#AND POSSIBLY UGLI GRAPHICS

[trossibop]

now thats the bayern merch im talking about💪💪💪

#everything about it is wrong but in the best way possible like ive never seen sth so ugly in my life yet its perfect #its giving graphic design in my passion

[2kmps]

vampire x reader one-shot | 16.1k

story summary; you're a crime scene cleaner who happens across an advertisement for a mansion housekeeper in exchange for room and board. it's close to work, close to your university, and an easy job. the ultimate package. right away, you notice the owner's beauty as well as his eccentricities, but decide to commit to it. the spiral into depravity and debauchery begins when you're tasked with cleaning the site of a savage murder, solidifying you as a irreplaceable treasure.

story warnings; bloodplay, extreme dubcon, explicit noncon, cigarette burns, wounds inflicted on mc, implied masochism, extreme sexual sadism, hypnotism, graphic violence, gun violence, body gore, graphic details, heavy prose, unreliable narrator, religious themes, exploration of morality, obsessive + possessive behaviors, implied stalking, choking, murder, graphic depictions of crime scenes, manipulation/emotional manipulation, this entire oneshot is an allegory.

read the warnings! mdni under any circumstances! the events within this one-shot are not indicative of my personal viewpoints

thank you, @ceruleansol for the excellent proofreading.

this is a repost from my deleted blog, cardeneiv. please reblog/interact with this piece!

Another internet search bore fruit.

The image bouncing back at you from your phone had been hastily taken with a tremble in your hand, all the while launching a few too many cautious looks across your shoulder to either end of the dim, long hallway making up part of the second floor. There wasn't any particular rationale for your apprehension and busy eyes but the belief the mansion owner wouldn't be too pleased to see you taking pictures of his valuables rather than cleaning them.

That fear hadn't stopped you from reverse image searching a good couple of curiosities over the widening gap of time you had been living there.

Tonight was a Chalmette table vase displayed on a pedestal in the hall; brassy gold gilding cradled a somewhat drab white bloom that reached high and sprouted open to a hollow inside. Similar surviving articles went for thousands.

You totaled the prices of everything so far as enough to outright buy a house on the more modest side of town.

There was a daring thought that loomed in the back of your mind, an ugly little thing that told you one or two missing antiques wasn't any big deal. He wouldn't miss them, let alone even notice they were gone, because he was the strangest man you had ever met.

Four months ago, he had only ever introduced himself by the name Montague, letting an anticipatory stillness hang in the air while you waited for him to finish. He never did, handsome features lifting as his dark eyes thinned and smile inched higher. He had you in a tight handshake.

"I enjoyed reading the resume you sent in with your response to my advertisement." He had traces of an accent intact but had cleverly adapted to one more common to the area. "You're the first person I've come across wanting the room who's done that. It really stood out to me. A crime scene cleaner? Must be a difficult job."

"I know it was probably overkill, but I think this will be perfect for me." You were led to a suede armchair, his hand anchoring onto your shoulder to lower you into the seat. He sat across from you in something similar, one leg crossing. "I recently had to move out of my other place, and the university will be about an hour closer. My work won't be as far of a drive, either. I—I, uh, clean some gross stuff, so taking care of your house won't be anything."

Even after that spiel, Montague never let his smile slip. Rather, it seemed to widen as though delighted by your oversharing. He looked like a man basking in glee over a rare find, an offer he couldn't possibly turn away.

"All amenities in the house are yours." This was after he showed you to one of the rooms on the second floor: a capacious, well-dressed space behind a red door at the end of the hall. "As long as you listen to a few rules and keep things clean, we should have a very amicable... cohabitation."

You thought it was an odd choice of wording. "Okay. Well, what do I need to know?"

"No guests." It was immediate, his tone suddenly a touch edgy, razored, unyielding. "Not unless I give you explicit permission beforehand. I keep many important valuables; they're very dear to me. Also, do not invite anyone in unless I am there."

Again, odd, but it was his house.

"Sure," you said agreeably, having half the thought to write down these peculiarities of his. "What next?"

He was set on your shoulder, reaching out to pull a thin, frayed thread off of your jumper. "The downstairs—as in, the basement—is my personal space. If I need you down there, I will ask you for you to go down. You can go anywhere else in the house, on the property. None of it concerns me."

"Why the basement, though?" It felt damaging to press a question like that so early on, but you figured it was innocent enough. "This house is so big that we could be on the same floor and hardly see each other."

The muscles around his mouth twitched slightly, only once. You still noticed it. Noted: he didn't like to be questioned. "Sorry, I'm not trying to-"

"It's cold downstairs." he injected, shifting to look around the room as though taking in the newness of it as well. "I make sure it stays comfortable all year, all throughout the house, but the cold suits me best."

With how downright frosty his skin felt in that handshake earlier—on a mild day in mid-spring—you thought that explanation checked out. He must have only just come up to greet you at the front entrance.

You tried to forget the feeling. "Alright. Next?"

"Oh," he restrained an unseemly laugh, using one hand to crowd into a pocket on his dark blazer, "there is nothing else, at least nothing pertinent. It's my understanding that we're both quite busy, so this would be the current arrangement unless something changes."

What changes? You wanted to ask, thwarted to silence when he revealed some sort of silver thing pinched between his fingers with a thick handkerchief. It was a dainty-seeming contraption with chains linking several old skeleton keys at the end. The fabric he used to hold the clip concealed all of the elegant tracery that made up its shape.

"Traditionally, this is called a chatelaine. It’s something I’ve modified for you to get around the house. It’ll be easier to clean." Montague said, fast to force the mess of cold silver and chains into your palm, rubbing down his fingers with the handkerchief afterward. "The smallest key is to your room. The largest one opens the doors to go outside, so don't lose that. One of them is meant for doors in the basement—can't recall which."

He could see the wariness behind your eyes, a worrying crease forming in your brow. "This house has been around for a long time. I've just never gotten around to modernizing the locks."

Other questions came to you, but he hardly acted interested in entertaining them. You let him swivel on black soles, stopping him just as he reached the doorway.

"Why haven't other housekeepers worked out?"

Montague let his fingers rest on glazed woodwork framing the threshold, drumming out a soothing rhythm while considering an answer for all of two seconds. "In short? They couldn't follow the rules. Now, let me show you to the yard."

Afterward, the so-called cohabitation had become a seamless blend for you both. You had learned right away that Montague wasn't one for idle chatter and niceties without purpose. He had deviated from it once, on move-in day, to reassure you that the mysterious nature of your life schedule and odd hours you were called to a clean scene wouldn’t be a source of concern.

Shortly after settling your things around the house, the reason for his amenable attitude was a little more apparent. Several times a month, you would be pulled from your forensics projects to the landing at the end of the hall, piqued by fresh voices always indistinguishable at first, and folded your waist over the railing to see down.

The top of his head, hair short, impeccably styled, and ash-brown, was the first thing you noticed, followed by someone on his arm. Sometimes a woman, sometimes a man—always conventionally attractive, always utterly enraptured by him. It struck a nerve with you once or twice, finding your thoughts swimming bitterly: Of course a man who looked like him would go for types like that!

Why did he act so much differently with them than you?

He wasn't nearly as friendly and affable as he was making himself out to be.

You stopped peeking down on him after an instance where his eyes shot straight up, pinning you where you stood. He simpered at you before leading his companion away to the basement, and that was it. You never saw them leave and never bothered to ask.

Tonight was different, however, both in the way you nearly toppled the two-figure Chalmette vase off its pedestal with flighty fingers and a duster, and the echo of a scream piercing the hollow halls to you. It stayed in one spot on the first floor, luring you down the center staircase with your duster clutched to you like a sword. At that point, your heart bursting in your ears was louder than the agonized cries resonating around the corner.

You looked around, spine wrapped in dread as another scream, weak, garbled, and wet, came from the basement, and then nothing at all. It was soundless in the house. Distantly, one of the clocks mounted in the kitchen archway toned onward. You followed its beat with the shuffle of your feet.

Hello, hello? Those words clung tightly in your throat, yet you were too afraid to announce yourself like that. Still, nothing came as you slowly pulled at the basement doorknob, brass and freezing and unlocked. The stairway plunging down inside was filled with inky black, so dark you couldn't get your eyes to adjust to it.

Is everything okay down there? Hello? Hello? You ran the imaginary chatter through your mind, lips sealed but trembling during your slow descent, the path now illuminated by white glow from your phone. At the bottom, the stone stairs turned into seamless gray marble and red wetness crawling toward the soles of your slippers.

"What–" You gasped, taking a step back while flicking the flashlight higher, deeper into the basement. The vivid red puddle glistened in your light, widening around a motionless figure with pale skin—a blonde woman you didn't know. Her face pointed up at the ceiling, twisted in terror, black tracks of mascara curving along her cheeks.

She was naked on the floor, surrounded by her own blood, something you didn't have to look at twice. Your breaths grew harsh, taking in the sight of her neck, or lack thereof; there wasn't much left of it. Only a few stringy bits of sinew and muscle kept it from a full decapitation, and blood still pulsed out in spurts from mangled arteries and veins.

A motion nearby made your nape prickle. It was like feet padding across wet pavement after a fresh rain, except this smell carried the malodor of rust and something sour under your nose.

You settled a pillar of light on the source, capturing the view of Montague standing amid the bloodbath, sickly skin bare and saturated in rich crimson.

Something was wrong with him, came an instantaneous, instinctual reaction the moment his head spun toward you, catching pale eyeshine in the white light.

The bones in his jaw cracked as the length of it began to recede into the semblance of something more man to you, rows of jagged teeth retracting into the depths of his throat until only a pair of long incisors remained.

Montague skimmed the tip of his tongue along his lower lip, smiling at you affectedly, saying as though it were some trife thing, "She started screaming."

You were gone and out of the basement after that, clearing the woman's body and kicking away the slippers on your feet when they squelched with blood. Montague said something after you when shrieks ripped out of your lungs and reverberated through the house. You winced as the basement door let out a hollow rattle when he collided with it, heart matching the rhythm of the skin on your feet slapping against old marble, thoughts disarrayed, frantic the closer you got to the front door.

Almost there. Almost there. Almost there. Oh God! Oh God! Oh God! You were panting in unison with the vicious chants.

The doorknob was in your hand. The door was open—and it was thrown shut with the force of your body thrust against it, fingers wrenched off of the handle and enveloped in Montague's cold fingers as he pushed himself flush into you.

You felt his palm clamp around your mouth, whittling your screams into panicked whimpers, nostrils flaring with your ragged breaths.

"Ah, no, no." He had to stoop his neck to talk into your ears. "Shh, shh, shhh. Far too loud. I don't like screaming. Shh, shh, shhhh."

Tears seared red behind your eyes, making you think you could follow the warmth down your face as they filled the crevices in his hand. "It's really, truly a pity. She was a pretty one but far too smart. I'm usually decent at picking out the ones who wouldn't suspect anything or, at least, catching them before they try to scream.

"You'll have to forgive me. I swear to you I'm not ordinarily that messy. I prefer to keep everything tidy, especially so you don't have to go down there. After all, you're already so busy. You're already doing so much. I can't recall when I last saw you relax."

The weight of his palm softened, a wordless agreement that you honored with continued silence as he used that arm to lean against the door. His voice shifted around your head to your other ear. "That's it. Just wonderful. There's no need for screaming, is there? It's only the two of us."

"Are—are..." You couldn't get it out, lips and throat suddenly sucked dry. "Don't kill me, please. Please. Please."

His chest quaked while a subdued, eerily delighted laugh hissed through his lips. "Kill you? Oh, no, no, no. Never. How could I ever kill you when you're so remarkable? My home has never looked so beautiful and lived in. I'm enjoying how it looks with you in it."

You wilted away from his lips sinking to a spot below your ear, now taking far too much notice of his erection curving up along your lower back. It felt disgustingly wrong to wonder whether the violence and blood turned him on, or it was you and your fear. The man wasn't even human; that much was clear.

"What are you?" There was no shortage of daring questions in your arsenal. Montague was beginning to find the charm in them.

"That's quite difficult for me to answer." He let his chin lay on your shoulder. "I've been called many things over the centuries. I suppose the closest anyone has ever gotten is vampire, but even that's not quite right. You're free to guess as much as you'd like, though."

He was satisfied when you didn't, freeing the weight off of his arm to slide his hand under the hem of your shirt, fingertips still slick with that woman's blood as he explored your navel. You were too aware of the roundness of his fingernails stepping across your flesh, sometimes pressing deep, and other times a light touch you needed to scratch. His throat vibrated against your shoulder.

"What are you thinking? I'd love to hear it." He wanted to devour your fear in more ways than just feeling you wince. "Well? Tell me."

"I want to go." Go? Where could you possibly go that he couldn’t find you? If he ripped out the side of a woman's neck, he could track you down.

He leaned his cheek into your ear again, relishing the warmth that spread into him. "Where would you go? Who would you tell? Humor me, where is the first place you'd go?"

"The police," you said.

Montague let out a pleased hum. "Of course. It only makes sense to report a terrible scene such as that to them. Forensics and the police play together often, don't they?"

Your nod was weak.

"I know how hard you've been studying, how much stress you're under to commit to your degree, your work—to me." His hand crept along to your stomach, fingers splaying wide across the protective layer of skin and fat. "Let's say they were to find something I left behind. Who becomes a suspect in their eyes when they learn that I have someone who tidies up after me? Who knows the dirty insides of cleaning up anything and everything?"

You were starting to panic, fitfully struggling against his body. It's like he was made of stone. "They wouldn't accuse me of murdering anyone."

"Haven't you seen the news lately? Are you so sure?" he said derisively. "No, perhaps you're right. Maybe you'd be fortunate, and they wouldn't have your head for murder, but they would certainly try to peg you with something else. As an accomplice, maybe? And that's assuming that I don't disappear and let rip you apart.

"Can you imagine it? Can you feel your heart break at the very thought of losing it all? Your degree? Your job? Safety? The world is cruel, darling. You'd never have another moment of peace or anonymity. Anywhere you'd go, you'd be found, every alias sullied with your sins. All because you decided to speak up about it."

You knew he meant to send you downstairs to do something about the mess, spend hours scrubbing and mopping until what had once been there was a secret that thickened your tongue and made it hard to swallow.

No one would ever find out, but you would carry it in every waking thought until, one morning, the cute barista on Market Street had an eerie semblance to that dead woman, and the light roast in your hand suddenly looked so red.

"Thump. Thump. Thump." Montague mocked the heavy thrum of your heart behind your ribs, his cold fingers skimming your nipples before resting over your sternum. "You can go if you'd like, but I'll find you. I'll hear your little heart until it bursts and drag you right back here. You're mine."

The push of his body gradually faded away, giving your chest the room to expand, leaving you to gulp quivering, greedy breaths that didn't stop even as the pads of his feet grew distant.

He called back to you, "Give me ten minutes or so, and then come down."

You were already partway through the front door with your car keys to pop the trunk when, floating like a spectre's moans in still night air, his voice reached out once more, "You may want to clean up yourself first. You have blood all over your face."

༺ ♰ ༻

A damp towel came before your descent back into the basement. In tow on your shoulders were three bags of absorbent, the fancy stuff hospitals liked to use to throw on puke and piss and anything else they just lazily wanted to sweep around. It worked for blood in smaller quantities, blood that was still wet, anyway.

The woman hadn't been dead long enough for her body fluids to dry, so you didn't anticipate needing anything except the basics stowed in your car trunk.

You weren't sure what you expected to see down there, noticing the lights were turned on high, fully illuminating the gray marble, the furthest reaches of the blood puddle with your slippers saturated dark red and ruined. What came as a shock was the woman's dead eyes and shredded neck being nowhere in sight.

Montague had moved her body but to where?

For some reason, you were drawn to ridiculous spots like the walls, ceiling, and tiny cramped corners that he could have feasibly stuffed her in. There was no sickly trail of blood leading any which way, droplets only reaching as far as the stairs and first landing where you had been pursued—nothing else.

Where did he take her?

Part of you was ready to turn a blind eye to all of this because you knew you would have to in order to keep everything. If you kept your head low and groveled a little bit, maybe he'd get bored and leave you alone, biding you the time you needed to finish your degree. But, that'd be two years of this.

You weren't sure you could stomach it.

As you moved granules of absorbent through blood with coarse bristles from the kitchen broomstick—shifting the puddle more than the actual absorbent—you wondered if he could hear your heart now from wherever he was.

You thought about a lot of things while letting your eyes roam the space. It was enormous, taking up the entire underside of the house, outfitted impressively with mahogany accents, sprawling bookshelves, armchairs, and loveseats pulled tight in leather and velvet. Across the room was a disheveled bed, creamy sateen sheets in a luscious heap but otherwise undisturbed.

To the adjacent end of this expanse were two doors you didn't notice at first, one a little taller than yourself in height, about as wide as any normal arm span, and looked old, so old that everything else was too new. Even from where you stood, you knew it'd take a skeleton key. The other door was more coherent with the rest of the basement, cleaner but certainly still part of the house's original construction.

By the time Montague had returned, you already had much of the ordeal pitched into a biohazard bag with some trace remnants putting you on your knees to scrub away. You hadn't realized he was even there until the tips of his shoes—brown leather loafers with a scalloped tassel near the toes—appeared in your peripheral, sending you launching back onto your hocks.

"This work is spectacular. I knew I had a good feeling giving that room to you." he said with a beguiling smile. All of the blood was gone; he was clean in a dark dressing robe with black trousers, a look you hated that you saw as alluring. "Don't forget to clean the floors upstairs. We made quite a mess there as well."

"What happened to that woman?" You were asking your pesky questions again. Montague wasn't so sure he found them as charming now, but you were still a prize.

You leaned away as he crouched in front of you, nearly risking the soles of his shoes in the blood and hydrogen peroxide. For the first time since meeting, you kept eye contact and saw that his reached a depth you didn't think could be possible for a human. He wasn't touching you, yet it felt like he had you caged, trapped in a vise that held you tight.

He did touch you then, grazing the side of your face with a thumb. Suddenly, he brought it to his lips and licked it as he rose to full height.

"You still had some blood just there on your cheek." There was an armchair a few feet away that he dropped into, withdrawing a gold compact from a chest pocket on his way down. "Don't worry. I wouldn't ask you to carry away the bodies. I'm not that Roman."

"That's not what I asked." you rejoined.

Montague tucked a cigarette between his lips, igniting it with a match he kept inside the compact. His first few puffs looked like they calmed him as he crossed a leg and settled deeper into the leather. "You shouldn’t expect answers to things you don’t need to know—or want to.”

But he humored you with a slight lean of his head towards the old door far away. "The original owner of this house was ingenious and built tunnels that were used to shuffle people in and out. Mistresses. Servants. More unsavory things—you must remember the era. At any rate, it stretches beyond the house and some ways off. I do not recommend ever going inside."

You understood now why you never saw any of the dates he brought home leave. And you believed every bit of his warning.

It inspired you to move away from the grim reality dwelling beyond that old door. You hovered over the same spot, drenching the floor with more of the disinfectant, grasping for a distraction. "I didn't know vampires could smoke. Isn't blood enough for you?”

Montague flicked his cigarette over an ashtray beside his chair. "Well, we all have our vices. Mine just happens to be five or six of these a day. Keeps enough of the edge off so you get to sleep at night."

Something about that comment made the entire stretch of the basement feel so confining—claustrophobic, even. Your back was wide open to it, to his ravening gaze and leather toe turning fluid circles as though to pace himself before lunging.

"I have class in six hours." You finished the job by tying off the bag. "I'd like to get the upstairs done and take a shower."

"Of course. Try to get some sleep, you've had quite a night." He didn't move to see you out. "Oh, and leave the bag. I'll dispose of it."

༺ ♰ ༻

Meredith Nimu died approximately twenty-three days ago after a stroke left her immobilized in her favorite armchair. Her body wasn't peeled away from the murky-green polyester until day twenty-four, following enough neighbor complaints about a bunch of rats dying in the vents.

Getting rid of the chair was half the battle in this case, something that Meredith's overzealous, recently divorced daughter spouted off as sacrilegious. She insisted that the carpet cleaner she used for her obese dogs with raw patches on their legs could do it all. Your supervisor had been inflectionless when telling her it didn't work like that.

One of your teammates, a middle-aged black man affectionately nicknamed “Hoss” had unceremoniously slammed the apartment door shut and flipped the lock so the daughter's rancorous eruptions were somewhat contained outside. The other half of the duo responsible for pitching the chair, T.J., a white man who could never tan, wheezed out a laugh as he labored a hard bristle brush through the gunk left behind from Meredith's decay.

"Boss ain't gonna be happy about that." T.J. couldn't commit to the act of a brownnoser even if he wanted to. A couple more chortles rattled through his respirator. They were infectious, ridiculous sounds that coaxed similar from Hoss when he rejoined the effort to get the job done and over with.

You could still hear the daughter on the other side of the door, never once allowing your supervisor a word in edgewise. A part of you wanted to pity her, perhaps conjure up a shred of empathy for someone so completely enmeshed in the throes of grief and anger. She was clearly spiraling, her entire life yanked out from under her—and she was free-falling with nothing to catch her, no thin wire she could snag in the bend of her fingers and watch as the velocity of that cruelly, cleanly severed white tendon and bone.

Where would she fall after that? You didn't know. You didn't care. She could regain control over her life even without fingers, but what about you? No one understood how disconcerting it was to know that your survival depended on a vampire's good mood.

An old woman was meant to expire, but you were young and had aspirations—yet that could be stolen from you just as quickly as a clot could kill the brain.

It wasn't fucking fair.

Hoss had called out to you repeatedly until the hard brushes stopped scratching the floor, and he and T.J. were settled back on their heels, staring at you. You were used to leveraging your commitments in life as a means to get them off your case, but even they could tell this was different.

"You've been real spacey lately." It was enough to gently reel you back to the moment, eyes unstuck from remnants of putrid matter hidden under a deluge of chemicals and soap. Now you were thinking that the landlord would probably have to replace this entire spot in the flooring. It would be an expensive fix.

"Everything okay at home?" Hoss tried again, emulating fatherly concern in his tone and sidelong stare. It was something he couldn't help since you were so similar in age to his adult kids. "I don't think I've seen you eat today. We oughta finish up here up and grab somethin' quick on the way back.”

"Sorry, yeah, it's just the usual things." They didn't know what that meant to you, but readily accepted with dour expressions masked by their respirators. "I think I saw a gyro truck down the street."

As many times as you had regurgitated the same thing when they pried into your well-being, you were surprised they still asked at all. That made it hard to wave after them as you pulled the lever to the trunk, waiting to be left alone once the job was done to stack half your weight in absorbent until the back bowed to it.

It was just past two in the morning when you were locking the front door of Montague's sprawling estate behind you. Every time you did, a part of you hesitated to seal it the whole way, as though if you did, your final traces of freedom would be stripped away entirely.

"Welcome home!" Montague came out from prowling somewhere in the shadows, seeming to materialize from the darkest parts your eyes couldn't adapt to. He was in a dressing robe again, this one forest green with gold embroidery and a burgundy handkerchief tucked away nicely in his breast pocket.

He already had a cigarette lit between his knuckles, fussing with the little stick as he went to an open window, sucked in, and expelled pungent gray smoke. "I apologize. There's a bit of a mess for you tonight. It's unlike me to be so untidy, but it shouldn't take you too long—oh, darling, don't make that face."

"Why can't you get blood from other sources, like a blood bank?" It's been on your mind for a while, but Montague had a habit of turning petulant if you asked him too much.

He was in good shape tonight, though, despite still puffing away antsily. "Where's the satisfaction in simply being given what I want? Blood banks are a finite supply, but out there"—he gestured through the open window—"there is an infinite supply from any walk of life that I so choose. Did you know that not all blood is equal?"

You sensed him at your back, awash with that same vulnerability as the night on your knees in the basement. He strolled along with you while you collected your things, examined his leftovers, which fortunately wasn't as sensational as before. It looked like a Rorschach inkblot almost, purple-red and pristine, obviously untouched for some time.

Just like that dead blonde woman, there was nothing left behind of the victim except what Montague was too careless to handle himself.

"The worst blood is what you find in hospitals or on the streets. It doesn't matter their type; it all tastes like shit." he continued, even while you worked. Just like before, he sat himself nearby and observed your process with gross fascination. "In a pinch, though, I do what I must. It doesn't matter if a man is homeless or a woman is looking for a night out. When I hear their hearts dance, that thump, thump, thump—oh, I have to have it. I can taste them through their skin, even before I sink my teeth in.

"The fear in their eyes. The ragged breaths I see in their chests, watching their bellies pulse. I like to think in those moments they know exactly what's going to happen, like little flies in a spider's web."

Montague let more smoke slither out from his lips in skinny, swirling wisps that dissipated once it touched the air. The haze of it remained, just traceable to your eye. "I always find it interesting that they all struggle, even as they're writhing in their own blood. Sometimes I'll count how long it takes for them to die."

These weren't confessions of a madman because that would imply he was human. He was treating you akin to the way an old man recounted the fondness of his flawed, flickering memories. There were sensations of joy and affection in the work he did, a true love and visceral desire for carnage and suffering that made it hard for you to stomach.

A few times throughout his soliloquy, you needed to bear your weight on the kitchen broom to keep yourself from toppling from nausea.

You shouldn't have been curious. "Has anyone ever survived?"

The surrounding space grew darker, not from loss of light but from the way his lower face sunk behind the hand wielding the cigarette. You saw his smile widen through sickly appendages and faint smoke.

His response pierced straight through you. "I'm looking right at it."

Suddenly, the urge to run rushed forefront in your mind, an instinctual reaction that you had trouble wrestling over with logic. The broomstick was easily pulled from your fingers and discarded onto the floor with a reverberating clatter that made your spine race with cold needles as Montague stepped into your proximity.

You shivered against the hands slowly climbing your neck to the underside of your jaw, cradling your face as he lifted it to meet his eyes. Something was so wrong with how black they were; you didn't see a pupil, nor did your reflection stare back at you in them. It's almost as though there was nothing there at all, the dark of them growing into an abysmal chasm that made your vision cross and blur, eyelids weighing like lead when you felt him kiss you.

His lips were the same kind of cold as the rest of him but full and unrelenting, never granting you the chance to mold the kiss in any other way. Surprisingly, the taste of stale smoke on his breath was just slight, a mediocre vexation you overlooked the moment his hands started groping you under your clothes.

And you didn't think much of it when your back settled into the clean linens on your bed, skin flushed with the crisp evening air and lips mapping their way south across your stomach and navel, delving lower to your core. It was too dark in your room to see down your body at the top of Montague's head, but you felt him with your fingers, coiling pieces of his ash-brown hair to your knuckles while he pushed your thighs wide open for him.

An anxious patter swelled in your chest, a vague understanding that something was horrible about this, but you were too wrapped up in a dreamy fog to think about it. More than the resounding boom of your heart, you heard your own breaths dissolve into lewd moans and slurred pleas for him to do more, more, more.

It didn't sound like you.

It didn't feel like you despite knowing that build-up in your abdomen better than most things in your body.

The hands in his hair, the back bending off of the mattress like an archway, the shaking limbs, and the cries begging for more were someone else entirely up until the very moment rapture fluttered behind your eyes in searing white, body deluged in hot release that left your scalp tingling and toes curling and spend on your sheets.

"Give me more." You tasted him again, his tongue pushing hard into your mouth where those salty notes of yourself lingered on your cheeks. His silhouette melded with the rest of the room, tangible only in the way he roamed every surface of you.

Montague had shucked the clothes from both your bodies earlier, preferring to lean into the flush of heat you radiated. Everything was only skin-deep away from him; he could feel your pulse throb on his lips when he teased himself against your carotid, your radial, trailing all the way to the powerful beat of your femoral nestled there in your groin.

His teeth came close many times to piercing you, allowing him a sliver of a taste like a parched king waiting for a drop of golden wine. But half the thrill of having you around was denying himself of you, knowing well that if he were to start, then he'd never be able to stop, and he'd fully hamper your dreams of escaping.

The air smelled like you now, heavy and like damp skin and your fluids soaking into the linens. He watched your face bunch and fall apart when he split you open with his cock, hips colliding, your skin sure to bruise as his thrusts turned savage. There wasn't much left in his heart anymore. Most of it had atrophied over the centuries, and yet the sound of yours spurred him on.

He could follow the path of your blood through your body, an extensive subject he had studied and dissected at length in his lifetime. The most vulnerable spots were gorged and worked the hardest, almost glowing red through your skin for him. When he thrust a little bit harder, a little bit faster, and felt your fingertips pushing against his chest, he heard your heart be the loudest it ever had been.

"That's it. That's it. That's it." His own breaths were ragged now. The sheer exhilaration of pushing his lips deeper, hot sweat leaving a slick layer on them, and that one big artery in your neck pounding out was doing everything for him.

Your frantic pants were a close second. He could feel you unraveling, tightening around his cock until you were soundlessly writhing on the mattress, clutching anything you could bunch together. The final few thrusts he made were purposeful; they were forceful and jolted your body, a show to make sure you wouldn't forget the feeling of him inside of you.

The clean linens were sodden with cum, some still dripping out of you while you lay there, legs splayed enough so you wouldn't feel it stick to your thighs. Whatever haze had been hanging over your eyes before lifted away, leaving you ruined and exhausted on the sheets but not alone.

"You've got class in a few hours, don't you?" Montague said from above, shoulders nestled in your headboard while one leg hung off the side of the bed. He was smoking again, acting the calmest you had witnessed him. "I don't really think you're in any shape for that. Why don't you stay home today?"

You were too spent to respond to him, somehow using the occasional breaths he blew out into the vast room to lull you into a dreamless sleep.

༺ ♰ ༻

Shin Nakamura had been a selfish man in life. Mid-fifties, thinning hair, and twice divorced from women who knew better—his tenants did not. He had built a reputation on the north side of town for hidden costs and faulty appliances that were never fixed. Once or twice in the past four years you had cleaned up scenes, they came out of Nakamura's buildings in the summertime, stuck to the floor and infested with maggots and flies in different orifices.

Everyone had asked at one point, yourself included, how he was able to get away with that level of blatant cruelty and disregard—and the answer was as simultaneously simple, complex, and terrible as poverty. The north end was an area notorious for local crime and violence, but more than that, it was forgotten in favor of gentrifying other areas of the city—pretty little boutiques that'd make a splash on social media and a couple of upscale dining spots, all of those meant to change the online scales deeming an area's walkability, and therefore, profitability.

The blind eye most city commissioners turned to the north end made it an easy life for Shin to do as he pleased without many consequences despite living in the area himself. Most of everyone found it an odd sort of justice when he was discovered in his office, unrecognizable from how badly the dozens of stab wounds had disfigured his face and body. One look was enough to know that it was personal, a tenant who had received their condemnation via a neon-pink eviction letter hastily taped to an off-white door.

Only, this time, Shin chose a person backed into a corner at their breaking point. There wasn't much left to lose, yet Shin had ultimately lost it all. Rumor had it that no one sold out the tenant who committed the crime, something even the more moralistic part of yourself could fathom.

These were the cases that painted a grim picture of your future in forensics and often speared to the front of your mind at the worst of times—could you really be part of the reason why a person shattered by the powers of society goes to jail?

Shin Nakamura was a terrible man, but were his crimes punishable by that sort of torture? What about the tenants who probably heard Shin screaming for help, crying in agony—were they any better than murderers themselves?

What did that mean for you? An accomplice who quietly scrubbed clean murders at a monster's behest, you allowed those people to be swallowed up by Montague under a guise of fear, or was it selfishness?

That discomfort lasted you your entire shift, like an incredibly nauseating pill with a bad smell that sat in your nose for hours. You couldn't wipe away the thoughts like you could dried blood on smoke-stained walls or lumps of serrated flesh and fat wedged between slabs of wood on the floor.

"Man, he coulda been cleaner about this." T.J. had his feet planted solidly on the middle step of a ladder, well at work with a long-handled brush pushed flat to the ceiling. The splatter had gone that far, earning a few awestruck coos from him and Hoss earlier. "It would've made our lives easier."

It was a normal joke.

You'd laughed at the exact same one many times before, even finessed your own commentary in there on occasion because the dead can't sue, and a murderer had no rights—but now, you thought it'd taste bad on your tongue.

The two hulking men noticed, far sharper than you gave them credit for. Or maybe you were just worse at hiding things than you thought. They didn't allude to anything until everyone was packed up in the van, dried from the sweaty protective suits and summer heat by the AC.

"Listen, it ain't my business, and I swear I've been trying my best not to ask." There was a furtive look linked between Hoss and T.J.; it was something they had talked about when you weren't around. "That guy you're living with. He isn't doing anything to you, right? You used to talk about him all the time in the beginning. Haven’t heard a peep about him in ages. God, you're not living in your car, are you?"

From the outside in, you weren't doing much to try to embellish fancy stories and reasons onto your drastic change over the months. You simply let it be and navigated every day with the hope you'd remember where you were going with your head down. It probably didn't look too good to a paternal man like Hoss, and to T.J., who had several younger siblings.

"No, it's not him—" But, of course, it really was and everything surrounding his cruelty, everything he made you do, and what you never refuted. "I'm just perpetually exhausted. I'm sure you've heard that from Sylvie and Deshaun while they've been in uni."

"All the damn time." Hoss beamed, chest perked a little higher with the mention of his children. It wasn't enough to diffuse the tension lingering in the van, however. "Just know, I'd do for you what I'd do for my babies—put the fear of God in that man. If he puts a finger on you, you let me know."

T.J. gave an agreeable hum, fingers sticking to the steering wheel as he moved them around, making a turn down some street. "We'll catch him by surprise and everything. I'll call in a couple favors, grab a few shovels and bags of cement from my dad's place. It's all good."

For some reason, their entire spiel only spiked your uneasiness, and suddenly you were far too aware of your bladder. It was enough initiative for T.J. to floor the gas and get back to headquarters, giving you the chance to break away and race the remnants of daylight all the way home.

༺ ♰ ༻

It had never happened before, but you managed to catch Montague by surprise when he walked through the front door to find you standing there in the foyer. The kitchen broom wrapped in your hands was a nasty ploy, along with the look you cast between him and a young man not any older than yourself.

Again, just like all the others, you didn't recognize him. Montague's victims were fast, fleeting fixations for him, none worthy of names or an identity in his eyes. You suspected this guy was much the same.

Montague's bewilderment was swept away by a smile and laxing posture. He had settled back into his element. "You're home early today. I didn't expect to see you until much later. Not much to the scene, I assume?"

"It was pretty bad." A certain stiffness trailed on the end of your words, letting them echo through the hall and hang in the cool evening air.

The young man was fast to perceive that tension: the tightness in your shoulders, fingers subtly wringing against the cracked wooden broom. Montague's anticipative smile climbed higher the longer he looked at you.

Would it be such a bad thing to turn around and pretend you had never seen him come home with that other man? You considered doing it, hiding upstairs and using your headphones until everything seeping through turned into an amalgamation of ambient noise that meant nothing to you, and you willed away the guilt like you'd always done.

In that moment, you thought about Meredith Nimu's apoplectic daughter, a woman so embittered by her own suffering that she was foul and relentless to anyone she crossed paths with. You thought about Shin Nakamura, a greedy, pitiless man who'd rather let coroners scrape up his tenant's remains rather than grant them mercy while they were alive and had been left in pieces because of it.

You thought of them and all their wickedness and edged your gaze towards the young man still standing in the doorway with his hand holding it ajar, clean fingernails picking at chipping paint, just steps from outside. "I think you should leave."

Run! Run! You'd better run away as fast as you can! Nothing would stop Montague from keeping his prey there, if that's what he chose to do.

He did the opposite of that, and that was, simply, nothing at all. No pretty blandishments, nor a mouthful of teeth. Rather, now, he was particularly piqued by what you were trying to do.

To the young man, he had meddled into something rather egregious, probably convinced it was extramarital. You battled a surge of pride blooming inside you, shifting your chest a little higher, anchoring your spine back into your body.

"Don't come back here." You didn't need to say anything else. He was gone after pinching out a look of disgust towards Montague, tutting at him with his upper teeth showing through a curled lip.

Nothing happened for a while, not until the front door was secured after his departure. You were left to that responsibility, triple-checking the lock, while Montague ambled deeper into the house, but not too far away as you could follow the leisurely path by his heel strike. There was a rhythm in how he moved. It was deliberate, as though mimicking something.

It took you five paces to figure out he was miming your heartbeat, and he only stopped once it quickened in your chest. He appeared from around the corner, still taking his time reaching you, toying with some trinkets displayed on shelves built into alcoves throughout the lower floor.

You couldn't explain what you were feeling at that moment. Of the thousands—maybe millions—of victims Montague had taken in the previous times, you had just deprived him of one. That man would continue living, and he would tell his friends tomorrow about the weird night he had, and he would never have to be grateful that you saved him from a hellish death.

Yes, oh yes. Even as Montague approached you, carried by his deft gait with both halves of his gold compact open in his palm, you couldn't help but be in complete awe of yourself.

A life continued outside of this mausoleum, and it was all because of you. You were entirely different from Meredith Nimu's daughter and Shin Nakamura, and, for once, your hands weren't sullied by bleach, blood, and body matter.

All that heaviness you had been carrying was suddenly so much lighter, and you felt like your chest could open up as wide as the room where you stood. The breaths you took were dry and cold in your throat, yet fresh as though you were walking outside in wintertime.

Montague must've seen something he didn't like on your face because he sucked down on his cigarette for a while, winding his wrist with it at his side once he was adequately calm.

"Did it feel good? I've only seen you this happy while I was fucking your brains out." It was jarring to hear him talk like that. He took another quick drag and let it out slowly as he rounded you. "Truthfully, darling, I didn't think you were the type to break the rules—on purpose, anyway. But I suppose we all get a little wound up every now and then, right? I've already forgiven you."

And then, you watched him drop the cigarette to the marble and snuff it underfoot until the weak ember was turned to soot. A black smear was left behind when he took his foot away. His stare into you was unwavering.

"Clean it up."

You figured this was how a frightened animal felt when it wanted something within reach of an observant predator because you were trying to think of all the ways to get close without getting too close. It was a pitiful, humorous sight to him, seeing your steps forward so light and on the verge of bolting. But he showed no intention of doing anything more.

Still with the broom in hand, your knuckles turned stark around the handle while sweeping the remains towards you. It would take more elbow grease to get up that smudge, and he knew that just as well.

He reached for the broom and snapped it to a halt, making you jump, jaw clenching. A noiseless gasp lurched in your throat, his fingers wound tight into the hair at your crown as he yanked your head back to show all the fleshiness of your neck.

"What will you do about it, darling?" His lips were already cold and flush to the artery dancing in the curvature built of skin, muscle, and tendon.

Your teeth chattered as the wetness of his tongue followed that intricate, breathtaking network inside of you as far as the neckline of your shirt would let him.

"A man has to eat. Have you ever seen it? A man near starvation and the sorts of things he'll do to survive? Why, I've heard stories of desperate, little men eating their own lovers—their children—themselves just to claw around for a little longer. It's inspiring, I think."

He dragged you away then, up the stairs and through the hallway on the second floor to your bedroom, fingers still nested your hair until the moment you were shoved down onto fresh linens. There wasn't anywhere for you to go once he joined you on the mattress, feeling it bend towards his weight.

"Don't be afraid." he said this with all the fond familiarity of a lover, blunt fingernails digging crescents into your thigh through your clothes. In the waning moonlight that filtered through the dusty window over your bed, his pale eyeshine snared you like roots bursting from somewhere within your busy sheets to keep you there—keep you tame. "That's right. Come to me. Come to me."

There was a new drowsiness behind your eyes, one you couldn't stave by blinking. Montague's face was closer now, and you were struck with just how beautiful he actually was. The longer your gaze lasted, tips of your fingers exploring every shape and edge of his exquisite features, the less you were convinced he was a threat to you—that he couldn't have possibly been all that you'd feared up until now.

"I want you." His lips inched up like he expected you to say it. He felt your hands rest on the sides of his face, guiding him down into a soft kiss that he returned, that he kept clean and let you command until he was bored with it. You chased after him, lower lip pulled between both of yours and eventually out of reach. "Don't you want me too?"

"I wish you could understand just how much I do." He rummaged his pocket for the gold compact, losing it somewhere in the sheets, and then busied himself with stripping himself and you of clothes.

Each piece discarded showed a greater expanse of your skin, a delight in his eyes because he could see that gorgeous webbing of arteries and veins throughout you, even in the darkness, through every defense your body created to protect you from every bacteria, virus, infection—from him.

He didn't need the breath, but he took one and held it anyway.

You withered against his touch, those freezing, lithe fingertips traveling down all the areas where he wished his teeth could be, clear down to your groin. His smile stretched, feeling you search eagerly for a fistful of his hair with his lips smoothing across your inner thigh and then going higher.

There was warmth between your legs, a colorless glisten that leaked out onto the thin sheets, darkening a spot on them that tempted his tongue out for a taste. He came close to entertaining the notion of giving you that glimpse of heaven, allured by your hips leaping off the mattress and against his face.

"You really do think this is all about you." Montague kept you still by pressing down into your abdomen as he rose onto his knees, erection fitting tight between your bodies in the moments before he guided himself lower and hitched up into you.

The sharp motion knocked a startled gasp out of your throat, where it quickly dissolved into a slew of filth and breathy panting. Your nails clawed into your palms, a sight he thought to make worse by digging himself deeper into you.

Montague had no issues biding his time this way, looming over the sprawl of your body beneath him, manipulating parts of you until he saw your face flinch and the first moans of discomfort shake all the way from your chest, up, and through your teeth. They matched the pace of his hard thrusts, smothered by sharp slaps of skin that carried in the inky air.

Indeed, I can wait. That thought of his unsatiated hunger melted in the back of his mind with the precedence of arranging the course of blood in your body. The drum of your heartbeat was deafening to him, but it wasn't enough.

It wasn't loud enough.

He wanted to be able to envision the arteries and veins bursting in his teeth, saturating the sheets and walls and both your bodies in hot red. He wanted it to paint his skin while he fucked you to absolution.

"It really, truly, is all about you in the end, isn't it?" He could still speak clearly, despite you being unable to utter noise beyond the air being forced out of your lungs. "You really are magnificent. How could I ever think to let you go? Not after everything you've done for me, how beautiful you look next to all of my things."

His hand shifted away from your abdomen at last, tracking across the soft span of your stomach and the muscles spasming there under his fingertips.

All he would have to do is dig through you a little bit, and he could bury himself in those twitching fibers and insides. But he continued on his path to your pert nipples that he rolled against his palm a few times, higher still to fold his fingers together against your sternum where he felt your heart thundering there against your ribs.

"Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump," came his mocking chant that cracked into raspy moans as he lingered there. It had been a long time since something had made him feel this good. He had forgotten what bliss was truly like.

He reached your neck before long, trapping the underside of your jaw against his knuckles, forcing you to see him as his weight bore down on your throat. You both heard the cartilage and muscle in your neck shift, a subtle crack that sent your limbs flailing. You were thrown out of the rhythm of his thrusts in an attempt to grab at him.

"You really are despicable, aren't you?" He let out a gleeful laugh, letting your fingers turn ashen while you wrung his wrist. You weren't able to do much with your legs except use them to plant your heels into the mattress, vaulting your hips in the air to try to wrench yourself free. His cock slipped out of you, but he was hardly bothered by that.

"Does it feel good that you chased off my guest? I could get him back, you know. You're aware of this. I know you are. But righteousness just feels so… rewarding, doesn't it? You couldn't resist. Desperation must've been eating you alive."

Strings of saliva glistened in your mouth, breaking apart the further your jaws spread. You were convinced, in that moment, that you would die like that in a silent scream. None of the words that Montague spoke truly reached you, not as your chest quivered and lungs burned as though swallowed in an inferno.

"Every misdeed in life vastly outweighs the good, you know? The scales have never been leaned in our favor—not I, and especially not for you. If that's the sort of thing you believe in. Isn't that what you're taught? Goodness for the sake of salvation at the end of a short life of inhibitions? How miserable." Montague took his hand off of you and let you breathe.

You sucked in crisp air, gasping from your side through wet coughs and the sourness of vomit spat out on the floor.

Your respite was brief, weight on the mattress shifting as the hair on your scalp was used to lever you to your knees, body suspended upright only by his fingers tangled at your roots.

"This is all I can see." Montague loosened his hand from your head, moving south along your spine to your ass. He kneaded the bruised parts of your hips for a while after, lips ghosting their way along your neck up to the ear. "All I can see is what's right in front of me. And how it tastes. All that matters is that I have my fill—and that I feel good."

He smeared slick into the heel of his palm, rolling the head of his cock in that mess as he instructed you with every bit of lewdness how he wanted you to bend against the headboard, how far apart for you to spread your legs for him.

Every bit of it was humiliating for you, while he wished he could memorialize that moment of sinking back inside of you as your breaths broke into stifled sobs, face warped by anguish.

"Does it hurt? Tell me, I have to know, what does it feel like?" He enjoyed the suspense of not receiving an answer, listening as your fingernails dug tracks into the wood headboard and the dark room filled with obscene wetness that grew louder as his thrusts turned wild.

"Mmm—" He hinged forward, bracing his weight on top of your hands with his own. You shied from the surge of coolness that came with his cheek pressing yours. "You and I aren't so different. It makes me wonder if you actually like this. Isn't there something so freeing about it?"

"Mer—mercy, please." It was a coarse whisper from your dry throat, so much of your time having been spent with your mouth agape. The idea of having you that way was as tantalizing as all the others he thought up. "Montague, please—mercy."

Oh, now you were begging.

This was more than what he deserved. He managed a few more thrusts, spilling over into you by the third with a moan that he felt no shame to leave ringing in your ear. "Every part of you, every single part—I'll burn myself into your skin and your bones. You'll feel me in your veins, your blood. I'll make for certain that I'm all you remember—forever."

The vastness of your bedroom had grown warmer, permeated with the thickness of sweat and salt that left your palms slick against the headboard. You let your body slump against it, skin sticking to the wood. It didn't offer you the relief you wanted at that moment: a glass of ice water, all the tenderness of a soft bed to lull you into a blank dream—you just wanted to rest.

Montague knew this just as well, fishing his compact out from a muddled heap of linens and clothes. He checked inside to grab one of the two cigarettes left, making a mental note he'd need to replenish again tomorrow before lighting it and savoring it. At this rate, he anticipated he'd be empty before the end of the night.

For a while, he sat there cushioned on his haunches, admiring the way the smoke coiled towards the ceiling in dainty wisps and mingled with the stench of sex.

"It's not enough." he said, barely eliciting more than a glance from you. His current cigarette was already burnt to the filter, forcing him to pull the last and light that one too. "This is my last one. Such a shame."

You smelled the smoke strongly now, just seconds passing before you were yanked across the bed onto your back, the soreness in your scalp near excruciating as you yelped. Montague made a place for himself between your thighs again, leering down the length of his nose at you.

If he wanted to, he could trace the dread etched in your features with a finger, feeling all along your hot skin, into all the cavernous lines he wished he could preserve—right there, just like that. There had never been a more gorgeous visage than the one you wore right now. Only your gleaming, glowing, pink insides were more beautiful.

He watched your lips twitch while he teased a fistful of his hard cock against your sorest spot. You were swollen and bruised, and he could only imagine what it felt like when he bottomed out in you again.

The curve of your spine arched off the mattress, fingers frantically raking the air at him, reaching for any part you could sink into to get him out. Even your body seemed determined for the same, wonderfully stimulating walls squeezing around him.

It made a shiver roll all along his spine to his tailbone, eyes rolling up towards the ceiling, with his first thrusts feeling positively divine. Especially when you jolted, an almost exaggerated response amplified by jagged cries and wet gasps you couldn't seem to swallow back down into your chest.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry—" You sputtered around the mucus piled in your throat. "Montague, I'm sorry. Please, stop."

He had burned away half of his last cigarette when he leaned over you, his body eclipsing what poor light had managed to illuminate the room for you. You could only follow the dainty mesmerizing glow that worked away from his mouth—his exhale barely masking a moan that he blew away with the smoke—and towards you.

"Keep doing it." His other hand was crawling up your neck, forcing you to suck in a hard breath. "Beg me again. Keep doing it."

All sound but the steady pulse of the headboard striking the wall had deadened, lasting well until the moment the cigarette touched your skin—and you screamed. Your throat vibrated, suddenly stopping when his palm closed around you again, silencing all your noise, his thrusts sloppy and rough while you thrashed under him.

This time, he kept you pinned by his chest, letting your feet dig for traction and slip and slide on the sheets. The bright smolder turned dark as he twisted it into your neck, taking all the remnants of restraint he had not to drill into you as far as it could go. He curled his tongue behind his jaws, keeping them tight.

Montague let go of your throat to allow you the grace of a stifled wail before that same hand sealed your lips. "Ah, ah. You know better than to scream. Shh, shhh, shhh. It's such an ugly sound."

He rubbed the cigarette into your skin until it crumpled, leaving him to lament for a moment once flicking it away to the floor. For him, it left behind a beautiful burn: raw, mad, red, and enticing. As his hand fell off of your mouth, daring you to do more than whimper and cry, his tongue was already flat against your wound.

"Oh, God," you wheezed, voice hoarse and jarring with the force of his hips knocking into you. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry! Stop, stop, stop! I swear I'll never do it again! I swear. I swear!"

Montague caught the wrist you swung at his head, giving the taste of your seared flesh time to settle on his palate before turning towards the pulse in your thumb. He tried to match how he was fucking you out to how it throbbed on his lips.

"Oh, I'm well aware that you won't do it again. That much is a given." His strokes into you were suddenly languid and intentional, so achingly deep that your eyes rolled back. "I've already said that you're forgiven, haven't I?"

You could barely speak over the depth he reached. It didn't feel right. "Th-then, why?"

A smile flourished across his face, but your eyes couldn't pierce that dark veil to see it. You could feel the damp path he left on your wrist, how the muscle writhed all around the sprawl of your veins, going as far as to wind your fingertips before it receded back behind his lips.

"Because I'm enjoying myself." There was a weight of finality to those words before his mouth engulfed the side of your wrist, away from your fragile network of bluish-purplish channels. And when he bit into you, it was the incisors that sank through.

You didn't know what it was. A clamp seized you by the neck like his fist, steeling itself there and robbing you of a scream. The pain was unlike anything else—paralyzing and deep, like a pair of sharpened, narrow skewers made of molten fire piercing you with such an agonizing ache that you could do nothing but lay there.

But you still felt everything he was doing.

His thrusts had grown truly vicious, chasing a high that came as the warmth of your blood seeped from a pair of punctures he had created. The steady flow he fed from was something he lapped on at his leisure. Enough of it streaked the length of your arm and dripped onto your bedding, onto your naked, warm skin when he guided the fall over your neck and chest, south to your stomach and abdomen. He let it fill and pool the seams of his fingers while smearing it with the fluids between your bodies.

At last, breaking the trance to speak, feebly, in between intermittent pockets of pain and numbness rolling through you, you asked with some hopefulness, "Are you going to kill me?"

"You? Kill you?" Montague dropped your wrist. It felt like a limp, dead thing that didn't belong to you. He dove at your neck for those drops he teased himself with, nudging your chin high with his nose to reach it all. "Death would mean letting you go. You're all mine, darling. Whatever other existence waits beyond death will never have you."

His tongue wet a trail to your chin, collecting a watery essence of blood and spit that he pushed into your mouth. Your lips were sealed by his ravenous kiss, relenting to the thickness of his tongue swirling the taste into your cheeks and down your throat, a nauseating intermix of iron and stale smoke that lingered and made you pucker.

And then, you heard him back in your ear, craning his neck only as far as to aggravate the cigarette burn with his breath. It gave several angry throbs. The weight of his body was almost flush on you, spreading the blood around as though your skin together was a single canvas.

To his eyes, it bloomed breathtakingly, seeping into every crevice, pore, and scratch that made up your design, an impermanent stain that he could saturate you in again and again and again. The things he whispered in your ear were vile and wicked, all on unlabored breaths while his strokes turned sluggish and stayed seated deep inside you until the final hitch of his hips left you full of him.

"I don't think you should go to work today."

You were only scarcely coherent of him—or anything for that matter—eyes unmoving from the black void above and unfeeling of how he chose to manipulate your body, still, hours later. All you could think about was the flutter of your lashes weighing down heavily over your eyes and how this world only survived on suffering such as yours.

༺ ♰ ༻

A small pile of things was arranged fussily in a duffle bag Hoss had given the day you returned to work after an impromptu leave of absence. It had only lasted three days, just enough time to acclimate to the pain that seemed to synchronize to every part of your body, throbbing everywhere, all at once, and at times with sharpness so great it toppled you to the ground. You could only lay there—wherever you dropped, on whatever cold slab of marble or concrete until it dissipated, unfurling from your limbs and organs to a rapturous wave of relief that melted the tension out of you.

It had only happened once while at work on a scene amidst a balmy summer night and came out of nowhere like an electric shock surging to your fingertips and toes, a hammer landing on your bones and leveling you on the sidewalk leading back to the company van. And that was all it took to incur a ruinous sort of anger in the two hulking men.

"You're going to take this bag, pack some shit, and you're leaving. Tonight." Hoss had to shake out the dust on the old duffle bag he pulled from somewhere in his car. "You ain't gonna tell me the reason, but I know he did something to you. T.J.'s calling in a favor."

"No. Don't—don't do anything. Don't try to come to the house—" There was a bandage around your wrist that you couldn't stop fiddling with. "I don't know what'll happen if you do. Just fucking don't."

"Nah, not us." T.J. slapped his phone back into the clip on his belt loop, eyeing the motions of your fingers on your wrist uneasily. "One of my old buddies—name's Roscoe—said he wants to handle it. Apparently, he and your guy have a history of some kind. He says to be ready to go by three."

The meaning behind what he said was left nebulous and concerning to you, even after you returned home with the duffle bag and started pulling things from your closet. Some ways across your room, high up on the wall and out of your reach was a clock. Its monotonous ticking brought your eyes over to it.

It was just after one-thirty, still enough time to change your mind if you wanted to. There was something so effortlessly easy about following along to the whims of other people. It felt safe, reassuring—their confidence was infallible. Not once in four years had T.J. or Hoss given you a reason to doubt their intentions, but right now, it boiled over in your mind.

But where will I go? What am I going to do? He'll find me. He'll find me. Montague would find you, but he wouldn't stop you from leaving. You could see it with clarity—him perched on the armrest of a chair, watching you walk through the door. He'd give you a headstart, a few days, maybe a few weeks.

You weren't sure you knew what to do without him. There was nowhere else in the world you could go, no one you could confide in that wouldn't be destroyed. He would keep your heart beating all the while breaking you apart until he had his fill, reminding you that this was how it was meant to be. This was how he showed you how you belonged.

And you—silly little you with your consciousness floating on the fringes of inscrutable ecstasy and some personal purgatory built on agony in your bones and blood—would believe him.

"Going on a trip?" His voice drifted to you from the doorway, far sweeter than it usually was. "I wish you would've told me. I can't imagine what it'll be like without you here in this house. You breathe life into it."

He was lured over by your silence, fitting his fingers between your shoulder blades to push along your spine, easing away the discomfort that had settled there. It was hard not to lean into that relief, a misstep that shattered any lasting hold of willpower when he stooped his neck to sweep you into a kiss.

"Why don't you stay instead?" He knew you wouldn't be coming back, not without dragging you back himself. "Stay with me instead. Right here. In this bed."

"Montague, stop—" He pressed down harder on your lips so those words withered into guttural frustration in your throat.

The duffle bag was flung far away, opening space on your bed for him to lay you out and begin to unravel the bandages around your wrist. Once he had access, his mouth was already full against the two puncture sites.

"Stay." He wasn't playing coy now. "I'll take care of you. It wasn't enough before. I can see that now. What can I do? It'd be too easy to break your legs. What if I chained you to this bed? What if I locked you up in this room? I wouldn't mind keeping you downstairs with me, but it would be too cold for you, I think."

"I want to leave." you said, mustering your composure through tight lips while he teased the infected purple holes with his flatter teeth. "Let me go."

He smiled derisively. "I don't think you know what you want."

"I—" You balked at him, reiterating with a stumble, "I—I just want to leave. Get off."

"How will you ever survive without me?" You didn't know if you'd be able to. "You'll be all alone, all alone in a world that's just ready to tear you open and spit you back out. I've told you before: Society doesn't reward virtue over vice—only those who play along. You won't last, not after you've known and tasted me."

You couldn't bring yourself to say anything, whereas he swelled like a man who had salvaged a victory, lying himself down to kiss you again—

And then, the doorbell rang with an immense melancholic echo that you could feel vibrate up your arms and legs. Nearly a year later, you were hearing it for the first time and grasping onto the lapels of his suit vest, keeping him still when you remembered T.J.'s promise.

"Ignore it." you said.

"We have a guest—" Something in his tone made your stomach clench. "It's not polite to leave them waiting, especially at this hour."

Montague had untangled himself from you and was gone before you could stop him. Another wave of pain put you on the floor when you moved. Drool piled from your mouth. An ache so unreal pounded in the wrist he had played with. The crawl to your duffle bag was far, arduous in that every inch felt like carrying stones on your back.

I'm going to die. I might as well already be dead. You didn't have any more time to wait, so you slung the strap over your shoulder and used the wall to guide you along the quiet hallway, bumping into every pedestal and display where Montague's most treasured things had stayed undisturbed.

You were one of them, something he could keep on the second floor with the rest of his stuff, but unlike brittle porcelain and fraying embroidery—he could break you as much as he wanted, again and again and again, and fit you back whole. He could do it forever while you wasted, longing for an end he would never give you.

But as you crept along the bleak wallpaper and all of his curios, you were so gentle with them, steadying any wobbling base or piece as you went. The central staircase was close, voices at the bottom of it faint and unintelligible, drifting alongside you as though part of the house—

The air exploded.

Just once.

A single gunshot brought back all the alertness to your body, neck and shoulders at full length, pain dulled to where you could shuffle faster and look off the bannister at the landing below.

Montague was staring back up at you from the floor, entirely still and soundless. His jaw was unhinged, askew, frozen in a position that should've been impossible. A black hole gaped between his eyes, but didn't bleed.

"If you're not ready, that's going to be bad news." Another man stood nearby sheathing a gun, unfamiliar and yet with sameness in the way his gaze felt hollow and reached through you. "I'm repaying my debts. I'd like to make good on this one."

You were slow descending the stairs, even slower while you rounded Montague's body and denied yourself the chance to stop. Something invisible wanted to pull you to him, plow your knees into hard marble and weep over his chest. However, your insides bending in disgust and twinges in your bones kept you onward.

This man, Roscoe, was just as sickly-seeming and gray as the other, every slot of space on his arms and neck filled with images of religious iconography and portraits of saints—Mary being the only one you recognized with just a glance. It was tempting to touch him, something he noticed and stepped out of your reach.

"Is there another way out of here?" He made a weak motion towards the front door just ajar, but his eyes were stuck on the wrist wounded and unusable to you now. "We need to go. Now."

You were racking your brain for an answer, turning half-circles in place before pointing to the archway with a clock. "There's a backdoor, but the yard is fenced in and there's nothing but forest for three miles. There's also—"

Roscoe waited expectantly, ushering you to continue when he went for the gun in its holster. "Start moving, we'll figure it out." He unloaded another round into Montague's head, a near indecipherable twitch in the fingers made the hair on your neck shoot straight out. "Silver only keeps him down. It won't kill him. Go!"

"Th—there's, there's the basement." You smacked your lips, trying to swallow around a bulge in your throat. "There's an old door. He said there are tunnels, but I don't know where they go. I don't know if he was telling the truth. I don't—"

He threw a hand into your back, thrusting you forward at least three feet. You almost didn't catch your footing. "Then that's where we're going."

"Not a friend of yours then, I assume, darling?" Montague's voice from the floor was as much of a relief as it was terrible. The silent gaps of air all around were disturbed by sharp snaps and cracking bones as his jaw moved back into place and he sat upright over his thighs. You were transfixed by the silver bullets being sucked into his skull, holes shrinking until they closed completely. "I'm not surprised you're still fraternizing with the wrong crowds, Roscoe. You and that entire Society have always been a fucking eyesore."

Roscoe readied his aim. "Parasite."

Montague laughed all the way to his feet, tugging at the edge of his vest to make it neat again. He opened his mouth just enough to let his tongue roll out, shards of silver bullets tinkling as they hit marble underfoot. "You can't take what's mine."

He looked to you, stepping closer every time Roscoe moved you back with his arm. "Come here. Come back to me, darling. This is where you belong. This is your home. You belong here with me, here with everything that you know."

"He doesn't mean that."

Another gunshot snapped you to attention, blinking out of a stupor you hadn't realized you were in.

The bullet landed in Montague's forehead, teetering his balance in such a way that his back curved towards the floor, arms hanging like useless instruments, yet he still somehow kept his soles planted. "Time to go. Get to the basement."

Roscoe didn't fail to reach you this time, running tight on your heels through the house to the basement floor. He stopped partway to the old door to help you scour the duffle bag for a key—one attached to the chatelaine Montague had given you the day you accepted to move in.

Your breaths were ragged, heart ablaze and beating against your ribs. In that moment, as you flipped through the assortment of keys with an unsteady, slippery grip, you wondered if Montague heard your blood racing in your veins, if he could follow the suffocating drumbeat your heart made in your ears.

Just above, fast approaching the locked basement door, came a thunderous roar so inhuman and reverberating that it scared the clip of keys out of your hands into a clattering heap on the floor. Time was up.

"Move!" Roscoe shoved you aside, illuminated by the hectic flare of your phone as he fit his fingers through a gap in the door and ripped the entire thing off its hinges. He pulled you by the scruff of your shirt and heaved you inside the tunnel. "Go! Go! Go!"

The first thing to hit you was a putrid smell intimately known but always through protective equipment and a respirator. And as you went deeper into the tunnel, led by a single route and the light off your phone, the dirt packed under your feet turned soft, sinking to the tops of your shoes.

And then, you saw bodies.

Numerous—countless corpses in varying stages of decay with twisted faces reflected your terror and pain right back at you. Most were intact with missing limbs or dark red chasms in their abdomens that had been scraped hollow and dry under the white light.

A few had been fully decapitated, briefly reminding you of the dead blonde woman from that night, but most of what lay stacked against the tunnel walls were emaciated figures with skin pulled so taut to their bones you could still make out their faces.

You were doubled over your knees, sucking in fetid mouthfuls of air and retching them back out on the ground. It burned in your throat, in your nostrils, and behind your eyes, but stifled your sobs as Roscoe dragged you alongside him.

"What did he do? What did he do?" You were crying, wheezing out those words on every shallow breath you took all the way to an end just ahead.

The more you thought about it, the more you smelled the rot, tasted the bitterness of your own vomit, the more came out. "I don't want to die! I don't want to die!"

Roscoe had to let you rest in the grass once you both surfaced. One of the exits turned out to be near the house, less than half a mile. But the tunnels kept going and so did the bodies. You suspected that there wouldn't be any reach of that underground labyrinth that didn't have some form of decay along it.

The thought brought the tears back, but now you could relish the sticky summer night humidity and touch dewy tendrils of grass under your hands.

"Can you drive?" Roscoe had a pair of keys hanging from his index finger, giving you a long moment to take them. He saw confusion in your watery stare. "I'll tell you where to go, just drive."

That's how it had been for hours at this point. You kept your hands locked around the steering wheel, one stronger than the other, gnawing the inside of your cheek while ruminating everything—tonight, the night Montague had bitten you, every other night before that, and your decision to have ever trusted him.

"How long ago did he bite you?" Roscoe had the seat reclined, arms over his eyes to shield them from oncoming headlights. "It doesn't look good."

You tested your grip on the steering wheel, but you couldn't do much without a sharp sting in your wrist. "I don't know—a couple weeks ago? I've tried everything short of going to the emergency room."

"That won't help," he said. "Modern medicine can fix a dog bite, antibiotics can kill an infection, a vaccine can protect you from a virus. Those aren't going to do any good."

Solemnly, you asked, "Am I going to die?"

Roscoe didn't sit up but had your wrist in his hands, turning it in little ways that didn't aggravate you. Besides the occasional glare from passing vehicles, there was no light in the car, and the holes in your skin were hardly distinguishable, though they had gotten darker. You weren't able to move it with any ease now.

"What you need to know right now is that he's never going to stop following you." He put your hand back on the steering wheel, careful as he enclosed your fingers around it. "It doesn't matter how long it takes, what you do, where you go—a parasite finds a host, and it latches on. And it doesn't let go."

You glanced between him and the road several times, tongue wetting the dry parts of your lips. "He's a vampire—you're a vampire. There's got to be something—"

Roscoe finally sat up in his seat, now cramped sideways with his shoulders flat to the window. The car veered a bit into the other lane. "You need to understand something. What you're saying would imply he ever had any humanity. Vampires are created." He paused for a beat, waiting for the realization to strike you. "Montague was never created."

"What—what the hell is he, then?" A horn abruptly blared by, prompting you to yank the car back onto the correct side. "He drinks blood. He has teeth. He—he hunts. He doesn't like silver. His eyes are the same as yours."

Roscoe lowered his gaze, but remained in that uncomfortable position. "There's a story I heard about him once. I don't remember the details except for one: ‘If the devil exists, they're one in the same.’"

You kept your eyes on the road, counting every car that flitted on past. They were probably going to work at this hour—green numbers on the dashboard showed it just after four—and they'd be able to have a place to return to at the end of the day. Now, you didn't belong anywhere, and twenty-four hours from now you still wouldn't.

The town where you had lived with Montague for a year was long behind you, backtracking would take hours, and you wouldn't know how to get back from the direction that Roscoe had told you to go. Dim streetlamps and cozy houses with spruced yards had morphed into an endless network of concrete, signs, and off-ramps to places you'd never heard of.

It was scary how everything could change in one night, and how it did. The only semblance of normalcy to you right now were the aches throughout your body, which had returned the moment you fully comprehended that you had escaped that house.

"Why…" Roscoe looked up at you, seeing your lips shake and eyes turn red. "Why do I want to go back to him?"

He fixed himself right in the seat, tousling a hand through his hair while looking out through the windshield. "You shouldn't do that. But you'll never be able to stop running."

You never saw Roscoe again once the car ride ended several thousands of miles later, mentioning something about how he repaid his debt to T.J. and had disappeared from a restaurant you both walked into. When that happened, you sat paralyzed at your little table for most of the day with a soul-crushing realization that you were truly alone with nobody in the world—

Just like Montague said you would be.

And, for the sake of others, you'd never be able to have anyone else in your world.

It stayed that way for close to two years. The hardest part hadn't been the homelessness or constant vigilance, not the door revolving each person to come into your life since, but the fact that you still yearned for what you once had. Everything so awful about what you experienced sometimes looked like heaven when you thought about it, like soft, cloudy nostalgia from a time where the throes of agony were all you had ever known.

You were capable of thinking soberly as well, and with that came the understanding that a part of you would always want that time back—want him back. He had left you with a permanent scar and neurological damage that could never be corrected. It was anticipated you'd lose that wrist at some point in the future, but for now, you could still hold a cup and brush your teeth with enough conscious effort.

The pain never went away either, but you refused to let it impede your work in the field. And your two roommates were a couple of engineering geniuses who'd managed to make the flat more accommodating to your needs. They'd been patient with you during every step of your transition into a new life, calling you an enigma because you had nothing to your name except a dusty duffle bag and a "strange-looking dog bite" on your wrist when you first met them.

Sometimes, especially on the weekends after clinking together enough shot glasses, they tried to probe your brain for some clue as to who you were, who you had been historically. You had decided it was better that they—that no one—knew about it or what actually existed out there in the world.

And when you returned home from the lab late that Saturday night, you were surprised to find the lights off and the flat immersed in the kind of soundlessness that made your ears feel clogged with cotton.

You were slow in lowering your backpack to the floor, keeping the front door slightly ajar so a slither of light from the residential corridor slipped inside. "Jordan? Felix?"

No answer. You didn't hear anything from their bedrooms upstairs either.

"Jordan?" The nearest light switch didn't work, neither did the one after that, or any others you hunted down with the diffused beam from your phone screen. "Jordan? Felix? Are you guys home?"

It was possible they had gone out somewhere for the night and just hadn't mentioned anything to you, as unsound as that logic actually was, considering it simply wasn't their personality. But as you wandered through different rooms checking the switches, you knew you were rationalizing to keep yourself in check.

The light from the hallway still piled inside like a narrow pillar, raising all the hairs on your neck and arms, knowing that it wasn't a building-wide outage. They had never left you in a situation like this before. Something was wrong.

"Jordan! Felix! Whe—" Your foot nearly shot out from under you when you slid through something slick on the laminate. After a moment to fix yourself, bracing the edge of the countertop with a clammy palm, you steadied the white glow of your phone at the floor.

There, glistening back at you, was the vast richness of blood in a tall puddle that spread like long winding tendrils through grout in the flooring. It looked almost black under your light at a certain angle, estimating it had been there for several hours—untouched.

You held in a breath and grit your jaws together as the more you moved, the more you saw. And when the top of a head came into view, silky hair shining like fine thread before clumping together at the base where the blood had pooled the most, it was everything you could to keep yourself from hitting the floor.

Both of them were there, perfectly out of sight of the front door and completely unrecognizable. Their bodies had been left in one piece, though where their faces had once been were cavernous holes with pale, pink ribbons of flesh and fat left behind. The roundness of their skulls let blood fill inside it like a vessel. What little pieces of brain matter remained had floated to the surface.

You staggered back from them, phone loosening from your weak hand and returning them to the maw of darkness, while groping the wall behind you as far as your arm could reach. This wasn't a result of crude knife work or even bludgeoning; no, it was a slow kill, one meant to steep someone in torment so immense that you prayed to whatever was out there that they succumbed immediately.

"Help…" Your voice was trapped in your throat, barely registering as a whisper even to yourself as you sidled along the wall. "Someone—anyone, please help."

The patter of your heartbeat was torturous. Your every step back to the entrance was leaden with fear. You couldn't get your legs to move fast enough, and the light reaching in through the gap seemed to stretch on forever—further, further, and further still.

You thought back to that day you met Montague and shook his hand, noting how unnaturally cold it had been despite it being a nice day in spring. You remembered the dead blonde woman with mascara tears, and the bodies he used to decorate the tunnels, and the young man who was able to walk away that night believing it was all some shallow quarrel—never knowing he had sealed your fate.

You regretted all of it.

The door was in your reach now, and you could get out, call for help, and go back to running. This time, you wouldn't be tricked into false satiety or let anyone too close. You would see mountains and forests and oceans a thousand times over before you stopped again.

Two years hadn't been enough time for you to accumulate many things, you thought. It wouldn't be hard to leave most of it behind, just like you had before. You would unpack that old duffle bag from the back of your closet, fill it to the brink, and that would be enough.

You had your hand over smooth metal, but that cold reached greater depths in you as the door was pushed shut from behind, light shrinking away through the slot until you were swallowed whole in the dark.

"Hello, darling. I've missed you." He sounded the same against your ear. For a split second, you felt relieved. "Don't worry about cleaning up. We're not staying long."

He clamped damp fingers over your mouth before you could scream.

a/n; I hope this scratched some awful itch for you. onto the story notes:

on montague: what he is exactly is open to interpretation. tell me your theories! his character has been around in my arsenal for a very long time, but as a human cannibal in those days. he's been resurrected into something worse imo. he exists in my vampire universe more as a side-character, and, surprisingly, is not the central antagonist. he is meant to more or less be the embodiment of depravity and the consequence of a being without internal moral compass.

on mc: represents the fallacy of man and how unreliable the narrative of morality actually is, and how we as people have tendencies to twist and turn the meaning of it for our own benefit. mc in this story is not meant to be a good person, but did they deserve condemnation to a personal purgatory?

so, while this is a monster story, I wanted to parallel the treatment mc endures + mindset to the horrors of trying to escape abuse. I wanted to explore this through the lens of a monster story, though. if you suspect you are in an abusive relationship, please reach out to people to help get you out.

what's funny is that this story was originally supposed to be a dark comedy that moved towards something a little darker, and eventually turned into this. montague was initially going to just be a nuisance to mc by inserting himself into friend hangouts because "it's my house".

divider by; @/anlian-aishang

dc divider by; @/benkei-bear

if you read and enjoyed it, please share your thoughts and reblog!!

#vampire #vampire romance #vampire story #vampire x reader #vampire x you #vampire x human #monster x reader #monster fiction #monster fic #monster x human #monster story #tw monsterfucking #monsterfkr #monster fucker #eldrich horror #origonal character #original writing #original work #2k writes #monsterfucking nsft #monster romance

[honey-flustered]

Along For The Ride (Part 1 of 2)

MDNI +18 Only!!

Farmer!Older!Beefy!Eddie Munson/ Mean!Bougie!Fem!Reader

Summary: A drunken joyride leads you in the midst of Eddie Munson, who’s seeking repayment for the damages made to his property by you. Fed up with your constant misbehavior, your father makes a deal with Eddie in which you will do some manual labor around his farm in exchange. You’re not too pleased with this arrangement and your differences in personalities lead to a clashing of heads…and tongues?? (8.5k words)

A/N: I have not written in ages. It is really tough being a writer with the pressures I place on myself to be perfect, to gain more likes and followers, to write things as quickly as possible. I’m learning to fall in love with writing again. It’s a slow process but someday I’ll be able to share all the great things I’ve been working on for the past year. Anyway, here is my start to starting my journey again and thank you all for supporting me.

CW: fluff and lots of angst, enemies to friends to lovers trope, SLOW BURN, age gap (Eddie 40s, Reader 20s), mean!affluent!reader, bad girl reader, light smut/eventual heavy smut, bratty!reader, ugly duckling turned swan trope, reader character development, mean friends, minor canon events from tv series (chrissy death, eddie accused of chrissy and other victims deaths), limited knowledge of farm life and work, drunk driving, consumption of marijuana and alcohol, committing of property crimes, return of reader’s ex, mentions of insecurities, descriptive and graphic language, lots of sexual tension, kissing, dry humping, eddie cums in his pants

You bellow out the lyrics to Taylor Swift’s “We Are Never Getting Back Together” along with your three friends, not a care in the world for who would be unfortunate enough to hear you in the chilly 3 am evening. The girls pass around a bottle of tequila when your best friend, Tana, —seated in the passenger seat— attempts to pour a shot into your mouth.

“Babe, no. I drank enough at the club. The guy that asked for my number was practically throwing them at me. I had to kill a plant by pouring my drinks onto the poor thing. Men ruin everything.” You pout.

“Amen to that, sis,” Tana says, snapping her fingers. “Had a guy tell me that he thinks I’m the one for him. Turns out, he’s married with a baby on the way.”

You all playfully point your index fingers to your tongues, faking gags before leading into a giggling fit.

“I had a guy ghost me because he didn’t like me sharing my selfies on social media. Said that ‘they should only be exclusive to him’.” Your friend, Essie, shares.

“I feel like we need to get back at men for the shit they put us through,” Brooke chimes in. “I’m in the mood to make a man fall to his knees, whimpering for mercy.”

“You kinky little minx!” You laugh. “Are you trying to make men pay or are you trying to get laid?”

“Can it be both?” Brooke says, biting her acrylic-donned thumb.

“I say…” Tana calls attention to herself, raising a hand. “We choose a random house on this street to wreak our vengeance. One of the homes has to belong to a man.”

“I’m in!” Essie beams.

“Me too.” Brooke says, high fiving Tana for her devious plan.

“I don’t know, guys,” You say, reluctant to rain on their parade. “We’re pretty drunk but I don’t think we’re drunk enough to want vandalism charges. Let’s just go to one of those rage rooms and let out all this pent up energy. We could scream out female rage lines from our fave movies and break shit.”

“That’s…okay but it’s not as epic as Tana’s idea,” Essie says, leaning forward to be in better earshot range. “Come on, y/n. It’s only for tonight. You know, we’re just having some harmless girl time fun. It’s not like we’ll be breaking and entering. We’re just gonna do some silly stuff then leave. Pleeaaase. I just broke up with my boyfriend. I need this.”

You take a quick glance at the girls who all send big, puppy eyes your way. You sigh then laugh. “I can’t believe we’re doing this.”

They cheer at your response, knowing that they’ve won. You raise a hand to cease their cheers and they quickly go dead silent. “Since, I’m the most sober one here. We’re doing this my way,” While staring at the road ahead, a smirk slowly spreads across your face. “I get to choose the place.”

——————

The four of you sneak onto the open field, tiptoeing through the tall grass. Based on the smell wafting in the air, you are certain there are barn animals nearby.

With a nasal tone in her voice from holding her nose, Tana says, “Ugh, how could anyone work around this icky smell?”

“Shhh,” You order, putting a finger to your lips. “If we need to be quiet if this is going to be a successful in and out mission. Do you remember the plan?”

“How could I forget? It’s the most basic prank ever.” Tana whisper-yells, holding up the two rolls of toilet paper in her hands.

“It’s still a huge pain to the homeowner,” You defend confidently before letting out a wicked giggle. “He will be so inconvenienced when he wakes up in the morning.”

Tana shakes her head lovingly at you before peering to her right and left. “Umm, y/n, where’s Essie and Brooke?”

Your eyes widen as you unintelligibly peer to your right and left as well despite knowing the space is empty. “Oh shit,” You facepalm. “How could we have let them out of our sight? Who knows what those morons are doing?”

“Hew we awe,” Essie carries a ‘baby talk’ inflection as she materializes from the dark bluish night with a medium-sized pig cradled in her arms. “Evwyone meet Wilbur.”

“I’m sorry but where the hell did you get that pig?!” You say, no longer able to keep your voice to a whisper.

“The barn, obviously.” Brooke replies.

“What happened to not breaking and entering?! I take my eyes off you two for a second and you’ve already broken a handful of crimes.” You scold.

“But we’re saving him, y/n. You don’t want this pig to become bacon, do you?” Essie says, holding up the pig near your face only for it to wiggle out of her grasp and take off running.

“We’ve gotta catch that stupid fucking pig!” You yell and the girls obey. The group comically chases the animal around, slipping and sliding through mud and crops. In the chaos, the pig makes contact with the toilet paper you’ve long abandoned, tossing it around with the help of the forceful winds to guide it all over the field.

You spot the pig approaching the door of a small blue cottage. You dive forward, fully immersed in the thick mud that soiled your white tank top and denim skirt and you cared little for this fact with your concerns focused on obtaining the pig in your arms. He squeals and whines against you as you plead for its compliance.

Suddenly the porch lights turn on, shining down on you like a spotlight. The door swings open and not long after you’re forced to look into the eyes of your prosecutor from the ground.

A rugged, older man with unruly, curls of brown hair cascading down his shoulders and the deepest brown eyes that are as large as buttons. The same eyes that were now staring down angrily at you.

“What the fuck?” He says through gritted teeth. It’s not until he sees the full extent of your wrath that he decides to emphasize his previous statement with a fury of a thousand suns. “What. The. Fuck!”

You swallow hard, releasing the pig as you collect yourself off the floor. The man feels no need to check whether his pet had entered the home safely, wanting his eyes to focus on you in case you tried running.

“I-I could explain. W-we were just—”

“We?” He abruptly interrupts, upholding the gruffness in his tone.

You were afraid that he’d say that. After all, those bitches were a little too quiet for your liking. After looking behind you to confirm their abandonment, you slowly face your prosecutor once again.

Swallowing the hard lump in your throat you begin, you try scrambling for an answer. This is already a very terrifying situation. This man looked terrifying himself. He’s robust in build, littered with tattoos, and had piercings. You don’t see men like him everyday or at all on your side of town. Men usually groomed themselves like ken dolls where you come from. But when you have come across men that look like him, the experience has always been a negative one—-only this time you were the one at fault.

“I’m sorry.” You shrug with an awkward smile then tack on a “Please don’t call the cops.”

He sighs deeply. “I’m not going to call the cops…”

“Oh, thank god.” You sigh in relief, a hand to your beating chest.

“You’re going to call your parents,” He finishes. “And you are going to tell them that we’re going to come up with a solution for this or I will be calling the police.”

“Oh, fuuuck.” You groan.

————-

“I’m so very sorry, sir. Truly,” Your father says after profusely apologizing for the 7th time since his arrival. “She’s been acting out a lot ever since she’d gone away to university. My wife and I don’t know this girl but she is not the y/n we raised.”

You roll your eyes at the comment, texting away at your friends who wanted to know the details of your capture. Meanwhile, you’re too busy cursing them out to care about how badly you’ll be punished for this.

“I’m just glad things didn’t get any worse or when someone could’ve seriously ended up getting hurt.” The farmer says, staring pointedly at you.

“Now I was thinking…though I could very well pay for the trouble and we could be out of your hair, I’m a man that likes to go above and beyond when it comes to taking responsibility. My daughter’s exceedingly aware of this fact about myself,” Your father scoots his seat up closer to the table, fingers together as if proposing a business plan. “It appears that you might need some temporary assistance in tending to your farm work. If you’re looking for an extra set of hands to help with some manual labor for the next two weeks, my daughter is happy to oblige.”

“Excuse me!” You say, attention fully invested in the conversation. “Tell me you're joking.”

“Nope. You are grounded. Meaning that though you are visiting for spring break, you are currently under my roof, my rules. I am still your parent after all. To clarify, there will be no going out with your friends. You are to come straight to

Mr. Munson’s farm every day after your time at your mother’s shop. You’ll help the gentleman around with whatever he asks of you.” Your father explains.

“And what if I don’t?” You ask, defiant.

“Then you’ll be cut off and you’ll have to earn money on your own.”

“Y-you m-mean a j-job?” You ask, horrified.

“Exactly.” Your father confirms.

You stare wide-eyed at farmer Munson who has a prominent smirk on his face. “I like the sound of that, sir. You’re a good man.”

You shriek in anger. “You’re the worst!”

You furiously stomp out of the home, hating your life and men once again.

————

Your father had no doubts that you’d be going to work on the farm once he’d threaten to take away your (his) money. When you arrive at the address, you’re immediately reminded how you're not on your side of town anymore. It’s officially Hickville.

Reluctantly knocking on the door, you hope that Eddie won’t answer the door, praying that he’s changed his mind and took the money instead. Unfortunately, he answers the door with a huge smile in contrast to your deadpan demeanor.

“Oh, come on, lighten up, sugar. I made some of my famous iced tea ahead. One taste and it’ll all seem worth it.”

“It’s not fair!” You rant, pushing passed him. “Why am I being the only one punished? This was all Brooke’s idea. And Essie was the one who stole the goddamn pig.”

“His name is Wilbur,” Eddie corrects. “And who are we talking about exactly?”

“Doesn’t matter,” You sigh. “Bad things always happen to good people.”

“I’ll say.” Eddie says, staring you down.

“Why are you staring at me like that?”

“You really think you’re the victim in all of this?”

“Are you?”

“I don’t know. Why don’t we check out the lovely view of the TP’d trees blowing in the wind?” He asks sarcastically, gesturing to his window.

“It’s just a little toilet paper. Never had a little prank done on you.”

“Wow,” He feigns a smile, shaking his head at you. “Your audacity to diminish all the negative things you’ve done to me into the spirit of good fun is astounding.”

“My therapist did always say I have a knack for looking at things on the bright side.” You retort.

“Is that so?” He asks mockingly. “Well then, you’re gonna love this special job I have for you.”

—————

Which leads you to the situation you’re in now. You’re staring into the eyes of a cow whose large brown eyes kind of reminded you of farmer Munson except they actually held kindness in them and not pure disdain.

“There’s no way I’m milking this thing. I have no idea how to do that,” You say, prompting Eddie to raise a suggestive eyebrow at you. “You know what I mean, pervert.”

Suddenly, an idea clicked in your head. Maybe you could use this ‘pervert’ thing to your advantage. He’s obviously single or he wouldn’t be this much of a crab. You can easily seduce him and get out of doing anything!

“Mr. Munson,” You say with a purr in your voice as you press yourself up against him. “I’m actually really good at milking other things after all. You’ve got me pegged at that. Maybe…I can show you just how skillful my mouth and hands can be for you.”

He laughs. He fucking chuckles in your face. How fucking dare he?! “That was rich. Seriously, that performance was just…moving. You can try to sway me with sex all ya want, hun. Trust me there are women and men who’ve tried,” He slightly narrows the gap between your faces, staring you down. “I don’t buckle under that kinda pressure, sugar. It’ll take a lot more than salacious words to make my dick jump. Now why don’t we go back to the task at hand, shall we?”

You’re fuming. This asshole really thinks he can get away with making you out to be a fool. Well, two could play that game. You’re going to make his existence for the next two weeks feel like a total nightmare.

He seats you on a small stool beside the cow before instructing you on how to milk her. You halfheartedly reach for an udder, shrieking at the feel of it between your fingers.

“This is so gross!” You whimper, squeezing your eyes shut. “I’m going to disassociate and imagine that I’m in a niche boutique in Manhattan.”

“Ah, spending daddy’s money even in your dreams. How thoughtful.” He mutters.

“You have no right to judge me just because you think I’m privileged.” You snap.

“I don’t ‘think’ you’re privileged. You are privileged. See the difference?”

You tug on an udder, purposefully targeting him as the milk drenches him. His face puckers his face before staring daggers at you.

“Oops.” You say in a sickeningly sweet tone.

——————

You begrudgingly enter your house key into the doorknob, body aching from the day's work. The moment you enter, your father’s happy-go-lucky spirit engulfs you and it takes everything in you not to explode.

“Hey, honey, how was your first day?”

“Question, father,” You begin, calling him the formal term instead of “papa” or “dad”. “Do you love me?”

“Now what kind of silly question is that?” He reverts back with his own question, befuddled.

“I’m just curious because I don’t think a father who truly loves their daughter would ever put her through the kind of hell I just went through today.” You respond.

“You milked a cow,” Your teenager brother, Aspen, enters the dining room before beginning a dramatic act. “Someone save the poor girl! She’s gaining new life experiences! You are such primadonna.”

“Shut up, ya little twerp.” You say, pulling his hoodie over his face.

“Your brother’s right, dear,” Your father says. “You are being really dramatic. I don’t get it. You never used to be this way. You loved reading books and conducting personal science experiments and geeking out over your favorite movies—”

“That just isn’t me anymore, dad. The sooner you accept that, the better it is for us all.” You grumble.

He decides to drop the topic in favor of keeping the peace for the dinner your mom prepared for the family to enjoy as a unit. But your mind couldn’t help but to wander back to those times where you were seen as a nerd and bullied for being different and having different interests. University was a different story though. There, you were able to reinvent yourself into the hot bad bitch you know today.

But why is it that your father’s words resonated so much with you? Had it been because it wasn’t the makeover or the new friends and partners you’d make along the way…it was the fact that he knew that you, yourself, couldn’t believe your own act. He knows that you're lying to yourself about liking the person you’ve become. No way could ever admit such a thing to him. And it’s not like you’d feel this way forever. Once you’re done with this hell labor with Eddie “The Devil” Munson, you can go back to your popular life.

————

The routine continued including your constant pushback. It went: shadowing your mother for the day with her bridal clients, heading over to the Munson farm soon after, non stop bickering between the two of you for 2 hours, then heading back home to soak your aching body and curse out the world.

Today is no different with the task of you grooming the stupid pig that got you into this mess in the first place.

“Wilbur. His name’s—”

“I know!” You shout at him, gathering the metal pail and wooden brush from the table. You grumpily made your way to the backyard of the home in search of the shed supposedly carrying the soap to clean the pig. When you notice Wilbur rushes out of a trailer home stationed in the backyard. “Hey, get back here!”

The pig is long gone and you don't care to chase after it once your interest is piqued by the mystery home in the backyard. Searching around to make sure there were no signs of Mr. Munson, you enter the place cautiously.

It’s as if the trailer had been stuck in the 1980s. Everything is vintage and old looking but also well kept. You see photos of the younger Eddie Munson scattered around the walls of the home and—-though you hate to admit it—he was just as handsome as he is now. In some of the photos including one pinned to the fridge by a magnet, you can see an older man. Maybe his father.

Your eye catches an old poetry assignment also pinned to the fridge with a large ‘C+’ above it. A little note at the top explaining his grade being contributed to some misspellings and some inappropriate language despite the good work.

You raise the paper to your eyes and read:

If I Were A Hobbit

If I were a hobbit, I’d be so free

I’d frolic in the grass and smoke some trees

With furry feet and a merry heart

From adventure’s call, I’d never depart

With Bilbo’s tales, I’d while away time.

In the beautiful land of Middle Earth’s rhyme

I’d wander the fields beneath the sun

I’d travel it world cause it’s all in good fun

If I were a hobbit, maybe I wouldn’t get laid

But, hey, it’s goddamn worth the price I paid

You giggle, amused at how fun Mr. Munson had been long ago. You wonder what could’ve happened. Immersed in the poem, you were unaware of his arrival until he whispered haughtily into your ear.

“We’re continuing the trend of breaking and entering, I see.”

You jolt away, facing him. “I-I’m sorry. But you said that I had to look for a shed. Should be more specific.”

“This looks like a shed to you, sugar?”

“Trailer…shed…it’s no different.”

He chuckles dryly. “You are a piece of work.”

“Look who’s talking? You know, you seemed a lot more fun when you were a teenager.” You comment, holding up the poem.

“Give me that,” He yanks from your hands, placing it back on the fridge. “Ain’t anyone ever tell you it’s wrong to go snooping around people’s things. Wait, who am I kidding? I met your father. Even if he were to have taught you these things, you’d probably go against him.”

“You’re a pain in my ass.” You hiss.

“Right back atcha, sweetheart.” He retorts.

“Then, I hope you don’t mind if I continue to do so.” You say, pushing past him to go into the hallway.

“Where do you think you’re going?” He asks, hot on your trail.

You enter a bedroom and it’s another blast from the past. The typical kind of teenage boy bedroom. It’s no shock to you that he's a metalhead. You begin to rummage through his collection.

“You little brat,” He huffs. “I’m too old to be dealing with this shit!”

“Live a little,” You say, popping in a blues cassette into the radio. “Dance with me.”

He stands in the middle of the room, arms crossed as you begin to dance in circles around him. Your boot kicks up a newspaper article crumpled up on the ground and you go to retrieve it, ignoring Eddie’s protests.

It is an article about 15 years ago that expresses Eddie Munson’s exoneration in the death of Chrissy Cunningham and him receiving only a $50,000 settlement. It also goes into detail that his only known immediate family and caretaker, Wanye Munson, had died just a month before his release.

“Oh my god, Mr. Munson. I-I’m so sorry. I didn’t…” You trail off, knowing what to say or even where to begin.

“It’s all in the past now,” He sighs. “Besides, I’m fine now. I still have my friends. They are like family. They’ve got their own lives but when they can they check on me. That’s more than enough.”

Without thinking, your arms curl around his body and for the first time you get to feel his body against yours and it’s addicting. He tenses for a moment, unsure whether this is okay but eventually he melts into your embrace.

His beefy arms cradle you, a large hand resting atop your head. Your heartbeats fall in sync with one another’s and you allow yourself the brief moment to nuzzle into his chest, the chest hairs peeking above his tank top tickles the tip of your nose.

You dare to look him in the eyes, seeing them already looking down at you. They were wet with unshed tears, pleading with you for something. It’s the first time you’ve seen that look on his face and like a magnet you're drawn to it. You’re suddenly moving on your own accord, tiptoeing to brush your nose against his. He lowers his face to your level. Your lips are only a mere centimeters from his full ones when the sound of his phone ringing takes you both out of the moment.

He’s quick to pull away as if freed from an intense spell. Excusing himself, he leaves the room and heads outside. You’re left standing in the room alone, the soft, rhythmic melody of blues playing in the background.

Willing yourself to cool down, you decide to go on with your original task and find Wilbur while hoping it’ll shake off the electric feeling he left on your skin.

————————-

Bathing the pig proved to be quite the distraction because this little shit is making you use all your brain power to keep it still. Having stripped into just your bikini and rainboots, you held the pig for dear life as you washed and scrubbed at him and practically yourself.

You notice Eddie from the corner of your eye, stifling laughter as he leaned against a nearby tree.

“By the way, I’ve already washed off all the barn animals, tended to my crops, and was able to make myself a sandwich in the meantime. You, however, you’re still working on Wilbur. Or should I say, he’s working you.”

“Hardee har har,” You say, unamused. “Will you just help me with this pig?”

“Alright, alright,” He says, heading over to you. The pig immediately jumps from his grasp and into your arms. “It’s all in the technique.”

“Easy for you to say. He already knows you.” You grumble.

“Now what you’re gonna want to do is come up behind him. He's a big fella so in order to hold him down you’ll need to straddle him like this and place your hands down firmly on his back. That way he’ll know to stay put,” Eddie says getting into position, his boots digging in the dirt for some leverage. “He’ll tussle with ya a little but it’s only because he’s not used to being handled by other humans. He’s still a little frantic with me even after all these years. I saved him from the slaughterhouse so it comes with the territory.”

“You mean you weren’t going to turn him into bacon?”

“No, sugar, Wilbur’s family. Now get up on here with me. Don’t put too much of your weight on him. Only just enough to hold him down.” He instructs.

You follow suit, straddling the pig and placing your hands over Eddie’s before looking back over your shoulder at him. “Like this?”

“Just like that, sugar. You’re a natural. See? Now I’m just gonna go ahead and get up and you’ll take the—”

“What? No, don’t leave me! He’ll just shake me off again.” You protest.

Sure enough, the pig began to shake the both of you off its back, side to side until you both fell back into the soil. You fall right into Eddie’s lap and he instinctively grips your hips hard, causing you to let out a yelp and scramble out of his grasp.

You sat on your knees, looking at him with wide eyes and he returned with the same expression. The blush on his face intensifies and you follow the way his hands rush to pull the cowboy hat from his head to hold against his lap.

He quickly looks away from you, clearing his throat.

“You’ve got—erm, your bikini bra…” You’ve never seen him so flustered. So speechless. You eish you could relish in it but when you realize exactly what he’s insinuating, you feel your cheeks begin to heat up as you wish the world will swallow you whole.

Your tit is hanging out for the world to see. A fucking nipple slip! Why did God cease at nothing to make you the butt of every joke?

You briskly adjust your bra, shaking in your boots. The itching desire to run heavy on your mind.

“I-I s-should go,” Your shaky legs somehow allow you to stand as you peer down at him. “Have a good evening, Mr. Munson.”

You stiffly power walk your way to the small cottage home to gather your discarded clothes on the porch. Eddie’s large hand rests on your shoulder.

“Wait! I can’t send you off like this. You’ll track mud in your car.”

“It’s not like I haven’t done that before.” You scoff.

“Why don’t you shower here and I’ll offer you some fresh clothes? I’ll be making my stir fry in case you're hungry.”

“You being nice to me all of a sudden, Mr. Munson?” You ask, raising an eyebrow. “Can’t help but think there’s some kind of hidden agenda.”

He smiles a genuine 100-watt smile. “No, sugar. I’m just extending some needed hospitality is all.”

—————

You pull on the long sleeved t-shirt Eddie offered you, studying its logo. A horned demon, swords, dice and so on.

“It’s my old high school club t-shirt.” He says, coming to sit beside you on the couch.

“You were in a Dungeons and Dragons club?”

“You know D’N’D?”

“Know it?! I loved that game.” You say, excitedly.

“I didn’t think kids in your generation still played that game.” He laughs.

“Oh, yeah,” You nod. “I was a dungeon master. My campaigns were fire. Anyone who’d joined my games would always go around telling their friends to come see me in action.”

“No way! I was a dungeon master, too! I took it a little too seriously at times but it was like my second passion,” He looks you up and down. “I would have never thought someone like you would be into that kinda stuff.”

“I’ll ignore your sly comment to clarify that I wasn’t always like this back in high school.”

“What do you mean?” He asks.

“Well, you heard my dad. I used to be a goody two-shoes. A nerd. And I even dressed the part, too. The old me would’ve totally geeked at your Hobbit poem. I’m different now though.”

“What’s so wrong about being a nerd?” He inquires, scooting closer to you.

“I used to get bullied everyday. Boys would ignore me. Even the geeks would only ever see me as a friend. When I got to university, that all changed. Everyone wanted me.”

“I think if I’d known you then, we’d probably be good friends.”

“Yeah right. I seemed like the bad boy type who falls for the cheerleader. You wouldn’t have looked twice in my direction.”

“No,” Eddie says firmly, staring you intensely in the eyes. “I would see you.”

He repeats for emphasis. “I see you.”

You swallow the hard lump in your throat, choking back tears. You’ve never felt so vulnerable. It’s strange to be so open with a man who 5 days ago you would have choked with your bare hands.

“Besides,” He says, breaking the silence. “I think it’s you who would have ignored me. I’m not the bad boy you think I am. Sure, I was a bit of a troublemaker here and there. But I was a huge geek, too. Hadn’t even lost my virginity until age 36. A year after my release. No girl wanted to fuck me back in high school. I was ‘the freak’. To some people today, I still am one regardless if I’m innocent.”

“I would’ve believed you’re innocent. I’d have been by your side, too. Us, geeks, have to stick together, yeah?”

He huffs out a laugh. “Yeah.”

There’s that magnetic pull again. The attraction that makes you want to be as close to him as possible. You resist not wanting to make that move again but he takes the initiative, leaning in further only this time you're interrupted once again with the sound of your phone ringing. You throw a silent fit in your head. Eddie’s just as frustrated, expelling a long duration of air from his nose.

“Hello.” You say, answering the phone.

“Hey, baby,” A familiar voice says on the line. “It’s been months. I still think about our time in Venice and this spring fever is only making it harder to ignore.”

Now the memories come flooding in. It’s an ex-fling you met while studying abroad in Italy during your freshman year of university. The man who’d taken your virginity and showed you the ropes to popularity. The moment you left Italy you expected him to call you back but he immediately ghosted you. From then on, you became the maneater you are today.

“What do you want?”

You, of course. I hear you are back in your hometown. Luckily for you, I am doing some research here and I was wondering—-“

“Luckily for me? Are you on drugs, Stefan? I don’t care if you want me. You could forget my number and then you’ll forget me. Have a goodnight.” You quickly hang up the call, ignoring his pleas.

“Is everything alright?” Eddie asks, noticing the way you’re hyperventilating.

“I am now,” You sigh. “That was my ex. He was also my first. He treated me like shit made me feel stupid and like I needed him as if he created me. And back then, I felt like I did need him. Then he ghosted me. It felt good to give him a piece of my mind although I wish I could have said more.”

“I think you said enough. I’m certain you hit him where it hurts.” He laughs.

“I should probably go.” You say, standing up from the couch to grab your coat.

“What happened to staying for dinner?” He asks.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Munson”

“Eddie. You can call me Eddie.”

“Eddie,” You say, testing his name on your tongue. You’re not exactly sure if you’re ready to be this informal with him despite your almost kisses and the boob slip incident. “I’m sorry but his call has left me shaken. I think I need to be in the company of my girls.”

“You mean, the girls who got you into trouble and left you behind? The ones your parents warned you to stay away from?”

“Come on, dude, I need this. It’s not like you can give me great advice about guys.”

“I could. Considering I am one.”

“Well, I don’t think we’re close enough for that kind of session.”

“We just had this whole heart to heart. I thought we were seeing some improvement in our friendship.” Eddie says.

“We’re friends?”

“Us, geeks, stick together?”

“That’s just an oath. Doesn’t exactly confirm a friendship between us.”

He exhales deeply, trying to contain his anger. “Well, I guess you wouldn’t mind if I tell your father about your little hangout.”

“Are you blackmailing me?” Your eyes narrow at him.

“That would suggest that I’d be getting anything of value out of this which I wouldn’t be. Therefore, no this isn’t blackmail but it is definitely a threat. I don’t care if we’re friends. I don’t care to be your friend, sugar. But as the more responsible adult between us, I think it’s within our best interest that you don’t hang out with the people who cause you to commit crimes. So, I think I’ll be taking you home, hmm?”

“And what about my car?”

“I’ll take good care of it for tonight. I’ll pick you up tomorrow for your next job.” He smiles smugly.

If looks could kill, he’d be 7 feet under and you’d already be in hell.

————

Eddie pulls up to the front of your house. The whole ride there had been silent. You angrily gather your things, hurriedly trying to exit his van.

“Have a goodnight, sugar!” He shouts as you slam the door in his face.

Once you’re inside, you do the routine process of angrily ranting out your annoyance with farmer Munson while stomping angrily up the stairs. Your family used to this by now simply goes about business as usual.

You dial up Tana and after a couple rings she answers. “Hey, bitch! I was just about to text you the news. Did you hear who’s in town?”

“Yeah, Stefan, I know. How’d you know?”

“He's been calling me nonstop asking for you. Says he wants to talk to you.”

“I already did. Told him to fuck off,” You say. “And I thought I’d feel a lot better about it but I don’t know. Maybe it’s because I didn’t get to stomp on his weirdly-shaped small dick.”

“Oh, yeeahh. I remember the dick pic he sent you. It is weird, isn’t it? Like an undeveloped banana. Anywho…you wanna get high at my place and watch America’s Next Top Model reruns. I’ve got Jell-O shots.” She singssongs the last statement.

“I can’t remember. I’m on lockdown,” You sigh. “If I get into any more trouble or I might as well hand over a contract of my soul to the devil.”

“Bitch, you are a grown woman. These are the best years of our lives where we’re supposed to live it to the fullest. Sneak out! I’m coming over to pick you up.”

“Tana, n—” But she’s already hung up the call. Sometimes, you really hate this girl. With no choice, you’re forced to make a plan.

Firstly, you create a human-shaped pile in your bed, disguising it with your comforter. Next, you’ll be climbing out of your window and quietly land on your lawn. Finally, you enter your friend’s car and you’ll be homefree.

Although, the climb is a lot more daunting than you anticipated. It seemed like a lot of a higher jump from where you are standing. Tana’s car pulls in and she rushes out to jump up and wave, whisper-yelling to encourage you to do it.

“Tana, this is fucking crazy. You always make me do crazy shit.” You yell down at her.

“But it’s all for the sake of fun experiences.” She retorts. “Come on and jump. Be the bad bitch, you are. Think for a second. WWBD: What would Beyonce do?”

“She'd probably fire you as a friend.” You growl.

“Fair enough.”

“Okay, I’m ready to jump. Just be ready to catch me.”

“What?” Before Tana could register what you meant, you jumped, hurtling into her arms and straight to the ground.

“Huh, that wasn’t so bad.” You smile.

“Yeah, because I’m the one breaking your fall.” Tana groans.

“Payback’s a bitch, love.”

—————

“So, is the farmer plowing your garden?” Tana asks, while applying mascara to your eyelashes.

“Tana!”

“What? That’s got to be the only reason you’re officially over Stefan.” She says.

“I was already over Stefan. Eddie’s just my headache.”

“You’re on first name bases with him. Oh, you are definitely fucking him.”

“I’m not!” You insist.

“And did you say Eddie? That’s the infamous Eddie Munson. How could I have not seen the connection? He’s so hot. Is that okay to say about a murderer?”

“He’s not a murderer.” You quickly defend him causing Tana to raise her hands in surrender.

“Yikes, I’m sorry I didn't mean to offend your friend.”

“He’s not my…well, he is. But…he’s not a murderer. He never killed her. I did some digging on the internet and this town used to be really strange back then. Not how it is now. I don’t know but the circumstances in all the deaths that happened back in ‘86 are all too weird. No human could do the things that I’ve seen done to those corpses.”

“Bummer. Guess we’ll never know who did it. I hear people who know of this case still harass him to this day. It’s no wonder he practically lives off the grid.” Tana sighs. A knock at her front door leads her away and you’re alone to ponder your thoughts.

An overwhelming need to comfort Eddie hits you as you thought back to the moment he’d asked you to stay for dinner. You assumed it was all a ploy to get into your pants but now you realize that he’d genuinely enjoyed the little company he’d gotten.

You hear Tana’s footsteps and a set of another coming up the stairs and before you could get a chance to tell her that you’ll be leaving, she enters the room with your ex.

“What the hell is this?” You sneer.

“I just thought maybe you should hear him out.” Tana says with an anxious smile.

“I’m out of here.” You say, grabbing your jacket from her bed.

“Where are you going? Your car’s not here.” Tana rushes down the stairs after you.

“I’ll walk!” You hiss over your shoulder, pulling the door open where you’re unfortunately met with the presence of your father, brother, and the devil himself.

“Mr. Munson? Dad? What the hell are you all doing here?”

“Funny, I was just about to ask you the same thing.” Your father says.

Stefan steps out from behind you, handing you a piece of paper. “I can see that it is a bad time, mi cara. Please, call me when you can. It’s a new number since you’ve blocked my old one.”

With that, he acknowledges the men before him with a nod and leaves. It’s not lost on you that Eddie stares him down with a dirty look on his face before his eyes land back on you.

“If I could just explain...” You begin.

“No, y/n, I’m sick of your excuses. You sneak off at night to god knows where. You reek of pot and booze. Is this the type of example you want to set for your younger brother? He’ll be graduating next year. Should anticipate that his time in university will consist of lollygagging around instead of focusing on his career?”

You look over to your brother who, instead of carrying a smirk, he had a look of genuine concern for you.

“I was just having fun.”

“Is that all you can think about? When did fun require drugs and alcohol and committing crimes?! Fun for you used to be attending cosplaying conventions, not vandalizing properties and drunk driving.”

“Well, I’m not that anymore so you could fucking stop clinging to the past.” You yell.

Your father is taken aback and you could faintly see the waterline rising in his eyes. “Get in the car. Now!”

You shoot Eddie an angry look. “Us, geeks, stick together? Forget anything I ever said about believing in you.”

Your heart twinges at the shattered look on his face at your statement. No longer wanting to see the extent of your blow, you brush past him and follow your father’s command.

“As for you, young lady,” your father points to Tana. “I will be in touch with your parents regarding your misconduct.”

Tana’s mouth drops in complete shock at this revelation and for a moment you actually are proud of your dad.

————-

You plop yourself onto your bed, crying your eyes out. Not even really crying for yourself but for Eddie. How could you have been so cruel to him? All for the reason that he cares enough about you to make sure you aren’t getting into trouble. There’s no way he’d ever forgive you for the way you spoke to him.

A knock on your door calls to your attention. You reluctantly answer, knowing you’ll be getting yet another punishment. You’re surprised to find your brother, Aspen, at the door.

“What do you want, twerp?” You say.

“You should really apologize to dad. You made him cry. I’ve never seen him like that.” He says.

“I know. It’s just that I hate when people remind me that I was…a loser. I didn’t mean to be so awful to him, though.”

“You were never a loser. In fact, I used to think you were pretty cool. I wanted to be comfortable in my weirdness as you were. I’m happy that you’re finding yourself and all. But you don’t have to change who you are to appease anyone. Not even dad. It’s your life, sis. If you like drinking and partying, that’s okay. If you like reading nerdy books and cosplaying, that’s okay, too. As long as it’s something you want to do and not something you do to make people like you. So stop acting like you’re some psycho fembot that wants to spend the rest of her life in and out of jail.”

“Wow, Aspen, I’m impressed. I did not know you could speak incoherent sentences.” You tease, pulling him into a hug.

“Fuck off.” He laughs, struggling to free from your tight embrace.

————

The next day, after some time to think of your apologies. You began with your father. He admitted to you that he was scared of the thought of you growing up and not needing him and let’s just say that the two of you ended up bawling in each other’s arms and confessing your love and appreciation for one another by the end of it. Your busy event planner mother stumbled into the scene both heartwarmed and confused.

The next one is going to be a tough one for you. But you felt prepared with a handy long written note in your hand in case you needed to find the right words.

However, the moment you arrived on his farm and were met with the look of indifference on his face, you began to break down sobbing. Hard. The thought letter long abandoned to the ground.

His demeanor immediately softens, placing a hand on your shoulder to comfort you.

“I-I’m s-so sorry….you…friend…mean…,” You gasp an unintelligible apology through your tears. “Bitchy…geeks…believe you…stupid pig Wilbur…never would have met a great man like youuuu.”

He gives you a small smile, pulling you into his embrace. “I know, I know.”

“Understand?” You ask.

“Yes, sugar. I understand what you said. Crystal clear.”

“Accept?”

“Yes, I accept your apology.” Eddie laughs.

“You don’t hate me?”

“I never hated you. Even when you’re being an annoying brat. ” He says.

“Good,” You sniffle, pulling away from him to wipe your tears and compose yourself. “I’m happy we’re friends again.”

“Friends? Who said anything about friends?” He quips before patting your shoulder. “Yeah, we’re friends again.”

“Now you could get to work and then later you can make me that stir fry that I've been dying to try.” You beam, skipping into his home.

“Only if you’re a good girl.” He challenges.

For the day, the two of you would groom the horses together. Of course, you were still quite jumpy and the bougie princess he knows you to be but it was nothing he didn’t find amusing about it anyway.

“You should seriously take a look at my note though. I really thought out all the things I had to say for you. My weeping apology was only the tip of the iceberg.”

“I don’t know. I don’t think anything in that note will top that moment but I’ll take your word for it.”

“Read it when you’re alone though. I don’t want to see your face when you read it.”

“Why?”

“Because I know you’ll be all smug about.” You say, rolling your eyes.

“And you say you hardly know me,” He chuckles then switches to a serious, gruff tone. “So…Stefan…he’s a looker. Thinking about going back on your word to end things with him.”

You laugh. “I’m playing it by ear. He says he’s changed but that’s every jerks’ favorite line.”

“Just let him know that if he ever hurts you, I’ll kick his ass.” He threatens.

You step into Eddie’s space, his face flushes at the close proximity. Your hand raises up to cradle his heated cheek. “You couldn’t hurt a fly, Edward Allan Munson.”

Lost in your eyes, he fails to notice you tug the joint nuzzled behind his ears. Until you raise it up to his face with a knowing smile. “You smoke weed?”

“Baby, I used to be a dealer. In fact, I still grow my own supply.”

“No way.”

“Oh yeah. Maybe I was the freak but those jocks and cheerleaders were begging for a piece of my supply.”

“You wouldn’t mind if we smoke this one together.” You suggest.

“After your father chewed you out for it last night?”

“He knows I do it. And I learned this morning, after our heart-to-heart, that he was once a pothead, too. And now that I know that you are also a pothead, not only does this confirm my personal theory that most people smoke weed but also this makes our friendship so much more interesting.”

“You’re starting to throw that whole ‘friendship’ word around a lot more enthusiastically now.”

“My friend’s a dealer. I’m going to take full advantage of that.” You loop your arm around his guiding him to an empty stable so you can both fall against the hay.

He picks the hay from his hair, laughing. “I don’t even have a lighter and the fumes are not safe for the animals.”

“Babe,” You say almost insulted. “I always carry a lighter. You never know when you’ll find yourself in an impromptu smoke session or possibly get lost in the middle of the woods. Besides, we released the animals into the field for their little recess. We’re the only animals left here. Just you and me.”

“Alright, fine I guess we’re doing this. Don’t tell your dad about this, though. This will just be a one time thing.”

“Mhm, yeah sure, bud,” You say nonchalantly, busying yourself with lighting the joint. You hand over the joint to him and he protests, wanting you to take the first hit. You oblige. “It’s your joint. Don’t you know the rules? The one who bringeth, smoke..eth.”

“You wanted it badly so I let you take it first.”

“I didn’t want it ‘badly’. I’m not a fucking addict,” You laugh, bellowing out a puff of smoke. “I just thought it’d be a nice bonding moment. Wanna see how you get when you’re high.”

“It’s nothing special. I’m the same as I am now.” He shrugs.

“You mean, ‘a stick in the mud’?”

He bumps you with his shoulder causing you to lay back against the hay.

“You jerk, I just pick all that out of my hair.”

“Serves you right. Now hand me the joint. You’re hogging it,” He tries to reach for it but you raise it above your head. “You’re such a tease.

He attempts to reach for it again, falling on top of you. His full weight on your body is so damn delicious it takes everything in you not to moan. It doesn’t help that the weed has heightened your senses making you feel EVERYTHING. The way his hot breath feels tickling your neck along with the way his curls on his head gently caress your skin as he reaches for the joint. He seems oblivious to the state he leaves you in even after he’s gotten it until he lets out a puff of smoke in the air then looks back down at you once again. It’s evident he can see the darkened lust in your eyes because of the way his adam’s apple bobs in his throat. He suddenly feels so thirsty and it isn’t because of the weed.

Afraid a moment like this will be interrupted once again, you lunge forward attacking his lips. He’s caught fullg by surprise, a strangled moan swallowed up in your frenzied fit of passion. You’re the one controlling the kiss, forcing him to roll on his back so you can grind down on the sizable erection in his jeans. The friction from the fabric of your lace underwear and the rough denim of his jeans are an undefeated combination against your puffy clit, sending flood after flood of your wetness to pool between your legs.

The kisses are sloppy. Your hands are everywhere; in his hair, yanking his shirt for dear life. His hands cup your face before entwining in your hair then they’re around your neck, unable to keep them still because he’d like to feel every part of you just as you wish to do to him. Every so often growls would escape your lips as you grind harder and harder against him.

“Fuck, Eddie, you feel so fucking good.” You whisper desperately into his ear.

“So do you, sugar. Ain’t even inside you yet and I’m already about to blow.” He groans, sweaty forehead pressed against your own.

“Can I fuck you, Mr. Munson?” You plead.

And the whine Eddie lets out confirms that it won’t be happening anytime soon. You look between your bodies, seeing the dark, wet patch on his jeans then back up at him.

He’s obviously embarrassed. “I’m sorry. It’s been a while.”

“That’s okay. Um, this was…this was really spontaneous.” You don’t immediately get off, wanting more and hoping he’d give you more so that he can make you cum, too.

Instead he grabs you by waist, lifting you off him in a hurry. “I’m sorry. I need to—-this was a mistake.”

And once again, he leaves you to your thoughts. All you could do is stare as he grew smaller and smaller in the distance, while you began to feel smaller and smaller on the inside.

#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson smut #eddie munson x reader smut #eddie munson x you #stranger things #eddie munson #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson angst #eddie munson x female reader #beefy!eddie munson #farmer!eddie munson #joseph quinn x reader #joseph quinn fanfiction #chocolate button eyes #eddie my baby #older!eddie munson x reader smut #mean!reader #bratty!reader #stranger things au

[no-face-no-shame]

Ok maybe a controversial opinion, but I don't want a Nimona sequel. Not at all.

I think that the movie said what it wanted, exactly how it wanted. Differently from the graphic novel, although equally beautifully. The thing about the universe of Nimona is that we see it at the beginning with all its ugliness, hypocrisy and bigotry. And throughout the story we see the characters change and reveal how they were harmed by this system. At the end of the movie, the wall was destroyed. People can travel outside, see what's there. The change has happened. And this is exactly what Nimona is about - about witnessing the change happen with your own eyes.

I don't see any good plot possibilities for a sequel. The movie achieved what it wanted, told the full story and ended there. Actually, it ended in a way more optimistic way than the novel.

There was no sequel to the graphic novel and there shouldn't be any to the movie. I'm just a bit scared that some studio will notice the success of Nimona and decide to make some awful sequel because "the young gays wanted it." Sometimes the best stories are those that end.

#nimona #nimona 2023 #ballister boldheart #ballister blackheart #ambrosius goldenloin

[is-the-thing-actually-jewish]

are Hanukkah sweaters a Jewish thing? i've seen them before but 90% of the time, they're people trying to make christmas displays more "inclusive." so are they legit Jewish or no?

Rating: Capitalism.

Hanukkah sweaters are a prime example of what I previously characterized as "capitalism's tendency to tepidly repackage any Christmas symbols in literally or metaphorically blue-and-silver wrapping paper to appeal to a Jewish market." As the "ugly sweater" phenomenon has grown more popular, retailers saw an excellent opportunity to widen their market by having "Hanukkah" versions.

That said, there's a wide range of Hanukkah sweaters out there, some of which are more problematic than others. Ones that are literally just recolored Christmas designs with a couple Jewish-y things tacked on, like this "Shalom Gnome" design or this "Oy to the World" design are more problematic than enthusiastically tacky designed-from-the-beginning-to-be-Jewish ones. The former says "Hanukkah! It's Christmas for Jews! Jews! They're just Christians without Santa or Jesus!" while the latter says, "Oh, you're going to walk around with an eyesore sweater full of tinsel and actual little jingle bells as though anyone could possibly forget that it's Christmas season in this country? I see you, I see you, and I'm just going to casually wear this sweater with a menorah and candles that actually light up because Judaism rocks, that's why."

Then there's a whole genre of Hanukkah sweaters with, let's say, more adult content, and people's mileage may greatly vary on how they feel about them. Personally, I find the ones riffing off more secular aspects of the holiday to be largely harmless, such as this "You Spin Me Right Round, Baby" design with dreidels. On the other hand, while some may find it amusingly subversive, I find ones making fun of the religious part of the holiday (i.e., the actual hanukkiah/menorah) to be in poor taste at best. There are a plethora of "let's get lit" Hanukkah sweaters like this one that genuinely annoy me. (For one thing, Hanukkah isn't even a drinking holiday! If you want a drinking holiday, we actually have those but Hanukkah isn't it!) Ones like this that make it into a creepy pick-up line actively disgust me. And this "gelt digger" one is genuinely antisemetic, given the stereotypes about Jews and money.

I would be remiss not to mention what I personally think is the best of the Hanukkah sweater subgenres: animal puns. My fiance owns this Meowzel Tov sweater with a truly garish design. What does "mazel tov" have to do with Hanukkah, you may ask? Absolutely nothing, but hey, cats! Can't be upset about Jewish cats! Similarly, llamas? Not Jewish at all! But Happy Llamakka? Okay, cute pun, cute graphic, I'm reluctantly charmed. Your Menorasaurus would not be kosher for actual use as the candles are all different heights, but you know what, that actually makes me smile.

So, basically: If you get joy out of being loudly Jewish during a season where everything is yelling about Christianity all the time, go ahead and wear your ridiculous ugly sweater to the company party. Just take a close look at the design to make sure it's not actually full of Christmas trees, not pretending something extremely Christmas is Jewish because it's a pun now, doesn't use Charedi men as a cartoon stand-in for anyone Jewish, and doesn't makes being Jewish primarily about not being Christian.

In sum: RIP my browser history, I'm going to be getting such terrible ads for the next several weeks. Click the links at your own risk.

~Mod Leora

#rating: capitalism #hanukkah #hanukkah sweaters #christian hegemony #jumblr #animal puns

[starryspeculation]

looking for a new laptop is harder than looking for a good date i'm telling you

#it's just. i need at least gforce graphics card but i need it to be as light and small as possible #AND i need at least 1tb ssd harddisk AND i need a good ram for PS to work #illa bir yerden file veriyoruz birinden biri olcak ikisi birden olmuyor #worst thing is the best quality laptops are ugly af 😭

[outofconcheol]

Exit West (LMH x F!Reader)

pairing: Minho x f!reader (afab)

genres/au/rating: angst, smut, some fluff, post-apocalyptic au (based on the Netflix series Sweet Home), 18+

summary: Even when the world is plunged into its darkest hour, you find the faintest light in Minho.

warnings: heavy angst, lots of mentions of blood and injuries (i tried to make it as non-graphic as possible), minor character deaths, weapons, panic attack (again not graphic), it's heavily implied OC struggles with agoraphobia and PTSD, brief infidelity, Minho and reader do get into verbal arguments (they're a little toxic lol), Minho is a true loverboy, ambiguous but hopeful ending, smut warnings: kissing, fingering (f rec), unprotected sex, brief nipple play

word count: 6.3k

a/n: i'm so sorry that this took so long, google docs decided to be a jerk and delete a huge chunk of this while i was working on it (I apologize in advance for the poorly written angst)! It is based on the world of Sweet Home but honestly you don't need to have watched the show or read the webtoon to follow along. the title is from the book by Mohsin Hamid. I hope you enjoy! <;3

The sharp wire of the metal fence cuts into Minho’s palms, digging into his mottled skin, and he braces himself for the jump. Leaping over, Minho lands silently on his feet, skills honed from many years of observing his cats take the same leap from couches or counters. But none of that existed anymore.

His eyes remain sharp, taking in the cover of woods around him, and he remembers that while the trees helped him stay hidden, they hid the monsters from his sight as well. No sooner than he’s managed to calm down the ever-present racing of his heart, he’s swinging the door to the bunker open, closing it quietly behind him.

Wincing, he examines the cuts on his palms, tinged with dirty specks of rust. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep doing this, knowing the small supply of rubbing alcohol he’d managed to collect over the past few months was now down to the last bottle. And there was no more to be found.

The small bit of sunlight that streams in through the barely-qualifying window illuminates your sleeping figure nestled amongst a pile of dirty blankets, and Minho almost hesitates to disturb you like this. You look so peaceful like this, a stark contrast to the emptiness that fills your eyes when you wake, the pain of living through two starkly different lifetimes contained in their depths. He knows his eyes hold the same.

“___,” he shakes you awake gently, watching you stir. The gashes that mar your face have begun to scab over, leaving ugly scars in their wake.

“I brought dinner.”

That gets you to jolt up, rubbing sleepily at your eyes. 

“Are you okay? Anything hurt?” You shake your head, a small frown on your face when you see the fresh red marks that litter his palms. He has the feeling you’re lying to him again, but he doesn’t push it. A lot went unspoken between you two.

Minho wordlessly hands you over a full sleeve of crackers, your eyes lighting up. You chomp down eagerly on one, before pausing, holding it out to him.

“I already ate,” he lies, knowing he didn’t want you to sacrifice any kind of meal for his sake. He’d eat the less full sleeve when you fell back asleep.

Moments of silence pass between you, the soft sounds of your eating lulling Minho’s tired eyes to fall, becoming heavy with sleep. He rests his head on his knees, fighting back the shiver that night brought with it. 

A deafening roar breaks through the stillness, and you freeze, dropping the crackers to the ground. Minho is by your side in an instant, hand tentatively reaching out towards your shoulder. But he never closes the gap.

“Ten seconds,” you croak out, so softly that Minho thinks he might not have heard you. “If the distance that sounds travel is 343 metres per second, then ten seconds means it’s far enough away from us.”

The ghost of a smile twitches at Minho’s lips, and he wants to praise your sharp skills, considering he’d only ever been a pabo, but you’ve turned around and fallen asleep again, your back to him. 

Minho settles into the blankets across from you, watching you for a few minutes before his body is weighed down by the exhaustion of the day, knowing the exact same thing waited tomorrow. The end of the world was more boring than he’d expected it to be.

It hadn’t always been this way. The chaos had naturally broken through the quiet, starting one night when a fire broke out in his apartment complex. Amidst the screams and sounds of windows shattering, Minho’s only concern had been the cats, scooping them up, taking special care to cover their ears from the blaring alarms. But all of it hadn’t made a difference anyway.

He thought it was his neighbour at the end of the hallway. Or at least, it looked like him. He’d always had some sort of disdain for the man - in Minho’s eyes he talked too much. Always interrupting him during his morning mail runs to brag about his latest conquests when it came to dating. It was a sore spot for Minho, especially considering his own romantic interests were so singular, something he didn’t want to get into whenever his neighbor cornered him.

But the vain man who talked Minho’s ear off about sleeping with as many women as possible was nowhere to be found, lithe limbs transforming into ropes that broke through the ceiling. Heading straight for Minho.

Somewhere in the chaos, Minho briefly had time to register that whatever was in front of him was no longer human. And so, he did the only thing he could do. Run.

The floor slipped underneath him, hurtling Minho to the ground, the cat carrier thrown open next to him. Soonie, Doongi, and Dori are nowhere to be found. His palms claw against the tile, trying and failing to lift himself up, eyes widening when he sees the red that coats his palms.

“Please,” Minho croaks, attempting to break through to the human underneath the monster. “Don’t do this.”

There’s a brief flash, a spindly arm reaching out for Minho’s face, and he ducks. The sound of shattering glass follows, the grotesque body flinging itself out the window. Minho heaves, hot tears leaking from his face as he remains curled in the fetal position, arms braced over his head. When his breath returns to him, he looks over at the empty carrier and lets out a sob. Slowly, his eyes turn to the shattered window. 

Blood lines its jagged edges, dripping to join the mess on the floor. Peering downwards, Minho sees the mangled body of the thing (he refused to acknowledge it had been his neighbor) that had attacked him, unmoving. 

He had to get out of there.

…

The knock at the door startles you. It’d been days since you’d locked yourself away from the chaos, days since you’d heard a sound. But the screams would never leave your head. 

You’ve been huddled up in the same corner since it all started, exactly ten feet away from the door. Close enough to act quickly in case someone (or something) came knocking, but far enough away to duck into one of the rooms of your apartment for safety. 

However, the splitting pain in your ankle prevents you from doing either. The bruises are turning a nasty shade of yellow, mixing with the unsightly violet from before. You’re pretty sure it’s broken, your bookcase toppling over onto it the day this had all started.

The knock startles you again. It’s soft, gentler than the ramming you’d expected if a monster were to come knocking. But still, you could never be too safe. 

“Churu,” a soft voice whispers through the darkness, and you freeze. There was only one person in the world who’d know that word, and come knocking at your door.

Your palms burn as you drag yourself against the floor, taking extra care to make as little sound as possible. Fighting the urge to curse when the door creaks, you brace yourself against it, peering through the peephole. 

The banged-up face of Lee Minho greets you on the other end, and you nearly sob with relief. Swinging the door open, you take him in at the threshold, peering at you with a strange gaze. You’d often joked to Minho that his eyes resembled his cats’, curiosity mixed with having seen too much contained in their depths. But it seemed especially true today, his lip split open and face haggard while he clutched a baseball bat in his hand.

You know the first thing he’s going to ask before it even leaves his mouth.

“Are you hurt?” he huffs out, watching you collapse against the door frame.

“Junho is gone.” You watch Minho’s entire figure tense up when his best friend’s name comes off your lips, his grip around the bat tightening.

“I-, I tried to talk to him, but there was a weird sound on my phone that kept breaking us up, and then I heard him scream, and then…”

You collapse against Minho in a fit of sobs, forced to recount those awful last moments when you’d heard your boyfriend die over a phone call, the chilling screech of something that wasn’t human cutting off his screams for help. And you were trapped halfway across the city, crumpled on the floor, unable to do anything to help him.

Minho’s arms wrap around you, supporting your weight, and he’s moving you both over the threshold, taking care to shut the door softly behind him. You don’t know how many minutes you spend wailing against his chest, the sight of another human forcing you to confront the horror you’d dealt with in the past few days, but eventually, the pain in your ankle makes itself known again, and you slide to the floor.

Minho rests his head against the door frame, his own eyes red-rimmed, and you watch his face contort, trying to hold back the tears from falling.

“I’m sorry,” you blurt out, watching Minho’s gaze snap to yours. 

“What for?” he croaks. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“I’m so scared, Minho,” your eyes fill with tears. “I thought that no one would come for me, that I’d be alone here, and that I’d…”

You choke, unable to finish the sentence, and you watch Minho straighten next to you. The warmth of his hand wrapping around your waist startles you, watching his lithe body contort as he helps you up off the floor, taking special care not to put weight on your ankle.

“You’re with me now. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

There’s a furrow in Minho’s brow when he hears your request, lips tightening into a thin line while his throat bobs.

“Absolutely not.”

The decision is final, resolute, stubborn — Minho’s arms are crossed over each other, and he stares down at your figure among the blankets, eyeing the makeshift splint currently tied around your ankle.

“Minho, please.” It comes out as a whine, years building in your eyes from the frustration of being trapped in the bunker for months on end. 

“I said no.”

Minho had dragged the two of you to safety not long after he’d found you, stealthily dodging the strange creatures that had begun to pop up on the city landscape. There was little in common between them besides their monstrous appearances, but Junho’s screams lingered in the back of your mind, causing you to wake up every night in a cold sweat for the first few weeks.

The tiny bunker became your new home, and Minho your roommate, forced together by circumstances beyond your control. You’d snapped at him when he brought up the idea of leaving, wanting to search for food and supplies outside. 

Unfortunately, your ankle made the final decision for you — Minho would have to be the sacrificial lamb, risking his life for you both. It filled you with an immeasurable amount of guilt, knowing he put himself in danger every day to provide for you both. But it also made you angry, the listlessness that had begun to brew inside you only becoming stronger when you felt more and more useless every time he’d come back with food and medicine for you and nothing for himself. 

Regret cut through you like a searing knife. Who was Minho to do all these things? He’d been Junho’s best friend, not yours. The relationship between you two had been cordial at best, Minho barely managing to string more than five words together every time he was around you. It always seemed to you like Minho stood at the other end of a vast abyss, impossible for you to reach in any way. Admittedly, you’d been no help in closing the chasm, even since you’d both escaped together, the pain in your ankle lulling you to sleep as soon as you swallowed the meds he brought every day. 

Your eyes flit to Minho across the bunker, holed up into the corner. You watch his hands rummage around in his pocket, pulling out a switchblade. The shiny metal gleams in the rays of the sun, Minho’s fingers enclosing around a lock of his messy, overgrown hair—

“STOP!” The switchblade clatters to the floor at the sound of your voice, Minho’s lips parting in surprise. A deep flush creeps across your neck, wondering what had prompted you to interrupt him in the moment. His eyes study you with a curious glint, a thousand questions hidden in them.

“You’ll dull the knife,” you manage to get out, amazed at the calmness in your voice despite your heart racing at a million miles an hour. “What if we need it?”

Minho’s lips twist up into a smirk, and you wonder if he can see through your thinly veiled excuse. If he does, he doesn’t say anything, throwing a baseball cap over the shaggy strands, smiling when they fall into his eyes. 

“Fine,” he acquiesces. “You can come along. But any sign of trouble and you have to leave me and get back here, okay?”

“What do you mean, leave you? You’re coming back with me, of course.”

“___.”

“Minho.”

You push yourself off the ground with your palms, hobbling over to Minho’s side. 

“Thank you,” you whisper softly to him, and Minho rubs at the back of his neck sheepishly, before the door to the bunker creaks open once more, this time the two of you stepping out into the sun together. 

. . . 

Sweat pools on Minho’s shirt, the sun beating down on the two of you while you make your way through the woods, eventually finding yourselves in a vast field. You’re slower than he is, trailing behind him while you skip on your partially healed ankle, but Minho finds he doesn’t mind.

In fact, he thinks he must look like a fool, the huge smile that threatens to take over his face creeping up every few minutes. Somehow, it feels different now, having you here with him. The sun’s rays feel less ruthless, and there’s the faint rustling of a breeze through the meadow. It's almost like he’s on an adventure, and not caught in an endless struggle for survival. He’s filled with the hope that maybe the two of you can come out of this alive. Together.

Pushing through the blades of grass, Minho pauses when he hears a small thud behind him, followed by the faint sound of wheezing. Turning on his heels, his heart turns to ice when he sees you, knees curled to your chest, the faint sheen of sweat lingering on your skin. 

“Shit!” Minho curses into thin air, crouching onto the dirt next to you. “Stay with me ___!”

His arm swings out to steady you, but recoils at the last second, not wanting to startle you. Guilt eats away at his chest when he realizes this is all his fault. He’d been the one to agree to let you go outside. Realization dawns on him that there’d been a reason you stayed in the bunker the entire time, his mind flashing back to the days you must have spent alone in your apartment, full of pain, wondering if anyone would show up.

Minho panics, looking around the field for something, anything that could help hold you over until this passes, when a thought crosses his mind.

“Do you want to hear about the time I tried to walk my cats?” He babbles out, cheeks hot at the silly interruption. It works though, your face jolts up, the trance finally broken. Your eyes are red-rimmed, hair dampened with sweat, snot running down your nose. Minho thinks you’ve never looked more beautiful.

“It was in a field just like this, I brought them out here with their harnesses,” he continues, the smile growing on his face when he sees the stream of tears that run down your cheeks dry up.

“It was a disaster. I thought Doongie ran away for sure, and Soonie just laid down in the grass on his belly, refusing to get up. Dori was the only one who took to it,” he reminsces fondly, a half-sob, half-chuckle escaping him at the memory, trying to soothe the hollow ache in his heart when he thinks of them.

“I wish I’d met them,” you reply softly, your hand resting on Minho’s shoulder.

“It was my fault,” Minho spits out bitterly. “Junho was over all the time, I could have introduced you. They would have really liked you I think.”

Just like I do.

“I hope we find them,” your voice is quiet, but there’s a resoluteness to it that surprises Minho. “They have to be out there somewhere, waiting for you.”

That strange feeling of hope bubbles up in Minho’s chest again, and he helps you up, fighting the burning in his cheeks when your hand remains clasped in his, the two of you hobbling through the field.

Half an hour later, and you’re stopped outside the remains of what looked to be a convenience store, completely ransacked. Minho ignores the emptiness he feels when he lets go of your hand to peer inside, his heart dropping at the bare shelves.

Behind him, a twig snaps, your sharp gasp echoing amidst the silence. The gleam of the switchblade is apparent in seconds, Minho pulling it out of his pocket.

The woman is whimpering, her gauzy white dress in tatters. His eyes trail to her hands, the discoloured nails offset by the glint of a fancy diamond ring, and for a moment, he could almost believe she’d just walked out of the church, beaming from the happiest day of her life.

But her eyes say differently. Hollow pools of black, nothing behind them. She’s one of them.

“___, run.” Minho commands, not even turning to look behind him. He hopes you’re gone already, hopes you won’t have to stick around to see this dark side of him, the one that was used to doing battle with monsters every time he left the safety of your little bunker.

But you’re not gone. Your hand wraps around his, lifting it up to study the switchblade in his hand. He looks into your eyes, full of fear but also sadness at the sight in front of you, and he wonders if you see yourself in her. What things could have been with Junho.

“I don’t think she’s going to hurt us,” you wrestle Minho’s blanched fingers off the blade. “We should just go.”

You pocket the knife, Minho’s jaw tensing at the thought of leaving the woman behind, unsure of the potential harm she could cause. He opens his mouth to protest, but realizes you’ve already begun to walk away, your slumped figure visible against the setting sun. You’re crying again.

The woman wails harder when she sees the two of you go, her cries echoing into the silent night.

It’s cold tonight in the bunker. 

You shiver among the pile of blankets, watching your breath turn into mist in the frosty air. Teeth chattering, you look over to Minho. His pile of blankets is even more sparse than your own, and you catch sight of his own trembling figure. 

It’s cold, your voice echoes in the back of your mind, your feet dragging across the floor, the blankets dragging behind you. 

It’s cold, it echoes again, Minho stirring when you lay by his side, throwing the extra blankets over the two of you. His eyes go wide with shock when he sees your face across his in the darkness, studying the way your hair falls messily in your face, the rapid rising of your chest with every breath. 

It’s cold, it repeats a final time, your lips surging forward to meet Minho’s, a strange noise escaping his throat before one of his arms comes up to wrap around you, his other palm steadying him against the floor. It’s cold and Minho is warm, the heat from his body burning through you when his tongue traces your lips, before slipping inside, a low whine escaping your throat. 

You break away from him, flushed and shivering, but no longer cold. Minho’s hot breath fans against your cheeks, his thumb resting tentatively at the curve of your jaw.

“Touch me please,” you beg him, and his grip around your waist tightens, hands tracing circles on your side. His lips find yours again, thumbs slipping underneath the hem of your shirt, resting against the curve of your hips. You burrow your face into Minho’s neck, leaving featherlight kisses against his jaw, heat rising in your chest when you hear Minho hold his breath. Breaking away, you meet his gaze, the tips of his ears turning red. 

“Anything,” he whispers against your lips. “I’ll do anything for you.”

Sparks crackle in the air between you, the once stagnant air in the bunker becoming filled with frantic energy, you slipping a leg over to straddle Minho, him fumbling with the buttons to your clothes, pushing aside just enough to feel how wet you are. The fingers of his other hand trace under your shirt again, climbing up your stomach, thumbs brushing against the underside of your breasts before he tugs at your nipples. 

Sighing, your hips move against Minho’s hardness, pushing aside the worn fabric of Minho’s flannel to press kisses to his collarbones, his thumb working on your clit. Your back arches when he presses another finger inside, and the familiar burn of your orgasm begins to rise, building in your stomach.

“Let go for me,” Minho groans, and the deep growl in his voice has you hurtling over the edge, trembling as you fall apart on top of him. The two of you exchange shallow breaths, Minho’s fingers still buried inside you, and you feel your core begin to clench around them, whining from the oversensitivity.

“Please, please, can I fuck you?” Minho whispers, desperation in his tone. You nod, head spinning with everything that had happened, and you reach back under his sweats, fishing his cock out from underneath them.

He pushes into you slowly, groaning when he feels your walls widening to accommodate him. The two of you stay there for a few moments, catching your breath before you tell him it’s okay to move. His hips snap lazily against yours, fucking you slowly and deeply, soft pants and the sound of your wetness reverberating through the bunker.

You rock against him gently, and you reach for his hands, his warm fingertips slipping through your own easily, limbs tangling together in desperation. 

“You’re perfect god, you’re perfect, I love you, I love you so much,”  he slurs the words, the confession ringing in your ears, soft groans accompanied by the speeding up of his thrusts before he spills inside you. 

Lifting you off of him, his arms reach around your body to press you against him, his lips ghosting your forehead, and you feel the wet trail of tears on his cheeks. Eventually, his breathing slows, soft snores telling you he’s fallen asleep, but you remain restless for the rest of the night.

The headache hits Minho like a freight train in the morning, as he stares up at the rust-covered ceiling. There’s a faint chill in the air, one that became even more pronounced when he woke up and you weren’t by his side, and he wonders for a second if he’d imagined it all, from the softness of your lips to the way the words he’d been wanting to say, waiting years to say spilled out of his throat, every kiss and laugh you shared with Junho burned into his memory. And all he did was look on, hopeless in his desperation. Until everything changed last night.

A loud clang startles him, and he jumps up, watching you throw a heavy sack containing the supplies he’d stockpiled against the walls of the bunker, your back turned to him. He lifts himself off his feet, padding softly behind you, his arm reaching out for you.

“Don’t touch me,” you hiss, words clipped and venomous, and you keep rearranging, completely ignorant to the way Minho stands there, unable to formulate a response, his tongue feeling as though it’s weighed down with lead. 

Rage lights up inside him as he watches you move around him, the silence making his heart freeze over, and he decides that he can’t take it anymore. It’s been months with you acting this way, cold and distant, refusing to let Minho in. Before, he’d been able to write off your happiness with Junho as an excuse, as a reason why he couldn’t let himself get close to you. But Junho was long gone.

“We’re not doing this,” he spins you around to face him. “You don’t get to walk away from me like that.”

You push against Minho’s chest with all the might you can muster, and he staggers back. The look in your eyes makes you seem like a wounded animal, ready to pounce.

“Why’d you say it?” Another push, the words leaving you in a broken sob. “Why’d you do that?”

You bat against Minho’s chest until he can no longer take it, grabbing both of your hands with one of his, pinning you against the wall.

“Because it’s true,” he breathes, looking past you through the window outside, unable to meet your eyes. “I love you ____. I’ve loved you this entire time, even when you were with Junho. And I hate myself for it.”

He lets go of your arms, stepping back, his shoulders beginning to shake with the force of his own sobs. 

“Why do you think I stayed? Why do you think I put myself in danger every day to make sure that you had medicine for your ankle, food to fill your stomach? Why do you think I go out there and kill every single monster I run into, because I need to make it back here, to be with you again?”

“You shouldn’t!” you scream at him. “What kind of life is this? Love should be the last thing on your mind right now, Minho! You should fucking worry about your own neck, and stop giving a damn about me!”

The words tear through you, because you know that if it weren’t for his love, you wouldn’t even be alive right now. And it hurts, hurts to think of how long he’s spent living like this, merely surviving, a wall of ice around his chest.

“You’re right, I shouldn’t. But I do. Do you know that these past few months, I’m the happiest I’ve ever been? What kind of fucked up logic is that? I have nothing, nothing in this world besides this stupid bunker and the clothes on my back, and it makes me want to sob with joy. Because I get you. I get a chance at life with you, after so many years of wishing for it, and knowing I could never have it.”

He falls onto the ground, tucking his head into his knees. 

“The universe gave me another chance,” he whispers softly.

Your blood turns to ice, and you crouch down next to him.

“What do you mean, another chance?”

He looks at you, and you finally see all the pain in his eyes come to the surface, everything that he’s kept bottled up inside.

“It should have been me,” he mutters, lost in his own head. “I told Junho about how I wanted to go up to you that night, how beautiful I thought you were, but before I could do anything, he was there. It ended up being him.”

Your head reels from his confession, and you think back to everything that’s happened through the years. All those memories you had with Junho, Minho lingering in the background, purposely keeping his distance. Memories that you could have had with him instead. Bile rises up in the back of your throat, and you back away.

“I can’t do this, Minho, not right now, I can’t–” 

“I know.” He’s at the door before you can stop him, one foot on the other side of the threshold. “Don’t worry about it.”

He leaves before you can even ask him to stay.

Minho knocks back another shot, stomach churning when he sees Junho approach the pretty brunette, chatting her up. She’s batting her eyelashes and giggling at him, and he knows he should be grateful that his best friend is helping him out, on a desperate mission to cure Minho’s singleness.

But all he can focus on is you in the corner, nervously watching your boyfriend flirt with another girl, and Minho wants to vomit when he sees your lip tremble, eyes glassy with tears. 

He’d driven himself nearly mad with the fantasies about what he’d do if he was in Junho’s position, how much better he could treat you. But at the end of the day, that’s all they were. Fantasies. You two were happy together, and he had no place in it.

Minho suddenly remembers the shiny ring that Junho had shown him last week, tucked away in the drawer of his dresser, and decides promptly that he needs to step outside, the stale air of the bar burning his nostrils.

There’s a faint breeze outside, and it calms him, rewiring his muddled senses enough for him to plop down on the curb. Minho heaves, the alcohol coming back up his throat, but he tries his best to breathe deeply, like his therapist had told him. The pity in her eyes when he’d explained his feelings for you lingers in the back of his mind. You were a vice he couldn’t quit.

A shadow looms next to him, and Minho looks over to see you standing on the curb next to him, studying him curiously.

“Not a fan of cheap vodka?” you chuckle, taking a seat next to him, and Minho internally curses when he feels your thighs brush. He was too drunk for this. 

“Just needed some air,” he tries to laugh it off too. “Gonna have a killer headache tomorrow.”

“She was pretty,” the statement startles him. He couldn’t give less of a damn about the girl Junho was talking to, but it seems that wasn’t the case for you.

“Not interested,” he grits out. Not when she’s not you.

“You know, dating isn’t all it’s cut out to be,” you sigh. “I mean, there are good times, don’t get me wrong, but the bad times feel a thousand times worse when you care about someone. Like seeing your boyfriend flirt with another girl right in front of you.”

There’s a bitter edge to your words, and Minho surprises you, reaching over to cup your cheek and tilt your head towards him.

“Junho is a fool,” the words come out in a slow, heavy breath.

“Happy birthday, Minho,” you whisper, a small smile on your face, and Minho leans in, lips searching for yours. The kiss is quick, a brief graze full of shy reluctance, but you’re surprised you don’t back away, dizzy when he retreats, and missing the feeling of his soft lips.

You lean your head on his shoulder, the two of you lingering on the curb for a few moments, before Junho’s loud voice echoes in the background, startling you apart from each other.

“Hey dipshits, the party’s inside,” he drawls, walking over to swoop you off your feet. Junho presses a peck to your cheek, wrapping his jacket around you, and your eyes roam around frantically, looking for any sign of Minho. But he’s already gone, the faint outline of his leather jacket the only thing you see before he disappears around the corner of the bar, vanishing into the night.

Minho stumbles through the forest, the pounding in his head only growing worse, the memory of the kiss you’d shared consuming his thoughts, splintered with snippets from the conversation with you. The one he’d been waiting so long to have.

The spell had been shattered, and Minho thinks he’s foolish to imagine that it could have lasted, the two of you playing house together, and he cursed the false hope he’d harboured for so long. It was a fucking apocalypse, you were desperate for release, and you’d never cared. Not like he did.

But then his mind flashes back to the kiss, and he doesn’t know what possessed him that night, or possessed you to return it. The moment was the single spark that kept the flickering flame of his love for you going, even now, when you’d basically banished him.

A sharp pain surges through him, and Minho staggers to the ground. He clutches the fabric of his shirt, lifting it up to see the ugly wound he’d been letting fester for weeks, a stray swipe from a monster he’d run into. It’s pulsating now, stabbing into his side, and he wants to kick himself. Why had he been so selfless?

Sometimes, he thinks loving you was the worst decision he’d ever made, the way it consumed him completely. He thinks that maybe if time could reverse, and he had a second chance, that he’d never do it, never lock eyes with you from across the party, your smile forever etched into his memory. But that was a lie. Minho knew he’d do it all again for as long as his heart continued to beat.

Minho feels something squelch on the ground below him, a metallic tang hitting the back of his throat. He swipes at it, crimson coating his fingers. Blood. His blood. He presses a tentative hand to his face, swiping at his leaking nose, but the bleeding won’t stop. There’s too much of it.

Minho screams when his spine cracks, the pain splitting through his entire body, and he feels his eyes roll back into his head. 

When he opens them again, the world is dark. And he runs.

. . .

Your lungs feel like they’re going to collapse, parched for air as you make your way through the forest, wobbling through the trees, looking for something, anything that could lead you to Minho. 

Your heartbeat echoes in your ears, accompanied by a ringing that hasn’t ceased since you left the bunker. The decision still made your stomach turn, afraid to confront the outside world without Minho by your side, but you had to find him. Had to let him know that you wouldn’t let him suffer anymore.

Mind lingering on a specific memory from Minho’s birthday, you realized there’d always been a strange undercurrent between you, even when Junho had been around. Despite how many times he drew away from you, you never let him escape completely. At first, you’d thought it was because he was Junho’s friend, but it all changed after that night outside the bar, your attraction to Minho settling in your chest like a lead weight.

You think back to the months you’d spent together, the world falling apart around you, and how Minho had become your entire world, the reason you’d continued to hope. How you’d fallen in love with every part of him, from the way he’d let you take the first share of food to the messy strands of his grown-out hair. 

The wind whips through your hair, the dense cover of trees thinning around you, and you stumble upon the meadow, a lone figure illuminated in the moonlight. You know it’s him.

“Minho!” you scream, watching as he stumbles across the field in response, trying to get away from you. “Minho!”

You scream until your voice runs hoarse, fighting through the pain in your ankle, and eventually, Minho draws closer and closer, collapsing in the middle of the field. His back is turned to you, and he ducks his head, avoiding your gaze.

You think he’ll run away when you approach him, but he remains lifeless, as still as a statue. Crouching down beside him, you lift his chin, turning his face up to you, a gasp caught in your throat at what you find.

There’s something wrong with his eyes. They shift from the dark brown irises you’d come to know to hollow pools of black. His face is smeared with blood, and his breathing is shallow.

“____, you have to go, I’m turning, it’s not safe, I’m not safe–,” Minho grabs your arm, looking at you with desperation in his eyes. His speech is garbled, but you can hear the gentle tone of his voice still trapped inside. He’s still Minho.

“How dare you tell me to run,” you hiss at him. “How dare you tell me to leave?”

“You don’t understand,” he growls, hands shaking in rage. “I’m a monster!”

Fear strikes you at the realization that something was very wrong with him, something neither you or him had ever been able to anticipate. But it’s overcome by a stronger, more profound emotion.

“I don’t care,” you take his face in your hands again. “I love you, Minho. I loved you through the world ending, and I’ll love you through this. Because your life is mine now, just like mine is yours. It’s our second chance. And we will do whatever it takes to survive.”

Minho clasps your hands in his, fingertips rubbing against your knuckles, and you smile when you notice that his eyes are normal again, no longer filled with darkness. Maybe there was a chance.

“We’ll head west,” Minho rests his forehead against yours, pressing a soft kiss to your temple. “I saw a hospital nearby. Maybe there are other survivors, people just like us.”

You nod, throwing your arms around him and burying your head into the crook of his neck. The two of you would exit west as soon as the sun rose, ready to start a new journey together.

Perhaps the life you shared was far from perfect but you realized that you’d clutched onto it as desperately as him, because he was the only thing you had. You were each other’s home.

a/n pt. 2: As always, any feedback or comments are much appreciated, but I appreciate you all anyway. Lots of love, Isi 💜

#kvanity #ksmutsociety #lee know x reader #lee minho x reader #stray kids smut #skz smut #stray kids scenarios #lee know x you #lee know smut #lee minho smut #stray kids fic #stray kids imagines #skz x reader #stray kids x reader #skz fic #skz x you #lee know x y/n #lee know scenarios #skz scenarios #lee know #stray kids angst #lee minho #lee know angst #lee know imagines #skz imagines #stray kids fanfiction #stray kids fanfic

[pilfappreciator]

Did another oopsie and accidentally deleted another ask (*bangs head on table*) BUT HOPEFULLY THE LOVELY ANON WHO SENT IT SEES THIS!!

DADZONE & Child! Reader: John Dory

Includes: GN! Reader, Child! Reader, Adopted! Reader, accidental DILF John Dory, slight angst

TW: mention of spiders and body horror near the end (nothing too graphic but just in case)

🥽 This man doesn't trust himself enough not to fuck up another meaningful relationship ://

🥽 Personally, how I see it, becoming a father is probably the last thing on JD's to-do list. I mean he's definitely got the skills (being the oldest of five and having to raise his brothers means he's picked up a few things), and I like to think that it's something he longs for deep down, but considering how BADLY he fumbled with his brothers the last time they were all in the same room...

🥽 So yeah. In theory would be SO down to start a family of his own, but in practice?? He is EXTREMELY hesitant

🥽 THAT BEING SAID!! Chances are he probably found you as an egg

🥽 He was out one day, hiking out in the forest or exploring coastal coves or rock climbing, when all of a sudden he just… stumbles across an egg. Just sitting there in a patch of moss or nestled into a log

🥽 Ends up taking the egg with him back to Ronda, but not before an actual HOUR of confused staring? Distressed pacing back and forth?? Panicked rambling all the while???

🥽 (the fact that Ronda tried to eat the egg upon his return doesn't help at all)

🥽 John Dory spends the next month or so visiting nearby troll villages and asking anyone who crosses his path "Hey man did you drop this? 😬"

🥽 In the end he decides to take you in himself. Partly because he's gotten tired of all the looks other trolls keep giving him for trying to force an egg into their hands, and also because he… may have grown attached to said egg in the past few weeks. I mean by the end of day 3 he'd already given you a name so you know he's screwed ahsjkakaa

🥽 He tells himself he's taking you in because it's what any good citizen would do (He is a lair. He is 100% doing it for himself)

🥽 The day you hatch is LITERALLY one of the best days of his life? Like he's just making himself some dinner and suddenly he hears crackling coming from his hair?? And then there's babbling???

🥽 This man is going about his day with you nestled in his hair (basically the troll equivalent to carrying a baby on your hip lol). He's choppin trees, foraging for food, and driving his armadillo van all while he's got an actual egg sitting on his head. Absolutely talks to you the whole time, too. He has no idea if you can actually hear him but like.. this man spent the last 20 years all alone in the woods, okay, his ass is lonely :((

🥽 Yknow that thing parents do where they hold up headphones to a woman's womb and play Mozart or whatever to make the baby "smarter" or some shit?? Yeah that's JD. He's doing the same thing to his egg

🥽 no Mozart tho ONLY BROZONE 😤😤 HIS BABY HAS GOTTA HAVE GOOD TASTE AND NOTHING LESS

🥽 If he's really feeling himself then he'll sing the songs himself. And then proceed to give unprompted lore behind the lyrics and the songs "true meaning" (songs include Brozone classics such as Baby Boy Got My Heart In A Headlock Boy and Baby Baby Love You Like A Pizza But Hate You Like There's Pineapple On It Babe)

🥽 "holy crap YOU'RE SO SMALL—"

🥽 UGLY CRYING HOLDING YOU IN THE CROOK OF HIS ARM CARESSING YOUR SOFT LITTLE FACE WITH HIS FINGER

🥽 Will die if you reach for him with your tiny baby hands or just smile up at him

🥽 He's still gonna carry you around in his hair while he goes about his day and stuff ngl. Like for him, it's a signature of your guys' bond and you bet your ass he's gonna be milking it for as long as he can (definitely dreads the day you become too big/old for it)

🥽 Most definitely tries to teach you survival skills as soon as possible. He's teaching you how to fish, he's demonstrating how to start a fire with the bare essentials, he's letting you DRIVE RONDA—

🥽 "It's an important skill to have, champ, trust me!"

"...but I'm only five."

"Never too early for a learner's permit!"

🥽 Defnitely tries to reel in that controlling/perfectionist mindset of his, at least for your sake. The last thing he wants is a repeat of what went down with his brothers. As a result he's probably more lenient when you get into trouble or do something wrong

🥽 Fr tho like... you'll accidentally(?) cause an explosion and his ass will be standing, hands on his hips like "I'm not mad, just disappointed 🤨"

🥽 You thought you were getting spoon fed Brozone content as an egg?? Well congrats on being born cuz now you're getting served Brozone content for BREAKFAST 👏 DINNER 👏 AND 👏 LUNCH

🥽 JDs most definitely the type of guy to break into song whenever he's doing the most mundane of tasks (laundry, cooking, cleaning, etc), and yes he fully expects you to join in and know all the lyrics helloooo?? You've basically been raised on Brozone songs at this point like cmon, don't leave him hanging!

🥽 FR THO!! If you grow up to be a Brozone stan, he's never gonna be more proud of himself <33

🥽 This man definitely has a physical collection of every song/album/cover his band has ever done (I'm mean this is the same guy who kept his brothers underwear in a frame for 20 years so ://). He treats every CD, record, cassette tape, etc. like the priceless artifacts they are and YES, HES GONNA PASS THEM ONTO YOU LIKE THEYR FAMILIY HEIRLOOMS DID YOU EXPECT ANY LESS

🥽 If you grow up to lean more towards a different genre of music or Brozone just doesn't end up being your cup of tea... JDs gonna be a lil devastating ngl

🥽 Pls assure him that he has not failed as a father

🥽 Jokes aside tho! I feel like despite his wounded ego, JD will at least TRY to see your point of view. I mean he's definitely gonna be a bit of a grandpa about it—

*while the two of you are listening to your favorite song*

"I mean, I GUESS it's okay... not nearly as lyrically genius as Brozone's hit single: Baby Girl Ur Sweet Like A Milkshake Girl But I'm Lactose Intolerant Baby 🙄"

"Dad. Please shut up."

—but rest assured that he WILL support you and your music taste <33

🥽 You want merch of your favorite band/artist? No worries he's (stealing it right off the shelf) got money to pay for it! Is there a new album about to drop? He's (breaking into a store in the middle of night like a rabid racoon) patiently waiting in line just to buy it for you! You wanna go to a concert? He's using Ronda to (break speed limits, run people over, disobey every known traffic rule) get good parking at the venue!!

🥽 SPEAKING OF CONCERTS!! I feel like he'd be able to offer solid advice on the do's and don'ts of attending a concert. Like... my guy was in a popular band back in the day and he knows first hand how outta hand concerts can get. He has SEEN some shit ajskskaka

🥽 JD definitely has a photo album full of pictures from back in the day. Some of them are snapshots of him and the rest of Brozone, but a majority of the pictures are just of him and his family— away from the stage and cameras. Just him and his brothers and grandma Rosiepuff too...

🥽 He remembers the exact moment every picture was taken, and he'll tell you every bit of context. Birthday, pranks gone wrong, holidays, first day of school— there's a snapshot for just about every milestone. All you have to do is ask and JD is more than happy to relay every childhood anecdote he can remember

🥽 It gets to the point where you eventually know just about everything about your uncles... WHO YOU HAVE NEVER EVEN MET YET AKSKSKAKAK

🥽 It's definitely something that freaks them out once you finally DO meet them

🥽 Like you'll have a conversation with Clay and they'll be like "yeah I'm not a big fan of spiders haha" and you just go "Oh that makes sense considering you used to have vivid nightmares about them crawling under your skin and tickling you to death" and Clay's just like "how the fuck did you know that????"

🥽 "Dude stop telling your kid everything about us"

"I haven't seen you guys in 20 years! I just wanted them to feel close to their uncles ;(("

"THEY DONT NEED TO KNOW ABOUT HOW I USED TO PICK MY NOSE WHEN I WAS SEVEN"

🥽 John Dory, Older Brother Who Overshares About His Younger Siblings my beloved <33

Ermmm yeahhhh this was originally gonna be one big post including ALL the brothers... but then I started writing for JD and got carries away... so yeah this ask is gonna have to be a multi-parter AJSJSJAKKA SORRY ANON I COULDN'T HELP MYSELF 🤥

NEXT PARTS ARE IN THE WORKS!!

Bruce | Clay | Floyd | Branch

#I am also an older sibling who overshares about my younger siblings! #im very embarrassing to be around i can assure you <33 #out of all the Brozone members John Dory is the most likely to adopt a random child off the side of the road #AND I WILL STAND BY THAT TILL THE GRAVE #hes giving me “finds a puppy/kitten in a cardboard box in an alley and immediately takes it home” energy #the mans already got an armadillo bus thing. why not a kid too? #WAHH WAIT WAIT #Reader finds JD in a cardboard box and ADOPTS HIM AS THEIR FATHER FIGURE??? #AJSJAKAKAKA #*pockets idea for later use* #trolls #trolls band together #brozone #trolls john dory #bruce trolls #trolls clay #trolls x reader #x reader #brozone x reader #ask

[imyourbratzdoll]

Hiya!💗 my request, is about Lloyd Hansen, where like the reader accidentally does something to make him mad, and it kind of like flips a switch in him and they fight and he says something really mean, it can be about maybe the reader does something to make him mad, maybe he points out something about her and makes the reader insecure and then the reader becomes distant then Lloyd notices and realizes he messed up and tries to fix it?? Love your work btw 💗

hey! thank you so much! I hope you like it!

summary - the reader does something that causes lloyd to snap, he says some words he doesn't mean, and she becomes distant. do they fix their relationship?

warning - angst, thoughts of cheating, insults, slight fluff, self-hate.

the gif I use isn't mine, the divider by @firefly-graphics and @newlips

You were a smart girl. Why had you done something so stupid?

You had decided to clean the house while Lloyd was away, wanting him to come home to a clean house. You didn’t mean to knock liquid over vital documents. It was an honest mistake. You didn’t know they were the only copy, you had tried so hard to fix your error before Lloyd came home, but unfortunately, you didn’t do it in time.

“What the fuck is this?” Your eyes shoot up, and you stare wide-eyed at Lloyd. His eyes dart down to the destroyed papers. His brows furrow as a sneer appears on his face. “Are those the fucking papers I needed?!” He storms over, ripping the drenched papers out of your hands and glaring down at you. 

“I–’m sorry! I didn’t mean to! I was just trying to–” 

“Trying to what? Ruin everything?” He growls, chucking the papers into the trash and looking around the room. “You couldn’t just leave shit alone? You had to be annoying and ruin everything like you always do!” You blink as tears blind your vision, Lloyd’s frown deepens, and he grips your arm before dragging you to the door. “Oh, are you going to cry now? Of course, you are! Because that’s all, you know how to do! I don’t even know why I’m with you! You’re not even my fucking type! So fucking ugly and useless.” He growls, the words just spewing out of his mouth now without thought.

You gulp back the sob that’s trying to make its way out. You nod your head slowly, freeing yourself from his grip, before running out of the room and to your and Lloyd’s room. You grab some of your clothes and move them to the guest room, not feeling comfortable staying in the same room as Lloyd. You spent the night crying into your pillow. What made it worse was that you could hear Lloyd inside the house, having the time of his life. 

A stabbing pain made its way to your heart when you heard the sound of a female laughing. You slowly got up and began to get ready. You didn’t want to be here if Lloyd was going to cheat on you, which hurt the most because you never thought he’d go that far, but you guess you really disappointed him. 

You slither into tight black pants, pulling on a tight black mesh corset covered in flowers and gold. You slide on your black-heeled boots and mess your hair up slightly before applying light makeup to your face, finishing it off with a dark red lip. You decide to spray Lloyd’s favourite perfume onto your skin, loving the musky scent of vanilla.

You open the door and begin to walk out of the room, making sure to grab your bag and phone before walking through the hallway and past the lounge room where Lloyd and the mystery woman sit. You keep your head up, not wanting to see who your replacement will be because you know it will break you even more. 

“Baby! There you are! Where are you going?” You hear his voice but decide to ignore him. You continue to walk down the steps and toward the front door. You are so zoned out that you don’t hear him calling out to you or running to catch up to you. You are only brought out of the zone when he seems to grab your arm, and Lloyd frowns when you flinch from his touch. 

“What, Lloyd? What could you possibly want now? Don’t you have a whore waiting for you upstairs? Couldn’t have waited till you broke up with me to fuck someone else?” You glare at him, not wanting to be around him. 

His brows furrow, wondering why you are acting like this or why you’d think he’d cheat on you. His eyes drift down your body and take in your outfit, wondering where you could be going wearing something like that without him by your side. Before he can open his mouth to say something, you rip your arm out of his grasp and swiftly exit. 

It’s been a few days since the fight, and Lloyd has noticed you’ve been avoiding him. You become distant whenever he manages to be in the same room as you— A shell of yourself. You’d flinch whenever Lloyd touched you, causing his heart to break. He couldn’t put his finger on why you were acting like this.

He’s sitting at his desk in his office, going through some paperwork. His phone goes off, causing him to groan as he answers it. “What?!” You do not mean to eavesdrop on his phone call as you walk past his office. “What do you mean you can’t get rid of her?! Didn’t I pay you enough?! I told you that she’s useless to me! So what the fuck are you waiting for?!” You jump slightly, feeling detached more as you realise this is over. You should’ve left that night. You knew he slept with her when you came home. How else could you explain the destroyed lounge and his messy clothes? 

You gulp, head back to your room, and sit on the uncomfortable mattress. Your head goes into your hands as sobs escape your body. “Why do I have to ruin everything? Why am I so fucking ugly and useless?!” You sob, tears flowing down your face as you realise you’ve lost the one person you’ve ever loved. You are so lost in your pain that you don’t see Lloyd standing at the door, his eyes tearing up as he listens to your words. He finally realises why you’ve been so distant. “I’m so fucking pathetic that he goes and fucks someone after a fight. Why me?” 

Lloyd quickly launches forward, his arms wrapping tightly around you and holding your shaking body against his, rocking you gently as he whispers into your hair. “I’ve got you, baby. I’m not going anywhere.” He presses a kiss into your hair, tears flowing down his face. “I love you so much, and I’m so sorry for what I said. I didn’t mean any of it. You’re my one. My only.”

Your body leans into him as he continues to hold you. “I never cheated on you, Pumpkin. She was the target, but the men I hired screwed up, and she got away.” You slowly turn, looking at him through blurry eyes. Lloyd’s heart breaks at how broken you look. He leans forward and places a kiss on your forehead. “You don’t have to forgive me now. I will do anything and everything to make this up to you. Whatever you want is yours.” He stares into your eyes before he stands and lifts you.

Your arms wrap around his neck, about to ask where he’s taking you until you realise he’s heading toward your room. “You’ve been sleeping on that awful mattress, and it’s time for you to stay in our bed,” Lloyd demands, lying down on the bed and wrapping you into his arms, making a promise in his head that he will never hurt you again.

thank you for reading!

feedback and reblogs are greatly appreciated.

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[ganondoodle]

watching a video of someone playing an older game (not even THAT old) and constantly having to hear them go 'omg can you imagine how much more pretty and good this would be if it ran at 60+ fps with highest end graphics of the current modern games and in 4k???' over and over while also commenting on some graphics looking slightly muddy and how ugly and shitty 30 fps is

and i just cant help but get incredibly annoyed at that, cant you just appreciate the game for what it is?? the constant focus on smoother everything and graphics so detailed it looks faker than the real world is such a limited view on games- more polygons and higher res textures doesnt equal better ffs

i, and i might out myself with an unpoluar opinion here, but remakes are in my opinion often rather unecessary, just rerelease the old game, just make it avaible for people, officially, you dont have to reprogramm the entire thing!! maybe upscale it a little so it doesnt get stretched into a blurry mess if possible but even that i will work with no problem!! there are cases where its pretty much an entirely different game (FF7?) and i get seeing one of your fav old games get some new paint can be really cool, not arguing against that- what i dont like is that those remakes replace the original as that isnt made avaible, only the new version- like i wish i could play windwaker on my switch, but i cant stand the "HD" remake of it and i know if it ever were to get ported it will only be that version like the original doesnt exist anymore and my earlier point that many people consider more fps, more polygons, more resolution as automatically better

i dont need games to be running at 60+ fps, 30 is enough, sure id like it to run smoothly on that without huge drops, but when its stable 30, why would i need more? more often than not i prefer simplified graphics bc they often focus on the most important parts of what they are trying to achieve or work with an interesting style to compensate and i LOVE THAT, also id like to not have to download 100+ GB even when i would turn it on its lowest settings anyway, save me the space- and that is if i even got hardware that can run it at all, my computer struggles with slime rancher and i dont have the funds to buy the newest consoles nor computers

im not against remakes per se, but the fact that the old will more often than not disappear entirely and remain unavaible forever and that higher end graphics are automatically seen as better drives me nuts

#ganondoodles talks #random #sorry i got annoyed #was listening to jacks bloodborne playthrough and he kept going on about making it higher res and it reopened my old wound of #more details dont automatically means better #and how unavaible the original versions are #and how they bascially stop existing once a remake exists #just give me the option pls #its ok to like remakes but pls ... i want the option #bc rn i really just have to hope my gamecube and ww disc keep on working #and my TV too bc its the last of its kind that still got a scart connection #and once any of that breaks i got only emulation as a way to play it #and given how nintendo has destroyed botw emulation i suspect that wont be an option for long either #and that is just ONE game

[georgiapeach30513]

Your Mark on Me, Part 8

Summary: Steve would pay for what he did.

Pairings: Steve Rogers X Reader

Rating: explicit

Warnings:  dark!, explicit language, explicit sexual content, mentioned forced marking, teasing, ab riding, implied cheating, oral sex, squirting, 18+ ONLY

Word Count: 4.6K

Previous

Series Masterlist

*dividers created by @firefly-graphics

*Steve edit by @nixakimbo

“I own him,” you whisper as you lay his phone back down. Beginning to pace around the bedroom as your hunger starts to invade your thoughts. Wishing that the noise of your loud stomach would shut up so you could think. This deserved all your attention.

“I own him,” that didn’t even make sense. Between your stomach and your throbbing neck everything was overwhelming. What did owning him even mean? Now that Shy had brought it up, you knew that Steve could get in this bedroom if he wanted to. He didn’t.

Not only did he not bust into the bedroom to bring you to your knees, he was asleep. Had moved a sofa chair in front of the bedroom door, and was waiting. How did Steve own you? He owned your every sick sexual desires. Clearly he owned your allegiance. You didn’t even hesitate when Shy asked you about the tattoo.

You didn’t even get a chance to realize what was happening, and that man was piercing your skin with a needle. Wincing, you walk into the bathroom to look at the mess of your neck. It wasn’t ugly. It was just a bit grotesque from the rawness. It needed to be cleaned. Covered. Something to help it not get infected.

How did Steve make you weak? He was who he was. He exuded this raw sex appeal. He was nasty, but there was a moment. For a few hours it felt sweet. He could deny it if he wanted to, but you felt it. Steve was too hard, so when those soft moments of just you and him happen, you take note of them. Steve was scared of his feelings.

Closing your eyes, you inhale deeply. It was crazy. It was going to possibly be dangerous, but you knew what you needed to do. Centering yourself, and giving yourself a minor pep talk, you walk into his giant closet. Your fingers run over his perfectly organized shirts, until you find just the right one.

Pulling it off the hanger, you remove all your clothes, before undoing the buttons, and adding on Steve’s shirt. Looking in the mirror, you undo a few more buttons before nervously walking towards the bedroom door. This was either going to be easy, or Steve was going to show you who was boss.

Gulping, you creak the door open, but he remains asleep. Good. Maybe you can get some food in before having to deal with him. A hungry self doesn’t make for one in control. Stepping past him, you just know he’s going to reach out and grab you, but he doesn’t. You can hear his deep breathing in his sleep, and almost — almost want to give him a tender kiss, but you were going to make him pay in the best way you could think of. You did own him now.

Grabbing out the bread, and a few things from the fridge, you lay out two plates and begin to make you both a sandwich. Had made it into the kitchen, so didn’t bother to be quiet. Your eyes flit up, watching the door for his entrance because you know it’s coming. Getting almost finished with the sandwiches, you look up to see him leaning against the door, and you look away. You aren’t going to be tricked by his sexual prowess. And that was hot.

Didn’t need to look into his eyes to see if they were heavy with lust. You wanted to make your sandwich, “Dovey, I’m sorry,” he whispers as he walks further into the kitchen. You don’t respond, just take a bite of a strawberry. “You ignoring me?”

“What are you sorry for, Steven?” You ask, taking another bite of the strawberry. His crystal blue eyes dart to your neck, but you want him to say it. “Was it because you made me watch you fuck me with your gun?” His stomach rumbles as a growl moves up his throat.

“Oh, no, you don’t get to tell me what language I can use. What you can tell me is why you’re sorry. Here,” you slide the plate across the bar to him. Complete with his sandwich, chips, and strawberries. Reaching into the fridge you pull out two beers. Sliding one over to Steve.

His eyes watch you as you open it, and take a drink. Placing it on the bar before he reaches over, and slides it to him, “Steve!”

“No drinking.”

“No marking me permanently.”

“I already did that,” you grit your teeth, glaring at him. “I said that I was sorry.”

“You don’t sound fucking sorry. And don’t you dare tell me how to speak. You made me get your goddamn mark on my neck. I can’t hide this, Steve.”

“I’ll get it removed,” he leans over his sandwich, taking a bite of it, while you try not to explode on him.

“That’s beside the point. You got me good and vulnerable. Begging for you to fuck me, and you held me down while some man I’ve never met shoved a needle in me. You didn’t care that I was screaming, crying, and begging you to stop. You just wanted to have a mark that claims me as yours. And you want to know the fucked up part about it?”

He doesn’t look up at you, just stares at his plate. Slamming your hands on the counter, your voice rises in pitch, “Look at me!” His icy stare meets your own. His eyes are glossy with tears, and you don’t even care. “I would have done it if you asked. I would have put this ugly mark anywhere. But you didn’t ask. You…you made me.”

“Dove, I’m sorry.”

“Are you? Do you realize the fucked up shit you have put me through? And I do it every fucking time. I take whatever you give me like a good little girl, and you just push further. And I’m tired of receiving nothing in return,” he sits up straighter. His eyes comb over every inch of your body. Finally realizing what you have on, and you rip open the shirt, exposing your fully nude body to him.

“You want me to fuck you now?”

“I want you to fucking suffer. I want you to stare at what I am not allowing you to touch. I won’t be the one begging anymore, Steve. You like these tits, and sucking on them? You like my tight little virgin pussy?” Your hands run over your body, cupping your tits, before drifting down your front. Spreading your pussy lips apart, your finger runs through your slick. Pulling it up for Steve to see how wet you became by your own strength. Loving as his eyes darken, but still he doesn't attempt to destroy you like before. There are no snide remarks.

Walking towards him, you press your finger soaked in your juices into his mouth, “Clean it off,” his response is to suck on your fingers like a baby suckling on its mother’s breast before you pull them out of him, and walk into the bedroom. Leaving him waiting and figuring out what just happened.

He didn’t touch you. He didn’t push you to do anything else. He allowed you to talk to him like that. Pulling his shirt back around you, you hiss when the collar touches your fresh ink. Just in time for Steve to walk in carrying a container.

“I’m just here to clean up your tattoo. Sit on the bed, please,” you weren’t in the mood to argue, and you sit down. Staring up at him owlishly as he cleans the surface. “I’ve had enough of these to know how to care for them. Ehh, he went too deep,” flinching away from him, he clicks his tongue. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“For not being more gentle with the cleaning,” tearing a piece of clear tape, he presses it up against your skin. “That’ll keep it from getting any bacteria in it,” he kneels before you. Spreading your legs, and you try to resist, “Stop. I don’t…” even though he settles between your spread thighs, instead of being sexual, he lays his head in your lap. “Dovey, I am sorry. Do you forgive me?”

Your hand pets through his hair as his beard tickles your bare skin. You didn’t hate him. But you still wanted him to suffer. “I forgive you,” his hand starts to slide up your thigh, but you smack it, causing him to lift up to stare at you, “But you’re going to have to earn my trust. I don’t let people fuck me if I don’t trust them. Not with their fingers, their tongue, their gun, knife, or their cock. You can sleep in here, but I’m going to be naked, and you’re going to have to earn my trust again. And then, you can have my virgin pussy.”

“How do I earn your trust?” Dammit. He had this pout that was completely irresistible to you. The way his blue eyes shined up at you. He was listening. You did own him.

“When you love me,” pushing him completely off your lap, you crawl in under the covers, and hold open his side for him to join you. “Get in the bed, Steve,” exhaling slowly, he removes all his clothes, letting them fall into the floor.

Just as his knees hit the mattress, you yawn, “Your dirty clothes belong in the hamper,” without making a comment, he walks back to his shirt and pants. Picking them up, he tosses them into the hamper. With just his boxers on, he crawls in behind you, but doesn’t touch you. Waiting on your permission.

“I’m not going to bite.”

“I didn’t know if I was allowed to touch you.”

“You can touch me. You just don’t get to have me,” the tables had switched. You owned him. And he would suffer. He would realize how frustrating teasing could be. His arm reaches around you, and he pulls you tight against his body.

“Are you serious?” You whine as his hard cock presses against your ass. He is throbbing. Aching at your touch. “Down boy.”

“That’s cruel.”

“Yeah, well, you tattooed me,” and he couldn’t argue that. On this side, he could see the dark curves of his mark. His shield. His little bird. His Dove. All he had to do now was to learn to love, and he could have you fully. But he isn’t sure he could do that. And then he had to question if it was worth it. Was a piece of ass worth going against everything? He’d just have to wait and see.

The moment he takes his arm from around you to flip to the other side, you feel it. Huffing, and ready to pout when you sit up. Steve is beautiful in his way. Kept his face clean of any tattoos. While his body showed the scars of his career, and the hard lines of his life etched into his skin. You had wanted to ask him about specific tattoos, but he rarely afforded you that time.

But now that you have the chance to be irritated that he isn’t touching you, you look over his hard body. He covered it with the tattoos to make himself seem more menacing. The ink was acting as his shield, you just knew it.

Your neck is sore, and your body was vibrating with a need to have him, but you also needed to punish him for his ridiculous behavior. He was going to regret the day that he put that on your neck. And it was so visible. It would serve as a reminder of how you might have been burnt, but you were going to rise up out of the ashes, and own him.

There were ways for you to get off, while he had to suffer. He yawns, placing his hands behind his head. So peaceful, and he was going to wake up with you grinding on his stomach, or at the very least, he was going to fuck you back into submission.

Throwing your leg over his body, you start to settle over him. Getting a low sleepy hum from Steve before your core presses on his stomach. Your hips roll over him, and you moan at the feeling. It wasn’t Steve’s hard demanding touch, but this feels amazing. Is this a form of marking your territory? You aren’t sure, but it feels fantastic.

His eyes flutter open, and his hands drift up your thighs, landing on your hips. “Dovey, what are you doing?”

“I was horny,” his brow cocks up as he watches you. Marveling over how well you are moving.

“You can have me. I wouldn’t advise taking my cock when you’re on top, but I’ll let you be the boss.”

“No.”

“No?” His grip tightens on your hip, but you pay him no mind.

“No. I told you that you were going to suffer. You’re not getting me, Stevie. This — it’s all you get. Until I say you can touch me,” his jaw clenches as you move over him. You had him. He wanted you more than ever now.

“You like the way my wet little cunt feels on you?” You give him a little smirk, and he tries to glare at you, but instead whimpers. “I’m giving you a gift in feeling me, Captain. You feel how dripping wet I am just riding your abs?”

“Little bird, I feel your clit throbbing on me. I smell your arousal, and I can see the lust in your eyes. I can make you feel so much better if you only…”

“You tattooed my neck. Put your mark on me for everyone to see. You can — mmm,” you sigh as you start to grind harder. “You can — fuck,” your breathing picks up as your sleepy self starts to feel the ultimate high. “Yeah! Yeah!”

Normally you aren’t quite this vocal, but seeing Steve squirm underneath you as you refuse to give him what he wanted makes it worth it. “Oh fuck, Captain!” You collapse on his chest, your dainty little fingers starting to rub up and down his arms.

“That’s all you got, Dove?”

“That’s all I want right now. It’s very late.”

“I could fuck you to sleep,” sitting up, you shimmy your shoulders, watching Steve stare hungrily at your body. He was starting to beg. “I could have your pretty pussy wrapped around my cock, while your eyes start to close in pleasure.”

“No, thank you,” just as quickly as you crawled on top of Steve, you remove your leg, but cuddle into him. “Oh, what are you going to do about your little problem?”

“My hard cock is not little. I’ll let you…”

“No,” you yawn, smacking your lips, and hug more onto him. “I’m tired. Goodnight, Captain.”

You were becoming a little bitchy brat. Steve didn’t know how to feel about that. Didn’t know why he was allowing you to control his emotions. He could go to the club and find a line of women who would spread their legs out for him. Women that would crawl on the floor as they knelt in front of him, ready to suck his cock.

And yet, here you were, looking all sweet and cute, but you had an evilness. It was something Steve noticed early on. It was attractive to him. He craved it, and you. He’d have you. He’ll play along for now. But only for now.

“Where’s Bucky?” Steve looks up from his desk, glaring at some man in the doorway. “Never mind. Fuck,” his hand was starting to get tired of all the stroking he had been doing. He couldn’t go home without you walking around in nothing but one of his shirts. Just enough buttons undone to show him what will be his, but not enough to see much. And every night, you slept completely naked.

You hadn’t so much as let him put his fingers in you, or taste you. You were holding out in a big way, and it was getting frustrating. “I need the utmost discretion,” he tells him. Had he been in a different mindset, he would never ask a newbie for that type of responsibility. “Bring me a few of the dancers. Now.”

“Yes, sir,” he nods his head as he runs to the main floor. Steve settles back in his chair. Getting his cock sucked is just what he needed. Whoever he brought was never going to be you, and you would be none the wiser. It wouldn’t hurt anyone.

A brunette and a redhead too scantily clad are brought into the room, and he’s already annoyed. They didn’t have your sweet innocent look to their eyes. Realizing where they are they get excited knowing that they would be handsomely compensated for their time. He snaps his finger, and points to the floor, and neither hesitate dropping to their knees.

Wiggling his finger, they both crawl towards him with the prowess of a woman who knew what she was doing. They weren’t you, and he’d never make you crawl on the floor. Collaring you is something he has considered. These two would never get that opportunity.

He leans back even further, letting the two of their hands roam up his legs as they palm him over his jeans. He wasn’t even hard. He has to lean his head back with his eyes closed envisioning you. Even then, it didn’t feel the same.

—

You turn back to look at Sam who nods his head forward. Wrapping the trench coat tighter around your body, you realize this had to be the most ridiculous idea. You didn’t want your first time to be at this disgusting club. You deserve something sweeter than this.

“We’re almost there, Dove. Same room you came to that first night,” his words cut off shortly as two stupid girls walk out of the room. Looking at you before giggling to themselves.

“Maybe she can help him out,” one says under her breath, and your pulse is so hard it makes the noise completely stop. You were an idiot to believe holding out on Steve was going to do anything but make him stray.

You sling the door wide open, and glare at Steve. He didn’t even argue or lie about what trash just walked out of his office. “Sam, close the door,” Sam nods, and you’re too baffled to think of a response. “Dove.”

“Don’t fucking call me that, you asshole.”

“I’m the asshole here?” His voice raises, matching your own. Before it would have terrified you, but now you see Steve for the coward that he is.

“Yes! You…what was that?”

“Two women who came in here to suck my cock.”

Not a stutter. Not even a lie. The fucking truth, and you hate him. Picking up the closest thing you can get your hand on, you throw it towards him. “What the fuck?”

“I hate you, Steve Rogers!”

“You hate me? You hate me so much you fucking grind yourself on my stomach every goddamn night? You leave me with the worst case of blue balls because you’re trying to prove a point, huh? Prove that you think you can control me. No one controls Steve Rogers, baby,” his voice cracks at the end. A tiny show of emotion that neither of you thought he had.

Your body trembles with the rage that you have locked up inside of you. Letting out a gut wrenching scream. “Then let me go! You don’t own me! I own you!”

“The hell you do,” he stares at you with his eyes wide. “I can have whatever fucking piece of ass I want.”

“Except mine. Don’t call me,” he stands up from his chair, his jeans still zipped up, and completely clean. But all you see is red. “Don’t follow me. Don’t watch me. I’m not doing this. You want whatever piece of ass you can have. Have them. Have every last fucking one of them, Steve, because you’re not getting mine,” spinning on your heels, you go to stomp out of his office, but his thick arms wrap around you.

“Let me go! Don’t touch me! Steve!” You growl out, trying to slap him off you. “Don’t touch me!”

“You’re not leaving me. You’re stuck…”

“No, I’m not! I’d rather die than be with you. Let me go! Get off! Get! Off!”

“Don’t leave me,” his voice squeaks out. Hiding his face in your neck, he kisses his mark, holding you even tighter. “Dovey, don’t leave me, baby, please.”

“I’m not going to have some girls mouth fucking what is mine!”

“They didn’t.”

“Yes, the fuck they did!”

“They didn’t even touch me. Or unzip me. I couldn't’ get hard because they’re not you. Dovey, please, stop fighting me. Just listen,” you don’t want to listen. It was always games with him. He was just now trying to convince you otherwise, and you didn’t want to hear a word of it.

“Can we go home?”

“No,” you respond quickly. “Let me go, and I’ll listen.”

“I’ll let you go, if you promise not to leave, and you take off the jacket.”

“Promise,” you croak out, and he drops his arms. Turning to look at him, you open the trench coat wide, and he bites his tongue at the sexy lingerie you’re wearing. Wishing he wouldn’t have asked that question. It isn’t overtly sexy. There’s still a sweetness to it that is entirely you.

“Why were you coming here?”

“I was going to give you a taste. Not sex, but now, I’m not. Steve, I can’t do this with you. I don’t want to be at home waiting on you and worrying about what whore you’re going to have bobbing on your dick. I am it. If you are it for me, I am the only woman you touch, and the only woman that touches you. That…I won’t have surprises like that. Had I not come here, I wouldn’t have known that.”

“There’s nothing to know. They came, and I sent them away because I couldn’t do it. My mind is wrapped up in thoughts of you, and it fucking pisses me off. I can’t even focus on what I need to fucking do because all I can see is you curled into me while you make that cute adorable noise in your sleep that you swear isn’t snoring. And it’s not fair.”

“This isn’t fair, Steve. You…don’t own me. I own you,” he shakes his head no, walking over to the couch, where he sits down. Rubbing along his thigh, and inviting you to sit on him. You didn’t want to sit where they touched. Instead you sit on the opposite side, keeping your legs spread for him to gaze upon.

“You don’t even know what you’re talking about. I’m Steve Rogers, and I’m the one that owns people.”

“What’s on your mind right now?” Your mouth turns into a grin as your hand starts to drift in between your legs. Rubbing over your covered core as you watch him. “What have you been thinking about all day?”

“You.”

“What about me?”

“About how you taste. How I know where that special spot inside of you is, and how I can make your pussy cry and crave for more. About how the first time my cock enters into you, you’re going to cry these beautiful tears, and how that moment is mine. I think about how I wish you would straddle my face instead of my stomach. About how I want you to suck my cock while I feast on your cunt. I think about….”

“That’s all I am? Just a sex doll?” You move aside your panties, letting him see how drenched you are before plunging two fingers into you.

“No, you’re not. I also think about how sweet you look when you’re trying to be sexy,” rolling your eyes, you pull your fingers out, and close your legs. “Your inexperience is sexy. I don’t need you to pretend you’re something you’re not. Because they all want to be you.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because you have me,” you scoff, wrapping your arms around your chest. “You get to go to a cabin that no one gets to go to. You get to have me all night, and into the morning.”

“And no one gets your love, hmm?” His mouth closes quickly, and you shake your head with annoyance. “I don’t want just your body. I want you.”

“I don’t have that to give. You can settle for my protection and loyalty.”

“Is that the best you have to offer?” He nods his head slowly one time, while you lick your lips. That was the best you were going to get. His loyalty and with that came his protection. “You have nothing left to say to me?”

“What do you want to hear?”

“You know exactly what I want to hear. You say it, and we can start back fresh. I don’t mind you being a mean asshole, but when I say no, I mean it. When I am begging you not to do something, it doesn’t mean that you keep going. I want my safe word to be pineapple, and if I tap your mark it means I’ve had enough,” you had a lot of time to think, and prepare how you wanted your relationship to proceed.

“I will be yours, but you will be mine. If Sam thinks you’re pushing things too far, listen to him. Now, tell me.”

Steve pops his neck, and he twists himself on the couch. Getting to his knees, he crawls towards you. Pulling apart your tights, and his body positions himself in between you. His broad shoulders keep you spread, “Steve!”

“You own me,” Steve’s hands rip apart your panties, and he lays on his stomach in one motion. His mouth finds your weeping cunt, and he devours you. His tongue lapping up your honey like a man starved. Deprived of any nourishment as if between your thighs was the promised land.

Leaning your head back on the couch you revel in his magic tongue. You had been punishing yourself as well because this was heavenly. Even more so was the fact that while Steve couldn’t love you, you owned him. He was yours. He admitted it to you, but finally to himself.

He doesn’t even come up for air when he plants his hands on your breasts. His meaty fingers tweak your nipples as he slurps up your arousal. Your orgasm comes too fast, and you try to close your legs, but he pushes them further apart. His lips circle around your clit and he suckles on the sensitive bean. “Steve!”

He isn’t going to stop. Not until he gets what he really wants. To be covered in your essence. Staring up at you over your mound as your body writhes in pleasure. “Captain!” There is a good girl. He needed to hear you shout that as his hips hunch into the couch. He wouldn’t get the divine gratification of feeling your wet skin on him, but dammit, you were a goddess.

This moment you are letting the pleasure override every other sense as your hips buck into him. Quivering and barely coherent. Your fingers weave into his hair, and your nails scratch at the surface. He knows you're close. Knows that you’re about to give him his favorite treat, directly into his greedy mouth.

“Captain, oh my god!” He tastes the sweet nectar as it messily drips down his chin, and into his mouth. You are a messy little thing, and you are his. Your body goes slack as he looks up at you. Peeking at him through heavy lidded as. “Say it again.”

“You own me.”

Next

Masterlist

Taglist: @tis-thedamn-season @marveloustaylortot @pono-pura-vida @seitmai @smile1318 @andydrysdalerogers @cjand10 @midnightramyeoncravings @kmc1989 @theinheriteddutchess @annaallicce @feyfantome @jesevans @tittittoee @bananapiedreams @onclouds999 @darkserenity24 @abbatoirablaze @ashychangeling @identity2212 @mrsevans90 @weirdothatwritess @floralwsloki @thestralwriting @ambearsstuff f @lyndys @kandis-mom @hoodiesandicedcoffee @awhoreformoree @nyxbellabarnes

#your mark on me #steve x dove #steve rogers #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers x fem!reader #steve rogers x you #steve rogers x y/n #steve rogers fanfiction #steve rogers fanfic #steve rogers fic #steve rogers fics #steve rogers smut #chris evans #chris evans character #marvel #mcu

[plutowon]

[out of your league]

pairing: sunghoon x fem!reader

genre: angst, vent, comfort post

warnings: insecurity, body dysmorphia, depression, feelings of worthlessness, wanting to disappear, very graphic depictions of eating disorders (ednos) please do not read this if you are recovering from an eating disorder, internalized fatphobia, questioning reality to a certain extent

synopsis: your perfect boyfriend couldn’t possibly think you’re even slightly attractive, could he ?

2.2k words

꒪ □ ◌⠀۰ ⠀۰ ⏜⃞☁️⠀⊹⠀ ָ࣪ ⠀• ❒

you assume everybody views you the same way.

ugly, to put it very bluntly.

you assume when people see you on the street they feel a wave of sympathy wash over them. when people meet you, they don’t meet you, they meet pity to a new extent. suddenly, they meet pity on a very very personal level.

such a shame, your face, your body as well.

you’re not even given the comfort and contentment of being average. for you, you are very much below average. not even something to settle for you are simply unwanted, another’s worse nightmare.

you assume everyone sees you like this because thats how you see you.

you feel like a pig. you can feel every inch of space you take up in the world, space you’re very much undeserving of. you can feel the fat on your thigh bounce as it absorbs the shock of your movements, you can feel it in your stomach as well. you hate the way it feels when you wear jeans. the denim squeezes against your fat and your legs are itching to burst out, as if they’re saying “you know we’re too big for this, let us out or lose the weight!”. and even when you are so sure you’re eating in a deficit, the fact that you’re eating at all means you’re not trying enough.

you’ve spent countless months crying. you’ve been stagnant for about a year. you lose and gain the same five to ten pounds. it seems to cling to you like a toxic friend, like a parasite feeding off of you, it’s making you sick. you can’t seem to lose weight, which is laughable, really. that’s the one thing you should be good at, isn’t that what an eating disorder is ? perhaps you’re not trying hard enough. perhaps you’re not sick.

and no one seems to notice your struggles. your friends haven’t even noticed. and you can tell, the way they say nothing when you eat nothing around them, when you constantly deny their offers for food because you mostly give in and eat a couple of fries anyways, despite attempting a thirty-six hour fast. you give up like you always do. even when you’re too obvious, when you mention the calories in a product, when you make a small joke about losing weight, they simply laugh it off, even telling you that losing a couple of pounds couldn’t hurt. you can’t expect them to notice you’re sick when you’re basically not. you feel lost, you feel stuck, you feel like you’re running out of time but you don’t try any harder.

at this rate, you’ll never be able to fix yourself. you’ll be stuck in this never-ending purgatory for the rest of your pathetic life as people look at you wondering how something like you could’ve crawled out of the ground and have the gall to pass yourself off as human.

your family is struggling because of your weight. because you’re eating everything in site like a raccoon trying to survive. your boyfriend is probably gonna start pulling away from you because how could he be seen with you ? i mean, you’re bigger than him and he’s one hundred and seventy-nine centimeters tall—are you not embarrassed ? you feel bad for him because he has to lug around his big girlfriend that all his skinny friends probably make fun of when you’re not around. you’re sure your friends feel bad for you—everybody does. you’re sure that they comment on your selfies to make you feel better. that they call you pretty because they know if they don’t, nobody else will. they’re just being nice. that’s the only reason you’re worth talking to,

out of pity.

how could anyone ever love you ?

how could anyone truly enjoy your company ? and your lack of eye candy isn’t even made up for in personality. you’re annoying, you’re loud, and your jokes fall flat on their face like a four year old learning to bike without training wheels for the first time. you’re nothing of value, nothing people seek out or look forward to.

this is just the way things are.

until you get your act together, you’ll simply be stuck like this. pathetic, and gross, and subhuman.

you assume eveyone sees you this way.

and when you’re with your boyfriend sunghoon, laying down in his bed while he changed his top to a simple hoodie to cuddle you in, you don’t think twice about what you say.

“sometimes i don’t understand why you’re my boyfriend. like, you’re so pretty and out of my league you could get any girl you want but you settled for me”

you laugh because it’s funny. your situation is a bit silly, is it not ? and you expect sunghoon to laugh along, tell you you’re an amazing girlfriend and you dont need to be pretty, but he looks at you in shock, almost angry. he doesn’t even know how to formulate words because he simply can’t believe the words coming out of your mouth, and what’s even more unbelievable is how calmly you’ve said them, this egregious belief of yours. it makes his blood run cold. it’s appalling how you think what you’ve said is okay, and what’s most terrifying is you expect him to agree with you.

“…what?” you ask when you realize your laughter isn’t kissing his. you don’t understand how he doesn’t find it all as humorous as you do.

“what the hell are you talking about?” he looks at you mortified. he runs up beside you on the bed and you sit up and look at him confused.

“how could you say that…?” he says, his voice barely above a whisper and his eyes are tearing up and you don’t know how, but you can sense you’ve fucked up.

“…well, i mean, everybody thinks it, so-”

“what? who told you that…nobody thinks this- who told you this? was it a friend? was it that dickhead at work? i swear i’ll fuck him up-”

“nobody had to tell me, sunghoon, it’s just common knowledge…i’m not exactly pretty”

sunghoon feels like crying.

how could you say something like this? how could you say you’re not pretty? objectively, you’re a very attractive person. you’re very very beautiful. so beautiful, sunghoon was almost convinced you were a long lost princess. he even made up a storyline where perhaps you had run away from your home somewhere in a european kingdom to get away from the hustle and bustle of the royal life that you had decided wasn’t made for you and ended up here in his.

he feels like crying so he does.

“what- i don’t-” he says it in between his tears as he tries to gather his bearings.

“is this why you don’t wanna go out for dates anymore…and why you’ve been eating less…?”

you’re shocked, to say the least. you had been avoiding been seen in public in general, but especially with your perfect boyfriend knowing people would be embarrassed for him. you didn’t think he would notice though, and you especially didn’t think he would notice you eating less.

“…what are you talking about?”

“i’m not dumb, y/n. you started eating less and all of a sudden you loss like twenty pounds in a month i noticed it last year, but jungwon told me not to say anything because that could make it worse. he told me to just watch you”

you don’t know how to feel.

a myriad of emotions falls over you, but one shows it’s face in the crowd more clearly than the others.

embarrassment.

how embarrassing this is, for your boyfriend to have noticed your eating disorder meant he also noticed you not losing any more weight. he noticed your failure before anyone else.

you want to deny him. you want to tell him he’s wrong, but the look in his eye is not one of question. he’s not looking at you for confirmation, he’s looking at you because he’s pieced everything together and he knows you know that.

you begin to cry. how dare you? inconvenience him like this. not only are you his ugly pigglet girlfriend, you’ve made your failure of an eating disorder his problem? how dare you?

“i’m sorry, i didn’t think you would notice”

sunghoon is even more shocked now. your words have stricken his core in such a bone-chilling way, worse than anything hes ever felt before.

“why the hell are you apologizing to me?”

“because it’s bothering you-”

“NO no, don’t even think like that”

he sniffles and wipes his tears before holding your hand tightly and pulling it towards himself

“you are never an inconvenience to me, okay? i love you so much. and i love you because you are you. not because you were available, and not because no one else was. i don’t love you because it’s convenient or because i have to, i love you because i want to. because my heart aches and pounds for you on it’s own. you’re my beautiful little angel—how could you ever even think i would find you anything less than gorgeous and heavensent?”

you want to believe him, you do. and you almost believe him cause his eyes are boring into yours with such a bold intensity, laced with devotion and desperation, but it doesn’t make sense.

because how could he see you like this? you’re jaw dropping heartthrob boyfriend that’s out of your league? the most average of people would never see you like this, so why would he?

“i wish you could see yourself through everyone else’s eyes, because my love, you are amazing”

what is he even saying? everyone’s eyes? last you checked,

“everyone would think i’m hideous”

he looks at you with aching pain, like you’ve taken the sharpest spear to his chest and you’re killing him, slowly and painfully.

“no baby, that’s not true. why would you say that? you’re genuinely so beautiful everyone thinks that i don’t understand why you see yourself so negatively. nobody thinks you’re ugly”

had it truly all been in your head? of course not. no, this is how it’s always been you’ve always been below average.

“you know when we first started talking, my friends laughed and said i was too much of a loser to pull someone like you” sunghoon laughs at the fond memory of his drop dead gorgeous crush smiling at him and his asshole friends punching him, telling him to lower his bar a little bit.

“if anything, you’re out of my league” you’re aggressively wiping your eyes as an excuse to not listen to these fabricated fibs he’s telling you.

“listen, we’re gonna go at your pace and i won’t push you or force anything on you, but we’re gonna start slow, okay? you’re so much more than just how much you eat or how much you don’t eat. no matter what, i’ll still be head over heels for you. you’ll always be my princess”

kissing the back of your hand and holding it to him like he’s scared you’ll wither away. scared you’ll leave him here all alone with nothing but the stardust that once danced around that pretty head of yours that just coats the floor now that you’re gone.

“you’re amazing. i know it’s not easy, and it’s so hard for you to see yourself for all that you are, but i’m here, baby. i’ll always be here”

as you sob into the sleeves of your hoodie, sunghoon pulls your hands away from your face and pulls you to fall into his arms, his warm embrace and his hipnotizing kisses.

you’re not sure if you believe him, that you really are beautiful to him and to everyone else, but you know that you want to.

and you know that you’re tired.

you’ve been chasing this perfection that doesn’t even exist for so so so long and your legs are tired. they’re aching and so is your heart. you’ve tried so hard to please yourself because you’re so certain you’re not enough for the world when you have always been more than enough. you realize that you’re wasting your life away. wasting time away just for beauty. for control. for something to hold on to when everything falls. when you’re insecure about everything, there’s always one thing that can be “fixed”.

you are running away from yourself. you’re trying so hard to be somebody different. you’ve tried everything to be happy except turn to yourself, take your hand and embrace yourself. come to terms with yourself. you’ve ran all your life but you’ve never thought to turn around and face yourself,

and you don’t know if you’re ready for that.

and sunghoon knows that. that it’s comforting to keep running. but now that the seed’s been planted in your brain and he can see the cogs turning and stopping on a cycle, he’s certain that one day, you will be able to stop running and turn around and holding yourself and welcome yourself with open arms.

but for now, sunghoon will run with his hand in yours to make sure you dont trip and fall.

“it’s okay to not be ready. we’ll take our time”

#enha #enhypen #enhypen imagines #park sunghoon #enha x reader #enhypen angst #enhypen x reader #enhypen fic #enha imagines #sunghoon angst #sunghoon x reader #enhypen ff #enhypen scenarios

[quirklessidiot]

title: hell's favorite secretary [sneak peak] pairing : Devil!Ryomen Sukuna x F!Lost soul!reader [based on the webtoon 'the devil is a handsome man', DC Comics "Lucifer", and the book and video game 'Dante's inferno'] Genre: Alternate Universe-Hell, angst, mystery/thriller, mild horror, romance, slow burn, hell au, dark comedy, lost soul x devil au

Summary: The faceless man shrouded in mystery tends to be a subject of rumors and false pretenses, but you'd think otherwise when you accidentally caught sight of those grueling red eyes.

General warning for the story: graphic depictions of heavy gore (manslaughter, mayhem, and torture), and explicit sexual scenes, more will be added per chapter. this will be exclusively released in ao3 in december <3 Notes: after reading a couple of pages of dante's inferno, reading lucifer (the comic book), and the devil is a handsome man, it sort of struck my interest to write this story! this is a pretty long series and im actually so excitied to write this lol.

if you're a person heavily practicing the catholic faith, i won't recommend reading this series as this talks and leans on the devil (i'm not a satanist pls), he's not glorified here in anyways but I do recall people who lean heavily on the faith are not fond of reading any media depictions of the devil.

i hope you enjoy! rb's are always appreciated.

There are possibly hundreds of artworks about the devil. 

The most famous one is that snake hanging off the forbidden tree or, better yet, a half-animal and half-human. Others would be an ugly babe falling down from the heavens. The most popular modern one would be the one in red with horns on his head, yet your boss did not resemble any of those impressions. Instead, he wore a three-piece suit and had a hole right in the middle of his face.

Yes, you heard that right.

A hole. 

All you could see was an empty void of black nothingness. Nobara had said that Sukuna – yes, the devil went by that name — would never show his face to lost souls like you because, as an angel before, seeing him in his proper form would result in instantaneous combustion. 

Despite that good reason, talking to him was still disconcerting. The whole situation remained to be anomalous.

The ringing thoughts about your previous conversation with your workmate replay in your head like a broken record, your eyes trickling on the piles of paperwork across the window that revealed your boss leaning against the table with his usual outfit and pink tufts of hair neatly styled away.

You recalled meeting him for the first time and wondering why he seemed somewhat familiar. You had overtly eyed him up and down. Despite the hole in his face, he had caught on quickly and asked what exactly you were doing. Until now, you couldn’t understand the physics behind how he could even see you and talk.

You purse your lips in deep thought as lines form in the middle of your head. You don’t even feel your boss walking up to you on your desk, “Seems like someone’s head is up in the clouds this morning.” he points out.

You immediately sat up straight, your shoulders squared, “Sukuna, Sir…” you jumped, eyeing him somewhat warily. 

Despite how he made you feel, the devil was not exactly a strict boss. 

He’s rather lax and did not mind procrastination and passing your work at the last minute as long as you did it well. He works on proper hours, gives vacation and leaves, and an appropriate timetable for lunch breaks. 

He’s hard to hate for a being who's been blamed for man’s misfortune since time immemorial.

“Was the long weekend still not enough?”

“I’m not exactly a sloth, Sir,” you mumble to yourself, but he catches onto your words and remains unphased. It's uncharacteristic for you to say anything more to him, but you needed a good starter for this conversation to get on,  “...Although, I-uh…I do have a question…You remembered our contract, sir?”

One thing that humans were able to grasp correctly about hell and its king is the contract signing and how the devil gives out favors in exchange for something you truly hold dear. For you, since you’re a lost soul, in exchange for changing your status, you’d give proper work hours and help him capture at least eight hundred itinerants.

You’re running on two hundred and fifty so far.

“Oh?” he leans in closer, “That’s not something we talk about every day.” his body language remains fluid and guileless as if he wanted you to speak your mind more, and it only made your palms sweaty despite the coldness of the room, “Would you like to change some conditions? I am, after all, a fair man.” His voice is crisp and light, a charm that made up for his empty face.

“I- well, I’m going to be frank with you, Sir…” you blink, “I- um,” you start to stammer, and it only makes your stomach do different kinds of flips as your mind conjures up different types of worst-case scenarios. It’s not like you couldn’t become a soul after this, right? You’d only have to wait for a century and try to retain your sanity along with it.

He cocks his head to the side, and if you could paint a face on that void of nothingness, you’d wish it would be kind eyes looking down on you, but this was the devil, the man who was struck down from the heavens for being too ‘arrogant and malicious’. You need to be careful with your words, “I…I need information…” you swallowed, your words tumbling out clumsily.

“Information?” your boss remained relaxed, and you knew it was rather diabolic to even pray for God when you were literally in hell, but you had little to no way of reading him. There’s another round of stifling silence; you only want to melt into a puddle of goo this time.

#jjk x reader #jjk imagines #jujutsu kaisen x reader #sukuna x reader #ryomen sukuna #jjk sukuna #📝📝.hell's favorite secretary series

[collapsedglasshouses]

FIC RECOMMENDATIONS

Hello! I've decided to update my recommendation list and give it a bit more structure, this is why I'm making a new list and try to keep it updated as often as possible. (The old list will still be available don’t worry)

To my fellow fanfic creators, I can't even put into words how much I appreciate you all. You're all so good at what you are doing. Thank you for sharing your masterpieces with us! ♡

Please read the content warnings for each piece of fiction! Most of them are NSFW so MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!

LAST UPDATED APRIL 3 2024

BAD OMENS:

Noah Sebastian x OC/Reader:

✫ JUST PRETEND by @thefallennightmare & @thescarlettvvitch

✫ ENTOMBED by @thescarlettvvitch

✫ MERCY by @thefallennightmare

✫ I TOOK YOUR KEYS, IT WAS ME by @badnoahmens

✫ SWEEP ME OF MY FEET by @badnoahmens

✫ PULLED FROM THE GREY by @crimson-calligraphyx

✫ SWEETENED BREATH, TONGUE SO MEAN by @rottingfern

✫ SCREAM by @foliosriot

✫ THE ROTTEN AND UGLY by @foliosriot

✫ THE INEVITABILITY OF LOVE AT SECOND SIGHT by @veronicaphoenix

Nicholas Ruffilo x OC/Reader:

✫ SAFETY NET by @measuredingold

✫ DISGUISED IN YOUR SHEETS by @deathblacksmoke

✫ DELICATE BEGINNING RUSH by @concreteburialplot

Joakim "Jolly" Karlsson x OC/Reader:

✫ LITTLE ONE by @cowpokeomens

✫ ABSOLUTION by @cowpokeomens

✫ SCAR by @ladyveronikawrites

✫ LIKE BRANCHES IN A FLOOD by @the-way-of-words

Nick Folio x OC/Reader:

✫ CLUTCH by @kingdomof-omens

✫ LIMONCELLO by @sinkingteethinwhitenoise

✫ HARDER by @sorrowsofsilence

✫ THE CRAZIER I CAME by @deathblacksmoke

Matt Dierkes x OC/Reader:

✫ FOR YOU? NEVER by @thefallennightmare

✫ JUST FOR TONIGHT by @withcrossesandframes

✫ MATT DIERKES FRIENDS TO LOVER REQUEST by @thcfountain [Matt Dierkes x ace afab!Reader]

Other Pairings:

✫ LOST IN THE CONCRETE JUNGLE by @ladyveronikawrites

✫ CALL ME WHEN YOU GET THE CHANCE [Noah Sebastian x Nick Ruffilo x fem!Reader] by @deathblacksmoke

✫ DOMINATE THE GAME [Coach Davis!Noah Sebastian x female reader x Coach Cerulli!Chris Motionless] by @ladyveronikawrites & @nerdraging4point0

Love Triangle:

✫ VIRALITY [Nicholas Ruffilo x fem!OC & Noah Sebastian x fem!OC] by @concreteburialplot

MOTIONLESS IN WHITE:

Vinny Mauro x OC/Reader:

✫ SURPRISE by @ravieisunhinged

✫ BABY IT'S COLD OUTSIDE by @beaker1636

✫ SWEET BOY by @circle-with-me

Ricky Olson x OC/Reader:

tba

Chris Motionless x OC/Reader:

tba

Other Pairings:

✫ EVERY ROSE HAS ITS THRONS by @cookiesupplier [Ricky Olson x OFC x Chris Motionless]

dividers by @saradika-graphics

#bad omens fanfiction #bad omens fanfic #bad omens fic #noah sebastian fanfiction #noah sebastian fic #noah sebastian fanfic #bad omens rpf #nicholas ruffilo fanfiction #nicholas ruffilo fanfic #nicholas ruffilo fic #nick folio rpf #nick folio fanfic #nick folio fanfiction #nick folio smut #nick folio fic #joakim jolly karlsson fanfiction #jolly karlsson smut #jolly karlsson fanfiction #jolly karlsson fanfic #joakim jolly karlsson fic #vinny mauro fanfiction #chris motionless fic #ricky olson fanfic #fanfic recommendation #motionless in white rpf #matt dierkes fanfiction

[genderlessghoul]

Thinking thoughts of transmasc Phantom's first experience with trans tape and it goes horribly wrong. Luckily, a certain fire ghoul finds him in his time of distress.

IT WAS NOT SUPPOSED TO GET THIS LONG WOAH.

Anyway, t4t Phantom and Dew fluff below the cut, with mention of trans Rain (everyone's trans, heck yeah) nothing sexual but they do be naked. Nothing graphic but Phantom do be getting scars in the long run.

This entire thing was a stupid idea. The idea of not having to wear an extra article of clothes to hide his chest had been very appealing, so was the thought of not having to reposition himself in a binder all day. He also had liked the prospect of getting to wear his binding equipment for a few days. But now it all seems like the worst decision he's made possibly ever.

He's on his second day with the tape on. It was fine the day before. It started being uncomfy during the evening but it didn't really bother him until that morning. He pulled through the entire day and every second he could feel the adhesive pull on his skin in the most uncomfortable way possible.

The decision was made right after dinner to take it off. His skin needed to breathe. The pull was painful when he entered the bathroom and now, 20 minutes later, it's unbearable. He needs the tape off yesterday. But he only got one tiny piece off and it felt like he was skinning himself alive. And he's supposed to do that for what, 7 more strips? He might just keep them on for the rest of his life, it's less painful than removing them.

He conciders it but he can't. He can't bare the feeling of anything touching his skin anymore. He tries to go back to removing the strips but it hurts too much, he's just making pathetic pained sounds while he pulls slowly, millimeter after millimeter. He's vaguely aware that his cheeks are wet but he doesn't know when he started crying.

Before long, he's on his knees on the cold bathroom floor, crying softly out of pain and frustration. Holding his head in his hands because he can't bare to remove the tape but he can't bare not to do it.

"What the fuck?"

Phantom about jumps out of his skin when he hears the voice. He turns around to find Dewdrop standing in the doorway. More like leaning against it, arms crossed over his chest. The quintessence ghoul didn't close the door but he didn't think he'd have to, as the only way in is through his own bedroom.

"You scared the living shit out of me, what the fuck are you doing in my room?" he's trying to hide the obvious shake in his voice with a dry tone, scrambling to dry his face with his sweaty palms. The last thing he needs right now is for Dew to make fun of him.

"We share a wall, dumbass, I could hear your whining. Decided I'd come check out the situation for myself. Now what do we have here?"

The fire ghoul walks up to the other and offers a hand to pick him off the floor. Once on his feet, Dew grabs Phantom by his shoulders to gently coax him into turning to the right, then to the left, taking the time to examine the pieces of athletic tape glued to his side. Phantom knows he looks ridiculous. The tape is that wanna-be flesh tone colour that doesn't look real on any human, much less on a ghoul with such dark grey skin and such bright white patches. The job is uneven, he couldn't get both sides to matches. The tape is full of ugly wrinkles that make his skin itch. Truly a poor sight to witness.

"Tried tape for the first time? Not too bad I guess... There's a whole lotta wrinkles in it though, it's not gonna be a fun time removing it."

Phantom's eyes glue to the floor at that last part and the fire ghoul catches onto it. A concerned and puzzled look paints itself on his face as he turns the younger ghoul around one more time. There in his back, he can see a bright red spot right in the middle of one of the quintessence ghoul's white patches, directly next to the tape.

"You absolute idiot. Are... Are you trying to remove it raw?"

"I figured it was like a bandaid, I could just peal it off... Obviously not." he speaks softly. Dew turns him around one last time and grabs his face to force him to make eye contact.

"Why in all seven circles of Hell would you not ask me about it? Or Rain? You can't just peal it off, you're gonna take your entire back, sides and tits out with it!"

"I don't know, I just didn't think there was anything more to it."

The fire ghoul lets him go with a sigh.

"Okay just... Just stay there, don't touch anything. I'll be back in a couple minutes, okay?"

"Yeah okay."

Dew leaves and Phantom thinks he might start to cry again. The whole pack would know in a matter of seconds, they'd surely laugh at him in the morning for his pathetic attempt. He stares at the singular piece of tape sitting on his bathroom counter, the only one he managed to remove. He should have asked Dew about it, about the entire process really, but he was so scared of being made fun of for needing help with a task that sounded so simple.

The fire ghoul returns soon enough, he's armed with a bottle of some liquid and one of his own towel. There's a couple other things in a pouch that he sets on the counter top.

"Get in the shower, we're gonna oil you up like a rotisserie chicken."

"What?"

Dew rolls his eyes. "This is baby oil, it helps break down the adhesive in the tape. I don't wanna make a mess of your bathroom floor so get in the shower!"

"They make oil out of babies???"

Phantom looks completely horrified and Dew's thoroughly unamused. "It's made for babies, dipshit."

"... Oh."

He strips out of his pajama pants and boxers and slips into the shower. The fire ghoul follows suit after removing his own clothes. He jumps straight into his task, uncapping the bottle and lining the lip with the top of Phantom's tape, letting the oil soak through the offending material. He glides the bottle slowly over the entire lenght of one side of the quintessence ghoul's body, then repeats on the other side. Dew restarts the process a few times, each time lower on the tape, until every part of it looks soaked.

"I'm gonna work the oil into the tape, just to make sure it's completely soaked throught. Let me know if any spot hurts in particular, okay? You probably have a fair amount of blisters and raw skin under there, I don't wanna hurt you more than I have to."

Phantom nods and Dew discards the bottle on the shower floor. He starts gently massaging the tape, starting in the back and moving slowly towards the front. He sees the way Phantom winces when his fingers press into the very back on the strips and tries to soften his motions.

"You shouldn't stretch the tape so much in the back. The first and last inch of a strip serve kind of as anchor points, don't stretch them or you're not gonna have a fun time." Dew offers his quintessence ghoul some advice as he works.

"Huh uh" Phantom elects to rest his head on the other's shoulder, inhaling his scent to distract from the accidental self-inflicted pain. He smells like wood smoke and fresh cinnamon rolls, a lot sweeter than usual. Dew's fingers work over a few wrinkles.

"Put the tape on as flat as possible. Wrinkles will cause blisters. They can get really big and leave stupid ugly scars. They're also generally just painful so don't do that shit on purpose."

"Huh uh" Phantom knows there's no magic coming from the fire ghoul, nut he still feels like his touch makes his skin feel better.

Once he's done massaging all over the tape, Dew elects to run his fingers over Phantom's shoulder blades in a soothing motion for a while. The younger ghoul's head is still resting on his shoulder, his breath slowly stabilizing now that there's no immediate pain inflicted on him.

"When you want to remove it, you have to make sure you completely soak it in oil for a little while before. Any oil works, really, I just liked baby oil the best back then. Mount would scold me over using anything from the kitchen since you need a pretty obscene amount."

Phantom lets out a small hum as a reply and his hands move absentmindedly to Dew's own sides, his thumbs resting at the base of his scars. If getting himself in a stupid predicament is all it takes to get the fire ghoul's soft and caring side, he should do stupid things more often.

They stay like that for a little while longer before Dew's hands make their way back to the tape. "Let's try this again now, shall we?"

Phantom apprehends the pain when fingers lift the corner of a strip, but it never comes. It's removed slowly, without any real struggle. The other ghoul lets it fall at the bottom of the shower with a wet thump.

"See?" he says in a soothing voice. "It's a whole lot better when you do it right."

The fire ghoul whispers soft praises into his ear as he continues the job, slowly, piece by piece, until they're all sitting next to their fallen comrade on the shower floor.

Dew places a small kiss to the top of Phantom's head before detaching him from his sides. He discards the strips of tape to a corner with his foot and turns on the water, setting it to a comforting warmth.

"Now we just gotta un-rotisserie chicken you. Don't wanna get your sheets all oily."

"It's gonna hurt like a bitch if you scrub."

"Not gonna scrub I promise. Been there done that, never again."

He doesn't give Phantom a chance to argue before he's picking up the bottle of coconut scented body wash, squirting some into his hands and lathering it. He repeats his task of slowly working over the previously taped area on the quintessence ghoul's body. He's working as gently as he can but he still sees the way Phantom clenches his teeth whenever he reaches a blister or a spot of particularly sore skin.

Dew makes sure the ghoul in front of him is completely cleaned of any oil before he works the few spots where he got some on himself. The water is closed and he takes the other's hand to guide him out of the shower. Dew wraps him towel over his hips before grabbing another one and patting Phantom dry, still as careful over his sensitive spots.

The quintessence ghoul catches a glimpse of himself in the shower and only then does he realise how badly he messed up. Any white area of his skin that was covered by the tape is now red and inflamed, the darker parts no doubt just a bad even if he can't see it. There's blisters all over his sides and back, of varrying sizes but all with a disturbing yellowish undertone. The front of his body was miraculously spared that treatment.

"It's not as bad as it looks, I promise." Dew tries some reassuring words while he rummages through the pouch he brought. He takes out a small jar and a roll of gaze.

"You should've seen Rain's first try, I was patching up holes in his back for like months. He wasn't as lucky as you, I only found him after he ripped off all the tape by himself."

"Wait really?"

"Yeah that's why he has those dark spots there. He tells everyone they're really big freckles but... Don't tell him I told you."

Dew takes off the lid of his small jar. There's so sort of jelly-looking substance inside. He silently coaxes Phantom into lifting his arms up so he can apply a fair amount over his wounds and sore skin, wrapping his entire chest with gaze once he's done.

"There. That should help everything heal faster."

"Thank you."

"Oh, don't mention it. I wasn't about to let you skin yourself alive. Now you know how to not do things next time."

"I'm really not concinced I want there to be a next time."

"Hey," he takes Phantom face in his hands once more "we've all been there. Binding correctly, especially with tape like that, it's a learning curve. Especially if you have no one to teach you. Or if you decide that you don't need to be taught. Just ask us for help next time, okay?"

"Yeah, okay..."

Dew places a soft kiss on the quintessence ghoul's lips before letting go of his face. "Come on, I'm getting hella tired."

He grabs Phantom by the hand and all but drags him to his bed. The fire ghoul lays on his back and encourages the other to lie on top of him, on his stomach so that he's not squashing any blister.

Phantom's head comes to rest on Dew's chest, hearing the consistent beat of his heart. Warm arms wrap themselves around his middle and start rubbing at his lower back.

"Sorry I ruined your evening. You probably plans that didn't involve having to rescue me from tape, of all things."

"Don't worry about it, baby boy." he plants another kiss in his hair and Phantom kicks up a purr at the pet name.

"I'm just glad I didn't catch you with fucking duct tape or some shit."

#the band ghost #ghost bc #nameless ghoul #nameless ghouls #phantom ghoul #dewdrop ghost #ghost ficlet #ghost fanfiction #fanfic #ficlet #meerkat writes #everyone's trans because I said so

[honey-flustered]

Cruel Little Vixen 1

Rockstar!Perv!Eddie Munson x Journalist!Reader

Enemies to Friends to Lovers (18+MDNI)

Summary: Lacking in magazine sales, your boss assigns you to follow the life of Lead Singer/Guitarist of Corroded Coffin ‘Francis The Freak’ a.k.a. Eddie Munson for a month to write an article that could potentially save the magazine. Eddie Munson wanted fame but didn’t know the consequences of this include pretending to be someone he’s not. When rumors begin to float around causing some notoriety for his reputation, his manager agrees to an exposé of his life to make him seem nicer to a broader audience much to Eddie’s chagrin. Now the two of you are set to make your time together a living hell.

A/N: So my side blog Usetheeauthor has been shadowbanned for about 3 days now. I’m currently working on getting that undone but until then will be posting some of my work here. This is a new story. It’s 8 parts maybe. It was meant to be a one shot smut but I love writing series so here we go!

>>>>>Series Masterlist Part 1 of 8

Series Music Playlist

Word Count: 5.0k+

Warnings: graphic language, violence, sexual content, sexual tension, misogyny, gross!eddie, perv!eddie, mean!eddie, mean!reader

It’s Friday night and the air is thick. Bodies pressed up against bodies yet it to each fan present it was all worth it. The crowd roars as the members of the band Corroded Coffin walk onto the stage. There was Drummer Jessie Blue, Bass Guitarist Mel Tomas, Background Vocals/Pianist Judas Argo, and finally…Lead Guitarist/Lead Vocals Francis The Freak, the man you once knew as Eddie Munson.

When he got famous, he changed more than just his name. He was an entirely different guy from who you knew back in high school. You never knew him much. Hardly crossed paths but he was actually quite polite the few encounters you’ve had. Now you couldn’t help but roll your eyes every time you see him on TV. He’s an absolute douchebag yet his fans eat it up. Trying to see the appeal would be considered beyond your comprehension.

Tonight was the night you’d put your disdain for him aside. You needed to remain professional if you were going to get through this article about ‘Francis The Freak’. Your job had assigned you the mission to spend an entire month with the rockstar gaining insight on his personal life as a means of bringing up sales for the magazine company. You hesitantly accepted the mission. Although you knew this could be your big break, you couldn’t possibly see yourself enjoying this time knowing the kind of person Eddie was now. Nonetheless, you took the challenge, attending the concert as your first assignment in diving into the life of the rockstar.

Your intentions for the article was to write the truth regardless of the ugliness of it. However, the group’s manager believed you’d write anything that would make Eddie Munson look good. As ‘Francis The Freak’, Eddie had a bad reputation because of his bad boy persona. He was rude, loud, messy, violent…pretty much everything people should hate but the crowd loved it. The backlash really came from the parents of his younger fans who feared the 80s rockstar dabbled in satanic worship. This obviously affected some album sales. So in hopes of showing his humane side, the manager agreed to the exposé. It’s a quid pro quo kind of situation. They get the album sales, your company gets more magazine sales.

The metal band begins to play it’s first song, “Cruel Little Vixen” and the crowd immediately goes wild.

“Stay away from her, She’s a disaster. Rips your heart out then eats it for supper. She has no fucking desire to fit in. Watch for her fangs, She’s a cruel little vixen.”

Even if you weren’t a fan of their music, you could admit that the songs were really catchy and you’d even found yourself swaying to the rhythm. It’s captivating witnessing someone from your high school being incredibly famous. Here you were looking up at a man you once saw stood himself on top of the lunch table and make an impromptu speech about denouncing popularity. You’d always got the feeling he’d become famous. After all, he is super talented, charismatic….really good looking.

You felt like a fish out of water. You’d never been to a metal concert before and there were things that made you question whether some things were a regular occurrence. Like when the girls would beg for Eddie Munson to spit on them or the men who’d pour beers on their heads as proof of their devotion.

By the end of show, you were left both befuddled but entertained. It was quite a show and slowly you understood the hype.

Once Corroded Coffin thanked their fans, they headed off stage to their dressing quarters. This was your move now. You flashed your backstage pass to the security guards strutting your way to the dressing rooms when you noticed a line of fans waiting to meet their idols.

Scanning the area, you spotted the manager of the group trying to control the screaming fans. You walked up the man, clearing your throat. His eyes land on you, confused.

“Look, Toots, I already let these girls know that the band’s not ready to meet anyone right now. If want to see ‘em you’ve gotta wait til ya get the say so. Alright?”

“Okay. No. It’s Y/N. Not ‘Toots’. Mr. Neds, I’m from Tone Magazine. We spoke over the phone about 3 hours ago. I’m here to interview Mr. Francis.”

His face loses color and mouth goes agape, realizing his mistake. “Um, erm, I-I apologize, Ms….”

“Y/L/N,” You answered, trying not to roll your eyes. He pretended as if he didn’t remember your name. You were one of the biggest writers out there and he dared to play this act all because you were a women when he desired a male interviewer. The desire for an male interviewer solely based on the idea that you’d only fall for his charms, fuck him, and forget all about the article. It’s sexist and tasteless accusation to say the least. “Am I allowed to go in now?”

“He’s a little busy.” Mr. Neds chuckles nervously.

“I can deal with bratty rockstar behavior, Mr. Neds. I’ve got nothing to fear.” You brushed past him, walking into the dressing room only for your eyes to land on a fully clothed Eddie Munson pounding away inside a fully naked groupie girl seated spread eagle in his dressing room chair. You let out a loud gasp causing them to look in your direction. Quickly, you shut the door.

“Umm, so he was definitely ‘busy’.” You say, a tinge of embarrassment creeping up on your face.

“One second.” The manager says putting up his index finger then rushes inside. You put an ear to the door, you can hear muffled yelling. Then, the door swings open and it’s the groupie girl who’s now disheveled and angry, shooting you a look before walking away.

Mr. Neds exits the room, letting out a big breath. “So, that’s cleared.”

“O-okay, I guess I’ll go—”

“Wait,” He halts you in your tracks. “There are several things you need to know about interviewing Francis.”

“Okay.”

“So far we’ve gone through 3 interviewers before you. Francis isn’t easy to interview. In fact, he hates them so he does things to ruin them. First interviewer was a woman. Fucked him and wrote a revenge hate article about him when he avoided her calls. At least if it were a man, they wouldn’t write fake crap because they’re pissed at Francis avoiding them, too. So I hope you understand, I still have my biases about you being female.”

“A bit discriminatory since men would definitely write lies as well but go on.”

“So, first don’t fall for his flirting. Second, he’ll try to flip the interview on you. He’ll ask you questions and you’ll completely forget the task at hand. Like the second interviewer we worked with, Eddie started asking him questions, guy realizes he never wanted to be a writer and was only trying to appease his mother, never wrote the article. Lastly, Francis may not speak at all. Or he’d just give you a hard time, circling around or giving vague answers. Ended up driving the last interviewer to the brink of insanity trying to get a word out of him. Made that guy also quit the field altogether.”

“Pardon my french but he sounds like a pain in the ass.” You admitted.

“A pain in my brain to be more exact. I literally take medication to ease the amount of migraines I get dealing with these boys. But their my boys at the end of the day.”

You nod although you just couldn’t agree with someone deteriorating their health for the raising of 4 grown bratty rockstars.

“Simply remain unwavering but polite maybe slightly kiss-assery.” He continues to advise.

“I think I go it.”

“Good. Then by all means, you are free to go.” He makes a slightly bow, gesturing you to the door.

“Nice! Thank you.”

“Hey, how does she get to go inside?” One awaiting fan asks.

“Yeah?” Another chimes in.

You walked in the room, choosing to let the manager deal with that on his own. When you entered, you were given a moment to look around the room. Eddie’s bandmates were in the room the whole time in the back playing video games unfazed by his previous tryst.

You shook your head in disgust until your eyes landed on Eddie. He’s sitting on top of the vanity table, lightbulbs around the mirror shining behind him like he was a divine being. He was even more gorgeous up close. His beautiful dark curls cascading a little passed his shoulders, soft red lips, body filled with tattoos, beautiful chest sweaty with the exertion of tonight’s show, his happy trailing leading down to his leather pants constricting over his large…(gasp) He’s watching you! You immediately snapped out of your trance faking a smile.

“Mr. Francis! It’s a pleasure to meet you,” You held out your hand. “My name is Y/N Y/L/N from Tone Magazine. I’m a huge fan of your band.”

He looks down at your outstretched hand then back at your face, refusing to shake it. You awkwardly lower your hand.

“Huge fan, huh? You didn’t look like you were based off your reactions during the show.”

“Y-you seen me in the crowd.”

“You were about a couple feet away from front row. It’s kinda hard to miss.” He flicks at his lighter, lighting the cigarette dangling from his mouth.

“Right.” You nod. Obviously there were so many fans within the crowd. You still felt surprised that out of all the faces in the sea of people that he’d looked at and remembered yours.

He gestures you to have a seat. The seat where he’d recently plowed someone in.

“No thanks.” You declined.

He smirks. “Why?”

He finds this amusing!

“I’m just more comfortable standing.”

He shrugs, taking another drag his cigarette.

“S-so, could you tell me a little about your upbringing, Mr. Francis?” You pull out your little journal and pen from your jean’s pocket, anticipating his answer.

“You can call me Eddie. I’m not on stage.”

“Of course.” You nod still awaiting his answer.

He just stares back at you, smoking. He’s giving you the silent treatment. It’s cute that he thinks that that’ll work on you.

“I’m fine standing here in silence, by the way,” You say, dropping your fan persona. “Your body language will only reveal to me what you wish not to speak.”

“Oh yeah?” There’s a glint of interest in his eyes.

“Mhmm,” You confirmed. “Like the way you’re manspreading right now. It indicates to me that you wish to assert your dominance over me. I’m not intimidated though. I work mostly around men. Deal with that shit practically everyday. And this relaxed ‘i don’t give a fuck’ attitude is all act. I think you care a lot. You want this interview as badly as your manager does because you want people to love you again.”

“That all you got?”

“You’re 21, a huge metalhead in high school, liked D’n’D, and you’re a huge dork.”

He snorts then chuckles. “Anyone could get that information. In Hey Hello Magazine’s interview, I expressed some of these aspects of my childhood.”

“Don’t flatter yourself. I wouldn’t voluntarily read Hey Hello Magazine. Besides, I’m just that good.” You lied obviously you went to school with him so you’d know these things but he didn’t remember you so you’ll use this to your advantage.

He hops off the vanity dresser, sauntering over to you. His combat boots hitting against the floors loud enough for you to tune out the noise of the members hooting and hollering in the background from their video game fun.

When he’s finally in front of you, he towering over you. You never remembered him to be so tall. You look up at him holding his gaze so he knew that you weren’t fazed.

“Now tell me what I’m thinking right now?” He says face only inches from yours.

“I can tell you what I’m thinking. I think you should step away from me or else I’ll be forced to defend myself. You reek of sex and sweat.”

His face is blank at first. You worried you went to far with your assertiveness but then he smiles down at you. He finds you a lot more entertaining than moments ago.

“Ya know what I’m in the mood to meet some fans. Boys! How ya feeling? Should we get out there?” Eddie calls out to his bandmates.

“Yeah, why the hell not?” Mel Tomas speaks up ending the game. The remaining boys quickly follow heading over to the front of the room.

“Wait! What about the interview?” You say while trying to hold your composure.

“We’ll get to that…eventually.” Eddie winks.

—————

Eventually was as close to never than it was to soon. Eddie purposefully took time with each fan going over the allowed time per fan. Every now and then, he’d look at you behind him, shooting you a teasing smirk. He knew you had little time on your hands with him today. This was his little game. What he didn’t know was that you were willing to be player two. For now, you’ll be patient. You’ll be good. Slowly, you could break him the way he thinks he’ll break you.

Once the signings were completed, the boys headed back to the dressing rooms to gather their things for departure. The other boys were a lot more kinder to you even asking you questions about being the only girl working as a writer for Tone Magazine.

The entire band was attractive. Attractive enough that it made you feel a little insecure. You weren’t ugly, quite the opposite actually, but you’d always worn things that people would deem you as a plain jane or basic. You didn’t stand out much because you were comfortable in the background. That’s the way you liked things. As a writer that’s how it worked, you let your words speak for you not your appearance. So it wasn’t surprising that neither of the men tried to hit on you although you couldn’t say it didn’t get to you with the way they’d flirted with the other girls.

“So how’s the first day?” Eddie asks you, pulling you from your thoughts.

“Terrible actually. I picked up no significant information out of you. If you would’ve only cooperated, I would’ve gotten what I needed for today and you’d still get to meet and greet your fans without me moping in the background.”

“Except I wanted you to suffer. I like seeing you mad at me, kitten.”

“Don’t call me that. I already had to chastise your manager for calling me ‘Toots’. I’m not your pet so don’t give me a pet name. My name is Y/N.”

“What’s your deal, anyway? Laugh a little. You’re so fucking uptight that if I were to stick a lump of coal in you, it’d come out a diamond.”

You can feel yourself begin to burn with rage. “That is a complete misconception. Coal cannot turn into diamond!”

“Way to get ‘em there, Y/N.” You thought, sarcastically.

“And I’m not uptight,” You continued, your back pressed against the dressing room door and journal clutched to your chest. “You have been rude, crass, and extremely obnoxious. You know what, I think I’ve gotten all that I needed for Day 1’s article actually. So, I thank you in a way for giving me exactly what I’ve been looking for. I can already see the headline now: Francis The Freak is a narcissistic—”

His hands slam hard against the door, resting them on either side of your head. You jolt at the sudden action, rendered speechless. He’s staring down at you the way a predator stares down at its prey but then he gives you his famous toothy smile.

“I look forward to reading it…kitten.” He whispers, saying the pet name in broken syllables for emphasis.

You stare up at him like a deer caught in headlights. Mustering up the little courage you have, you pry one hand from around you, searching around for the door knob while your eyes remained lock to his.

He looks down between you before removing himself slowly from you, his expression still littered with amusement. You managed to open the door, glaring at him one last time then walked out of the room and slammed the door behind you.

—————

“And then he called me uptight and invaded my personal space. The guy’s such a fucking asshole.” You were currently having a bottle of red wine and venting with your best friend and roommate Chrissy Cunningham.

“I know but he’s sooo hot. Ya know, he once had a huge crush on me back in high school.”

“You only ever bring it up nearly every time you see him on television.”

She chucks popcorn at you, giggling. “Shut up! I only bring it up all the time because I was so close to fucking him. When Jason and I broke up, I was more than ready to give in. I chickened out last minute because silly me had feelings for Jason. I regret it. But he did end up eating me out and I swear to you I met God that day. He didn’t even ask for anything in return just enjoyed making me cum. They don’t call him ‘freak’ for nothing.”

You and Chrissy also went to the same high school along with Eddie. You weren’t friends with her either since she was the popular cheerleader and you were more of an in-betweener. She was always very sweet so you never had any ill comments about her. When you’d both gone to college, your friendship formed there and the two of you became inseparable.

“I could’ve went on happily without knowing this,” You laughed. “I already had my pure eyes tainted by him penetrating some random girl before me.”

“That’s just the life of a rockstar, baby.” Chrissy shrugs.

“It’s exactly why I could never date a musician.”

“Yeah, same. Unless you can give me his digits.” She says sticking her tongue playfully.

“I love you too much to put you through that. Trust me, you don’t want to deal with him.”

“I’m sure they all can’t be bad. What about Jessie the drummer?”

“Oh, he’s the sweetest. Very polite. Complete opposite of Eddie. Actually had a great convo with him. Wish I were interviewing him instead but he’s not the one in need of clean slate.”

“And Mel the guitarist?”

“He’s intelligent but super condescending at times. Doesn’t mean to be, though. He’s like the philosopher of the group.”

“Judas the Pianist?”

“British.”

“British isn’t a personality trait.” She laughs.

“It might as well be. But I guess I can say he’s shy but also really funny when he gets going. The artistic one.”

“So then what does that make Francis The Freak?”

“The bad boy minus the sensitive side. Total douchebag.”

“I just can’t see that with Eddie. He was an absolute sweetheart when I knew him.”

“Fame changes you. Honestly, he’d still treat you a lot more nicer than he would me. You’re what he’s expected to interview him so he can gawk and stare at.”

“Oh, come on. You’re so pretty. If I were into girls, you’d be my type.”

You snort, shaking your head. “You’re only saying that because your my friend.”

She cups your face lifting your head to face her. “No. I mean it. And you should give him a chance. It was only the first day. You’ve got 30 more to go. Who knows maybe you’ll be a huge Francis The Freak fan at the end of it?”

You pull away from her embrace. “Let’s not get too ahead of ourselves.”

—————

The next day, you were given a call from your boss who didn’t seem pleased by the first article you’d written. You’d think he’d be happy with this kind of story since it would make up for the juicy content needed to boost sales.

“You could’ve at least ran it by me before you decided to publish it.” He yells into the phone.

“I’m truly sorry, Mr. Bauman. But this is my experience unfiltered. Even if you were to intervene, I’d write the same thing. The people need to know. If anything, I wasn’t nearly as a harsh as I’ve should of been.”

He sighs. “What will I do with you?”

“Maybe give me a promotion?”

“Nice try but no. You hadn’t proven to me that you’re ready for that. I believe in you. I do, Y/N. Obviously, I’m an advocate for women in male dominated work spaces but...”

You rolled your eyes, knowing where this will lead. It was always advocacy for women but you’d always receive the short-end compared to your male counterparts.

“You can’t let your emotions get the best of you.”

“So, I’m just an emotionally fueled woman is, that it?”

“Not what I said.”

“You actually did maybe not explicitly but it’s very apparent.”

“I’m only giving you advice. Boys will be boys. They’re young rockstars who are used to being hounded by interviewers. He’s obviously not taking it seriously because he’s over it but if you befriend him first then maybe he’ll get to talking.”

Now it’s your turn to sigh. “I guess I’ll be…nicer.”

“Good. Now I’ll need you to drive to this address today. 3638 Birch Street. It’s Francis’s home. You’ll be spending day 2 with him all day.”

“All day?!”

“That’s what I said. Good luck and be nice.” He quickly hangs up the phone just as you were about to protest.

You huffed. This is going to be torturous.

—————

You arrived at the home which although large was surprisingly humble for his status. Ringing the doorbell, you awaited patiently for someone to answer the door.

The door opens revealing Eddie in only a robe, his hair messy. You were surprised to see that he’d answered and not his staff. His smile quickly drops.

“Oh, it’s you.” He groans in a disappointed tone. “I was hoping it was the pizza guy.” He turns around then turns to look at you again. “Unless you have pizza.”

“No!”

He rolls his eyes and mutters, “Come in.”

“Thanks for the warm welcome.” You say sarcastically, following him in.

You looked around. There was no staff whatsoever. No guards, or maids, or butlers. Simply just Eddie. It was actually refreshing seeing someone who’s clearly so rich not care for those things.

“Did you read my article, by the way?” You say, smiling smugly.

“Yes, I did.”

“I hope you learned your—”

“I love it.” He simply states causing you to have a full stop moment.

“You love it?” You asked incredulously.

He nods. “That part where you said ‘I attempted to see his point of view in life but then I realize I couldn’t get my head that far up my ass.’ It was actually pretty clever.”

“Why aren’t you pissed off?”

He leans across the island table between you two. He’s the one that’s smug now, knowing that he’s won this round. “I think it was witty, funny, somewhat true. Except you forgot one thing.”

“What’s that?” You crossed your arms.

“That I made you blush. You felt things that you probably hadn’t felt in a long time. Possibly never.”

You stutter and stammered. “I-I’ll have you know that it wasn’t that I was blushing. I was just embarrassed by the situation entirely. I may have shown my bitchiness a bit too soon and now it’s causing this rift between us when I only meant to befriend you.”

“You were?” His eyebrows raise in surprise.

“Well, yeah. But now I’m not so sure I’d like to be friends.”

“Hey, I think we can definitely be friends. I’m willing to bury the hatchet. After all, your article did help boost my popularity a little.”

“How on earth?”

“People find the situation hilarious. Now I’m seen as some funny yet eccentric troublemaker,” He puts a hand to his chest, sporting a fake sincere look. “I’ve gotta thank you for the boost, friend.”

You seethed.

Eddie - 2, Y/N - 0

“I’m gonna go for a swim.” He says walking around the island counter.

“What about the interview?”

“Geez, you’re like a broken record. If you wish to get to know me, why not try to make it subtle and fun? You can always take a swim with me, too.”

You thought back to the advice your boss told you. You were approaching this the wrong way after all. Befriending him was your best bet.

“You can go for a swim but I’m not going in with you.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t have a bathing suit.”

“Just go in your underwear.”

“Oh, hardy har har but no. This is meant to be strictly professional.”

Eddie stands in front of you. You shoot him a look of confusion only to morph to shock when you notice him untying the robe.

“No.” You turn your face away the very second he throws it open.

“Relax. It’s nothing you haven’t seen.”

“I immediately excused myself when I walked in. Didn’t even allow myself the chance to linger for a second. I do not wish to see your dick now.”

“And you won’t. I’m wearing swim trunks underneath,” He puts a black polished finger under your chin, turning you to face him once again then tugs at your chin to look down. He was, in fact, wearing swim trunks but god his body this close looks so appetizing now that he’s wearing even less. “See. I wouldn’t intentionally flash you. It’s not what friends do.”

“Then why’d you trick me like that?”

“Because I like seeing you mad, remember?” He lets go of your chin and heads out to the backyard.

“Friends don’t like making their friends mad!” You called out after him.

————

You were currently sat at the poolside, journal in hand while Eddie swam away answering questions with less resistance.

“This is a pretty big house. Must get lonely being all by yourself.”

“I don’t live alone.”

“Who is she?”

“He’s my uncle. Took care of me most of my life while my mother was in and out of my life and my dad in and out of prison.”

“Oh,” You felt terrible for assuming. “Your uncle seems like a very strong person. I’m glad he took the tole of being your guardian.”

“Yeah, he’s definitely strong. I’d do everything I could to pay him back for all the times he’s cared for me. I wasn’t an easy kid but he stuck it out when my parents couldn’t.”

“Seems like you’re providing him just that kind of appreciation.”

“I guess. But I could do more. I want to make sure he never has to worry about anything ever.”

Today was genuinely surprising for you. Chrissy was right. Maybe he’s still a sweetheart.

You look up from writing, noticing things had gone quiet. Eddie was nowhere to be found. The moment you thought to peer over to look in the water, Eddie springs out of the water right front of you causing you to throw the notebook into the pool.

“Eddie! You dick!”

“You can just write it again.”

“I had really good things to say. Now I’ll completely forget them.”

“It’s at the bottom of the pool. You wanna go get it?”

“What do you mean if I want to go get it?” He gives you a mischievous look, his hands resting on your thighs. Your eyes widened. “No, Eddie. No.”

It was too late. Eddie yanks you down into the pool and you go underwater. You’re frightened. You couldn’t swim so all you could do was hold onto him for dear life.

You both come up for air, your arms and legs are wrapped around him tightly. He’s laughing but you were trembling like a wet chihuahua. Then, he notices the fear in your eyes and he grows concerned.

“Hey. You okay?”

“Can’t swim. I’m scared.” You were in the deeper side of the pool your biggest fear.

He rubs your back to comfort you. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I always assume everyone can swim. That was really crappy of me. Let’s get you out of here.”

His hands cup under your butt, lifting you back up onto the poolside. Then, he pulls himself up. Your knees were to your chest, still trembling.

Eddie felt terrible. He was only having harmless fun. He didn’t mean to scare you this badly. Taking a towel, he wraps it around your body then rubs his hands over your arms.

“I’m sorry.” He repeats, eyes pleading for you to answer.

“Um, it’s okay,” You finally say. “I should tell you. I have a fear of swimming pools. It’s a stupid phobia. I know but it’s because of a traumatic experience I had in my childhood.”

“Like you nearly drowned?”

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry.” He says once again.

“You already said that.” You laughed.

“I know. I just feel like shit.”

“That’s a first,” You remove the towel from your body. “Maybe I should go home. I could get some new clothes and be right back.”

“Or I can hand you some clothes while yours are put in the dryer.”

“It would save me a trip.” You shrugged.

You noticed Eddie stare before his eyes quickly avert. And was he…blushing?

You looked down at your white top. It’d gotten wet and your nipples were erect and visible even through your black lace bra. You shot one arm over your while the other lightly shoves him.

“You perv! You wanted this to happen.”

“No, I swear.”

“Oh, right.”

“Have I been dishonest with you?”

“Plenty.”

“Name one time.”

So much for having a friendly moment, the two of you bickered back and forth well up until the pizza arrived. While he munch away at his slice, you watched him from the corner of your eye admiring his ranges of emotions. He was more than just an angsty ball of horniness. He can be a decent guy when he’s more comfortable with you. It was nice to see him so concerned for your well-being but what really made you feel a little giddy inside was the fact that you managed to make him blush, too.

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