he runs his fingers through her hair and whispers nice things to her, like he always does. For now, he settles for wordless clinging, familiarizing himself with the bridge.

Because he knows that with each passing week, he'll just keep ruining her.

TDIAG MASTERLIST HERE

#dom harry styles #harry styles #harry styles dirty fanfiction #harry styles dirty one shot #harry styles edit #harry styles edits #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles one shot #harry styles smut #harry styles wattpad #harry styles x oc #harry styles writing #domharry #dom!harry #harry styles angst #1800titz #1-800-tits #TDIAG

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cpirits · 6 months

Note

Send 🐈 for the receiving muse to grow cat ears and a tail for a day. (Kotetsu)

Stretching in his bed, Kotetsu woke up to start his day at his apartment, he felt bad about staying there away from his daughter, but work willing he had no time off unless he explicitly asked.

Getting to the bathroom, he passed by the mirror to use the toilet and did a double take -- did he have tiger ears on his head, and a tail too?!

"Huh, wonder if I have fangs too?" Fingers in his mouth, he checked for elongated canines, and deflated a bit when he saw there were none, just his normal teeth. The tiger ears on his head flopped with his little disappointment, but he was curious about his new appendages.

Getting dressed, his tail was pushed against his lower back as his pants were a bit high on his waist, but he'd grin and bear it for however long the features were going to stay (hopefully he'd not attract too much attention going about his day.)

@kitxkatrp

#(( figured you'd use Barnaby but didn't want to assume ))#kitxkatrp #* // tiger is well; a tiger ( kemomimi verse )#『 beep beep on the coil // asks 』#『 scrap fever // queue 』#『 route locked // in character 』#『 zero is afk // mobile 』#mind: kotetsu ( give a wild roar! )

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a-cosmic-elf · 3 months

Text

Wip Wednesday

My AO3 comment box has blown up! My heartfelt thanks to @tafferling and @turbo-toast , I will reply as soon as I can. I should be working, you’re all gonna get me fired from my new job! 😂

I’m tagging my lovely beta @kalliesa , who might be a little jealous that after all this time she’s not the one reading new stuff from Absolution after a goddamn year hiatus.

Tbf, it’s been a hell of a year, and since nobody seemed to be actively reading the Abby, it’s easy to forget that people read it at all, and my attention wandered off elsewhere (Starfield, mostly 👀 lol, which reminds me, I’m tagging the whole of The Coemancer Crew in this post too, I’d love to see what you’re all working on, but no pressure!)

Do not underestimate the power of commenting on a fic that looks as though it may have been abandoned. They rarely are, it’s just the authors are people, and people’s attention spans tend to wander, especially if they think they’re in a boat on their own.

Without further ado, here’s a very rough (unbeta-read) snippet of Chapter 17: Their Law.

(and you know when a chapter is inspired by The Prodigy, it’s going to be action-packed).

Shouting, grasping, pulling and shoving, the Cerberus soldiers burst through the doors, dragging Sebastian and Tegan from their cells at gunpoint. They forced them to their knees in the main holding area, alongside all the other C-Sec detainees.

“Dad, what’s going on?” Faith asked through their connection.

“Honey, it’s Cerberus,” said Sebastian.

“And some fucker must have told them we were here,” added Tegan.

“Why ARE you here?” But she knew, oh, she knew. They were her parents, after all. And they were alive!

A combination of relief and irritation flooded the connection from all sides, “Honey,” Sebastian didn't need to finish the sentence.

“I’m not going back,” she stated defiantly.

“Can we talk about this later?”, asked Tegan, “so good to hear you, possum.”

“I-”

A single gunshot made them all jump.

Two Cerberus operatives moved methodically down the line, they scanned each human prisoner, then shot them in the back of the head.

They didn’t pause to scan the aliens.

One after the other each prisoner fell to the floor. It sent the rest into a frenzy, they pleaded for their lives, for their gods. The smell of fresh urine further assaulted the senses.

“Please, why do you have to kill us?” The next prisoner asked. Another single gunshot rang out, and he died without an answer.

The soldiers moved onto the next, more screaming, another dull beep on the scanner followed by a further gunshot.

There was just one human and a baterian between Cerberus and Tegan, “Seb.” He warned.

“I know,” said Sebastian, he could feel Tegan’s rising terror, coupled with his own. But he could also see the back of their own heads from Faith’s perspective, as she swung over the ledge two stories above. A glass roof was all that separated them.

“There are six,” he told her. “Four grunts, one officer, and a phantom”, he looked around as best he could, marking their positions. “They’re all wearing civilian grade, standard issue, full Cerberus armour and helmets, which means-“

“Which means they’re using tech to see. Even without the cloak I am a ghost to them.”

“Exactly, sweetheart-“

Another gunshot. The batarian was dead.

The two Cerberus operatives stepped across placing Tegan between them, the gun was inches from the back of his head.

“Seb.”

“I know.”

A different kind of beep emitted from the handheld scanner, and the Cerberus operative laughed, “Well, well. So, the rumours were true. You’re Tegan O’Hara. Which means you must be,” the scanner beeped brightly again, “Sebastian Crosse. It’s your lucky day, you’ve won yourself a little chat with the Illusive Man. Now, where is that little alien bitch of yours?”

Sebastian began to physically shake. After days of solitary confinement, intense questioning, he felt like a coiled spring, wound too tight. He tried to hold on to his composure, closed his eyes briefly and he knew Faith had let go, she was falling, he could feel the cold wind in her hair…

He’d never felt such rage, but could not help smiling up at the doomed Cerberus operative, “I think you’re about to find out.”

youtube

#wip wednesday #cosmic writes #mass effect absolution #oc sebastian crosse #oc tegan o’hara #oc faith #the prodigy #“fuck ‘em and their law”#music for the jilted generation #that generation being gen x #I love the top comment on this YouTube vid #‘Keith ain’t dead he’s just gone to outta space to find another race’#lmao 🤣🤣🤣

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indouloureux · 2 years

Note

Hii I absolutely adore your writing!! Like i read your stories everyday at least once 😭

I was wondering if you could write a Joseph fic where he buys you a gift because he thought of you when he saw it, but he’s scared to give it to you thinking you might not like it. But then he gets all warm and fuzzy inside seeing that you absolutely adore his gift and you wear it almost all the time

ily mwah mwah mwah

his nail was the verge of bleeding by the time he'd chosen it.

his gift being shoved inside a black box before given to him. the beep of his credit card a sign that he's already done it. not take backs. all he had to do was think if you were going to like it or not.

when he got home, he refused to give it immediately, shoving it inside the bottom drawer and ignoring it like a demon creeping underneath. you'd come home, and he'd greet you with a kiss, sometimes a bit more than just a kiss, and you'd spend your nights like you always used to.

joseph would always linger around you, lips threatening to tell you he had a surprise. but when you'd ask him what's wrong, he'd say the same words everytime: nothing. i'm alright. you just look pretty.

flattery in a form of a distraction. but he knows soon you'd catch up, think that he's hiding something much worse than just a surprise gift. so he took up the guts to finally take the black box from beneath his clothes and gave it to you.

he remembered the feeling of the tight coil in his chest slowly unwind at the curious look on your face when you start to open the box, his eyes in a worried glow as he says —

— "i thought of you when i saw this, so i bought it and i really hope you love it."

until the unyielding wind of self doubt fully expands everywhere in a congenial warmth and ebbs into nothing when you smile effulgently at his gift.

so to see it dangling on your neck a year later has proved his needless anxieties wrong.

the thin golden chain rests well on your collarbone, tangled around your neck, the dainty pendant that sways right on the valley of your chest, a perfect match to your outfit as you pick up the leather jacket from the chair, readjusting the earring on your ear.

joseph's jaw almost slackens at the sight of your grace entering, a heating blush on his face when he sees the necklace again, even though he's seen you wear it ever since he gave it to you.

"i love your necklace," he gushes like he's found a new gossip to indulge in. "it's so pretty. where'd you get it?"

"oh, well," you twirl around, falling right into his arms where you're supposed to be as your fingers fiddle with the pendant. "my boyfriend gave it to me. thought, well he's rich anyway, might as well put his money into me as well."

his face playfully falls, poking your side and keeps you in place even as you squirm and squeal at his ticklish touch. "can't believe you're just using me for my money. what happened to miss independent?"

"you know i kid, baby," you give him a quick kiss, patting his cheek lightly. "i just love wearing it alot, that's all."

and he loves seeing it on you, too, like an emblematic of his doting possession over your heart; the sight of you wearing it an indication that you'd stolen his heart and shoved it inside the pendant for yours to keep.

reblogs and feedback are appreciated <3

#joseph quinn blurb #joseph quinn x reader #joseph quinn x you #joseph quinn x y/n #joseph quinn fluff #joseph quinn fic #joseph quinn fanfiction #joseph quinn #blurb #eddie munson #eddie munson blurb #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson fic #eddie munson fanfiction

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murdrdocs · 2 years

Text

everybody, scream! pt I / II

description. murder has come to hawkins. even though you have your boyfriend steve at your side, you can’t help but feel like murder is coming for you too.

includes. SMUT 16+, illusions to murder, usual scream business, good boyfriend steve, eddie cameo, lots of angst omg, it’s so sad

a/n: hello! welcome to part one of everybody, scream! i’m a bit iffy abt this bc i feel like it’s boring, but it’s hard to write a scream au since scream does best on film. anyway, i hope this is somewhat enjoyable! part 2 soon! (threesome included in that one)

word count: 6.4k+ words

Everything on her body aches.

It takes an unusual amount of effort for her to push open the front door. It’s moderately heavy, but her father has been complaining about it getting stuck in the doorframe lately. He hadn’t been able to fix it, so she has to use her weight to get it open.

She jams her shoulder into the door, and falls into her parents home when it gives way.

The area already starts to sting and she adds that to her list of injuries this week.

Making her way to the kitchen, she pulls open the freezer and grabs the mostly empty box of frozen burritos. She missed when her parents had leftovers on the stove for her. She misses her mom's chicken pot pie, or her dad's casserole.

The taste of frozen food is familiar to her now, and she knows that any food is better than none.

Two burritos are spinning around the microwave plate on a paper towel when the phone rings.

No one else is home, which leaves her to answer it for herself. She sighs, rolls her eyes and slowly approaches the phone.

“Hello?” she asks once the plastic is pressed to her ear.

“Hello?” The other person is a man. His voice is deep, and sounds a bit staticy, like there is some sort of interference. She’s not phased, the landline wasn’t the highest quality.

“Who’s this?”

The microwave beeps behind her and she glances over her shoulder. She can taste the frozen meat and beans on her tongue already, and she turns back to the phone with determination.

“Billy?” she asks, her voice now hopeful.

“Who’s Billy?” And all of that hope is replaced with frustration.

“Look, Billy,” She turns to face the microwave in its entirety. Hopefully, this call won’t last much longer. “If this is some sort of prank call, it’s really not going that well. I have more important things to do than talk to some dick.”

Before Not-Billy can respond, she clicks the phone back onto the receiver.

She’s two steps away from the microwave when the phone rings again.

“Fuck!” She curses. She takes the final two steps to the microwave, pulls her burritos out, and takes a bite out of one of them. Throwing them onto the counter, her feet hurriedly carry her to the phone, where she picks it up, presses it to her ear with a little too much force, and yells, “What?!” into the bottom end.

“You hang up on me again and I’ll gut you like a fish!”

“What the fuck?” Her voice is shaky. Fear starts to trickle down her body until she can feel it at the tips of her nerve endings. Sweat breaks through the barrier of her skin, and she suddenly feels like she’s being watched.

She’s surrounded by windows, her parents made sure that their home had lots of natural light. Before, she loved and appreciated the design. Now, she curses the amount of ground she has to cover.

“Billy, this isn’t funny.” She stretches the coiled cord as she reaches the first window. She turns the lock, tests the window to make sure it’s secure, and then pulls the curtains closed.

“Not Billy.” He sounds chipper. He’s getting off on this, she realizes as she makes her way to the next set of windows.

“I’ll call the cops. They can be here in 15 minutes.” The warning is futile, but it’s worth a try.

He laughs, slow and deep and menacing. “Oh? Then they won’t be quick enough. By then, you’ll be hanging from the tree by your wrists, with your guts all over that perfect lawn of yours.”

“What do you want from me?” The second set is secure, but her hand slips when she tries to lock the third. She recovers as if it never happened.

“I wanna play a game.”

“A game?”

“Yes,” he speaks slowly. “A game.”

“What kind of game?” There’s only one set of windows left, and she knows that the phone cord can’t stretch that far. She stands, holding the phone to her ear, looking out of the window.

“Horror movie trivia. Tell me, do you like scary movies?”

She sniffs. When did her nose start to run?

“I’m not a big fan.”

“Hmm … Well, I’ll start with something easy: What is the name of the actress who plays Laurie in ‘Halloween’?”

She searches her brain, eyes searching the ceiling and her kitchen as if an answer will be hidden there. Just a few weeks ago, her roommates in college were raving about watching ‘Halloween’ since it was officially the season. She couldn’t remember her name for the rest of her life. Until finally:

“Jamie Lee Curtis!”

He chuckled, almost proudly. “Very good. Now, question one.”

“Wait, what? That was question one. I got one right. That should count.”

“That was the practice run. Question one: what is Jason Voorhes preferred weapon?

“Fuck, I don’t know.” Truthfully, she got lucky with the practice question. And she could feel her luck running out.

“Are you giving up? This soon?”

“No.” She was determined. Her eyes found the knife block on her parents' counter. “A knife.”

“Not good enough. What kind of knife?”

“Um,” she pondered, automatically pacing as she thought of as many types of knives as she knew. “The big one. The one people use to fish. Uh, a machete?”

It came out as a question, but she got it right.

“One down. Get two more right, and you win.”

“Question two: What is the infamous line from The Exorcist?”

Now she’s really fucked.

She’s silent.

“Tick tock,” he teases. “Are you finally giving up?”

“Go to hell.” Her teeth are bared and she’s reaching for a knife from the block. Her fingers wrap around the handle, and she pulls it out.

“Wrong answer.”

When her eyes find the window again, a figure is running towards her.

Like with most things that happen back home, you first hear the news through Steve.

It’s a Wednesday when he calls. Just 5 minutes after 5, and you’re picking up the receiver eagerly. This was one of his regularly scheduled calls, so you didn’t even have to wonder if the person on the end would be your boyfriend at all.

“Hey, Stevie.” You’re smiling instantly, hand cupped around the receiver and your back turned to the living room to try and keep some of your dignity. The others were all gathered around the TV, catching up on your apartment's Show of the Month.

You couldn’t remember the name for the life of you, but it provided just enough entertainment to soothe you after a long week, and it was boring enough to lull you to sleep ten minutes before the episode ended. But then you would wake up just before it ended to Steve calling. Every single time. Without fail.

“Hey, pretty girl.” You can hear his smile through the phone, and it makes you giggle quietly and a fluttering feeling makes itself known along your insides.

“What’s going on?”

This was usually where Steve would tell you about his day, and then you would promptly do the same. But instead of excitedly launching into retellings, Steve sighs, long and regretful.

“Steve?” You no longer feel shy and giggly. Now, you’re worried. “What’s wrong?”

“Baby,” he begins, interrupted by your hurried ‘yeah?’.

“Heather Holloway was murdered.”

“What?” Your volume involuntarily increases, and the hand that was cuddling the end of the receiver drops. It begins to shake, and sweat takes over your body. Your throat feels tight, like it’s closing, yet desperately begging for some sort of liquidation. Which you don’t have, as your tongue dries out, saliva disappearing into thin air.

“Yeah,” he sighs. “It, um, it happened last night they think.”

“Oh.” You don’t know what else to say. Your mind is racing, instantly supplying you with images of how it could have been done. You blink, hard, attempting to erase the intrusive thoughts.

“Listen, baby. I’m gonna come get you, okay? Tonight. I want you to be home. Here, with me. Plus, the funeral is gonna be soon and I think you wanna be there. Am I right?”

You’re nodding. “Yeah, I uh, I wanna pay my respects. Come get me, Steve. Please.” Your voice sounds weaker than it should and you don’t notice the tear sliding down your face. Not until it hits your lips just as you stick your tongue out to wet them, and you taste the salt.

You let it stay there as raising your hand to wipe it feels daunting, like lifting a weight that you knew was entirely too heavy for you.

“Okay. I’ll be there soon. Pack your bags.”

You work mindlessly, body on autopilot as it navigates you to your bedroom, your mouth automatically forming responses to your roommates concerns.

“Is everything okay?”

Yeah.

“What happened?”

Something back home.

“Are you leaving?”

Just for a few days.

“Is your family okay?”

They’re fine, thanks.

One of the girls offers to help you pack, but you politely decline in favor of taking some time to calm your mind. Your heart has begun to hammer against your ribs, the intensity, speed, and pressure of it almost making you sick. You swallow it down, though, and force your hands to steady as you begin packing.

You don’t have the sense to plan what you’re packing, your hands just grabbing a few of everything. A couple pairs of underwear, some socks, jeans and sweatpants, a few sweaters, and two of Steve’s sweatshirts.

Everything is more so bunched up than folded in your duffel bag, but it suffices.

You sit at the edge of your bed, anxiously checking the clock on your wall every few minutes, until there’s a knock at your door.

One of your roommates yells “coming!” and you’re already standing, throwing the strap of your duffel over your shoulders and making your way back to the living room.

Steve stands there, just a step into the apartment, and he’s politely talking to your roommate with his hands stuffed in his back pockets.

“Hey,” he says when he sees you, his arms already opening to welcome you.

You find his chest like a magnet, head resting with your ear to his torso, softly hearing the sound of his steady heartbeat.

“Hey,” you croak out, fearing to say anything else as you don’t want to break down in front of the others and embarrass yourself.

“You have everything?” His chest vibrates as he speaks, keeping you alert. Keeping you here.

“Uh, yeah. I think.”

Steve pulls away from you to give you a once over, sadly pulling his lips into a thin line before gently telling you to wait there.

You do, idly rubbing the floor with the torn toe of your converse.

“You call us if you need anything, okay? We can send you notes that you miss and contact your professors for you,” Emma, your roommate, is telling you. She reaches over, never having left from your and Steve’s side just yet, and pulls you into a warm hug that intensely smells of artificial flowers.

You nod and Steve is returning before you can really thank her. In his hands, he has a black dress—one you specially reserved for funerals— in one hand, and a strappy pair of heels in the other.

In all of your mindless packing, you’d forgotten about the funeral.

The sight of the dress makes your nose burn so you avert your gaze to Steve’s brown eyes.

“Ready?” you ask him.

“Let’s go.”

You and Steve say your goodbyes and send thanks to your roommates as Emma closes the door behind you.

It’s just you and Steve then, sitting in his cherry red Beamer, riding an hour back to the place you’d grown up. The place that reminded you of summer, the fourth of July, and your family.

The place that reminded you of death, destruction, and emptiness.

Steve’s house is warm.

A breeze blasts you from behind, causing you to rock on your unsteady feet. Chills rise on your skin and you curl more into Steve’s sweatshirt. But as soon as he turns the key in the knob, and pushes the door open, warmth floods your entire body.

“Have you showered yet?” he asks you, a small frown coming onto his pink lips when you shake your head. “Eaten?” Another head shake.

“Okay,” he sighs. “I’m gonna warm up the shower for you, and then I’ll make you something to eat. Sounds good?”

“Yeah.”

Steve leaves you with a kiss on your cheek and he’s running up the stairs, two at a time. Your converse are fully off and tucked in the corner beside the door when you distantly hear the sound of the shower going.

You hadn’t been to Steve’s parents house in a while. The last time you were here, his parents were too, and their presence added an entirely new warmth to the home. You felt like the lighting was brighter then, and you remembered the happy melodies of the music that they played. You were surrounded by so much love; the love they had for each other, for their son, and for you.

You miss them.

When Steve comes back down, he almost rushes by you and into the kitchen. But you stop him.

“Are your parents coming home?” You sound small, hopeful.

He takes a second to think, to process. But then he nods. “Yeah. They’re flying in tomorrow. Your parents are too.”

Your parents.

In all of your rush, and anxiety, you somehow forgot about your own parents.

They’d gone on a vacation just a few days ago, and they weren’t supposed to be returning until Sunday. But it seems that they are coming back earlier, no doubt to pay their respects along with Steve’s parents.

You give Steve a tight lipped smile and then you’re going your separate ways.

The water is too hot when you step under it.

You could’ve predicted it by how humid the bathroom is whenever you step in, and you could’ve prevented the sting that comes onto your skin by reaching out and turning the nod just a few centimeters to the opposite direction.

But you don’t.

You anticipate the sweltering heat that befalls onto your skin, and you wince once you feel it. But you endure it. You stand there, rigid, fists clenching as you push through the pain, desperate to find the other end.

Against your own personal will, your brain wonders if Heather went through something similar. If she forced herself to endure and fight the pain as she was being attacked. If she desperately were seeking the other end of the tunnel, where she hoped to find bliss and be rid of that intense pain. And that did come to her. In the form of death.

You physically force the thoughts out of your mind with a grunt.

Your hands find your hair, then your scalp, and your fingernails scrub. You know that this isn’t the way to get rid of unwanted, intrusive thoughts. Yet you attempt anyway. Scrubbing and rinsing until your scalp feels like it’s bleeding. Until you’re scared to check under your fingernails, because you fear that you’ll see a bright red that shouldn’t be there.

You go through the rest of your shower attempting to hold your tears back. Your skin gets used to the burn, and you soothe it with the blueberry scented body wash Steve kept in his shower. You wash until you feel like you’ve revealed a new layer of skin. Then, you rinse one final time, letting a few tears fall and blend in with the water, and then you shut it off, step out of the shower, and go about your night.

The pair of panties you hold in your hand are old, frayed, and a size too small. You’d meant to throw them out ages ago, but never got around to it. Knowing that you wouldn’t be able to fit them, you wrap your towel around you and walk out of the bathroom, back into Steve’s room.

He’s sitting at his desk, one hand holding a pencil and the other pushing his brown strands away from his forehead. He’s intensely staring down at something. You don’t bother trying to see what it is.

“Um, can I borrow a pair of your boxers?” He lifts his head from whatever he was looking at on his desk to stare at you. It takes him a second, probably processing what you’d said, but then he nods.

“Of course, sweetheart.” He’s standing, walking to his dresser and pulling out a classic pair of blue checkered boxers, gently placing them in your hand and sending you off with a kiss to your forehead.

When you’re back into the bathroom and slipping the boxers on, you realize that you could’ve searched for a better fit pair of panties in your bag. But the idea seems so draining, and you wanted to feel closer to Steve, so you pull the boxers up, roll the elastic band once to show the brand name, and throw Steve’s sweatshirt over your torso to complete it.

He’s waiting for you outside of the bathroom door, and takes your hand when you close the door behind you. He leads you downstairs to the kitchen, where he gestures for you to take a seat at the island.

The smell of tomato soup soothes you. Your head finds the granite of the counter, content with the chill of the rock slab against your warm cheek. Your eyes close and they don’t open again until a hand shakes you awake, and the smell of a grilled cheese has joined the tomatoes.

“Here. It’s hot, so eat slowly,” Steve instructs you, sliding a plate and a bowl into your line of sight.

You mumble out a ‘thanks’ and slowly devour the small meal your boyfriend has made you.

Just a half hour later, your back is pressed against Steve’s chest. You’d shed the sweatshirt you wore, your naked top half tucked under Steve’s duvet. He’d gotten rid of his shirt, too, so you feel the warmth of his skin at your back.

Sleep has you in its grasp, tight and comforting. But you leave it every so often, unwillingly opening your eyes to find the same bedroom each time.

Except twice. Once, you wake when Steve leaves your back. Another time, you think you hear the phone ringing, not far but dulled behind the thick wood of Steve’s bedroom door. You don’t have time to think of it, and your eyes close once again when the sound of Steve’s breathing returns to act as your white noise.

The haze of the morning has made you forget your predicament.

You’re smiling, giggling, moaning.

The sun slips through the peeled back curtain, sprawls out over your bare skin, warms your body, starting from the outside and working into your muscles and bones.

Steve’s fingers work you open slowly, he curls them in just the right way, knowing when to do so. Your back arches, your legs spread more to let him in.

“Wanna feel you, Steve. I’ve missed you so much.” you whisper in the silent, still bliss of the beginnings of the day.

You feel his lips on your shoulder. They trail to your collarbone, come to the center of your throat where he mumbles against your skin, “Missed you too.”

You feel his thumb slide up the exposed center of your cunt and push your clit. You mewl and the sound melts into a gasp.

“Will you let me feel you? Please?” Steve’s lips trail down from your throat to the center of your chest. He presses at least five kisses there, and then you feel the sharpness of his chin graze your skin as he looks up. Your eyes find him, and you smile softly, suddenly feeling small under his admiring gaze.

“How could I ever deny you?” he says to himself.

One corner of your lips pulls up higher than the other, and you bring your sleep-weighted hand to his hair, tucking away a few strands of hair that came loose behind his ear. They fall out of place again but even the position that it settles in looks purposeful.

“You can’t,” you whisper in a response.

Steve acts fast then. He pulls his fingers out of you, sticks them into his mouth and sucks them clean. He rolls away from you just to kick his boxers off, and then finds his place once more, a hand pushing into the pillow beside your ear and the other holding his cock at the base, aligning himself with your entrance.

Slowly, exhibiting patience that must have been newly acquired, Steve sinks into you. His head stretches you out, and you have a moment of peace before you’re being stretched open once again. It’s been so long since you’ve had Steve, and it seems that your body has reverted as your muscles are straining against him.

Your back arches as a small gasp leaves your lips, and you’re accidentally pulled away from him.

“Stay still, sweetheart,” Steve urges, his now free hand coming to cup your hip. You do as told, although it doesn’t come easy.

Steve barely gives you a moment to rest. Within the time that he’s fully sunken into you, he’s already moving, giving you shallow thrusts that bring him to the hilt each time.

Quickly, you adjust, and your hisses turn into soft gasps. Your hands grab onto Steve’s sides. They slide up and around, until you’re holding onto his shoulders from behind, nails just beginning to scratch and scrape along the still-tanned skin of his back.

Steve’s head nuzzles into the crook of your neck. You feel his breaths on your skin, and then his lips. They trail up until he’s right beside your ear. “That feel good?” he asks you, voice low.

You nod. “Feels so good, Steve.” His rocks are slow, but hard. The force of them pushes you up the bed each time, and eventually, you start to meet him, pushing yourself down in time that he pushes up, taking his thrust and delivering your own at once.

Steve catches on quickly and he groans, the sound sending chills along your arms. “I’m supposed to be doing the work.”

You chuckle a little. “Can’t help but help.” It barely makes sense, but your brain is equally muddled from sleep and Steve fucking you.

He doesn’t complain anymore because you’re starting to grind, pushing and twirling your hips in a way that makes Steve almost growl. You feel his lips part as he bares his teeth, biting down onto your neck just enough to make you aware. It acts as a warning, and Steve’s words solidify it.

“Lemme do the work. Wanna make you feel good.” His hand on your hip pinches you with just the pads of his fingers. He flattens it out and runs his hand along your thigh before trailing it back up to your stomach where he sprawls his fingers out and presses onto your lower abdomen as he thrusts up into you.

Your breath is shaky so you nod instead. But knowing how much Steve loved verbal affirmation, you tried your best to respond.

“Okay.” It’s simple, but it works.

Steve pulls his head out of the crook of your neck to fully face you.

His hair falls onto his forehead, and his jaw is getting more and more slack with each of his own thrusts. You can still see the sleep that has yet to be rubbed off in his eyes. His undereyes are darker than they usually are and the sight makes you pout. Your hand comes up to cradle his face, just so you can press a kiss to his nose and then his lips.

Steve chases you down, refusing to let you get far from him in favor of pressing his lips to yours in a proper kiss. Your lips move sloppily together, spit swapped and teeth clack entirely too much. Neither of you care.

The hand that was on your abdomen has moved its way up to one of your tits where he spreads his thumb and forefinger apart just enough to fit your nipple between them. When he clamps them back together, your nipple gets pinched between his digits. It's a delicious pain, one that has the heels of your feet pressing into the top of Steve’s ass and your hands gripping the crisp sheets on his bed.

The moan you let out is low, and long. You’re louder than intended, but you don’t care. You guys have the house to yourselves, afterall.

When your back arches this time, it doesn’t matter that you’re pulled away from Steve, he pulls you back down. He doesn’t let you go too far, no matter what.

You can feel the trimmed hair that sits at the base of his cock against your mound with each of his thrusts. The layer of sweat that gathers on his skin mixes with the sweat on yours. You don’t know if what you feel between your thighs is your own slick, or sweat, but it gathers along your skin and drips onto Steve’s sheets.

They were clean when you got here last night, and you just barely feel bad for dirtying them up. But the only thing you could really feel was the pleasure that Steve was giving you.

His thumb finds your eyebrow, and he runs the pad of it along the sparse hairs. He presses his lips between them before he presses his forehead to yours as his hand slides up one last time, blindly searches for yours. When he finds it, he interlaces your fingers together and presses your hand into the pillow beside your head.

His nose rubs against yours and you feel his lips move on yours as he speaks. “You’re so pretty. So gorgeous. I don’t know how you’re mine. I love you so much. You have no idea, sweetheart. You’re mine. Okay? I’m gonna put a ring on this finger and officially make you mine, okay?”

You’re nodding frantically, movements miniscule as you fear that you’ll push Steve’s head off of yours. You call his name between gasps, continuing when he hums. “I’m so close. Please make me cum, Steve.”

He presses his lips to yours one final time and lifts himself up from you completely. He peels yours legs off of his hips with both hands, and throws them over his shoulders. One of his hands holds onto your knee, and the other finds the gummy button of your clit.

His hips speed up, thrusts shallow as he pushes you towards your high. “You got it, baby. Let go. I’ve got you.” All of his fingers but his thumb situates itself against your mound, while his thumb rubs tight circles along your clit.

It’s soon after that you cum, your back arching, breasts facing the heavens. Your jaw drops, and your eyes shut as you ride the high that Steve operates.

He’s kissing the skin of your leg that’s beside his head, but you can only feel the thick cloud of euphoria that you haven’t made it through yet.

Once you make it through, finally reaching the other end and opening your eyes to see Steve, he’s just two thrusts out from spilling into you. The warm spurts that make itself at home inside of you causes you to clamp down onto Steve’s cock, and he moans, high and breathy and the sound is so fucking hot that you almost have enough in you to go for another round.

You’re sure that you and Steve would have.

If it wasn’t for the loud slam of the door downstairs.

You watch Steve’s head whirr around to face his open bedroom door.

“Steve?” Your voice is a low whisper, as is Steve’s.

“Yeah?” His head still faces the door.

“You locked the front door last night, right?” He hesitates. All other sound inside the house has stilled, only the soft breaths coming from you and Steve are heard.

Eventually, he stammers out, “I think so.”

You don’t mean to whimper. The scared, little sound just slips past your lips, and you clamp them down immediately after. The damage is already done. Steve is already alarmed.

“Stay right here.” He turns back to you and presses a fleeting kiss to your forehead. You know it’s just chaste because he’s in a hurry, but a bit of finality feels like it’s behind it and you’re shaking your head.

Your hand circles around Steve’s bicep. “I’m going with you.”

“No, you’re not. Just–” He holds a hand out in front of you. “Stay right here. And I’ll be back. I promise.”

There’s no point in arguing. You let Steve slip out of you, watch him pull on his pair of boxers, and pad out of the bedroom as silently as he can with his spiked baseball bat in his hands.

As soon as he rounded the corner, you reach over and find the sweatshirt you wore the night before. You slip it over you, and then pull the boxers you wore the night before over your legs. As you sit up, you can already feel Steve’s cum start to trickle out of you. You didn’t have time to do anything other than use the loose fabric of the blue checkered boxers to stop the trail.

You moved as silently as you could to the door frame, tip-toeing around the creak that you knew was there, and made your way to the staircase. Once there, you stopped with your back to the wall, and tried to silence your breathing so you could hear.

“Hello?” Steve was saying. You couldn’t hear his footsteps, but the way that his voice traveled told you that he was moving about.

He repeated himself a few times, and your eyes were already searching for something to defend yourself.

They’d landed on the cigarette tray whenever Steve yelped.

You were already moving into action, leaping towards the accent table and fingers pressing into the heavy glass of the ashtray. But then you heard a familiar voice.

“Steve, honey, it’s just me.” Mrs. Harrington.

Sharon Harrington.

You let go of the ashtray and pressed both of your hands into the wood of the table instead. Your head dropped as you let out the large breath you’d been holding. Air returned to your lungs, and rationale returned to your brain.

Steve and his mom were talking downstairs as you decided to join them.

Your feet slap against the carpet and then tile as you make your way into the kitchen to greet Sharon. She smiles when she sees you, her face lighting up as her arms spread.

“It’s so nice to see you.” Her voice is genuine as she squishes you to her, her arms tight around you.

“Have you been doing alright?” Her jaw moves as she asks you, pressing into the tense muscles along your shoulders.

You nod.

“I’ve been okay.”

She pulls out of the hug but holds you at an arm's length, a somber and knowing smile on her face. It makes your eyes water, but you blink a few times and the tears are gone.

“It’s good for you to be on your guard, Steven,” Sharon is suddenly serious as she levels her gaze onto her son. “Especially since there’s been another murder.”

Your heart drops. Any air you’d been capable of consuming thus far leaves your chest again. Your hands get clammy, and you feel like you’re reliving the previous night over again. Yet ten times worse.

“When?” you find yourself asking.

“Sometime last night. The police announced it this morning. Almost right as we landed.”

Your head throbs, your eyes blur, and you begin to shake. When Steve’s hand finds your shoulder, you flinch. The movement comes about accidentally, and you instantly flood with embarrassment once you settle and realize it was only your boyfriend's touch.

Sharon looks at you sympathetically. There’s a tense moment before she speaks again. “Kevin and I were thinking we take you two out for breakfast.”

You understand what she’s telling you and nod, thankful for something else to do and think about.

“I’ll go shower and be ready in about a half hour.” Your voice sounds far away when you speak, as if it’s not even coming from you.

Steve follows you out of the kitchen and into the bathroom.

He turns the shower on and lifts your clothes off of you. You go about your shower routine in a catatonic state, rubbing body wash into your skin and passing the bottle to Steve.

His touch is constant.

You welcome his presence behind you.

The diner’s cold.

You bring Steve’s sweatshirt inside just in case, and you’re glad that you did so once Steve picks a spot and you immediately feel as if your body temperature dropped 8 degrees.

You’re pulling the fabric over your head, and just barely crowning through it, when you feel someone sit beside you.

“Am I late?” Eddie Munson says. You know his voice with the sweatshirt covering your face.

You get it pulled down, and don’t even bother adjusting it to sit on your torso completely before you’re throwing your arms around Eddie’s frame.

He feels mostly the same as he did a few years ago when you last saw him, just a bit sturdier. He’s gotten buffer, maybe?

You feel the added muscles under your hands that press against his back and shoulders.

“Woah,” Eddie exclaims, but his initial shock is pushed to the side in favor of clumsily throwing his arms around you, hooking them around your waist. “Nice to see you two, bug.” The nickname he has for you is the same too, apparently. Even the fond tone that he uses is still there.

When you peel away from Eddie, you keep your hands on his shoulders, wanting to get a good look at him but not daring to let him get away.

You don’t say much while you give Eddie a long once over. When you finish taking in his features, noticing that he looks the same save for a few wrinkles added to the corners of his eyes and the splotches of oil smudged along his jaw and neck, you give him a soft, “Hi,” in greeting.

“Hey.” His lips pull into a small smile and that despair, that emptiness and that sunken feeling you had before, they melt away. Not completely. But looking over to Steve, seeing the happy and satisfied look he has on his face, and looking over to Eddie, and seeing how delighted and proud he looks, makes those feelings melt away substantially.

Eddie throws his arm across the back of the booth and scoots just a little bit closer. You’re comfortable enough to move yourself towards him, just until his knee is almost touching yours.

You’re warm.

The waitress comes back with a drink for you and Steve, and she offers to take Eddie’s order when she sees that he’s joined. He orders coke, and a double cheeseburger with extra fries, explaining that he’s had a long day at work.

Your stomach growls as he speaks, and you regret the modest salad you’d lazily ordered when you and Steve got here. When you first sat on the vinyl seats, you thought you were still full from breakfast with Steve’s parents. The conversation, and overpriced food, you had with the three of them was sure to keep your appetite suppressed for the rest of the day. But just hearing about Eddie’s food has you forcing down a moan and pressing your hand over your stomach to stifle the sounds.

It doesn’t work. Eddie hears and chuckles.

“I’ll give you some of mine.”

You nod, suddenly feeling small under both of their gazes. When your eyes lift and find Steve’s, he has a glint in them. One you know all too well. Your gaze finds the table once again.

“So,” Eddie starts. “What’ve you two lovebirds been up to?” Neither you or Steve answer, so Eddie focuses the conversation on just you.

“How’s college going? Made any groundbreaking discoveries? Ya making me proud?”

God, the effect that Eddie has on you is embarrassing, and known by all three of you.

He’s asked you a simple question, one you got from your relatives all the time, yet you’re squirming under his gaze and shifting in your seat.

“It’s okay. Just a little bit stressful for now.” You wrap your lips around the straw that sticks out of your cup and take a long sip of water. It chills your throat, and you thankfully sigh as you lean against the back of the booth once more.

“You start your major next year, right?” You nod.

“‘Atta girl.”

“So,” Steve leans his elbows onto the table. “My parents are going out tonight with some friends. They won’t be home for a while. So I was thinking…” Steve trails off but it doesn’t take a genius to understand what he’s suggesting.

Eddie drums his hands on his thighs excitedly. “A little hot tub action?” he asks, his head tilting to the side and lips pulling up into a large smile.

Steve glances at you, his eyebrows raised expectedly. “What’d you say?”

You take a second to think. You don’t know if you’re up to hanging out tonight. All of this is starting to take a toll on your psyche and you’re on the brink of crashing. But two men provide more protection than one, and you’re starting to feel less and less safe in the town that’s supposed to make you feel welcomed.

So, with the thought of the serial killer in the back of your mind, you nod.

“Okay.”

🏷️ @jadeylovesmarvelxo @sammararaven @heyndrix @peaches-and-plums-motherfck-blog @eddies-van86 @manuosorioh @thekebs @marisurmommy @blairscott @shinysam29 @socket-seahorse-blog

#everybodyscream!#stranger things au #scream au #steve harrington x reader #eddie munson x reader #steve harrington smut #eddie munson smut #stranger things #celeste writes st

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yes-i-am-a-sinner · 2 years

Text

“GET OUT OF WORK”FREE CARD

(Nanami x black!reader)

inspired by this tiktok

Your phone rings with a FaceTime call, but it’s stuck at the bottom of your purse. Your husband, Namami Kento, keeps telling you to stop doing that because people are crazy in this day and age. He just wants his wife safe.

Finally reaching the phone, you hurry and swipe right before you miss the call.

“Hey baby—” You smile at him.

“Why did it take you so long to answer?”

Before you could even get a word out, he cuts you off.

“—You know what? Never mind.”

And that’s completely fine with you. You want to avoid another lecture about the dangers of your phone being at the bottom of you bag. You know, but old habits die hard.

Nanami starts speaking again, bringing you back to the conversation.

“In about 15 minutes, you’re going to call me, okay? You’re going to call me and I’m going to say that Gojo wants me to stay for whatever reason. You’re going to yell as loud as you can at me,”

This again? Your husband is a riot. Always using you as an excuse to avoid overtime or working with Gojo.

“—and say that I can’t stay overtime, I can’t do anything, I need to be home right now, okay? You’re going to sound really angry.”

Honestly, it’s a good thing he’s not focused on your face because you are trying your absolute hardest not to laugh. The lengths your husband goes through to avoid overtime or social interaction in general never fails to crack you up.

There’s a laugh stuck in your throat, “You know you can just say no? I don’t know why you’re bringing me into this.”

Nanami pushes his glasses up with a heavy sigh, “Do this one thing. This one thing I’ve asked you to do. I don’t ask you to do anything. If you could just pull this one thing out of a hat for me.”

“Yeah, okay.” You resigned with an eyeroll.

“Thank you, thank you. Damn.”

“What was that?”

“Nothing, doll. I appreciate you.”

“Mmhm. I bet that’s what yo ass said, Kento.”

With eyes full of mirth he smirks, “I love you, darling.”

“I love you too.”

With that, you hang up and wait 15 minutes to start the show. You hurry and drive back home. The last thing you want to do is be out here yelling in public. When you get home, you toe off your shoes and slide on your slippers. You make yourself comfortable and click Nanami’s name.

Back at work, Nanami’s phone rings and he answers it.

“Hey, baby—“

“NANAMI FUCKING KENTO! I DO NOT UNDERSTAND WHY YOU THINK ITS OKAY TO WORK THESE LONG HOURS! YOU SAID YOU WILL BE HOME AT 6:15! WHAT TIME IS IT?”

“—6”

“6 FUCKING 45. NOT ONLY AM I YOUR WIFE, I’M YOUR PREGNANT WIFE! KENTO IF YOU KEEP PLAYING WITH ME, I WILL COME UP TO YOUR JOB AND SHOW YOU WHO YOU PLAYING WITH! Bring back some ice cream on your way back! Hugs and kisses, baby!”

Nanami’s phone makes the disconnect beep and Gojo nosey as ever throws his arm around Nanami.

“Ah, Nanamin! Sounds like you should be getting back home to the misses!”

Finally Nanami groaned in his head. He packs his case and pushes up his glasses. He barely spares Gojo a glance as he whines pitifully in the background as Nanami ignores him.

Nanami didn’t know if you were serious about the ice cream, but he stopped and grabbed you some on his way home.

After making it home, he finds you in the living room on your phone. He bends down to great you with a kiss and sits beside you.

“Was that good?” You push a stray curl/coil out of your face.

“It was perfect.” As Nanami says this, he can’t help but admire you. The way each curl/coil twists into bouncy spirals, the way the melanin in your skin looks good in all lighting. He adores you so much.

“You know, darling? Saying you’re pregnant was the perfect lie that I needed. I’ll never have to stay overtime for a while.”

Still looking at your phone, “Who said I was lying?”

Nanami gets quiet. He fully turns his body towards you and he grabs your cheeks with both of his hands.

“Seriously?”

You nod your head and Nanami lights up with the softest smile you’ve ever seen. Still holding your face, he leans in to kiss you.

His coworkers may think you’re mean, but seeing your husband’s reaction was worth it.

(yes, y’all did eat the ice cream after)

#jujustu kaisen #jjk #jujutsu kaisen x poc reader #jujutsu kaisen x black reader #black!reader #poc!reader #nanami x black!reader #jjk nanami #nanami kento #nanami x poc!reader #inspired by a tiktok #nanami imagine

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omniblades-and-stars · 20 days

Note

15. Trembling hands

🖤🖤🖤

Okay, I had a lot of feelings today and I managed to twist them into something I think. Also I got a little carried away.

Also here's this song that put me in my feelings this afternoon:

Her Hands Were Shaking

Her hands were shaking.

Well, all of her was shaking, trembling. Somewhere in the utter dark, halfway off the mortal coil, she laid beneath the rubble, dying very slowly. She drifted in and out of consciousness, the moments she was awake were hardly lucid, visited as she was by hallucinations in the dark. But then the wreckage started to move, and the shot of adrenaline that sent through her heart set all of her muscles on fire.

It wasn't until familiar, armored hands wrapped around her and hoisted her out of the rubble and broken glass that she'd resigned herself to becoming a part of for what little remained of her life that she believed what was happening. It seemed impossible. But the one person more stubborn than she was found and dragged her carcass out of the rubble.

She hated him for it then. Jane tried to tell him to fuck off and let the dead get some goddamn rest. She'd done what she had been brought back to do, was it so much to ask that she get a permanent vacation?

But all that came out was a pitiful whimper, a cry of pain and desolation. She lost consciousness again before she could curse at him and whoever else refused to just let her go in peace.

Her hands were shaking.

Panting, the world came into focus slowly, machines screamed and beeped. Hands were on her, panicked voices spoke words she couldn't understand yet. Jane had a creeping sense of dèjá vu, like she'd done exactly this before, but the memory was too far away for her to really understand.

Raw fear built and she tried to sit up, she needed to leave. She didn't know where she was, she didn't even know who she was but she knew everything was wrong.

A different hand squeezed hers. “Go back to sleep, Shepard,” he broke through the panic in the room and in her brain. The world grew bleary and unfocused again, and she forgot it even happened.

When she woke up again, still connected to so many machines the electric buzzing from the power supplies threatened to overwhelm her, he was still there. Sitting in a shitty foldout chair in what little room there was in between all of the medical equipment. Shepard groaned, “I must be in hell if I'm in a hospital and you're here.” She tried to smile but every part of her felt like it was on fire, a pained grimace curled at her lips instead.

He rolled his eyes, leaning forward with one arm propped on his knee, “Hell'd be more entertaining. Think this must be goddamn purgatory. Watching you take a weeks-long nap was about to bore me to tears, some of us have work to do, you know?”

“What are you doing here, Zaeed?” Her voice was changed, raspy, dry, and weakened. She felt small, listless. Shifting her head took a gargantuan effort, like a newborn baby unable to hold up its own head.

“Someone had to keep the vultures and boot-lickers away,” he said quietly and looked down at his feet.

Shepard closed her eyes. “Sure,” she said just before drifting off to sleep again.

Her hands trembled, covered in pine needles and bile, as she tried to push herself back up. Tears streaked down her cheeks, and she wretched again. She didn't know where she was. Jane had been running towards the beam desperate to end the invasion, when she'd tripped and fell, hitting her head. There were trees all around her now. Blood was in her eyes.

Intentional footsteps snapped twigs, and crunched through dried leaves. “Coming up behind you, Janey,” he warned her just above a whisper. He crouched next to her, examining her face without touching her, concern knitted in his brow. “Do you know where you are?”

“No,” she cried pitifully. Her hand slipped out from under her weight, his were there to catch her before she ate dirt again.

Zaeed wiped the grime off on his pants before brushing hair off of her face so he could look at the cut above her eye. “Middle of nowhere, West Virginia so you can get some peace. Reapers are dead, you fucking dropped them out of the sky.”

Her head hurt so bad, but after a few quiet minutes of trying to pace her breathing with his, she was able to put the pieces back together. It had been months since the hospital. They'd never even really talked about whatever … this was, but in the aftermath of the near end of the world, they hadn't been able to part ways. “From you, that sounds like hero worship,” she said trying to crack a joke. She couldn't mask the trembling in her voice, the anxiety in wide, panicked eyes.

“If I wanted to kiss your ass, Shepard, I'd just pucker up and do it,” he shook his head and helped her up. “Let's get you cleaned up, Jane. I've seen enough of your blood to last a lifetime.”

Her hands were shaking, but they found their home held in ones that were steady.

#daisy screaming into the void #this is my ask game tag now #whatever i'm allowed to have post destroy ending feelings about these guys

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blimbosworlddd · 5 months

Text

Nirvana: A Rock Lee Fic (Chapter 3)

Summary: Your dating life is terrible. Your friends’ marriage is fantastic. Your career as a medic is doing great, though. But you aren’t happy. However, after one quick trip to the Mighty Rock Dojo, you stumble upon the most magnificent man you’ve ever met- the taijutsu master- Rock Lee.

Notes: slow burn fic, afab/fem/black reader.

Warnings: Mentions of sex, (light) descriptions of blood and violence, usage of the N word. The reader and Lee are in their 20s but virtually any age group that is 18 and up can enjoy this story. Again 18+, minors do not interact… pls.

Word count: 4.49k

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 4 Chapter 5

BEEP BEEP BEEP

BEEP BE-

You snatch your phone and squeeze its power button as if trying to choke it dead, tossing it back on your nightstand with your face still buried in your Sanrio plushies. You slowly turn your body to lie on your back, rubbing your eyes resentfully while feeling the morning darkness threaten you back to sleep. To your dismay, your sight finally adjusts and you force yourself to sit up. Your mood was always hellish after a deep or shitty slumber, and the placelessness of your home wasn't doing much to alleviate that; your room was messy - bags of random shit on the floor, small containers full of trash, neglected dishes in strange areas. And yet there was no real personality to your room; no posters, no vibrant colors, the Kuromi and My Melody pillows you bought just seemed like a lazy attempt at decorating such a boring space. Even the smell of your room consists simply of old hand-me-downs and stale food. But you had no energy to change that. Especially not on a work day.

If it weren't for Lee driving you home last night you’d be hurting even more than you already are. You walk into your bathroom and turn your sink faucet, wondering what his morning routine consists of. He always seems so put together and disciplined- you never see him in a low mood besides the time he thought he was weirding you out. Which gave you a warm, tingly feeling inside. You brush your teeth, take a shower, do your skincare, and decide to put on a purple nursing uniform - you want to feel regal today. Sliding off your bonnet, you neaten the coils of your hair with a basic style and a couple of decorative jewels you bought from the beauty supply.

You only prepare cereal for breakfast, just need to put something in your stomach before taking your meds and vitamins. Your entire apartment is silent, aside from the subtle crunching as you chew, and the tick-tocking of your vintage clock - which never tells the right time. The lighting of your kitchen is dull and old, and the cracked white paint coating the walls threatens to peel with every passing second. You wash your bowl and spoon after eating. You hate taking pills because they almost always get stuck in your throat. But you need them, at least that's what your psychiatrist says. That's what your family says, what the internet says.

You head to the living room and put on your coat (the news says the temperature will drop), carry your other necessities for the day, and lock your front door behind you. The train you take to work is a couple of blocks away, and as you walk there you shut your mouth to keep your teeth from clattering.

“Shit,” you hiss, watching your breath frost in the air as you dig your fists in the cotton of your pockets. You would’ve asked Shika to drive you to the senior home but he’s already working in his office, and you just didn't wanna spend too much of your precious money on an Uber. Plus… you need the exercise?

💚

It's been a month since you and Lee first met. He’s training his disciples with Neji right now; both of them stroll together while monitoring the men who stand on their hands instead of their legs, descending and rising with every push-up. They were quiet like trees, anyone could see the almost agonizing dedication mold the contours of their muscles as they lift their bodies. Lee never failed to catch how your widening eyes would ogle his profession - his passion - with pure adoration. You’d cheer on his students when they duel and support the ones who struggle or are insecure with their craft. And your medical skills just never disappoint, you love to heal.

“Thank you for assisting me on your day off, Neji. I know how busy life gets.” Lee says, scratching the back of his head while watching for any signs of faltering performances.

Neji nods with a quiet scoff. “You know I'll always have room for taijutsu, and you’re family.” He folds his hands behind his back. “How’s the dojo?”

Lee’s eyes light aflame. “It’s never been better! More people are attending after y/n joined.”

“Ah…yes, I never got to properly thank her for her treatment. It was excellent.” Neji tilted his head up, dwelling on the patches he had removed a couple weeks ago.

“I know, right? Members who didn't visit often started coming every week just to see her. She teaches such great things.”

Neji hums with acknowledgment. “You should tell her that. Maybe during dinner?”’

Lee looks down at the matted floor, eyes frowning with a lopsided smile. He grips his nape with a chuckle.

“Hehe, I dunno. She seems hella busy.”

Neji scowls, his long locks swaying to the shake of his head. “Everyone’s busy. Don’t let that stop you from having fun.”

Lee sighs.

“Thank you, Neji.” His hand falls to his hip. Both men ignore the growing grunts of exhaustion amongst the students.

“Plus she might be lonely. Like you.”

“I’m not!” Lee sputtered. “I have you, Guy Sensei, my students -“

A faint crack resonates in the short distance, causing them both to snap their heads at his disciples; a couple of them break their positions, resting on their knees as they gasp for air. Lee claps his hands firmly, making sure the cacophony reaches everyone’s ears.

“COME ON EVERYBODY, YOU GOT THIS!” Lee hollers mightily. “IF YOU CAN’T DO FIVE HUNDRED PUSH-UPS, THEN DO ONE THOUSAND SQUATS!”

“YES, SENSEI.” The students yell back, some landing on their feet so they can squat while others continue to push up on their hands.

Neji clears his throat. “Yes, you have us, but I saw how you looked at her. When was the last time you went on a date? You used to love meeting new people.”

Lee’s lips slowly press together while he stares down at his feet; images of him chugging bottles of liquor, fucking nameless women, neglecting his dojo, and the painful numbness of it all flash before his eyes.

“I… I was in a dark place.”

Neji turns to Lee and stops him with a hand on his shoulder, his eyes softening when he watches his friend blush in shame.

“You can still have healthy romantic and intimate relationships. Did Guy Sensei ever teach you to let your past determine your future? To let someone’s actions spoil your happiness for good?”

Lee’s round eyes wander back up in thought.

“Hmm, and yet he never let me live down the time I set his signature jumpsuit on fire trying to iron it out.”

Neji tried to smirk, but the hilariousness of that memory cracked his face with a reluctantly big smile.

“He was devastated.” Neji replies. “Wouldn't look at you until you made him another one -”

“And when he would look at me, he’d look like I hit a dog or some crap!” Lee guffaws, leaning his arm on his friend who shakes with silent laughter. This is why Lee loves his friends; they celebrate his growth, his trials and tribulations and all the work it took to get back on his feet. After that… incident. But either way, he’s blessed and grateful to have people in his life who just.. get him.

“As I was saying.” Neji clears his throat once more. “Just give yourself a try. You might be glad you did it.”

Lee sighs again.

“What are you, my guru or something?”

“Now, wouldn’t you like that?”

Both men chuckle at the thought.

💚

It's 7:30, and you’re about to wrap up your final shift by preparing Ms. Fink for bed. You’re sitting beside her while she lay on a queen-sized mattress, monitoring her blood pressure while she sips on a glass of milk you fetched for her. She lowers her cup with a grimace.

“My milk is cold.” She glares at the cuff tightening around her veiny arm. “If I drink it cold, then I can’t sleep. Go warm it up.”

Your eyes continue to scan the data for her vitals, the only thing giving away your disgust at her attitude is the subtle crease of your brows. You thank your ancestors for your professionalism because if you didn’t hold yourself to a higher standard, you’d tell her to go fuck her wrinkly face.

“I’ll do it right after I’m done recording your vitals for the night.”

You make sure to repress any natural vibrato in your tone that gives off irritation. Ms. Fink grunts an exasperated sigh, squeezing the chilled glass while frowning at the ceiling.

“I’m sorry, child. I’ve just been so stressed lately and I haven’t been getting very good sleep. Don’t mind me, the TV will help doze me off.”

You gulp, taking note of the quiet static resonating from the television framed on the wall.

“Sure.” You mumble.

You deflate the blood pressure cuff and gently unwrap it from the patient’s arm, turning it off once all the important data is saved. You email Ms. Fink’s daily medical write-off to your supervisor, Brandon, and get your shit. You open the front door, but before you leave you turn to the old lady.

“If you need anything, press the red help button to your right. Brandon is on his way. Sleep well.”

You shut the door behind you and bounce.

Ms. Fink carefully places her glass of milk on the nightstand, eyes nearly bulge like golf balls out of her sockets with a spiteful quiver of her lip as she stares at the door you exited from.

💚

You open the door to the dojo and a bell jingles at your entrance, some eyes land on you while others continue to focus on their preoccupations. Rock Lee whips his head at your entrance, excusing himself from Neji so he can approach you. He has to remind himself to not scramble and bump people out of his way just to get to you. You can’t help but lighten up at the eagerness that he doesn’t even bother to hide. When you're both face to face, your name tumbles from his lips as if he likes how it tastes when he says it; reciting it like a sacred poem. his personal way of greeting you.

“Hi.” You nearly squeak out, trying to compose yourself at seeing his effortlessly handsome smile up close.

You shrug off your coat and tuck your scarf in its sleeve, which reminds Lee of something.

“I have something for you.” He slightly raises his open palm to you, signaling to not move. “Can you stay right here for me?”

Every time he asks something of you, he’s so polite and dignifiying - it kinda scares you. There’s a fond sweetness in the honeyed timbre of his voice that he only uses on you. And he’s nice to everyone! It feels like a spell he casts, one that you’re not immune to (yet). One that you’re not even sure he’s aware of.

“Y-Yeah, sure.”

So you stand there, watching him jog to your office. You soon meet Neji’s gaze. He smiles at you, approaching you with a calculative stride. Once you recognize him, your jaw drops a bit and your eyes light up like bulbs.

“You’re the guy I patched up on my first day here!” you point at him childishly, like a toddler who notices their favorite show airing on TV.

Neji chuckles, “Yes, I am.”

“Gee, I ain't never seen no one fight like you before.”

“Thank you…”

Neji appreciated how you didn't try to compare him to his friend or any other fighter in particular like other people in the dojo do. It’s frustrating having to listen to opinions from nobodies, at least that’s how he sees it.

“I see your wounds have fully healed.” you continue.

Neji nods. “And for that, I never got to properly thank you. You're one of the finest nurses I've ever had the pleasure of being treated by.”

“D’awww,” you coo goofily as you stare at your shoes. “I try.”

“I’m Neji, by the way. I used to train here every day with Lee until I started pursuing careers of my own.”

“Y/n.” you chirp, offering your hand for a shake. “It's nice to finally meet you.”

He reciprocates with a restrained hold, yelping when Lee nudges him out of the way to face you. Neji nudges him twice as hard and reclaims his position, side-eyeing him a glare that said “act like you got some damn sense”. You giggle at their dynamic, they reminded you of Shika and Temari.

Shika and Temari, huh?

“Here!”

You look down at Lee’s bandaged hands, presenting you with a pair of lavender cotton slippers. They look so soft and pretty; the intricate embroidery adorning the satin surface look like something royalty would wear. Where the fuck did he get these?? You glance up at him, and he stares you down with eyes that are so expectant and pure.

“These are f’me?” You deadpan with a raised brow.

“I could see, sometimes, that you like certain variants of purple. Plus the only thing protecting your feet from this god-awful floor,” he chuckles nervously, “are the socks you wear when you take off your shoes.”

You remain silent, staring back down at the gift.

“Plus you’ve done so much for us already, the least I could do is make sure you’re comfortable when you work.”

You could feel your chin tense up with a wobbly smile, threatening to quiver your bottom lip. You gently bite the plump flesh and kick your street shoes off. No one other than your own father has done something like this for you, let alone some man you’ve only known for a month. You reach for the slippers, but he reels them back.

“Allow me.”

Neji chortles at his gall, and usually you would too. But it’s happening to you. Nodding meekly, you sit down on a chair behind you. He kneels soon after, subtly caressing the meat of your calf before gently lifting it. His fingers feel so good cradling your legs like this. The outline of your feet alone is enough to show him how pretty they are. He puts your slippers on seamlessly, not even noticing that all of his students stopped practicing just to watch him give you princess treatment. Each slipper feels like a pillow, man do you feel lucky.

Couldn’t be more flattered by this act of kindness. It makes you want to grab his thin, muscular waist and hold him tight. And yet something slithers within you. It's freezing, it's isolating. It's damp, convincing and quiet. It's threatening and paralyzing and -

“Thank you,” you mumble coldly. you clear your throat and reel your legs away from him, snatching your belongings. The students create a path for you to make your way to your office. Lee and Neji watch your retreating form with widened eyes; You looked so happy at the gesture and then… you didn't.

Neji leans toward his sulking friend and whispers, “Wait till Sensei hears about this.”

Lee folds his arms protectively, raising a bushy brow at his friend’s audacity.

Your peripheral vision catches narrow lines of redness on someone’s face. You stop and track them; it's a teenage boy with a nasty scratch mark on his left cheek.

Duty calls, you think.

The teen carefully watches you walk towards him at a moderate pace.

“Why don’t I clean up that wound on your face before you go back to training? Make sure it doesn’t get infected.”

The boy obviously has his guard up; balled fists and slightly raised shoulders. He kind of reminds you of your middle school days. But ultimately, he accepts your offer with a subtle nod and pads behind you to your office.

You hang your coat on the back of your desk chair.

“Have a seat.” You quip.

He ignores your order, simply scanning the details of your room. Accepting his defiance with a shrug, for you refuse to beef with a minor, you kneel down to the cabinet below your counter and grab your first aid kit.

“I’m y/n. What’s your name?” To be honest, you were a fan of small talk. It helped you connect with people through the most awkward moments.

“…Sasuke.” The boy grumbled weakly, sounding like a car that’s trying to start but can’t. And he refuses to look at you.

You put on some disposable nitrile gloves. “How long have you been training here, Sasuke?”

Sasuke leans back on the counter and unravels his fists, staring at the mood meter poster and mattress by the wall.

“Three years.”

“Impressive!”

Sasuke’s eyes widen when he catches you getting closer to him, a damp cotton ball trapped between your fingers.

“Let me know when you’re ready.” Uneasiness radiates from his glare alone. “Just gonna clean the excess blood off first.”

The tiniest pout contorts his dry lips. “Fine,” he sighs.

You start with cleaning the blood around the abrasion, gently rubbing the cotton against his messy skin.

“This is gonna sting,” you coo.

You throw away the used cotton swabs and pour a bit of antiseptic on a new one. You dab it directly on the open wound, and as expected, he winces at the pain.

What you didn’t expect was for him to grab your wrist and yank it away from his face.

Your first thought was to call him a stupid brat and demand he clean it himself, but you remember that you’re like - a professional at this. So you take a deep breath and place your tool back on the counter.

“What can I do to make this easier for you?”

Sasuke side eyes you, finally paying attention to your frown of concern and slight frustration. Your voice is smooth and calming to his ears, which is not the response he wanted from you. But it’s not a response he dislikes either, which makes him feel bad for being difficult. So he huffs and reaches for the bag of cotton balls beside you, taking one out and soaking it with the antiseptic. He hands it to you while staring at the mood meter across from him.

“Jus’ wasn’t ready.” He mumbles apologetically.

You sigh with a small smile and accept the cotton. “Thank you, Sasuke.”

The young man endures the sharp pain of the cold, damp fabric brushing off dried blood and raw skin. But it all melts way when you dispose of the swab. You reach inside the medical kit for a wooden applicator stick, and some Neosporin.

“Rough day?” You pry as you spurt some of the antibacterial ointment on the stick.

Sasuke shuts his eyes, shoulders sagging with an almost exasperated exhale in an attempt to relieve some stress.

“Me too.” You continue, spreading the colorless cream on a wound dressing pad.

The boy fully faces you this time, a bit shocked that you perceived his body language as an answer in itself. Are you that desperate for conversation? He thinks. Or are you just good at reading people?

“Hold still please.” You order gently.

He obeys, and you successfully patch up his left cheek.

“Here,” you hand him a few more pads. “For daily replacements.”

Sasuke stares at the gift for a few long seconds before shoving it in his pocket, and slightly bows his head with gratitude. He turns around and pads to the door.

Before opening it, he speaks up with a firmer tone, “Hope your day gets better.”

He closes the door behind him, making sure you don’t get the chance to respond.

My day already is, you think - knowing damn well that boy wouldn’t have come to you for help had you not confronted him.

💚

The Mighty Rock Dojo approaches its closing; Lee rolls up the mats, Neji has already left and the final customer walks out of the door with a farewell. It’s just you and Lee now… nothing new.

Lee lets out a hearty sigh after placing all the mats in their respective areas. “Man, am I beat!”

His stomach growls, making him slouch a bit as he caresses it. “And hungry…”

You giggle at him. He revels in the sweet sound, approaching you to hear more of it.

“What's so funny?” he smirks.

“You,” you deadpan.

His tummy growls again, a bit more impatiently this time.

“…Let me take you home so I can eat.”

He talks like he’s gone tired of you, but you could hear that playfulness in his tone a mile away.

“Yeah okay,” you drawl with a shit-eating grin, stepping into your street shoes and shrugging on your coat.

The drive to your home is pretty peaceful; mileage of city lights illuminate your path, a '90s RnB classic plays in the background as you watch Lee's strong hand gracefully work the steering wheel. he reminds you of your dad in the sense that he’s so quiet when he drives while your dad can’t go a day without cursing and honking at cars swerving in front of him. It makes you smile fondly.

“How was your day?” you ask.

Lee glances at his rearview mirror in thought.

“Busy… and fun. Yes! Busy and fun.”

When he stops at a red light, he turns to you. “How was your day, sweetheart?”

With the way he called you that pet name, you could listen to him speak for hours.

“Hard,” you reply as you slouch down your seat, Looking straight ahead as your plump glossy lips pout adorably.

Lee just can’t help but smile when looking at you - marveling at how the street lights reflect off your deep complexion. How your coils shine with the obvious care and maintenance you treat them with. How your gorgeous eyes sharpen with a dedicated focus for every patient you treat. how your round cheeks puff up when you smile at something you find funny. how your face softens when you actively listen to someone. your nursing uniform doesn’t do your body much justice, but he can still make up the curves and crevices that adorn it. He swoons inwardly at how your thick thighs and hips expand when you sit. how your fat pussy lips poke through the fabric of your pants when you bend down to pick something up.

He’d treat you so, so good. Better than any man who came before him. He’d treat you so good if you’d just-

The red light turns green, and his eyes reluctantly focus back on the road.

"What has been hard about your day?” He asks.

The gentle lilt of consideration in his tone makes you want to talk about that old hag, your empty box of a home, and the fact that you hate your mind and how it perceives you...when it’s really just trying to survive. You so badly want to share all your worries. But you just shake your head in despair.

“Doing what you love isn’t always… fun…” you drawl.

Lee hums in agreement, his index finger lightly tapping the steering wheel in thought.

“Well, just know that you’re doing fantastic so far. I’m really proud of you, y/n. Just keep doing what you’re doing.”

You process his words and lean your head back as you picture patting yourself on the back. “Thank you for that, I’m proud of you too. And thanks for driving me home.”

“It's my pleasure.” he chuckles.

Lee finally pulls up in front of your apartment complex. You notice the veins on his hands protruding as he tightens his grip on the wheel, but decide to pay it no mind.

“Alrighty,” you sigh as you shift your weight to unbuckle the safety belt.

“Uhh, y/n!” Lee grunts out. “Do you have a minute?”

You raise your head to face him, giving him your full attention like he asked, and yet he feels his heart punching his chest. However, his relationship with fear is pretty healthy, he’d like to think. Lee releases the steering wheel and folds his hands. He takes a deep breath. You brace yourself for any pending embarrassment.

“I like you, a lot… And I think you like me too.”

His voice is so painfully clear in the confines of his car, that you couldn’t dissociate with any background noise if you tried. Every word was delivered with a confidence and sincerity so fierce, that it felt like a trap. You hate that it feels like some sort of trap.

“I think you like me so much, in fact, that you won’t even admit it. Like… there’s this fear you’re so desperately trying to hide from me. And I don’t know why.”

You don't blink. your eyes sting terribly but you don’t blink.

“I know we’ve only known each other for a month. but I’ve always wanted you, and I think you feel the same.”

Your eyes gloss over, and your lips descend in a frown. He’s well aware of that, but he’s not done.

“So please correct me if I’m wrong but if I’m not, I ask you this: Will you, miss y/n, go on a date with me?”

Somehow, you forgot how it felt to breathe. everything feels like it’s happening so fast but at just the right time. How is that possible? You would usually never feel that way. How is this possible? Why is your face wet with tears? Why do you feel your throat choking on a sob? Why does this man look at you like there’s nothing else in this world he would rather do than look at you? Your mind is so cold, why is he so warm? What is this heat blooming in your chest? Why aren’t these tears of despair? Why do you no longer feel like isolating in a dark room but still have this crippling urge to run?

Lee patiently waits for your answer, his face falling in empathy at how quickly you wipe your face.

As far as you’re concerned, this is all you could ask for, it’s all you’ve ever wanted; someone proving to you why they’re worthy of your time, someone stepping up and honoring the chance to treat you right. But you don’t know how this will end. You don’t know if it’s for the best. You don’t know if accepting him comes from a place of healthy liberation or gluttonous solitude. You don’t know if you’re gonna fall apart into a million pieces, just for you to be the one that spends the rest of your miserable life putting yourself back together again. You just don’t know. And it frightens the soul out of you.

… so what have you left to hide, then?

“You’re right, Lee.” You croak tentatively. “I adore everything about you… wanna be with you every day.”

He quietly croons at how simply precious you are.

You scoff, glancing at a parked car in front of you before looking back at the man who wants to claim you as his. You clear your throat.

“But I’ve been heartbroken too many fucking times to think that even matters anymore.”

Tears continue to fall down your face and you sniffle, no longer bothering to wipe them away. The man before you sighs, taking in your disheartening state.

“You’re right, it doesn’t,” Lee suggests, lowering his tone. “And neither does your past.” He leans closer to you because you just smell and look too divine.

“But it’s because you’ve got your heart broken so many fucking times, that the most grace you can give yourself is to start having requirements.”

You pause to process his words, that was the first time he’s ever cussed in front of you. It sounded like silk and sin pouring straight from his mouth. His delivery is smooth and tender, but the truth of the message is set in stone.

“Y/n, I don’t like to lead my life with a broken heart either. Please test me, because not only will I pass with flying colors,” he hooks the bottom of your chin with a gentle finger, tilting it up so you can see the deadly determination in his big, pretty eyes.

“I will make sure you forget every man who has had the luxury of having you and the utter gall to lose you.”

Your eyes widen, because what has this man gone through to be so bold? You wanna fuck him right here in his car like a whore’s rent is due. But alas, you’ve been celibate for two years, so you squeeze your hands to restrain yourself from ravaging his lips with yours.

“So now I ask you,” he prompts, teasing your bottom lip with his thumb. “What are you going to do about it?”

You close your lids to ring out any stray tears, and take a shaky breath. Because one thing you will never do, no matter how much pain you have to endure, is not be responsible for your own happiness.

“F-Fine,” your voice cracks and warbles with a whine. You nod frantically. “I’ll go on a date with you.”

Lee’s face lights up with a smile so blinding that your mouth quivers into a wobbly smile itself, almost forgetting the fierceness of his prior gaze. He’s infectious.

“Thank you for trusting me, sweetheart.”

And that was the night Lee made a promise to himself: that he would do everything your exes failed to do and more.

💚

This work belongs solely to ©️ blimbosworlddd. Do not plagiarize, steal, copy or repost. I worked very hard on this; reblogs, comments, and likes are appreciated.

#Rock Lee #Naruto #black reader #rock lee x black reader #black fem reader #fanfiction #fanfic #slow burn #slow burn romance

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