#The Bang and the Clatter

[bakerstmel]

Fall Favorite Fic Festival, Entry 5

Remember, winter doesn't officially begin until December 21, she said pedantically.

I've delayed writing this entry because I was trying to define the reason (or reasons) why I love this fic so damn much. I read this fic at least twice a year, usually sometime in February and then again in the fall. It's a sports fic, and while I am not in general a sports person, I do love me some baseball. But the sport isn't the reason I love this fic, and I think I may have figured it out. Stick with me.

I started the link at Chapter 2, because Chapter 1 is a guide to baseball for the uninitiated. Some of it is out of date now, because MLB in its STUPIDITY has messed around with the rules this year because GOD FORBID people have to wait longer than a minute for anything to fucking happen on a sports field, and of course only HITS matter, but it is still fun to read. You don't need it to appreciate the fic, though.

Whilst I was processing this fic, I spent some time thinking about sports fics in general, and that led me to reread a couple of other favorites. One was A Study in Winning, by Jupiter_Ash. I really like that fic as well, even though I know next to nothing about tennis. I like the drama of the story, I like Sherlock faking his nationality just because, and I enjoy John being a petty little bitch to Moriarty there at the end. I feel like there for a while everyone had read or was reading that fic. Another one I went back to was Of Ice and Men, by SinceWhenDoYouCallMe_John, which is an OT3 set during the Winter Olympics. That one has John in the Paralympics, which gives the relationships an entirely new dimension. There are other good sports fics - throw your favorite in the comments, if you like. I'm mostly limiting my scope in these musings to Sherlock, as I've said before, but I'll read anything if it's good. Links to these two fics are below.

One of the ways in which sports fics have an advantage is that they have a built in structure. There's a match, or a tournament, or a season, and the relationship drama plays out against that backdrop. Writing classes always talk about the "ticking clock" approach to narrative tension, and almost every sport has some type of literal ticking clock. The Bang and the Clatter plays out over a full baseball season, including Spring Training and the postseason. That's basically a year minus the main American holidays, and EarlGreyTea does a really good job of letting the story play out at an appropriate pace. That's very impressive considering that she was posting this as a WIP over the course of an actual season.

(I need to take a minute to talk about my issues with EGT, and by "issues" I mean "soul churning jealousy." EGT is ridiculously prolific. If you go back into the fandom annals and look at the timing of some of her biggest fics, she was posting what became major reference points for the fandom in tandem, writing multiple fics at the same damn time, while, you know, teaching law or moving cross country. She is the best example I know of the importance of writing regularly. Of course, she's incredibly gifted, highly skilled at plotting, characterization, pacing, and just words. She has a fabulous imagination. Her dialogue rings true, and it's fun. But she can turn really good stuff out relatively quickly because she's limber AF. She writes. Anyone who comes to Word Sprints on Sundays or just hangs with me writing knows I'm not fast. I'm lucky to break 100 words in 15 minutes. Part of that is that I edit as I go, but it's also that I don't write as often as I would like to, so it takes me some time to warm up. I would like to be more like EGT, which probably sounds kind of creepy. I hope she doesn't see this. Anyway, she's written many of my top 20, and she actually finishes her stuff. So, yeah. Issues.)

So here is where I ended up: this is a good AU that takes advantage of the time crunch of the sport in which it is set, but that is not why I read it 2+ times per year. I read it because this is one of my favorite John and Sherlock relationships ever. It feels so in character for the way we see them in the show (at least through S2; this was written in 2013). We see them meet, we feel their attraction, we feel Sherlock's very authentic confusion. We feel their fear at being caught out, at first by each other and then by the world. They earn their angst. The way to my heart is good characterization, and this has that. Alongside the battery, the OCs (especially Sherlock and John's families) are complex and have issues of their own. Moriarty doesn't show up until the All Star Workout, which is halfway through the season for those of you who don't know, but it works because by that point, John and Sherlock have things to lose. Lestrade is the best effing choice for a beleaguered, exasperated baseball manager there ever was. Mycroft saves the day AND fucks it up, which I wish we'd seen more of in those days.

Also, John and Sherlock never get too far away from each other, and when they're separated, it's usually for narrative reasons. I like that in a fic, I've come to realize. I like to watch the characters' interplay. It's hard for Sherlock to keep secrets from John when they work together, commute together, and live together, and John is no fool. Their office isn't 221b Baker Street, it's a stadium in Austin, TX, where shit plays out in front of 30k people. John loves baseball. Sherlock loves John. They fight, they fall in love, they eat Chinese food, and they play baseball. And best of all, they are themselves together.

If you read the parts that EGT wrote after the big story, there's a mention of Sherlock pulling together a pick up game in London made of American ex-pats for John's sake, and I'll tell you what. That really pulls this fic together for me. This Sherlock would do that for this John, and we end up a little on the outside looking in, and it's just charming as fuck.

In conclusion, read this even if you don't know baseball, if you want great characterization, a chance to be reminded of how beautiful John and Sherlock were together back in the golden age. Pay attention to the ticking clocks in your favorite fics; intentional or not, there's almost always some time pressure ginning up the conflict. If you're a writer, the best way to get better is to write more. Feels like bullshit, but it's true. And finally, fuck MLB forever for going the completely wrong way on the DH. Pitchers in both leagues should have to/get to hit, and more to the point, DHs should have to fucking do something when their teams are out in the field. I will die on this mound.

(Also, if I'm being honest, Bull Durham is probably my favorite movie, so maybe I'm more of a baseball fan than I'm letting on. I do generally love baseball in popular media. But I still think it's the characterization.)

#fall favorite fic festival #FFFF5 #The Bang and the Clatter #EarlGreyTea68 #A Study in Winning #Jupiter_Ash #Of Ice and Men #sincewhendoyoucallme john

[johnlockficsfix]

Sherlock Holmes was an exceptional pitcher who was a constant also-ran for all of the very best of baseball’s honors...He was brilliant, but he wasn’t quite all the way there yet, John thought. There was something he was missing.

The Bang and The Clatter by earlgreytea68

Sherlock Holmes is a pitcher and John Watson is a catcher. No, no, no, it's a baseball AU.

If you like this, you’ll also like,

A Study in Winning by JupiterAsh

Working on the Edges by Earlgreytea68

#Sherlock #Johnlock #M #>100k #Sports AU #baseball #hurt/comfort #developing relationship #first time #secret relationship #minor homophobia #romance #angst #the bang and the clatter #earlgreytea68 #fic rec #fanfiction #AO3

[noivern]

overjoyed to learn both of my children can now make it up to the kitchen bench. awesome

#go to bed and then hear BANG CLATTER and go out to find a spatula on the floor. great

[skeilig]

lalo's #1 babygirl moment

#his deep breaths help... he's so funny #imagine you're walking your dog past a storm drain and hear banging and clattering and then a man muttering muy listo ese pollero #bcs spoilers #better call saul #just posting some vids don't mind me

[earlgreytea68]

Advent Drabble 23 - Collection

Requested by anonymous.

“And here is another one for your collection,” Sherlock announced extravagantly.

When John was a baseball player, he did indeed have an extensive collection of things with sentimental value, and those were things like baseballs, gloves, bats.

But now that he had this new life in London with Sherlock, when Sherlock announced there was another one for his collection, it was now apt to be a particularly gruesome and perplexing murder.

John said, “I don’t think I like to say that I collect murders…”

Sherlock said, “No, you collect intriguing and problematic puzzles. That’s how you ended up with me.”

#advent drabble #johnlock #bang & clatter #collection #anonymous

[lyraofthestarsss]

Jimmy’s redstone video but he pulls the lever and a bunch of silly cartoon sound effects go off

#Jimmy: let’s see if this works!! #the machine: *crash* *bang* *loud cat meow* *slippery floor sound* *bang* *old timey car honk* *clash* *clunk* *MY LEG* *clatter* #my post #jimmy solidarity

[cvakviigmohns]

When your post leaves its target audience and you have to read people in the tags with literally..the opposite take from what is stated in the original post...unironically thinking it proves their point...

#me expecting f1blr to know how ground effect works and how floors were meant to generate dwf with the new regs meanwhile f1blr banging pots #and pans clattering screaming how DARE you piss on the poor jdkdkdo miss girl please read what the post said!! slowly!!!!! #maybe if yall had read 'how to build a car' #next time I get the urge to post about smth I will instead endeavour to teach advanced mathematics to my snail farm instead #higher chances of overall success #*p

[wintaerbaer]

bottle up old love (jjk) (m)

summary: Jungkook may have broken up with you a year ago, but that's not going to stop him from coming to your rescue when he sees you being cornered by a creep.

pairing: Jungkook x Reader

rating: 18+ (MINORS DNI)

genre: exes to lovers, the holy trinity of angst/smut/fluff

word count: 4.6k (this was supposed to be a drabble 💀)

prompt: JK + exes to lovers + "I'm sorry" + "I hate you" + "Don't fucking touch me" + "Leave" (for @btsborahaee <3)

warnings: language, a short harassment scene at the beginning (nothing too intense), explicit content including: unprotected sex (DO NOT), fingering, praise kink, biting, marking, spanking, cum eating (sort of?), big cawk soft dom jk, cowgirl (yeehaw), creampie, cockwarming, i think that's all but this also wasn't supposed to be too smutty so clearly idk what's going on lol

MASTERLIST

“Don’t fucking touch me!”

You spit the words at the man in front of you, pushing him back as he tries to make another grab at your arm.

“Why do you gotta be like that?” Seungcheol whines. “I thought we were having fun.”

“You and I have very different ideas of fun.” You take a step backwards towards your building. Somewhere down the sidewalk, footsteps clatter against the pavement.

“C’mon.” He matches your movement, reaches for you again. “Invite me up. You enjoyed the last time, didn’t you? I told you that was just a warm-up.”

The building’s brick wall is closer than you thought, and you bang your shoulder against it as you try to sidestep him. “Last time you didn’t follow me to a bar I didn’t even invite you to. How did you know where I was anyway?”

“Let me come up, and I’ll tell you,” he rumbles with a flicker of his eyebrows. He has you fully backed up against the wall now, and you press against the muscle of his chest to no avail.

“Stop!” you shout before he’s ripped away from you so suddenly that you’re left blinking in confusion, huddled against the brick.

There’s a thud–the sound of a fist hitting flesh–and a yelp before Seungcheol is reeling back with his hands clutching his nose. Blood seeps out from beneath his fingers, black even under the glow of the streetlamps.

“What the fuck?” he shrieks, and it’s only then that you take a proper look at your savior, looking every bit like he’s stepped straight out of the shadows with his dark hair, ebony clothes, and deep brown eyes.

And a lead weight drops into your stomach as you recognize him.

Jungkook sets himself between you and Seungcheol, looming over the latter as he continues to cover his face, whining. “I’m giving you ten seconds to get out of here.”

“Who the fuck are you?!”

“Ten,” Jungkook growls, taking a step in Seungcheol’s direction. “Nine.”

Seungcheol straightens–clearly a last-ditch attempt to look intimidating. Spitting blood onto the concrete, he peers at you over Jungkook’s shoulder. “This isn’t over, bitch.”

Then he spins and takes off running down the street.

Your hands grip your elbows. It may be a balmy summer night, but you’re shivering where you stand, unsure whether you’re more affected by Seungcheol’s behavior or the ghost who’s unexpectedly in front of you.

“Are you okay?” he quietly asks, gaze fixed on your face. You stare at your shoes and give him a brisk nod as a response before turning away, punching in your building code, and walking through the front door.

He follows closely, slipping in behind you and trailing a few feet. You let him for a little while, guiding him through the modest lobby and up the first flight of stairs. But when you’re halfway up the second stairwell–almost to your floor–you pause on the landing, spinning his way.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

His eyes are gentle, sincere. “Making sure you get in safely.”

“There’s no need for that,” you assert. “I’m already in my building. There’s a keypad. I’m good.”

“The keypad does almost nothing. I followed you in no problem.”

“So I should be worried about you then?”

He flushes, the tips of his ears going pink. “Please just let me see you inside.”

You want to argue back, want to shout at him and make a scene, but you know it’s no use. Know that he’s stubborn as a bull and will get what he wants one way or another.

It’s how he broke up with you after all.

You say nothing, only hustle up the last set of steps and down the dimly-lit hallway until you’re in front of your door, Jungkook tailing you the whole time with his hands in his pockets. You practically fumble your key in your haste to get it into the lock, letting out a satisfied sigh as the latch finally clicks open.

“There. I’m in,” you say as you step over the threshold, waving a dismissive hand at your unwanted companion. “Leave.”

But he hesitates just outside the doorway, teeth chewing at the corner of his lip. “What are you going to do if he comes back?”

“That’s my problem, isn’t it? I stopped being your concern when you dropped me out of nowhere a year ago.”

Your eyes sting at the memory, tears threatening to spill over. You don’t want him here. Don’t want to see him or have him anywhere in your vicinity. Not when it still hurts like this.

Though, truth be told, you don’t expect to ever be fully over him.

“We’re done, Jungkook,” you murmur. “You made sure of that.”

And you close the door in his face.

The distress subsides quickly once he’s out of sight–like he was never there to begin with–and you don’t linger, dropping your bag on the sofa and heading straight for the bathroom. This is how you’ve made it a year without him; it was weeks of crying before you realized that wallowing was doing you no good, only fueling your misery instead of providing any kind of catharsis. So you’ve done your best to simply push past it and cast away the anguish that bubbles up every time you think of him. Not allow it to linger like the shadows at the edges of the room.

You shed your clothes and turn the shower to a temperature that you’ll probably regret later. But for now, you savor the way the water sears your skin as you wash away the day with all of its unpleasant surprises. Taking your time, you scrub every inch of your body and carefully shampoo your hair (trying not to fall back into the fantasy that’s plagued you on occasion where it’s his hands and not yours spreading the bubbles over your form).

The self-care continues as you step out of the shower and leisurely work through your skin care routine, even taking the time to blow dry your hair. By the time you exit the bathroom, the fog on the mirror has dissipated, and you’ve once again successfully tamped down the memory of Jungkook and his hands and eyes and everything you ever felt for him.

Or so you think.

After popping into your bedroom to pull on some pajamas, you pad back into the living room for a glass of water, and your eyes are immediately drawn to the front door. Regret attempts to push its way into your consciousness against your better judgment. The man broke your heart, yes. But you do feel a little guilty slamming the door in his face after he just fought off a creep for you.

And speaking of Seungcheol, what if he does come back? You’re pretty sure he saw you punch in the building code the night you brought him home with you, and given his behavior, you wouldn’t be surprised if he filed it away in his head.

Anxiety winning out, you creep to the door and peer through the peephole. The hallway looks empty, drab beige walls taking up most of your field of view, but you jump as you spot a hulking shadow to the right. Your heartbeat races then slows, a closer look revealing hunched, unmoving shoulders wrapped in a familiar black t-shirt.

Jungkook swings his head to look at you as you open the door and glare down at him. His legs are pulled up, arms resting on his knees, and it might be endearing if not for the fact that he absolutely, positively should not be here.

“What are you doing?” you ask him for the second time tonight.

“He might come back.”

“And you’re going to what? Fight him?”

He shrugs. “If I have to.”

“Yeah?” You raise an eyebrow, challenging. “You’re going to sit out here all night?”

He shifts where he sits, wiggling his hips like he’s firmly planting his butt into his chosen spot. “Yes.”

You roll your eyes at him but don’t doubt that he would. Again, if there is anything you know this man to be, it’s stubborn. “You’re going to scare the neighbors.”

“Who, Mrs. Kwon?” A tiny smile plays on his lips as he glances in the direction of your elderly neighbor’s apartment. “I think she’d be delighted to see me.”

If you’re being honest, she probably would be. She’s always adored Jungkook and praised him as the “kind, handsome young man” who helped her put away groceries and fixed her leaky faucet one time. In the months following your breakup, she’d asked about him once or twice, patting your arm reassuringly when you awkwardly told her she wouldn’t be seeing him anymore.

“Don’t worry, dear,” she said. “He’ll come around.”

Well she’s turned out to be right in that he’s certainly back here again, still watching you from his spot on the floor. And you don’t know whether it’s his big doe eyes or the fact that he really would guard your apartment all night if you let him or the genuine fear that one of the other neighbors will make a fuss at his presence, but you feel yourself softening.

Turning abruptly, you stride into the kitchen for your glass of water, walking out of sight of the door, which is still wide open.

“You coming?” you call, pulling two glasses down from the cupboard.

There’s a rustle as Jungkook stands and shuffles into your apartment, closing the door behind him with a soft thud. For someone who was so determined to defend you tonight, he seems uncertain now that he’s actually inside. His hands are once again stuffed in his pockets, and his eyes flicker around like he hasn’t been here a thousand times. Hasn’t cooked you breakfast in this kitchen in nothing but his boxers. Hasn’t watched The Notebook with you on this TV and held you as you both cried.

Hasn’t made love to you on the couch.

You slide a water his way, and he murmurs his thanks, sipping at it lightly. It’s strange–seeing him here again–and you can’t help but think about the last time he stood in this room. It’d been a maelstrom of accusations and hurt feelings that culminated in him storming out, the slam of the door echoing in your ears.

“You never cleaned that?” He gestures at the rug that covers most of the sitting area in your living room, eyes on the dark purple stain roughly the size of your hand.

You gulp down your water and try not to follow his line of sight. Try not to remember how you’d knocked over a glass of wine in your haste to get his clothes off during another movie night less than a month before your breakup.

“I kind of forgot about it,” you say. “Stopped noticing it after a while.” 

It’s a lie. There was never a time when you didn’t notice it, the memory of him haunting you every time you sit down on the couch and stare at the garish stain. And still, you haven’t been able to bring yourself to try and erase it.

Silence worms its way between you again. With only the soft light from the tabletop lamp glowing next to the couch, Jungkook’s face is cloaked in shadow. And so you barely see his lips move when he speaks. Barely hear it with how quietly his whisper slips into the room.

“I’m sorry.”

Your glass almost drops from your fingers, droplets splashing across your knuckles as you catch it at the last moment and steady it on the countertop. Turning to face him, you find his gaze already on you, melancholy tinting his expression.

“What?”

He tongues his lip ring, shoulders dropping a fraction. “For how things ended. I’m sorry.”

You can see the sincerity in his posture, can see the sadness in his form. And yet, his words only fill you with a hot anger that bubbles out of you before you can swallow it down.

“I don’t know why you would be,” you challenge, “being that you didn’t even respect me enough to give me a proper reason.”

Jungkook huffs at that; you think he’s resisting the urge to roll his eyes. “Did it really matter?”

“Yes.”

He gnaws at his lip again, no longer looking at you, and his lack of an answer only riles you up further.

“Was there someone else?” you demand, causing him to flinch. It was the same thing you asked him when he told you he thought you should break up, standing in almost this exact same spot.

“No,” he murmurs after a moment. “There wasn’t anyone else.” He pushes a hand through his dark, silky hair. “There hasn’t been anyone else since either.”

This surprises you. Jungkook is, in your eyes, the handsomest man you have ever come face-to-face with, but even from an objective standpoint, he is exceedingly attractive. There is no doubt in your mind that he would easily be able to land a woman if he so desired.

“So then why?”

He sets his jaw, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows and fixes his stare out the window. And it’s this final refusal, this steadfast dedication to not explaining himself, that finally has tears tracking down your cheeks.

The sight of you crying has his attention snapping back your way, hands reaching out as if to hold you.

“Don’t touch me,” you gasp, recoiling until you’re out of reach. “I…I hate you.”

It almost seems as if your voice lands physically, and Jungkook staggers back like you’ve slapped him, remorse immediately wiggling its way between your ribs. You know you don’t mean the words even as they fall from your mouth, but it feels pointless to take them back now, the sentiment already thrown out there and hovering in the hollow space between you.

Jungkook muddles towards the couch–more of a defeated slump dragging his steps than anger–and you think he’s going to sit down before he whirls back towards you at the last second.

“The gala,” he mutters. “That’s when I decided.”

You know which one he’s talking about. Hosted by your medical school to celebrate the end of the academic year, it had been a night of food, dancing, and socializing. You had, of course, brought him as your date and introduced him to your friends and classmates, excited to finally allow him to put faces to names. As you comb through your memories of the night, you can’t pinpoint any warning signs, only remembering the way he’d smiled at you throughout. The way he’d pulled you close and danced you around the room.

“I don’t…I don’t understand.”

He rakes his fingers through his hair again, tossing strands of night over his forehead. A sad chuckle looses itself into the thick air of the room, and the final dregs of his resolve flicker away. “I realized that I didn’t deserve to stand next to you. That you could do much better than me.”

Whatever you thought his reason had been–whatever theories or thoughts had kept you up night after night for the past year–this is not even close to what you expected. And while you always thought finally receiving an answer would be freeing, would offer you some semblance of understanding, you’re surprised at the rage that boils in the pit of your stomach, bile rising in your throat.

“Are you fucking serious right now?” you growl, taking an angered step towards him. “You were feeling insecure, and you made the decision to break up with me without even thinking to, I don’t know, discuss it with me first?”

His hand goes to the back of his neck now, embarrassment showing its face as he peers at you from under his lashes. “I was stupid–”

“No, shit.”

“But can you blame me?” he presses. “There we were: you, about to be this incredible doctor with all of your doctor friends…” His voice falters, sorrow lacing his tone. “And I’m just a tattoo artist.”

The defeatist way he says it helps to dampen your ire some, even if a heap of frustration remains–the sad shape of his doe eyes softening your edges.

“Just a tattoo artist,” you repeat. “Jungkook, I have always been so, so proud of you. I was never anything but proud to have you as my partner. You must’ve known that.”

His teeth worry his lip, and though he nods, he doesn’t seem fully convinced.

So you continue on, closing the distance between you a fraction more. “You started your own business from nothing. And I saw how hard you worked: to get the building, to hire other artists, train your apprentices.” You shake your head–half in irritation, half in awe. “And look at you now! You’re thriving. The last I heard, if you want an appointment at Golden Tattoo, you need to book months in advance.”

His eyes are alight now, some hidden emotion glimmering under the surface, but he stays quiet as he soaks in your words.

“So how can you possibly act like you weren’t enough?” you push. “You are amazing, Jungkook. And I never gave a shit about any job comparisons people may have made.” One more step, and suddenly you’re almost chest-to-chest. As always, you’re unable to resist the pull of his gravity. Yanked right back into his orbit. “I only wanted you. I’ve only ever wanted y–”

He cuts you off with his mouth, strong hands snagging your hips to pull you against him, and your own fingers reflexively tangle in his black hoodie as your subconscious gives itself over to him. Like it’s been waiting for this.

“I’m not. Not thriving,” he mumbles against your lips. “Not without you. Been miserable without you.”

And in spite of your anger, in spite of the fact that you were ready to kick him out a mere hour ago, you find yourself kissing him back, relishing the slick glide of his tongue as he licks into your mouth.

You startle as the backs of your knees suddenly bump against the couch, and then Jungkook is spinning as he settles onto the plush seat, pulling you along to straddle him. He sucks at your neck until you can feel the blood blooming under your skin, painting you like the pretty ink on his arm.

Speaking of.

The fabric of his hoodie whispers as you pull it up and over his back and head, tossing it over his shoulder and into a corner. His arms now bare to you, you gloss over his tattoos with your eyes and fingers until you find the one you’d picked out for him; the lovely orange of the flower petals seem to glow even in the dim light of the room.

“Beautiful,” you whisper.

“Just like you.”

You look at him then, the twinkle of tiny galaxies in his eyes betraying his hope. And before you can go any further, you need confirmation.

“You left.”

“I did.” Fingertips press lightly against your waist like he’s afraid you might be the one to disappear now. “I’m sorry.”

“Jungkook, if…” You lick your lips. Can almost taste his regret. “If we do this and you leave again–”

“If we do this, I'm not going anywhere,” he insists, tugging your hips down to grind against him and ghosting a kiss at your jaw. “Just wanna be here with you. Just want you.”

And it’s all you need to hear.

You shed the cotton shirt you had thrown on after your shower and move to yank his own off, tossing it in the same corner as his hoodie. The muscles of his pecs and abs shift under your hands, burning hot where your fingers trace the contours of his torso. 

“God, I missed this,” he groans as he buries his face between your breasts, nipping at the skin there before laving the spot with his tongue.

You’d agree–echo the sentiment that your body has been aching for this–if not for the fact that you’re too busy trying to get the two of you naked, thumbs hooking into the waistband of your shorts.

But a tattooed hand covers yours, eases it away to take its place. “No,” he rumbles. “Let me.”

Wide palms and long fingers span your hips and thighs, grasping as much skin as possible even as he drags your shorts and panties down your legs and helps to steady you as you kick them off. They join the tangle of his own clothes

“Fucking gorgeous,” he growls at the sight of you finally naked in front of him. And with such speed that it almost seems like it’s involuntary, an impulse outside of his control, he’s immediately stroking at the apex of your thighs.

“Baby, this wet for me already?” A breathy sigh passes from his mouth to yours, almost laughing at the ease with which he glides through your folds. “Hell, I could just–”

A finger slips in and you gasp, Jungkook smiling wickedly at you as he quickly adds a second and curls them against your walls. You force your eyes closed as they roll back in your head, and you keel forward, babbling incoherently against the line of his collarbone.

“Use your words, love; you can do it.” He says it as if his fingers aren’t currently buried in you down to the knuckle. As if he’s not making you see stars behind your eyelids right now.

You choke down a breath, desperate for the oxygen. “Insane,” you pant. “I said you’re fucking insane.”

“Only for you,” he says before sliding his digits out of you and dipping them into his mouth. He moans at the taste, and even with his lips closed tightly, you can see the way he’s working his tongue around each finger, unwilling to waste a single drop of your essence.

Like you said. Insane.

He gives you a moment to catch your breath until you’re the one who’s getting impatient, hastily undoing his belt and tearing it from his pants with a hiss. But as you shift off of him so he can slither out of his pants and boxers–his length springing free to slap against his smooth stomach–you’re hit with an untimely realization.

“Jungkook, I don’t have condoms.”

He freezes, the color draining from his face (though admittedly, that may be because all of his blood has clearly gone south). The two of you stare at each other for a long second before he suddenly leans over, rummaging back through his pants pockets. He pulls out his wallet, rifles through it, then tosses it across the room in frustration, head tilting back against the couch as he groans at the ceiling.

“Fuck, me neither.”

You chew at your lip, a loaded quiet settling over the room as Jungkook wipes a hand over his face.

“I’m still on birth control,” you whisper, and Jungkook whips his head around, eyes wide and questioning like he’s not sure he heard you right. But you don’t repeat yourself, only hold his stare until he’s tentatively reaching out to graze his fingertips along your thigh.

“I told you. There’s been no one else.” His expression is earnest, eager. You trust that he’s telling the truth, and yet you also know that if you refused him, if you said you weren’t comfortable, he wouldn’t push.

So you swing a leg back over his lap, drag your wet folds against his cock. He moans, gripping your thighs hard, but he leans in to bite at your lower lip with a growl before pulling back to search your face.

“You?”

It hurts that he even feels the need to ask. Because how could you even want someone else? Who could possibly measure up?

You brush a reassuring, barely-there kiss against his already swollen lips. “No one else for me either.”

This seems to please him, but you still see hesitation behind his eyes as he asks, “What about the guy downstairs?”

A drunken mistake was what that was. All sloppy lips and fumbling hands that had left you feeling more empty than anything, and which resulted in you sending Cheol away before he had even gotten a peek at your bedroom.

“We made out once,” you admit, hating that you’re even having to think about another man when Jungkook is here in front of you. “But nothing else happened.”

“Good,” he grunts, but his fingers dig into your backside like he’s trying to reclaim you. And just a fraction of a second later, he’s devilishly tonguing his lip ring as he winds his palm back to bring it down harshly against the meat of your ass, the smack echoing between the walls almost endlessly.

“Ride me, baby.”

You’re quick to line him up–desperate, at this point, to have him inside of you–and begin to ease yourself down slowly, trying to give your body the space and time to adjust to the burning stretch of his girth. He’s always filled you to your absolute limit, tested the furthest boundaries of how much your body can take with his size.

“Yesss,” he hisses, nipping at your neck once again. “You’re doing great, love. Always take me so fucking well.”

You gasp as he bottoms out, struggling to catch your breath with the relentless push of him. If you were a betting woman, you’d put money on your intestines being somewhere in the area of your throat right now.

He wraps his inked arm around your waist, continuing to whisper his praises against the shell of your ear as he starts to guide your body up and down. Intoxicated by the smooth slide of his length, you soon find your pace, and your shared moans fill the room–the whole city probably able to hear you right now.

You move that way until the pressure building becomes too much and your legs start to tremble, quivering against Jungkook’s own muscled thighs.

“It’s okay; I’ve got you.” He bands his arms around you and presses you to his chest, holding you in place so he can thrust upwards.

Hard.

You’re practically screaming now, burying your teeth into his shoulder so as to muffle your sounds and not scare the neighbors. It’s all you can do to hold on for dear life as he rapidly pistons his cock inside of you, the slap of your hips like a metronome.

It builds and builds until it breaks and you’re falling apart in his arms, the spasms of your inner walls pulling him over the edge with you as he empties his seed deep inside.

The silence that follows in unlike the others you previously shared this evening–tension traded for serenity as you sit on the couch holding each other, you still contentedly stuffed full of him. He traces the ridges of your spine in a soothing pattern that has your eyelids drooping, your cheek resting against the warm skin of his neck.

“I missed this,” you whisper once your brain has finally remembered how to construct human speech.

“I missed you.”

You pull back so you can rest your forehead against his and gently run a finger over the lines of his face. “Where do we go from here?”

He hums. Tucks a stray hair behind your ear. “Take it day by day?” he suggests. “We don’t need to rush into anything if you don’t want to.”

“Mm, that does seem like a problem for tomorrow.”

A dark eyebrow quirks, teasing. “And what about right now?”

“Now?” you ask. “Do you remember the way to the bedroom? Or…” You shift your hips, already feeling him twitching inside of you.

“Or.” He jolts forward to capture your mouth in a hot kiss, and you smile into it, whole again. “Or sounds good.”

a/n: pls like, reblog, reply, and/or send an ask if you enjoyed! <3

#jungkook x reader #jungkook x you #jungkook angst #jungkook smut #jungkook fluff #bts x reader #bts x you #bts imagines #jungkook imagines #jungkook fic #jungkook fanfic #bts angst #bts smut #bts fluff #bts fic #bts fanfic

[cherubfae]

jealous slashers~!✧

With Michael, Brahms, Jason, Billy Loomis, Stu Macher, Vincent Sinclair, Bo Sinclair, Lester Sinclair, Thomas Sawyer, Sal Fisher, & Patrick Bateman

tags: gn!reader, jealousy, creepy men, unwanted attention/touching, uggestive and mature themes, gore/blood, violence, canon typical behavior, billy x reader x stu poly, rob zombie!mikey, I know Sal isn't exactly a slasher but he's my baby and needs to be included

Alexa, play Love to Die by the Slashstreet Boys

Michael

Rest in Peace to the poor, stupid man who thought it'd be a good idea to mess with the Shape's partner, and Michael had witnessed it all. How this man shoves you into an empty alleyway, the clatter of your groceries falling. The guy doesn't get much more than a few bruises and claw marks when Michael's knife slices through the back of the man's throat, protruding from the other end in a splash of blood. The Shape watches you wipe your bloody face off, not doing much but picking up three of your four fallen bags and tugging you into his side.

Brahms

Absolutely not. Brahms is fuckin' seething from his safe space sheltered behind the walls. Heavy breathing muffled by the porcelain mask, he watches with wild eyes as some idiot decides to break into the mansion whilst you were sleeping, and proceeds to hold you at knifepoint, effectively pinning you to the bed in what little nightclothes you wore. The unwanted guest and you are certainly going to know when Brahms is upset. There's banging on the walls coming from every direction that leaves the would-be burglar panicked and you slightly more comfortable.

"You're not allowed to be here," comes the eerily childlike voice Brahms has perfected. He crawls his way out from behind the large antique mirror. "I'll make sure you never come near them again." With a sudden slam, Brahms downs the intruder with a lead pipe repeatedly bashing the object until all that remains was brain matter and gooey blood. He drops the pipe with a huff and collects you into his arms, the cool porcelain biting onto the heat of your chest.

Jason

As the protector of the surrounding forest, Jason is always watching. He's omnipotent, he sees all. He seems to know where people are at all times and he can sense when you're in distress. Your shared cabin door left ajar sends his blood boiling and his heavy footfall increasing as he approaches your home. Barging in, Jason's pale eyes lock onto you and your assailant holding you by the throat. His thunderous steps are quick, slicing through the man with his machete and proceeds to lift him up while still pierced with the blade. The man gurgles, arms weakly reaching behind him in attempts to claw at Jason. All attempts were futile. He tossed the body to the side before he gently frets over you, his large hands soothing the fingerprints tarnishing your throat.

Billy & Stu

Rather snake-like the two will wrap themselves around you (they adore your personal space) and stare down whoever else demands your attention. Billy's arm hooks around your waist and Stu wraps himself around your shoulder, tilting your chin up with a single finger. "Is this guy bothering you, baby?" Looking like a shark that's tasted blood in the water, Billy's eyes grow more wild. He's already making a mental note of who and where this guy lives. The guy raised his hands in defense backing down the more the two stared at him, walking off completely.

"We're gonna take care of him, doll," Billy promises, kissing your cheek. Stu cackles lightly, tongue sticking out. They would strike tonight.

Vincent

There's no one Vincent trusts more to watch over you when he can't than his own two brothers. He had his hands full, turning Dalton and Wade into wax people. Nick and Carly were proving to be hard to get a hold of and there was still another tourist that needed to be taken care of.

But then Bo is telling him that the person escaped and he doesn't know where you were. His two worst fears confirmed. Vincent is soon on a wild hunt, trying to find you anywhere with Bo hot on his heels. He soon locates you, passed out with a bit of blood on your head. Your eyes slowly open as he touches your cheek, catching you as you wobble into his warm embrace. He shares a look with Bo who nods.

"I've got you, brother. Keep them here with ya. Wait til I'm back, ya hear?"

Bo

Out in public, he's all cordial and kind smiles. Especially if this is an intended victim. Some random person putting the moves on his partner is a huge no-no and one Bo doesn't take lightly. That person just warranted themselves a for sure death sentence and Bo isn't feeling too kind, so perhaps he'll drag things out, yeah? Touch what's his and you got what's comin' to ya.

"Can I see, baby? That bastard leave any marks on ya?" Bo strokes your shoulders, blue eyes drifting over your frame like water. He has every intention of marking every place that person touched, no matter if you tell Bo the guy only grabbed your arm. Once he has his mind set on something, he's gonna do it.

Lester

Unlike his older twin brothers, Lester is actually pretty chill. Especially in comparison to Bo. He doesn't think much of the people he's helping get into Ambrose knowing full well it's their final destination and Vincent and Bo will take care of things as they always have. What he doesn't like is some dude making a pass at you right in front of him. Can't he see the engagement ring on your finger? It leaves a sour taste in his mouth, watching with narrowed eyes as the small group heads towards the mechanic shop in search of a fan belt.

A familiar hand on his arm calms him down instantly. He turns to you and musters a weak smile as your hands slide around his torso from behind, leaning your cheek on his shoulder. "Y'alright?" Lester nods too quickly and unconvincingly, giving you a quick kiss. "Yeah, darl', always."

Thomas

Your partner is not unlike a bear, watching with wild eyes as one of Hoyt's new catches clasps onto you, their nails digging into your arms, and pinning you to the barbed fence. The cry of pain you let out has Tommy barreling towards you, chainsaw revving to life. A deep snarl echoes behind his mask and he wastes no time cutting down the poor soul with a single swipe of his motorized saw. Tommy turns it off and picks you up in his large arms as gently as he can. With his masked cheek leaning against yours, he carries you back towards the house. Mama Luda Mae will take a good look at you.

Sal Fisher

Honestly Sal isn't one to get jealous. He's pretty level-headed and understanding in most situations. He respects your choices and he's not gonna step on any toes or do anything drastic; Sal isn't a monster. However, if he sees some guy make a creepy pass at you and clearly overstep your boundaries, he won't hesitate to swoop in, looping his arm around your shoulders. His sharp blue eyes staring at the man from behind his prosthetic mask.

"Do we have a problem here?" His voice is cold, lacking any interest in what excuse the man finds. Sal's main focus will be on you, rubbing gentle, soothing circles into your skin. His main priority is to get you away from this sicko and would totally call in reinforcements from his brother Larry if need be.

Patrick

A jealous Patrick Bateman isn't a good scenario for anyone. Especially not with his deteriorating mental state. He trusts you explicitly, with his thoughts, ideas, and recreational hobbies that most would find distasteful. So when a colleague of his gets too big for his britches and unabashedly begins to flirt with you in his presence, Patrick finds it difficult to keep his boiling bloodlust at bay. The heat of his anger is getting to his head, the fierce emotions only swelling well it's clear how uncomfortable you look in that man's company. He must see to put an end to him quickly.

|| I DON'T GIVE PERMISSION FOR MY WORKS TO BE REPOSTED, RESHARED, OR EDITED. TUMBLR IS MY ONLY ACCOUNT AND THE ONLY PLACE WHERE I POST MY WRITING. ALL CHARACTERS BELONG TO THEIR RIGHTFUL OWNERS, THE STORY BELONGS TO ME. || CHERUBFAE © 2024

"Are you alright, my darling? That man surely didn't know his place, did he?" Patrick places a hand at your back, guiding you out of the office party. "Let's get you home and into a nice hot bath, hmm? I'd rather not taste that swine on your lovely skin."

#slashers x reader #slasher imagines #michael myers x reader #michael myers imagines #jason voorhees x reader #jason voorhees imagine #scream x reader #scream imagines #billy loomis x reader #stu macher x reader #billy x reader x stu #brahms heelshire x reader #thomas sawyer x reader #tcm imagines #house of wax x reader #vincent sinclair x reader #bo sinclair x reader #lester sinclair x reader #sally face x reader #sal fisher x reader #sally face imagines #patrick bateman x reader #cherubfae 2024

[bettysupremacy]

okay hear me out!!! Abby telling mike all the things her and y/n did that day, very cliché things but still so cute!! (loosely based off of best day by taylor swift... but...)

it’s like you knew my weak spot was Taylor Swift

“It was the best day ever.” Abby muffles, mouthful of salad.

Mike stands in the kitchen, back to her. He looks silly in a pretty pink apron Abby had picked out at the store, but he doesn’t mind. He wears it to let her giggle at the bow tied behind him. Steam smokes from the pots and pans around him.

“Oh, yeah?” He asks, stress keeping a low profile. He turns the burner nobs to lower settings.

“Yeah,” She emphasizes. “Really, we went to the mall, did you know there was a store just for dolls?”

“Yuh uh.” The pasta water is boiling over, shit. “What’s it- what’s it called? The girl doll store?”

“American Girl Doll.”

“That’s the one.”

Abby shrugs, flicking her bangs before stabbing wildly into her bowl. “It was so amazing, they have a cafe in there.”

Mike’s heart spikes at the thought of you spending money on his sister. It’s thoughtful, truly, but that’s his job now. He took on this roll. “You uh,” he mixes the pasta sauce. “you eat in there?”

“Yes.” She gushes, finishing the remnants of the salad Mike had made her. “But that was hours ago, and I’m hungry again.”

“That’s okay. That’s totally fine. Pastas almost done.”

“Good.” She juts her hand out to Mike, letting him lean over to toss her bowl in the sink with a clatter. “I got lemonade and a cheeseburger.”

“Wow.” Mike smiles, finally at ease with the chaos of cooking. He wipes his hands off messily, resting his them on the counter as he watches Abby with a light grin. “You’ve never eaten those for me.”

“Yeah,” She shrugs flippantly. “it was my first time.”

“I know, you like it?”

“It was soooo good, is the pasta done?”

Mike turns over his shoulder, “Shit, yeah.” He rushes to flip off the timer that now counts down from ten.

“Jar.”

“I’m not putting money in a jar.” He scoffs. “This is my own home.”

He spoons the pasta into a clean bowl, ditching the spoon for a fork when he realizes it’s a hopeless cause. He forks more than he thinks she’ll eat, but that’s okay, because at least she’s eating. She doesn’t have to finish it.

“We didn’t buy a doll.” She pulls the warm bowl in front of her, mixing the pasta sauce into her noodles. “They were creepy, I didn’t like them.”

“I don’t like them either.”

“But she got me a cupcake and ohhhhh my godddd, Mike.” She squeals. “It looked just like Chica’s, I didn’t want to eat it!”

“Did you?”

“Yeah, it was good.”

Halfway through the bowl she taps out. To be expected. Mike isn’t mad. Instead he grabs her plate, scraping the leftovers into dingy tupperware. It’s quiet besides the rumble of AC and Abby. She taps the counter to the tune of a television show she’d been watching earlier.

“Go uh,” He trails off, distracted with the dish.

“Shower?” She helps.

“That.”

“Ok.” She hops off the counter bench, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand messily. “Mike?”

“Yes?” He eyes her over his shoulder.

“I like her. Can we hang out again?”

He laughs turning back around. “Maybe. Go shower.”

#mike schmidt x you #mike schmidt x reader #mike schmidt #mike schmidt x y/n #mike schmidt fluff #fnaf fanfic

[lovedazai]

REUNITING AFTER MEURSAULT

ft. dazai, chuuya, fyodor + f!reader, desc. of blood & injuries, a little suggestive in chuuya’s part, au where fyodor survives wins in his part, s5 e61 & manga spoilers

DAZAI can’t believe he’s finally back home. your living room has never felt so cozy, with all the little pieces of your daily routine scattered around him. the same couch that he once complained was too small for his lanky legs feels heaven sent beneath him. his splinted leg is straightened in front of him, the other bent over the side of the cushions lazily.

he despised his tiny cell in meursault, with its transparent walls and bland food. it was impossible to sleep without you, waking up every hour and reaching over to empty, cold sheets. he only found solace in the messages ango left him ensuring your safety, and he left him secret codes to deliver to you in return.

it was like torture not being able to see you, not being able to touch you. he didn’t even feel the ache in his injured leg when you jumped into his arms when he first arrived home, holding you tighter than ever before. he never wanted to let you go again, but you slipped out of his grasp despite his whines, insisting on making him something homemade to eat after he snuck one last kiss.

even two rooms apart, his eyes never leave you. they trail down the curve of your spine, tracing the slope of your hips and the way they melt into the soft skin of your thighs. he’d yearned for the feeling of your skin beneath his hands every single day he was gone, and all he wants to do now is slide them around your waist. they’d fit perfectly there, like they always do; you were made for him, he swears it.

he thinks you look angelic when you turn towards him, with your pretty face enveloped by wisps of steam from the pan in front of you. a smile curls up on his lips instinctively when your gaze finds his, and he sits up.

“osamu,” you point your wooden spoon at him, spotted with miso and slices of green onion. he freezes, eyes big and blinking. “don’t move. you know you need to rest your leg.”

the cushions sink beneath him as he throws himself backward, a whine slipping through his pouted lips. “but i miss you, bella! i need your love to recover!”

he hears the click of the stove turning off and the soft clatter of you spooning his food out of the pan first, then the quiet steps of your socked feet approaching him. the bowl is hot against his hands when you hand it to him, full of warm, fluffy rice and fried vegetables.

your thigh presses against his as you sit on the edge of the couch. he’s blowing away the steam when you brush his bangs back, and he turns to you curiously. your thumb traces the spot chuuya’s bullet struck him, leaving behind a dull bump and a patch of discolored skin. you lean forward, delicately pressing your lips to the small bruise.

even after all this time, he doesn’t know if he’ll ever get used to how gently you treat him, or the sheer amount of love he can feel through your every action. his palms are warm from the bowl when he cups your cheeks, pouring every part of himself he can into a kiss. you let him tilt your jaw and part your lips with his own, exhaling shakily through your nose.

you bury your head in his neck to ground yourself, breathing in the scent of him; not the smell of stale prison air and blood, but the mix of his body wash, the shampoo he stole from you, and his fresh, sterile bandages. he lets you hold him, even as his food cools against his lap.

“did you know?” you whisper, and he hums against you. “that you’d be come back?”

“no,” you can feel his bittersweet smile against your temple as he presses a kiss there. “not completely. but you trusted me, right?”

“always,” he feels the vibration of the world against his chest. “you just scare me sometimes. i need you, osamu. i can’t do this without you.”

“you won’t ever have to,” he squeezes you tighter against himself, eyes closing as he presses his nose into your hair. “just keep your trust in me. please.”

CHUUYA hated being away from you during the best of times. even a crowded sidewalk is enough for a gloved hand to stay pressed against your lower back, keeping you at his side.

the only place he can be completely certain you’ll be safe is with him on a regular day, and it heightens tenfold when half of his subordinates have turned into vampires. when mori calls him, telling him he’d have to fly out to europe, he stalls by the door to cup your cheeks, looking directly into your eyes.

“promise me something,” he whispers. “don’t open the door. don’t leave. just stay here, and if something goes wrong, you call ane-san. got it?”

“only if you promise to come back to me,” you whisper back. “or i’ll go over there and get you myself.”

he leaves with a desperate squeeze to your waist and a firm kiss goodbye, his promise pressed against your lips. he keeps it faithfully, welcomed home by you rushing into his arms as soon as he opens the door hours later, crying into his chest with a mumbled sob of his name.

“what’s wrong?” he pulls your face up to look at his. even with the smirk curled on his lips, you can see the relief in his eyes that he’s home, with you in his reach. “you didn’t think me and that shitty mackerel would lose, did you?”

“never,” you sniffle. you brush your fingertips through his bangs, holding his face between your palms. he doesn’t mind that your nose is running a little bit when you kiss him. the cool leather from his gloves sinks into your warming skin as he cups the base of your skull, his thumb tracing along the soft cartilage of your ear.

“god, chuuya,” he smells like smoke and metal when you pull back, and you can only imagine what he’s gone through the past few hours. “i was so scared you’d get caught.”

“you know i’m not going anywhere,” he mumbles, thumb stilling against the pulse point of the side of your neck. “no one can take me away from my best girl.”

you tilt your head, tracing the corner of his lips with your fingertip, a small, teasing smile growing on your own. “you kept these on?”

he frowns, tongue poking at the fangs stuck to his teeth. “i can’t get them off. boss used fuckin’ super glue.”

“don’t,” you thread your hand through the long pieces of hair, twirling them through your fingers and pulling them over his shoulder. “you look sexy like this.”

“i do?” he leans closer, until his nose brushes yours, and squeezes your hips, fingertips spreading towards your rear. “what else?”

“we’re going to open the good wineー” you grin, draping your arms around his shoulders.

“my good wine.”

“our good wine,” you giggle, kissing his nose. “because i want to forget this whole shitshow ever happened and show my new vampire boyfriend how hot he is after he saved the world.”

“it was no big deal,” he grumbles, cheeks dusted pink as he looks down at your feet, stroking your hips in small circles. “but if you want to celebrate, then i guess we can.”

you cup his cheeks, peppering kisses all over his face. one to the bridge of his nose, another to the straight edge of his eyebrows, then another on the dip of his cupid’s bow.

“alright, alright,” he cups your jaw, pulling you back to his lips for a proper kiss. “c’mon. show me how much you really missed me.”

when FYODOR reaches to open the hideout door, he uses his right hand out of habit.

he looks at it with disdain as it throbs painfully against the ill-fitting bandages, white cotton heavy with blood and in need of a change. he wasn’t used to pain like this, and he swears he’ll never let himself come to physical harm again. he can’t afford to be so careless.

his eyes fall back to the door. you’re waiting for him behind it, aren’t you? he’d taken every precaution he could think of when he left you. it wasn’t like him to overcompensate, but you seemed to be the exception for everything.

he’d flown through the night to get back to you, and when he twists the doorknob open, he’s met with sunlight from the open blinds. he feels something he can’t explain settle in his stomach at the sight of you, safe and sound, curled in a blanket on the couch, one of his books on your lap. he thought you would’ve loved the starry sky outside of meursault, beautiful and unpolluted, but something about you in the glow of golden hour, coating the room in honey, felt more appropriate for someone as sweet as you.

“fedya?” your voice is still soft with sleepiness, lips trembling around the sweet nickname.

he smiles, but it drops as his vision swims and the room tilts as you dash off the couch and lunge at him. he steadies his wobbly legs as you wrap yourself completely around his lithe torso, his body weakened from blood loss and pure exhaustion.

“hello, my dear,” he kisses the top of your head, inhaling deeply. you smell so much sweeter than the stale air of meursault’s basement, and he catches the lingering scent of black tea in the air. he pets your head with his good hand, letting you bury your face into his chest, even if he wishes you wouldn’t. he didn’t want you to dirty your pretty face on his prison uniform, still damp from dazai’s trick.

when you pull away, your eyes are glassy, drawn to the saturated bandages and their stark contrast against his pale skin.

“oh my god,” he narrows his eyes at your language as you grab his wrist. “fedya, your hand…”

you push him down firmly to take a seat on the couch. closer to his height, you cup his cheeks, looking at him like you can’t believe he’s truly there. you kiss his forehead, lips lingering before you mumble a quiet “i’ll be right back.”

when you return, it’s with a first aid kit and another cup of tea. your eyes water as you unwrap the messy bandages from his hand, taking in the sight of his bloody, marred skin.

“you can’t afford to lose this much blood,” you whisper.

“it’d be ideal if i didn’t lose any blood at all. wouldn’t you agree?” he smiles, but you don’t reciprocate. this close, you look more exhausted than anything else, and he frowns that he didn’t notice sooner; you were worried sick about him, weren’t you?

“what if you died?” you ask, voice breaking around the words.

he cups your cheek with his good hand, thumb brushing beneath your tired eyes. he frowns at the thought of you losing sleep over his return without him being there to soothe you. he can tell you’ve been restless, with the mess of his books scattered around the room, the papers on his desk clearly reorganized and studied over in his absence.

“that’d never happen,” he presses his thumb firmer into your cheek, raising your gaze to meet his. “not yet. i still have to be here for you.”

you re-wrap his hand gently, more gently than anyone else has ever dared to touch him. your fingers are tender as they graze his skin, cotton and ointment cooling against his burns. you tighten it securely, finishing with a press of your lips against the bandages before you cradle it gently in your lap.

his eyes grow heavy, and before he realizes it, he’s falling forward, head landing on your shoulder. he scolds himself again, but it’s different this time. he’s safe here. your lips brush his temple, hands rubbing on his shoulder as you lean back, taking him with you.

“you can rest now,” your voice is soft, and he hadn’t realized how much he missed hearing it. you press a kiss to the crown of his head, exhaling deeply as your lips linger. he feels the kind of warmth you can only get from laying next to another body. your hand trails up the relaxed curve of his shoulder blades until your fingers thread through his hair. “you’re home, fedya.”

BSD MASTERLIST

#💌 . . . with love mai ⊹ ࣪ ˖ #bsd x reader #dazai x reader #chuuya x reader #fyodor x reader #bungou stray dogs x reader #bsd x you #dazai x you #chuuya x you #fyodor x you #bsd imagines #bsd fluff #dazai osamu x reader #nakahara chuuya x reader #dazai fluff #chuuya fluff #fyodor fluff

[honestsycrets]

Stung | [Miguel O'Hara x Reader]

❛ pairing | miguel o'hara x reader

❛ type | oneshot

❛ summary | after a discus malfunction, you're bitten by an anomaly and refuse medical attention. you're in a state that you refuse to show to miguel-- at all costs.

❛ tags | NSFW, sex pollen, mention of a wound, slight chase, miguel o'hara doesn't like to be ignored, cum eating, creampies, abnormal amount of fluid, venom bite, slapping, some insecurity, spanish is not translated, sexual memories.

❛ sy’s notes | my obligatory ABO-sex pollen fic for ATSV. i usually make a ABO/Sex Pollen piece per fandom I write in, so here's one for Miggy 🐝

“All done!”

You slipped out of HQ’s packed infirmary with a jaunty bounce in your step. Crispy, coppery blood was matted onto your forearm concealed behind a hastily tied bandage. You weren't concerned about it. It would resolve within the hour. Likely less. As would your elevated body temperature. Despite the doctor's prattle about the benefit of further testing, you found their concern to be a non-issue. These things were virtual non-issues, even if the doctor and your man thought otherwise. 

The hallways at HQ were like any other day in your city. Congested with the coming and going of spiders in their daily lives. A glimpse at any group might reveal decadent flirting and haughty laughter. Some were in a rush to their own worlds, but most were completing work assigned by the Spider Society. The one you were looking for reclined against a wall with his arms interlocked one over the other. His displeased rumble prompted you to his presence above all other voices in the crowd. 

“You should have let them run the tests.” His voice was teased with concern but became mild, little more than a drab sigh at your refusal. You blew off his concern with a shake of your hand, gone yellow and bubbly behind a bit of ineffectual gauze. His eye glazed over the wound. You couldn't tell what he was thinking behind his mask, but you didn't need to. You only needed to convince him you were right.

“It’s stopped bleeding, Miggy. It’s just a scratch,” You held up your arm, flicking it with emphasis. His eyebrows raised for a moment, then flattened, staring at you with a dull rictus. “It was just a brief malfunction of the discus.” 

Technically it was more of an impalement, but if Miguel wasn’t going to ask, you weren’t going to invite him to delve deeper. Otherwise, you might spend the next few hours of your life fixing a wound that surely would have closed up by the time results were back. The injury site mildly itched. That was all. Never mind, the slight, honey-colored rash migrating from the puncture site to your elbow. Or the referred pain. Minor things. 

“You’re being stubborn.” 

“You’re the one to talk.” You snapped the discus free from your sash and chucked it toward Miguel.  He caught it with an unsurprising amount of ease, claws clicking in unison against the ineffectual metal.

“¡Qué problema!” he mocked, his voice dry and absent of discernible emotion. 

You closed the distance between your bodies to slide your arms around his broad neck. His other hand came to your lower back. It was warm, the way he touched you, from the bundles of affection that fluttered in your belly to the heat dappling across your chest. You missed this every day. It made fleeing the infirmary all the more worth it.

“I put the anomaly in another discus. One that actually works, no thanks to your programming.”

“That’s what happens when you take things without asking.” He flicked the discus between his thumb and index finger, waggling it for emphasis. It was true that there had been nights that went with banging, clacks, clatters, and the occasional outburst when things weren’t quite going his way. There were a few discuses on his desk. You just so happened to take the one that malfunctioned. “I was working on it. ¿Qué era?” 

“Oh,” you mumbled. “Just some stingy bees. What harm could they do?” 

His eyes roamed your wound. You couldn't help but look down too, both horrified and fascinated by the way the rash had moved in just a brief few minutes. The colour had begun to fade. You glanced up, flattening your mouth into a slight, forced smile.

“Fine. If you're sure.”

To be fair, you secured many anomalies with and without the help of others. They all went into their cozy, temporary forcefield homes until they could be fairly redirected to their appropriate dimensions. In the downtime, you could help or hinder Miguel's progress. Then, your watch would alert you to another disturbance and the cycle would continue. 

Until that morning. 

Your watch blared, and blared, and blared some more. The early morning sun began to rise and cast offensive beams of light into your room. Usually, it didn’t bother you. But this morning, everything offended you from the scratch of silky sheets on your naked body to Lyla illuminating what darkness was left, all golden and cute. You wondered if that was how Miguel felt when you forgot to pull the curtains, strung out on the bed after he finished with you.

“Woah! Oops!” she turned, covering her eyes with her spindly fingers. A growing ache throbbed between your legs. It wasn’t quite the same dull soreness from Miguel’s late-night visit last night, either. “Sorry, sorry. Miguel--”

“He can handle it,” you bit out, snappier than you intended. It wasn't like you. “Or-- Jess. No, Gwen. Gwen can do it, she loves--” 

“He asked for you.” 

Of course, he did. You scrunched a pillow over your head. Your Miguel couldn’t see you this. Absolutely not. You debated getting up, ignoring what you called a negligible ache that was quickly morphing into a terrible pounding. You can't believe how quickly the thought fell apart, pushing yourself to sit up in bed. The ghost of his scent floods your nose, flashing memories of the night before.

Something at work set him off. Something that commanded no intimacy, but the mechanical release of his rage that wouldn't destroy precious resources. He sat on the edge of the bed, driving your mouth onto his cock with the aid of your hair bundled around his fist. You recalled the shakiness of his thighs under your fingers, his firm legs spread wide fucking your mouth with cold abandon. He chased his own orgasm selfishly, needing the release, needing to see your body painted by whips of his cum sprayed across your exposed breasts. He pulled you off in silence, inspecting the drool and cum that spilled down your chin and throat in rivulets. "What--"

Your face tightened, glancing down at the growing tension in your belly. Everything began to annoy you, especially the scratch of the sheets against your skin, your bed empty of his presence. How could you tolerate that uniform plastered to your ass? You buried into the offensive bed. This was fine. This was normal, recalling what you'd done last night. Surely, the burn had to do with the whole being launched through not one, but two crumbling buildings the day before. The dust and rubble. Were you close to your cycle?

“Tell him I’m dead,” and without another word, you resolved the call. Within seconds she popped up again, bent at the waist because this was your life now. Never could you just… take a day off. There was always something. You muffled your screams of protest into the mattress and dug your feet in, kicking off the sheets, the blankets, the pillows, all of it.

“Is this a fit? You’ve never had a fit before,” Lyla noticed. A fit? She thought the burning of your body was a fit? Damn AI. Resolve. 

Resolve. Resolve. Resolve.

It became cathartic after a good while. Or it would have been if not for your senses hyper-fixating on every minor change in your body.  Despite your apprehension, you knew. What was once a dull pain radiating from your forearm morphed into something much worse. Something you couldn’t blame on the rather average experience of being pelted through the average event of windows and concrete. It was more than a tingle. It burned as it coursed through your body. 

You stumbled over the bundle of bedding into the bathroom. It was there that you realized that to your horror, you weren’t just lubricated, now you were soaked. Your fluids coursed down your thighs as you dabbed the region clean with a bundle of tissues. It did little good. Touching the area exasperated the issue. Maybe you needed an orgasm, maybe ten. An hour or so later, you slammed the heel of your palm into the mirror, fracturing it into shards of terrible glass that crumbled onto the countertop. Beads of blood dabbled onto your reflection. 

“If you d--” resolve.

So not a reaction to your average bee sting. Correction. A great, big, fat colony of hissing, buzzing bees. The act of recalling information was like jamming your hand into fluid water to snatch a tiny hair tie. No matter how many times you tried to recall the information, you couldn’t quite grasp it. It was there, floating around your head, but inaccessible. Your mind traveled back to Miguel. How gentle his lips could be, trailing soft kisses along your neck and shoulder when you rode him in reverse. How deep he'd go. 

"Fuck off!" Your watch blared again. Its beeping filled your bathroom, echoing over and over. You reached behind the door to pluck a silky white slip from its hook and dragged it over your head. You were about to resolve the call again when the hot timbre in his warm voice saying your name gave you pause. Your Miguel, popping up in a golden haze. You found yourself gazing at his full lips, full and plump. If only he was here. He could have his lips on your--

“What are you doing?” 

Lost in thought, you failed to realize that Miguel had been calling you by name again. You shook your hazy mind free of the thoughts that formed a swirling cloud over your head. You slumped down the wall and onto the floor.

Help was what you failed to say. As your mouth opened, nothing came out. The words were not wording. The vulnerability of asking for help was palpable. You soothed yourself by shifting your hands underneath your skirt. What would he think if he saw you here-- ripped asunder by your own biology? Whore. Miguel lowered his gaze, his eyes squinting at the sweat dabbling down your neckline as he looked you over. He wouldn't want you anymore.

“Are you listening? ¡Coño! What is wrong with you!?” 

Resolve.

You resolved him. Your Miggy-- resolved. Oh, you swallowed dryly. He wasn’t going to be happy about that. It wasn’t a matter of if Miguel would come for you. It was a matter of when. When he had time to separate himself from trashing-- whatever was the closest object to him in the lab-- to take out his rage on you. You reached for your medicine cabinet. You had more important things to worry about. First on the list? The searing heat.

Your watch was better off tucked away in a chest in the closet.

Night came with no solutions. You crouched on your window sill, chest rising and falling. You sought to stare at anything but the mindless buzz of the tv screen inside. Even with light pollution, some stars winked in the distance. Your body was a bundle of warm heat, buzzing with irritation after a fruitless day of soothing your body. You grew accustomed to your pert nipples against your silky slip, the lubricant coursing down your leg. At first, denial. Now, acceptance. You thought tomorrow might be better.

You felt his presence before you heard, smelled, or saw him. Through the sea of scorched sensations battering your senses, there was one that stood apart. A tickle that niggled at the back of your head. It could have been anyone, but you didn’t have to guess to know who it was. “Lyla." 

“You haven’t called him all day,” Lyla squeaked. 

“Called all-- I answered his call!” Your dress was matted to your body, cloaked in an abhorrent amount of sweat. It was only minutes ago that you retrieved your watch confident that you could bullshit something, anything, for a few days of reprieve. You jammed your shaking finger to resolve the call. 

“Not all of them. Miguel was worried.” 

“Worried! Lyla, that is not worried,” you spat. That was your Miguel, scaling the side of your apartment. His talons cracking the siding of your apartment. The reverberations spiraled up your legs, sending waves of anticipation lapping at your core. After your long day, you weren't sure how you were still somehow upright. With every crack of his talon into the brick siding, you were running out of time to come up with an excuse.

In a bid to escape, you fell into your room. The hard floor knocked the breath out of your dry lips. You stumbled onto your feet and supported yourself with a bookcase of less than half-read books. “Lyla, he can’t see me like this!” 

“Then tell me what’s going on,” she popped back up. “C’mon, you can tell me, it can’t be that bad.”

If her tone was playful in some half-baked attempt to neutralize your fight, the threat was imminent. Your hand connected with the top of the window, applying pressure to close the window. A hair too late. At the same time, Miguel’s clawed hand curled around the bottom of the window sash. You were too slow for the man who excelled with power, speed, and efficiency. You weren't going to win this fight. Not with your body threatening to crack at the very sight of your man's strength.

Though you saw him nearly daily, he always took your breath away. His sinewy body was always a sight, his suit accentuated his thick and fine cut. You moistened your lips, longing to run your fingers through his thick dark brown hair as you did every night. You caught his sharp gaze a second longer than you should have.

 “Open up,” he whispered coolly.

He was a distraction. The wind was not on your side either, blowing wisps of his scent into your overwrought senses. His natural musk mixed with the sweat of a hard day's work. Somewhere in there, bitter blood. You could smell the caramelized scent of the flaky, buttery empanadas and hot coffee you shared the day before. It gave you pause, his intoxicating smell and the sultry trill of his voice. But you couldn’t let him see you, not like this.

“Oop, there he is. Just checking on you,” Lyla chittered. Resolve.

“Miggy, please go away,” you sobbed in frustration, shifting to shoulder the window. “Why are you so stubborn!?” 

“It’s who I am.” 

The window cracked all at once. With mere milliseconds to respond to the sash careening into the upper rail, you whirled past the bedroom door. Miguel broke into a run behind you with long strokes of his legs. He made contact, sending you barreling into your lazy sapphire couch from the impact. You saw stars for a fraction of a second before you lurched on your palms and elbows, scrambling off of the couch and across the floor. His hand caught your ankle and dragged you underneath his body.

“¡Ay!” you bit out. “No, no no no. Miggy!” 

“¡Callate!” 

His hand wrapped tightly around your throat to force complacency, pinning you back to the hardwood floor. Your palms slammed onto his chest, drawing lines down his chest. Bits of pathetic electricity fizzled on his broad, muscular chest, a consequence of your fading focus. That focus was eviscerated when Miguel threw his hips flat against your core. Your frantic fidgeting against Miguel soothed some of the terrible, buzzing pressure rattling between your legs like warm honey on a sore wound. The ache for his relief became more important than the impulse for substantial breaths.

“Don’t move. Why are you--”

“I can’t help it,” you cut him off, straining against his large palm to stare at his crotch. His gaze fell on yours, following the path to his soft cock. His eyes widened with the sudden attention. Tears threatened to spill over from your eyes, pricked with spikes of pain. "It's too much!"

You ate your shame with his body crouched between your legs and his large palm choking the air out of your throat. The influx of air not only brought your scent, but your day-long desperation to fix what you believed was wrong. He could smell it now. He could see it now. He could hear it in your voice. He knew why you failed to answer his calls. The violent jabbing of the resolve button. Throwing your watch into your cramped closet to ignore the calls. The pheromones that soaked your apartment. It was unavoidable.

“You can’t help it,” he repeated. Miguel considered you with razor-sharp eyes, nearly as sharp as the talons that rescinded into his arms. 

"I'll see about that." His hand left your neck to reveal bundles of bumpy shivers that soared across your skin. He raised his finger to wipe away the wet tears that fell from your flushed cheeks. Then dropping lower, Miguel chased the thin straps of your gown with his claw and slid the offending fabric off of your breast. The nub was as hard as it had been hours ago when you twerked the nipple between your fingertips and dreamed of Miguel.

“You’re...” he cupped your breast in your palm and massaged your nipple with one sharp twist of his thumb. The gasp that left your lips wasn’t one you were proud of. Your undulating hips that ground down on his cock weren’t entirely unwarranted. You needed it. "Hot. As if you're in heat."

This couldn’t be happening. From a ball of rage to one of arousal, he released a tiny amused chuckle. You spent much of the day in different parts of the apartment with your hand, toy, ice, and water into your body to soothe this terrible ache. So Miguel wouldn't see you like this. It was this moment you sought to avoid after your long day: The moment of Miguel's disapproval. Now he laughed at you.

“Happy?” you sobbed into the forearm that kept Miguel stable. “Go away, someone else could use your stupid help.”

“Don’t you need me?” Miguel dipped his head down. Strands of his dark hair tickled your hypersensitive skin. With the lightweight fabric of his suit, pressing your cunt back against his clothed bulge felt wonderful. You bit your lower lip and watched his cock jut against its fabric. You lifted your puffy eyes to his gaze and found a wicked gleam there. He knew it wasn’t enough contact for the pressure and painful spasms to abate. Deep down, you knew that Miguel was your only hope for relief. Who else could, or would, you call in this condition? Mostly because Miguel always fixed everything.

"Miggy," you murmured. After this pitiful display, he wasn't rejecting you? Your mind flowed weightless and light. The terror of your day faded under his careful caress. In its place, comfort that he would take care of you.

“Don’t you?” His hand snaked between your folds and found it soaked wet, the low throbbing of your pussy palpable. He retracted his fingers and spread the sticky fluid between his thumb and middle finger. At some point, silence became better than an answer. Miguel brought his hand down on your cunt for a sharp slap. Bundles of nerves cried out under the abuse. It shook free a squeal from your lips, bitten raw by the pressure of the day. Your head bobbed into a mechanical nod as to save yourself from another slap.

“You know how to ask. It’s si Miguel, por favor Miguel.”

You needed the warm sensation of his cum. But making those words proved too difficult. Your canines pierced bloody holes in your lower lip. You clawed up his forearms, trying to leverage and force him closer. Miguel grabbed your shoulders and thrashed them back down onto the floor. You felt bad for the downstairs neighbors. 

“Say it.” 

“Miggy,” you looked into his eyes. They were blown wide, nearly fully black with a thin outline of scarlet, chasing the outline of your exposed breast. For all his talk, you realized he wasn't immune. Even with his face tight, his eyes focused on the same thing you needed. Maybe, all this time, you were baiting Miguel with half-assed answers. They were invitations. Invitations to come to fill this need you had. You would be lying if you said that wasn’t what you wanted this whole time. Finally, you had him where you wanted him. 

Miguel broke eye contact first. He cupped his plush lips around your nipple, suckling the breast taut and wet. You cried out in surprise and arched into Miguel’s mouth, enticed by the fangs that grazed your nipple. As quickly as he came, he was gone.

You lurched up, palming Miguel's dick through his pants. His hips bucked into your palm. He refused to make any sound as he considered your next movements, releasing Miguel’s cock from his suit. Impatience and need coalesced into your brave movements, sliding your palm against him. He was impossibly thick and hard, dribbling at the tip. Miguel huffed a small noise as your palm ran over him. You dared to call it a moan.

Miguel sneered and shoved you back onto the floorboards. “I’ll only tell you one more time. Ask me properly.” 

"You do too, don't you?" You giggled. A noise that grated his ear. With the belief you wouldn’t bolt, Miguel shifted back onto his knees. You wouldn’t. There was nowhere left to run. Not that you even wanted to, fat and hungry off Miguel's growing desperation.

"Come here." He snaked his hands underneath your knees, dragged you close, and pushed them to your chest. Your eyes fluttered shut. Moments later, the sensation of his thick dick sliding against your engorged folds forced them back open. It gave you just enough relief through the pulsing pain to look at him with your hazy eyes. From this angle, you appreciated how large Miguel had gotten. His round cock-head bobbed and crested over your mound as it rubbed against your aching clit. His face was trained, focused. He wasn't going to relent first.

The nagging pressure never abated. You sought something more, something better, the sensation of being filled. With every glide, you squeezed your walls in protest to his absence. Your hips protested the restriction of your movement, shimmying against the firm hold he had that kept you in place. You wanted more than that. You wanted true relief from his teasing. Miguel drew back to inspect the fluid over his fat shaft as held you down. You gave in, whining at him like a brat.

“Por,” you scratched his forearms. “Por favor, Miggy. You don’t know what it's like.” 

“All fours-- face down.” 

The cacophony of desire battered and overcame any other human emotion you could have. You complied, crawling onto your fuzzy indigo rug for what came next. Miguel’s gloved hand skimmed across your ass, middle finger skimming toward the center. He followed up his gentle touch by reeling back his hand and cracking it across your ass, searing the nerves alive. Once, twice, and then a third. Tears pricked your cheeks again, a consequence of your nerves being overwrought and now assailed.

“Miggy!” 

He shushed you with fervor, another thwack beating the jiggling flesh hot and red. Your legs trembled under the weight of his slaps. “Ignore my calls again and you’ll get much worse.”

“I didn’t-- you wouldn't want me,” your lips parted in defense of what you’d done. Miguel dipped down to spread your folds, rolling his index finger along your pulsing walls. Your body drew him in, squeezing and urging him forward. Your swollen walls were impossibly tight, straining to bring him in more and more.

"You know I do."

The need for more devoured any other thought, any threats of what he’d do next time. You rolled your hips to ride his hand. In place of a slap, Miguel slid another finger slid in beside the first to stretch your walls open. He faltered at your next words and slid his fingers free.

“Not like… not like I need you.” 

“Who decides that?” he pressed on your upper back to force it down. You complied. Miguel stumbled forward, finally pressing his thick head to your pulsing entrance. His round head pressed, just barely, into your wet hole. You clenched down, inviting him into your warmth. You weren’t sure he’d actually give it to you. It was so damn close.

“You do, Miggy,” you murmured, pushing back. He watched as his shaft slowly disappeared into your body, your apprehension of retaliation rendered you too slow to finish.

Miguel snatched your waist and forced you to take the rest, a soppy squelch lubricating his shaft. The sound that slipped from your lips was entirely uncouth, punctuated by his unforgiving thrusts. Your walls strained around his cock. No matter how many times you took him, the drag of his cock and slap of balls against your body always felt somehow like the first. It filled that ache-- the consistent burning need to have him here, inside of your greedy body, scratching something that you could not itch all day. It’s what you wanted. 

“That’s right, I do.” Miguel rumbled, short, punctuated thrusts beating your clenching cunt into complacency. The pleasure ruptured through your cunt-- battering his dick in response. He let loose a sharp grunt followed by a string of curses. Your sweet release spilled over his dick and balls, dripping down your thighs. Your legs threatened to shook, but Miguel was unwilling to allow your trembling legs to give out.

"Ah! Miggy!" His fangs punctured your shoulder to force you to stay in position, his pelvis stuttering against yours. His growl punctuated the warm, soothing cum that soothed your walls like warm honey over a wound. Your walls milked him free of his cum, spasming in response to his orgasm. He pieced himself together against your back, pulling his fangs free and settling a soft kiss over the burning wound on your shoulder. As if he hadn't been the one to tear his fangs into the crook of your neck.

“You’re not letting go,” he hummed in annoyance. He turned his attention down to your ass, ghosting his fingers over the healing bruises over your backside. You squealed, jerking forward. He followed you forward, punching a hole in the floor by your side. “Fuck, don’t move!” 

You cast your attention back toward Miguel. He huffed forcefully out of his nostrils. He motioned toward your ass as if it were obvious-- your walls were clamped over his cock, unwilling or otherwise unable to let him go, as if he had any more cum to give in that current moment. You took it all.

“I. I didn't-- I can’t--” 

“Yeah, I know. That Bee venom does that. Mine should neutralize it.”

At some point, you murmured. It sure as hell wasn’t doing it now, keeping him seated into your cunt that bubbled with the mixture of his and your release. “You knew about it? I could have died!” 

Miguel chuckled. 

“You wouldn’t. You’re too stubborn to die,” he sighed, fiddling with his watch. The tests-- that you never had ran. Ones that he suggested. Ones that you refused quite openly. “Why would I deny myself the fun?” 

His cock slipped free. Your hips dropped and fell slack against the floor. You weren’t proud of the cum that oozed out of your ass over your decimated room, nor the fact that your useless neighbors hadn’t called for help once. Not that you needed it-- but still. You palpated your stomach, slightly distended. Miguel bent down and gathered the mixture of your bodily fluids on his fingers, suckling his own fingers dry. You watched his wet tongue swirl around his fingertips. It wasn't fair.

“Fun? What fun!? Do you know how long I-- You’re a mean man, Miguel O’Hara.” 

He lurched over, his breath tickling your lips. He kissed you, salty and sweet. Your nose scrunched up, pouting against his lips. He left the room for the kitchen, fetching a wet cloth to clean his body with. He zipped himself back into his suit shortly after and dropped the sodden cloth by the cum puddling under your ass.

“Never said I wasn’t.” 

#miguel ohara oneshot #miguel o'hara x you #miguel o'hara oneshot #miguel x reader #miguel ohara x reader #miguel o'hara/reader #Miguel ohara/reader #atsv imagine #atsv x you #atsv x reader #atsv imagines #miguel o'hara imagine #miguel o'hara x y/n #across the spiderverse imagine #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o’hara smut

[willowbelle]

Sous Chef

sanji & jealousy + possessiveness

per this request from my 500 follower event!

❤︎ sanji x fem reader ❤︎

༉‧₊˚✧ (nsfw, afab!reader, 18+ only) ༉‧₊˚✧

cw: teasing, jealousy, obsession, possessiveness, body worship, oral (f receiving) (sanji kneels to eat you out while you're standing), fingering, breast/nipple play, piv sex, unprotected sex, kitchen sex, counter sex, dirty talk, dom!sanji (but he also gets flustered a lot), use of "good girl" + "say my name"

summary: chef innuendos, sweet sanji to jealous sanji pipeline, reader is a huge tease ("i bet that swordsman could fuck me harder" type) reader really pushes sanji's buttons, sanji gets jealous, mentions of sanji being jealous of zoro, possessive sex ensues.

word count: ~5,000

tagging: @sanjisprincesswifey @bby-deerling @maddddstuff

Sous Chef

Sanji is an ardent lover; a devoted man, gentle and caring to the core. He's hellbent on making you his own and maintaining that bond, often expressing it through sweet gestures like gifting flowers, freshly-cooked meals, and handwritten love letters.

However, sometimes the gentle cook gets sloppy, and his tender demeanor falters, allowing his lustful yearnings to take the reins long before his kind heart can intervene. 

He's quite susceptible to teasing, easily flustered by your sharp tongue and playful remarks, often hiding his flushed face behind his blonde bangs. His shy demeanor emboldens you, making you feel uncharacteristically confident. You frequently find yourself pushing boundaries, testing the waters to put his adoration to the test, seeing just how much you can get away with before his gentlemanly persona dissolves entirely. 

You've never witnessed his possessive nature firsthand, but deep down, you're certain it lies within him. It must.

Today is one of those days; you're determined to draw it out.

————

You’re pushing his buttons, as you often do, and though you've become accustomed to him brushing it off, offering a sweet smile and an amused laugh, today, the tender chef seems… different. 

Silently, he moves about the kitchen, his movements precise and deliberate, taking long drags of the cigarette that dangles from his lips as he works. The sizzle of oil, the rhythmic chop of vegetables, and the gentle simmer of sauce provide a soothing backdrop to his thoughts. Yet beneath the surface of his composed facade, jealousy prickles at his skin like tiny, agitated needles.

As he stirs the saucepan, his mind wanders to the image of you with that swordsman, sharing a moment he's not a part of. It gnaws at him, a subtle ache in his chest that refuses to be ignored. He tries to focus on the task at hand, on the symphony of flavors he's orchestrating, but the green-eyed monster coils tighter around his heart with each passing moment.

His movements become more brisk, more forceful, as if trying to exorcise the unwelcome emotions through sheer physical exertion. Yet, despite his best efforts, the simmering resentment refuses to be quelled. It taints the air in the kitchen, adding a bitter undertone to the aroma of spices and herbs.

And so, he continues to cook in silence, the smoke from his cigarette clouding his face, the clatter of utensils masking the turmoil within. He knows that until he can silence the jealousy that festers within him, his efforts will be in vain.

To an outsider, he appears calm, composed, his attention solely fixed on the task at hand. Yet, to you, the recipient of his affection, it's evident that something is amiss. There's a tension in his demeanor, a subtle urgency that belies his usual ease. He's unusually stiff, his movements hurried, and he nervously gnaws at his bottom lip—a stark departure from the fluid grace that typically characterizes his actions.

So, you aim to tease, yet again.

“Don't like me flirting with that swordsman, do ya, cook?” 

It’s a playful jab, but one that’s sharp, piercing through the thin veil of his composure. It's innocuous on the surface, a needle, perhaps, but to him, it’s a dagger. 

Sanji’s hands momentarily still, the utensil he holds clenched a little tighter. His jaw tenses, and a flicker of hurt flashes in his eyes before he quickly masks it with a forced smile. Inside, jealousy ignites like a sudden spark in the dark, consuming his thoughts and sending a surge of adrenaline coursing through his veins.

In that moment, the carefully constructed facade of calm shatters, revealing the turmoil within. Your words hang in the air, that damn nickname, a painful reminder of the insecurities that gnaw at his soul. He struggles to regain his composure, to push back the rising tide of jealousy threatening to overwhelm him.

But despite his efforts, a crack has formed in his chivalrous armor, and he knows that once unleashed, jealousy is a force that's hard to contain. With a forced laugh and a shaky exhale, he busies himself once more, hoping to drown out the tumultuous emotions that threaten to consume him whole.

“It doesn’t bother me, beautiful,” he murmurs, more so to reassure himself, “I know you’re all mine.” 

“Are you sure, Sanji?” you press, casually leaning against the kitchen counter, idly twirling a strand of hair between your fingertips, a deliberate gesture intended to stir his interest. “I don’t know, Zoro’s really been grabbin’ my attention lately.” 

Sanji continues to cook, the simmering jealousy within him only grows more pronounced, like a pot left unattended on a blazing stove. Each word that leaves your lips fuels the fire, each syllable stroking the flames of his insecurity. He reaches for another cigarette, his hands trembling slightly as he lights it, the flame flickering in the dimly lit kitchen. The smoke curls around him, a tangible manifestation of his inner conflicts, and he takes a long drag, hoping to find solace in its bitter embrace. He clings to his kind side, outwardly at least,

 “A wonderful woman like you has many admirers, I bet.”

He smiles but grits his teeth, the cigarette dangling from his lips like a lifeline, a futile attempt to quell the storm raging within him. The scent of burning tobacco mingles with the aroma of spices and sauces, a bitter undertone to the dishes he’s preparing. 

"He'd never love you the way I do," the chef mutters through clenched teeth.

The remark is so subdued that you almost question if you heard it, but the tight grip on his wooden spoon, stirring with such sudden intensity, confirms you’d heard him correctly. 

A smirk tugs at your lips. He's jealous. Bingo. 

“What’s that, cook?” you jab, “Did ya say somethin’?”

That nickname again, it slices at his heart. He’s been worn thin, and you’ve stretched him to his breaking point. 

With a sharp exhale, Sanji stubs out his cigarette, the ember extinguished with finality. 

Slowly, he turns to face you, the simmering jealousy that had been gnawing at him now burns brightly in his eyes, an unspoken challenge in their depths.

His movements are deliberate as he approaches, each step echoing with an air of quiet intensity. There's a newfound resolve in his demeanor, a steely determination to confront the source of his unease head-on.

As he stands before you, the tension in the room is palpable, thick with unspoken words and unresolved emotions. Yet, despite the storm raging within him, his voice is steady as he finally speaks, his words laced with a quiet authority that brooks no argument.

“I said,” he begins, “That moss-headed loser could never love you like I do, y/n,” he rasps, making you gulp dryly. His expression is authoritative but not unkind as he looks down at you. 

For a moment, you’re at a loss for words, caught off guard by the unexpected intensity of his presence. It's a stark reminder that beneath his gentle exterior, lies a depth of strength and resolve you hadn't fully appreciated.

As you take in his determined expression, a flicker of admiration sparks within you mingling with the lingering shock. You realize that this is a side of him you’ve only glimpsed in passing, a facet of his character that demands your attention.

Despite the initial shock, the playful, devilish side of you creeps in once again, up your spine, taking root in your skull. 

Leaning in close, your breath tickles his ear as your hand glides up his toned arm, coming to rest gently on his shoulder.

"I believe it's time you remind me who I belong to," you whisper, your voice laced with a playful yet provocative undertone.

The chef feels a tremor run through him, a reaction to the proximity of your touch and the suggestive tone of your voice. His muscles tense beneath your hand as it trails up his arm, a subtle yet undeniable gesture that sends a shiver down his spine.

Despite his efforts to maintain composure, he can feel the telltale flush creeping up his neck, coloring his cheeks with a rosy hue. It's a familiar sensation, one that often accompanies your playful advances, yet it never fails to catch him off guard.

His heart races in his chest, the rapid thud echoing in his ears as he struggles to find his voice amidst the whirlwind of emotions swirling within him. With a shaky exhale, he finally manages to muster a response, though it comes out as little more than a breathless murmur.

"Y-Yes, of course," he stammers, his words faltering as he meets your gaze. It's a vulnerable moment, one that exposes the depth of his feelings, and he can't help but feel a surge of both exhilaration and apprehension at the prospect of revealing his true desires.

But beneath the surface tremors and flustered facade lies a steadfast determination, a quiet resolve to seize the opportunity before him and lay claim to the love he knows is rightfully his. And as he gathers his courage, he silently vows to show you, once and for all, just how deeply you belong to him.

In an instant, he’s closing the distance, placing his hands on the countertop on either side of you as he crashes his lips onto yours. 

His kiss is urgent, filled with a hunger that mirrors your own, and though his lips are slightly chapped and carry the faint taste of tobacco, you find yourself equally eager, reveling in the sensation of having him exactly where you wanted him—jealous and possessive.

You moan softly into his mouth as his gifted hands find their place on your waist, slender fingers softly digging into your warm skin. 

Aiming to rile him up even more, you take the opportunity to take his bottom lip between your teeth, tugging softly on the tender flesh, earning a hearty moan from the man before you. 

“Fuck,” he rasps, sliding his hands up your body to grasp at your tits, molding the clothed mounds in his soft hands as his hot tongue snakes its way into your awaiting mouth. 

You mewl out at the sensation, a sound that excites the chef beyond belief. You wrap your arms around his neck as your tongues dance together, desperately attempting to get closer to him, to meld into one. 

He pulls away, making you whine out at the loss. He pauses a moment, to gaze at you, your blushing face, heaving chest, it's almost too much to bear. He’s quick to connect your skin again, swiftly attaching his lips to the sensitive, untouched flesh of your neck. You whimper at the feeling of his hot lips on your body, the sensation is new and intoxicating, instantly causing goosebumps to bud all over your needy skin. 

One of his hands slides up to gently hold your chin as he continues to kiss down the column of your neck, making you softly tilt your head back to give himself more access to your flesh. 

“Good,” he rasps against your skin in between kisses, “Just like that, my love.” 

The gesture is simple and gentle, but it exhilarates you, the chef is always kind with his touches, but tonight, he knows he’s in charge. 

Weak, breathy moans and whines escape your lips as Sanji continues to kiss and nip down your neck, to your collarbones, then your chest. He pauses here, of course, taking his time with each breast. He’s devoted, tracing the contours of your body with reverent hands, his touch tender yet possessive, as if committing every curve and crevice to memory. He hooks his slender fingers beneath the hem of your shirt and shoots you a questioning glance. With your nod of approval, he lifts your shirt over your head slowly, savoring the way your curves are steadily revealed to him. His breath catches in his throat, and his heart pounds in his chest as he takes in the sight before him, drinking in every detail with hungry eyes. 

“You’re beautiful,” Sanji whispers, awestricken. 

Your cheeks flush a deep crimson at his words. While you've grown quite accustomed to this love-sick chef’s constant compliments on your beauty, this time feels different, as if his words carry a weight of sincerity and authenticity that pierces through his usual flattery.

His fingers linger over every inch of your skin, worshipping you with a fervor that borders on obsession. He revels in the warmth of your flesh beneath his fingertips, the way you respond to his touch with a soft sigh or a shiver of pleasure. 

His hands are practiced and skilled, taking their time with your skin the same way he does preparing a plate. He carefully slides his hands up and down your bare torso, tracing your dips and curves with precision. His touches are slow and meticulous but they’re perfect, the right pressure in all the right spots. As if he’s taking his time selecting the finest ingredients, he takes in every aspect of you, savoring each nuance and subtlety. 

He reaches around you, using just one skilled hand to unclasp your bra, letting it fall off your shoulders and down to the floor. You gasp softly at the sensation of the cool kitchen air hitting your bare chest, your nipples hardening instantly. He’s kind, picking your bra up off the floor and placing it on the counter before returning his attention back to you. 

He waits for a moment, taking in the sight before him. His skin is hot and his cock aches in his ever-tightening pants, but he’s dedicated to pleasing you, determined to worship every inch of you before he lets himself get off. He leans down, hot breath against your hardened buds as he speaks,

“You’re so perfect, y/n,” he whispers against your skin before taking your nipple into his mouth, making you toss your head back and whine softly at the sensation. His mouth is hot around your cool skin, and his tongue is no different, melting you as it swirls slowly around the stiff bud. 

“Oh, Sanji-” you whine, your hands flying down and finding themselves in his blonde locks, fingers lacing in the strands as he continues to suck on your breast. 

“Mm,” he moans softly before pulling away, just momentarily, to return to your other breast, rewarding it with the same wonderful treatment. 

As he sucks and licks at your breast, his hand grants the neglected one with attention, squeezing it softly, rolling and pinching your nipple in between his talented fingers. 

The sensation is beyond pleasurable, allconsuming, even, and you feel your core aching for more, dampening your panties. 

“Sanji,” you whine, making the chef pull away to look up at you, “I-I need more,” you beg, “Please.” 

The man's cheeks flush with a surge of blood in response to your plea. He's taken aback, but undeniably aroused; what sort of man would he be to deny your desires?

“Say no more, my love,” Sanji purrs, instantly sinking to his knees in front of you. 

His newfound position ignites something within you—a testament to his unwavering devotion, his fiery passion. As you gaze down at him, the man on his knees before you, ready to fulfill your every desire, it's a powerful reminder of his dedication to your pleasure. It makes heat tickle your skin and take root in your aching cunt, your body slightly trembling as it prepares itself to be pleased. 

Sanji’s preparing, too, eyes wide and pupils blown with lust, his mouth watering as he awaits your taste. He loops his fingers beneath the waistband of your skirt before giving them a gentle tug, pulling the fabric down your thighs to pool at your feet. 

Part of him wants to wait; oggle you for a moment, your trembling thighs, your slick crotch, but the other part of him, the determined side, overpowers this fleeting yearning, making him to instantly lean forward to plant a gentle, yet firm kiss to your clothed slit. 

The sudden sensation causes you to throw your head back, eyes screwing shut as you tug at his strands. 

“Mm, Sanji,” you whine, “Please, more.” 

Despite his jealousy pangs, he's still a giver in every sense of the word; he knows his head is meant to be slotted between your trembling thighs. And so, he gives in to your pleas, looping a finger beneath the crotch of your soaked panties to tug them aside. He immediately leans forwards, planting another kiss, this time to your bare cunt.

“Fuck,” you inhale shakily, instinctively spreading your legs to give your lover more access to your intimate parts. 

“Mmm,” he lets out a pleased noise at your eagerness, granting you with a long, wet stripe of his hot tongue to your needy slit. 

“Fuck,” he rasps against your cunt, his words sending vibrations up your body, “Divine,” he groans, licking once more, “You taste divine.” 

You moan again, needier this time, more breathless, 

“That means a lot, coming from a chef,” you smirk playfully, earning an amused chuckle from the man between your legs. 

Sanji continues his gentle assault, his skillful tongue moving up and down slowly from your aching clit to your needy hole, groaning in pleasure as he works. 

Your limbs are shaking so you try to ground yourself, planting one palm firmly on the countertop while the other rests on Sanji’s head, your fingers tangled in his golden strands. As he continues to swipe his tongue along your slit, he takes one of your thighs into his hand, lifting your leg so you can rest your foot on his shoulder, allowing you take some weight off your feet, and in turn, allowing himself more access to your needy pussy. 

“Fuck,” you moan in pleasure at the gesture, the newfound sensation of Sanji’s tongue stimulating new parts of your cunt making flames of pleasure lash at your skin. 

He takes one more solid lick upwards before latching onto your clit, suckling skillfully on the pulsating nub. 

“Sh-Shit-!” you curse, throwing your head back, tugging harder on the strands of hair between your fingers. 

You instinctively open your thighs, desperate for more, knuckles growing white as your grip the countertop harder with each suck to your clit. 

When you open up for him, he brings his dominant hand up, gathering your essence on the tips of his middle and ring fingers before slowly pushing them inside you. 

You let out a weak whimper as he pushes his digits inside you, grinding your hips against them. 

“Fuck, Sanji-!”

The pace at which he’s suckling on your clit never falters as he begins pumping his slender fingers inside you. They’re gifted things, perfecting cuisine for years, now deep inside you, pulling you further towards your orgasm with each pump and curl. 

He curls his fingers with each pass to hit your sweet spot, stars dancing beneath your eyelids as you feel yourself starting to become deliciously overstimulated.

He’s just as desperate as you, sensing you’re close, he begins sucking on your swollen clit more feverishly, pumping his fingers in and out of you with a heightened intensity, hellbent on getting you off, to make you gush on his tongue, to allow him to taste everything you have to give him. 

It pays off, and suddenly, you’re a trembling mess, shaking beneath his touch, struggling to hold yourself upright as he maintains his sinful efforts. 

“Sanji,” you mewl breathlessly, chest heaving up and down as you struggle to maintain your composure, “I-I’m so close-” 

Your words hold sway over this eager man, and he redoubles his efforts to please you, relentlessly pumping his fingers in and out of your throbbing opening, groaning softly against your clit as he continues to suck on it. 

Pleasure washes over your instantaneously, making your limbs feel numb and tingly, your orgasm hitting you harshly, white and hot, overpowering, head-spinning. 

“Sanji-!” you let out a loud moan, voice trembling as your peak rushes over you. 

“That’s it, my love,” he purrs, “Give me all you’ve got” 

He laps up everything you’ve given him, as if it was his lifeline, your essence clinging to his chin as he rises to his feet. 

Your face is red and flushed, mouth hanging slack as you gasp for air, but before you even have time to catch your breath, the chef’s lips are on yours again. His tongue is rougher this time, more needy, you can tell he’s aching, aching for more. 

“Sanji-” you whine needily into his mouth, “Sh-Show me,” you let out a shaky breath, “Show me who I belong to.” 

And just like that, you feel the gentle tug of a smirk on your lover’s lips as they’re pressed against yours. 

He pulls away slowly, something different in his eyes as he looks down at you. 

With deliberate movements, Sanji’s hands glide over the fabric of his suit jacket, his fingers deftly working the buttons until the garment slips from his shoulders, pooling at his feet. Each motion is executed with a sense of purpose, as if shedding the outer layers of his attire is a symbolic gesture, a stripping away of the barriers between him and the object of his desire.

Beneath the jacket, his white dress shirt clings to his skin, hinting at the contours of his lean, muscular frame beneath the fabric. With practiced ease, his eyes never leaving yours, he unfastens the buttons one by one, revealing slivers of bare chest with each exposed inch.

Your breath hitches in your throat as the intricate details of his body are revealed to you; he’s thin, but toned, skin pale and smooth, untouched by the sun. He’s beautiful. 

He stands before you, exposed and vulnerable, yet radiating a quiet confidence. There's a rawness to his demeanor; he’s willing to do whatever it takes to prove his devotion to you, to show you who you belong to. 

He moves forward again, pressing his soft lips to yours as he slowly busies his hands with his belt buckle. 

With each swirl of his tongue around yours, he makes progress with his belt, eventually removing it entirely, placing it on the counter next to you. 

Soon enough, he’s sliding his pants down his legs, boxers too, making you gasp slightly into his mouth as his cock is revealed. It’s lengthy and slender, pretty, even, tip flushed a rosy pink and weeping precum. 

You breathe shakily into his mouth, placing your hands on either of his toned shoulders, grounding yourself, “Please, Sanji,” you whine. 

A smirk tugs at the chef’s lips as he obeys your plea, gently lifting you up to make you sit on the counter. He takes one of your legs and lifts it up, making it bend at the knee, your ankle resting on his shoulder. 

Your face flushes at the lewdness of the situation, testing your flexibility as you sit nude on the kitchen counter, leg dangling over the chef’s shoulder. 

Sanji lets out a shaky exhale as he takes his throbbing cock in his free hand, bringing his hips forwards to align himself with your entrance. 

He shoots you a tender glance, “Are you ready, beautiful girl?” the kind man asks softly. 

Locking your eyes with his, you nod, offering a soft smile,

“Ready,” you lean forwards, whispering against his warm chest as you prepare yourself for the intrusion. 

Sanji slowly begins swiping his leaking, rosy tip up and down your needy cunt, making you moan softly against his flesh. 

He brings his tip downwards to gently prod at your opening before pressing in, hissing through gritted teeth at the tightness of your walls sucking him in.

“Fuck, my love,” he rasps, his grip tightening on your leg as he continues to press in. 

“M-Mmm, S-Sanji-” you moan shakily stumbling over your words as you slowly become accustomed to the stretch. 

You reach around to dig your nails down his toned back as he finally bottoms out, making the two of you moan in-sync. 

You both chuckle softly at the symphony, and Sanji begins, bringing his lean hips back to thrust into you slowly, carefully. 

In an instant, he’s filling you entirely, the tip of his length cock coming forward to brush against your g-spot with each pass, making your skin tingle with pleasure. 

“Fuck, Sanji,” you curse, nails raking down his back as he fucks you tenderly. 

He’s groaning, face flushed red and chest heaving up and down as he gazes down at you, astounded by your body as his cock stuffs you full. 

He’s gentle, petrified of hurting you, so he continues as he is, softly and carefully, bringing his free hand down to rub gentle circles against your aching clit. 

In the same way a this chef meticulously crafts a culinary masterpiece, he approaches making love to you with a similar intensity, his obsession akin to the creation of a tantalizing dish.

The position you're in--your leg still up on his shoulder-- allows him to get as deep as possible, and although the sensation is welcomed, it’s simply not enough. 

You want this gentle man to rail you, to make you come undone beneath him as a result of his skilled cock and brutal thrusts. 

And you know just how to make that happen. 

You lean forward to whisper against his chest in between moans, 

“I wonder if you can fuck me harder than that swordsman could”

And just like that, something changes inside Sanji--a switch flips, a flame ignites-- soft, gentle Sanji retreats, and something new emerges from within him, just like you wanted. 

In an instant, he brings his hips back to grant you with a particularly brutal, harsh thrust. His cock slams into you, battering your walls. The sudden intrusion makes you throw you head back and let out a weak squeal, but his pace only increases, thrusting in and out of you with a newfound brashness, his tip bullying your cervix relentlessly with each pass. 

He’s brutal, strong, groaning through gritted teeth as he gazes down at you, watching you take his cock over and over and over again, tilting his gaze downwards to watch as your cunt greedily accepts every inch. 

“Fuck you harder than this?” he groans, letting out an amused tsk as he continues, the lewd sounds of your skin slapping together harshly dismissing all other noises in the kitchen. 

“Fuck, Sanji-!” you whine, screwing your eyes shut as sparks erupt beneath your lids. It’s almost too much, but you asked for it. 

“That’s right,” the chef groans, “Say my name”

Your face flushes a darker rouge at the lewdness of his words, you had never heard him speak like this before-- hell, you didn’t even know he was capable. 

Your chest is heaving and your mouth and tongue are hanging slack, and your strands of hair sticking to your forehead from your sweat as you take his harsh thrusts, mind flooded with only visions of this sinful chef and his gifted hips.  

“Say it,” he groans again, picking up his pace once more, pounding into you mercilessly, now, “I wanna hear it from your mouth,” he rasps, “Say you’re all mine” 

Through weak moans and heavy breaths you oblige, your head growing numb as the chef brutally rails you, “Sanji-!” you cry out, “I’m all yours, S-Sanji!” 

A smirk tugs at his lips and his grasp tightens on your raised leg as he continues, still rubbing tight circles into your clit as his cock abuses your walls. 

“Sanji, Sanji, Sanji-” you whimper, his name falling from your slack mouth like a needy prayer, in time with each of his thrusts. 

“That’s it,” he groans smugly, “Don’t forget that name, y/n,” 

“You belong to me.”

#sanji #sanji vinsmoke #black leg sanji #sanji x reader #sanji smut #one piece smut #one piece #one piece x reader #sanji x you #sanji x y/n #one piece x y/n #one piece x you #one piece sanji #sanji one piece #sanji imagine #one piece fanfiction #one piece headcanons #sanji headcanons #sanji fanfic #sanji fanfiction #one piece imagine #one piece oneshot #one piece oneshots #sanji headcannon #sanji headcannons #sanji one shot #sanji oneshots

[bangarangdarling]

blame the “hitting on your mom as a punishment” tiktok i just saw that literally blew my brain up. established because they’re disgustingly in love and because i say so

Eddie would normally consider himself pretty immune to the roar of arguing teenagers. Chaos surrounds their little Party. They’re not a quiet bunch when all together. It’s all shoving and yelling, giggling and roughhousing. Carpet-burned battle scars from the floor of Steve’s living room.

Lord knows Eddie himself wasn’t an inside-voice kind of person. He was certainly wont to standing on coffee tables and screeching demands for the remote when it was unjustly stolen away by villainous hands.

Eddie loved these people to death, and they were a lot of fucking fun to hang out with, it’s just this...this was an unreal level of noise. A normal sleepover night turned a little too rowdy, the adolescents celebrating the start of Summer with a bang.

Steve had already asked them to keep it down four times this evening. Nothing seemed to calm them. Not requests. Not threats of being sent home. Usually their Dungeon Master threatening their characters’ souls did the trick, but no go. 

Getting teenagers to listen? A feat more impossible than defeating creatures from an alternate universe. 

Dustin and Erica were in a bitching match about the best D&D class. Lucas and Mike had been fighting over movie choices for the last half hour. Eddie’s money was on the VHS player breaking before that, the constant mishandling and shoving of tapes had the poor thing practically smoking.

Will, ever the diplomat, was trying to be an impartial party when asked his movie opinions. Which, of course, caused more yelling. 

Max and El had been the only ones being semi-quiet, but that quickly ended when they followed through on their surprise attack pillow fight, pummeling the boys senseless and causing the already unbearable volume to kick into overdrive. Eddie could practically feel Steve’s migraine building, even from where the dude had retreated to the kitchen. Dinner had been pizza. Quick. Easy. Clean. Or, it would have been if it hadn’t had been for the food fight. Steve was still in there scrubbing cheese out of his parents’ tiled backsplash. Dishes clattered in the distance when the cacophony hit its crescendo. 

It was the proverbial straw. 

“Alright, that’s it! Hey. Come on, guys. Knock it off,”

Nothing. 

“HEY!”

He maybe overdid it that time, but the absolute ear-splitting boom of a yell he let out stopped the ruckus dead. 

Silence rang for a beat.

Huh. Maybe Eddie should try out incorporating that into his music. He honestly hadn’t known he could get to that range. 

The teenagers in the room stared at him, not cowed in the slightest, but curious enough to know what the hell Eddie’s problem was. Max was the first one to quirk an eyebrow at him.  “Geez, need attention much?” 

Eddie folded his arms to show he meant business. “Steve has asked you guys to tone it down. You’re waking the fucking dead. Why don’t you guys, like, actually go be good human beings and help him clean up your mess you all made in the kitchen, huh?” 

Lucas snorted. “Yeah, okay, mom. Why don’t you go help him, you guys will probably just make out in there, anyway.” 

It was a teasing comment. Meant to jokingly rib before getting back to doing whatever the hell they wanted to do.

But, see. That just gave him an idea. 

Never let it be said Eddie couldn’t be creative with his punishments. He was a DM after all. 

“Alllllllright. New plan. Listen up or suffer, ankle biters,” 

He really didn’t appreciate the snickers that brought about when he was trying to be intimidating. Rude. 

“You going to send us to our room or something? I’m real scared,” Erica’s scathing, dry wit was unparalleled, truly. 

“Nope. Better. It’s a new rule: You little shitheads give me attitude and don’t listen, I hit on your babysitter.”

It was silent for a minute, brains audibly computing that statement and coming up ERROR. Will hesitantly spoke up. 

“Uh, Eddie, I really don’t think that’s--”

“Yeah, what the fuck?” Mike interrupted. “Why would you beating up Steve hurt us? I mean, like, I guess it would emotionally, but that’s fucked up, man.” 

Eddie rolled his eyes, still smirking wickedly as his plan solidified.  “Oh, I don’t mean that kind of hitting, young Wheeler. Though, it may yet get physical--Hey, Steve?” He called out. The sink in the kitchen shut off after a second.

“Yeah?” 

“Can you come here?” 

The kids shuffled around on the floor warily as the other man walked into the living room. The energy had obviously shifted, it was probably an odd vibe to walk in to, but Eddie cut Steve off before he could ask any questions.

“You tired?”

“Uh, no. I’m fine--”

“It’s just you just keep on runnin’ through my mind constantly. I figured you’d be exhausted, sweetheart,” Eddie purred, the words cloyingly sweet and full of exaggerated charm. 

There was a countdown, three, two, one...

A collective groan let out. A few uncomfortable laughs.  “Dude, what the hell?” 

“You guys agreed not to be gross in front of us!”

“Oh, my god, can I actually get sick from how cheesy that was?” 

Eddie had to work at keeping in character when his very first line had pulled the intended reaction. He was already reaching forward to curl an arm around Steve, pulling him in in a slow, sultry attempt at being smooth. 

“What? Can’t I be sweet on my guy? You all will understand when you’re in love one day. Right, sugar?” 

Fake gags and retching sounds, too dramatic to be real protests, but still indignant and annoyed. Eddie was pretty sure Dustin slapped a hand over his eyes.

“Uh...yes?” Steve, who had previously looked like a car accident had happened directly in front of him, was catching on to the play. He eyed the disgruntled floor-children with a growing grin and let Eddie snuggle up to him.

God, his baby was so clever. He always knew what Eddie was thinking. 

Too busy having a non-verbal conversation with Steve on how to best annoy the kids, Eddie didn’t see Mike turning his attention back to the tv. He did, however, hear him telling the others to “Just ignore them, they’ll get all gushy and leave us alone.” 

Oh, Michael, Michael. Wrong move. 

“How you doing, babygirl?” Steve flushed, deep and red and--huh. Okay. Revisiting that one in the future. “You good? You need anything? Your head hurting, sweet thing? I can kiss it better,”  Eddie ducked forward to kiss Steve’s cheek. It was chaste, a sweet little thing...that Eddie made infinitely worse by the smacking, obnoxious kissy sounds he emulated there. The chorus of groans and protests started up again. He didn’t even pull his face away to call over to them. 

“I’m sorry, is that attitude? Am I hearing more attitude?”

“Dude, Eddie, noooo!” 

“Jesus, it’s like watching your parents make out, oh my god.” 

“You guys, let’s just go already,” 

“Yeah, I’ll take washing dishes over this,” 

The grossed out teenagers whooshed past them. Grumbling and glaring--except Eleven, who smiled up at them sweetly--leaving Steve and Eddie standing in the living room, still wrapped up together. 

It was too tempting then, with the kids safely out of range, for Eddie to resist the temptation to drop his kisses a little lower down Steve’s neck. To let them get a little less chaste. Just a little.

What can he say? He’s a weak man. 

“That was evil,” Steve hummed. His shoulders dropped, though, relaxing into Eddie’s hold, the closest thing they’ve had to quiet all night settling in. 

“Hey, I accomplished two things. Got them to chill out and I get the perk of feeling you up in the middle of sleepover night. It’s a win-win.” 

A crash and a muffled argument broke out in the kitchen before Steve could respond to that. 

The audible scuffling was cut off by Eddie calling out “Your ass looks great in these jeans tonight, Harrington!” 

The fierce whispers and shushing were enough to get both of the older boys cackling loudly. 

#Listen this is cheesy and poorly written but i HAD to #go find that tik tok because it was hilarious but also radiated love and healthy parenting #they called it 'gentle parenting with malicious intent' looooool #steddie #the party #my brain vomit

[loganlermanstanaccount]

Real Pretty

pairing: joel miller x reader

(AO3 mirror) summary: You and Joel are not in a relationship. But Joel gets jealous anyways. 

author's note: Timeline's a little hazy, au where Joel, Ellie and Y/N stay in Jackson and nothing bad happens ever. 

warnings: fluff, Joel's OOC as shit (what's new), filthy filthy smut (you have been warned), 18+ minors DNI

wc: 1.2k

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

You can't stop staring. Oh god, he's pretty. You steal a glance at him with a mouthful of food by the canteen table. He's just woken up, by the looks of it: shirt a little wrinkled and hair all over the place. With a yawn, the base of his denim shirt lifts up to expose his tan belly, right at the v-line, with a dark tuft of hair leading right down to.. 

SLAM! Ellie bangs her tray on the table and clatters into her seat. 

"You look like shit." she says with a toothy grin. 

"And you smell like shit, you little gremlin." You snap, without missing a beat. Woah. Too much, maybe. 

She just laughs, her smile a bit wider, and that glint in her eye. "Oh yeah? Well I heard that somebody had a real good night yesterday." 

You pause to give Ellie a look. A look that says she's too young and too nosy. And, most importantly: what the fuck was she talking about? 

"That guy? Paulie or Peter or what's-his-face? Heard he slept over at the clinic." 

"Huh?" you splutter, almost choking on your food. 

"Kathy's mom saw him walking out of the clinic this morning. Using the backdoor. Everyone's talking about it." she tells you like it's the most obvious thing in the world.

"Ellie, nothing happened. And if it did it would be none of your business."

"Uh-huuh." 

"I'm serious. Nothing. Happened. You should know better than to trust gossip. This kind of thing can be really hurtful and you're lucky I don't-" 

"Don't worry, your secret's safe with me. Joel definitely doesn't know." 

"Joel doesn't know what?" He walks up and pulls out the chair next to you, plate of food in one hand.

"Somebody," she looks you dead in the eye. "boinked Petey last night in the clinic but doesn't want to admit it." 

That last line made you squint. Ah. Now you get it. Ellie's attempt at revenge for teasing her about a certain crush she 'doesn't want to admit'. Touché. 

"Boinked?" Joel coughs into his eggs. "Jesus, forget I asked."

~~~

Later, Joel meets you in the makeshift office of the clinic after hours. It had been surprisingly quiet considering the bustle of the previous week. So much so, that you jolt at the knock at the door. You forgot he was coming over to mend a broken cupboard. 

He comes with a toolbox and kneels by the cupboards, propping up the broken door with one hand and a screwdriver in the other. The very door you had struggled to open and close not too long ago. He had picked it up with ease, and you watched in awe as his hands took out the worn screws, dexterous and nimble. The room was so quiet, you couldn't help yourself. 

"I patched him up and worked late. He took one of the beds and was out like a light, I swear." 

"I believe you." He doesn't look up. Is he mad? Jealous, even? His face was stoic, unreadable and so you kept going. 

"I was just taking inventory. And I can handle myself, you know that or else I never would've taken the chance." 

"I know." Nothing. Again. You slump in your chair and watch him finish up in silence. 

"Sweetheart," he says, packing up. "You're thinking out loud again."

His voice is soft and it makes you melt. "Everyone thinks something happened Joel. They're gonna think I'm a slut, or something."

He pads over and kneels so he's level with you. Gently, Joel cups your cheek with one hand, and puts his hand on your thigh with the other. 

"That's because you are a slut, sweetheart."

He kneads your thighs, creeping closer and closer to your core. "You're the prettiest fuckin' slut I've ever seen." 

Your mind goes blank when Joel's like this. Voice as soft as butter whispering the filthiest shit whilst stroking your pussy. His fingers ghost over your jeans and you whimper. "I'm not a- fuck!" 

He dips his hand into your underwear. Soaking wet and he's barely touched you. He keeps it slow, drawing lazy circles around your clit whilst holding you close. 

"Don't like hearing those things about you. They don't see you -fuck - like I do. You didn't fuck him, darlin', I know that. But he wanted to. You can see it in his eyes." He's faster now, dipping a finger in and out your hole like it's his job. You hold onto his forearm to steady yourself and hump his hand. Desperately chasing your climax. 

"That's it, that's it. Good fuckin' girl. You wanna cum?" He asks and you nod your head dumbly. "Use your words, darlin'. Need'ta hear you say it."

"Yes, yes, please Joel…. wanna cum-" 

He nods and you throw your head onto his shoulder, shaking as you cum into Joel's hands. He pulls his hand out of your jeans and licks them clean with hooded eyes. He's hard, cupping himself over his trousers and rocking slightly to relieve the pressure. What a sight; Joel Miller on his knees for you, because of you. 

You grab him by the lapel of his shirt and fall into a sloppy kiss, tasting yourself on his tongue. You motion to take off his shirt and start to strip yourself. When your shirt comes off he presses hot kisses into your bare skin; mumbling profanities into your collarbone and the peak of your tits. 

His pants come off and you reach to pump him; his tip red and sticky with precum. He groans and grabs your hand, lips plump and swollen from kissing you. 

"-shit, not yet," He helps you stand, and bends you over the desk, bow-legged. You're hot and sticky and desperate now, whining for him to fill you up-

-and he does, in one swift motion, without any warning or prep. "You're gonna take what I give you, ain't that right sweetheart?" 

You nod haphazardly, whining under his grip. His hips piston into you at just the right angle, so fast you're seeing stars. 

"No-one else can fuck you like I can, don't forget that. Next time, a little shit like Petey comes round, you tell him you're mine, won't you?"  You're babbling now, incoherent as pleasure builds in your gut. "All mine. All. Fuckin'. Mine." 

With that, a coil snaps, and your legs collapse under the pleasure that washes over you. Joel is quick to follow, turning you around so that when he cums on your stomach, he can see the bliss on your face. Gently, he picks you up like a blushing bride into the next room, onto one of the treatment beds. He gets a towel from the supply cupboards and cleans you up, kissing your forehead. He clambers in next to you. It's a tight fit but he manages to snake an arm around and pull you towards him. Soft breath in your ear as you both stare up at the mottled ceiling, speckled in fluorescent light. Well, he did, anyway. You turn to look at him. 

He was even prettier this close. Real pretty. 

#i neeeeeed him #look me in the eyes and tell me he's not possessive #joel miller #joel tlou #joel the last of us #joel miller x reader #joel miller x y/n #joel miller x you #joel miller smut #pedro pascal x reader #kat_writes😼

[10piecechickennuggy]

Rut - Alastor x Fem!Reader - Oneshot

WARNING: Mature content ahead. MDNI

DISCLAIMER: I do not own Hazbin Hotel or the fanart featured above. This is a fan created work.

Word Count: 4,244

***

Clawed fingers tore at crimson silk, black buttons snapping free and clattering to the floor as the dress shirt was ripped open. Beads of sweat soaked into scarlet bangs, plastering the usually fluffy hairs against feverish skin. Ragged breaths rattled a heaving chest as they fanned across parched lips.

When had it gotten so hot? Was the air conditioning in the radio tower not working?

Everything felt too constricting. From his clothes to his own skin, it was as though he couldn’t breathe properly. Alastor growled in frustration as his bowtie was thrown to the floor.

Leaning over a panel of dials and switches, the radio demon raised a hand to his antlers. The velveteen covered bone itched - small shreds of the hair-like skin falling as he scratched desperately. 

The sensation did little to dissuade his discomfort. Nor did removing his monocle or allowing his other hand to dig into the skin of his neck. But even so, he couldn’t stop. 

Thin lines of sanguine trickled from now raw skin, the thick liquid eliciting a cooling sensation in its wake. A loud sigh escaped Alastor at the miniscule relief his spilled blood had brought. But the amnesty was short lived, retreating almost immediately and leaving a psoriasis of mounting intensity in its wake.

Air. He needed air.

Scrambling toward a window, the man almost didn’t notice his antlers crashing into the glass until the impact had caused him to stumble backwards and land on his ass. Rubbing his behind, Alastor stood and paused for a moment. 

Why did that feel good? 

It was as though his antlers were yearning to be rammed against something. The urge tickled and twisted its way down from the top of his head to the tip of his tail - the white and scarlet puff now standing straight up in alert.

Foregoing another headbut into the fenestella, he instead raised the glass gently. A welcome breeze struck against his face, bringing a shiver down the demon’s spine as his burning skin began to cool in the sulfur wind. 

Panting, he allowed his upper body to bend over the windowsill. His torso stretched outward and his head hung limply as he took in the feeling of relief once more. Had he a clearer mind, he’d have cringed at the thought of someone seeing him in such a desperate state.

But the act of leaning out the window brought another sensation. As if the universe itself were seeking to break him, he was struck by an alluring scent. Floral musk assaulted his nostrils, causing the demon’s head to jerk upward in search of its source. And when his gaze traveled down towards the hotel’s entrance, he knew it had been located.

Standing in front of the building was the establishment’s newest resident, Y/n. Her hair was pulled up, exposing the delicate flesh of her neck and shoulders, the sun dress she wore fluttering in the breeze. No doubt the autumn wind was what brought her enticing bouquet aloft, caressing the visible skin and shepherding her aroma to the radio tower above.

Scent was far from her only captivating feature. From her piercing eyes to the enthralling angles of her facial structure. From her beautiful hair down to her adorable toes and every sensual curve in between, the woman was downright breathtaking. A dangerous sentiment, given Alastor’s current state.

Leaning further out the window, his nose lifted as he inhaled deeply, Alastor’s eyes widened in awareness of his lower half now pressed firmly against the wall below. The rigid wooden surface brushed deliciously against his hardened member.

So that was it. It was that time of year again.

Alastor was rarely one to experience such basal urges. The occasions he did were more inconvenient and bothersome than anything, requiring time be taken from his busy schedule to satiate the primal desire. He clicked his tongue in irritation at his body’s betrayal. Crinkling his eyebrows together and exiting the studio, he began to ponder just how best to take care of the pesky dilemma.

***

Several hours later, Alstor had been able to quell the physical effects of his rut enough to emerge from his room. The demon was far from satisfied though, the urge to breed burning at the back of his mind. An incredible amount of willpower was needed to keep himself in check - far more than he would care to admit - or else he’d find himself locked away, stroking his cock raw in desperate search of release again.

After an annoyingly long period of such activities, the deer demon had grown so disgruntled with his own biology that he’d decided to just ignore it. He knew the strategy was flawed - that it could only work for a short while - no matter how many times he came, only allowing himself to truly mate would bring any true relief to his symptoms. But he had to get on with his life. He had duties and obligations that could wait no longer. Perhaps after he completed the day’s tasks, he’d hire a prostitute to satiate his sexual appetite. 

And then kill her, of course. 

He couldn’t let someone walk freely knowing how truly weak his rut made him. The thought of using another sinner and then beating her body into a bloody pulp caused Alastor’s signature smile to broaden. After inflicting as much pain as possible and ensuring she’d perished, he’d consume her flesh. His stomach growled in anticipation.

Whistling an old timey tune, he walked through the streets of Pentagram City. An overlord meeting had just concluded, meaning Alastor was now free to return to the Hazbin Hotel and fulfill his duties as facilities manager.  He just needed to make some quick repairs, meet with Charlie to discuss her continuing rehabilitation curriculum, and he’d be off to the entertainment district.

***

Moss-colored wooden panels now lined yet another wall of the hotel’s lobby. Why did there always seem to be a new hole in the building’s exterior walls? If it wasn’t one of Sir Pentious’ inventions causing another explosion, it was some nuisance of the week who thought they could best the Radio Demon and the Princess of Hell. 

Alastor couldn’t help but laugh at the memory of the latest attack, the pained screams of his victims as he strangled them to death with his shadow tentacles still replaying in his mind. They’d managed to blow a hole in the hotel’s facade, but some quick magic had it fixed in a jiffy. Standing back, Alastor admired his work when a familiar scent caught his attention.

Turning around slowly, he was met with the sight of Y/n descending the hotel’s main staircase. Every step she took was pure elegance, as though she were surrounded by an aura of grace and allure. Her vibrant sundress flowed behind as she walked, its deep V neckline exposing a fair bit of cleavage. Her pheromones permeated Alastor’s senses, working in tandem with her gorgeous appearance to captivate the man. When she’d reached the final step, her gaze lifted to meet with his and her lips curved up to form a dazzling smile.

“Hey, Al.” She waved before advancing toward him.

Alastor’s heart skipped and his cock throbbed. The uncomfortable itching sensation returned, his pulse increasing and his breath growing shallow. He briefly considered excusing himself - running to his room before he lost composure - but decided against it. He couldn’t let something as simple as biology and instinct get the better of him.

“Hello there, darling! How are you this fine afternoon?” The radio static came through especially thick as he spoke, distorting his voice to a near grumble.

A blush overtook the woman, her hands clasping together as she took on a bashful stance. Her current posture had her arms squeezing her breasts, causing the supple flesh to squish together and expose even more of her cleavage than had already been visible. 

“I’m alright. Just headed to the bar.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear before continuing. “Care to join me?” Her voice was soft and smooth, akin to satin.

Damn, this woman. He’d already made plans to take care of the issue, and yet here she was enticing him. But the longer he spent in her presence, the more he felt his desire grow. And the harder his cock grew, his body reacting to the female before it.

Forcing himself to remain composed, Alastor gestured for her to lead the way. He followed her silently to the bar, where they both sat before a frowning Husker. 

“Hi there, beautiful.” He turned to nod towards Alastor. “Boss.” The feline bartender bent down, the sound of clinking glass coming from below the bar. “What can I get you, sweetheart?”

Alastor didn’t miss the warm smile Husk offered his companion while only scowling in his general direction when addressing them both. When said female’s eyelashes fluttered and she began to fidget with the hem on her dress, the Radio Demon’s perpetual smile fell just the slightest bit.

“Sex on the beach, please.”

Red wings flapped once as Husker took on a devious smirk. He reached for a bottle of peach schnapps before speaking in a flirtatious tone. “Sorry to disappoint, but the nearest ocean is three rings down. Hopefully the drink is half as satisfying as the man making it.” 

And then the cat winked. He fucking winked. 

Alastor’s blood boiled, the urge to ram his antlers against the insufferable bartender was overwhelming. When she giggled at the other male’s advances, all he could see was red.

The deer demon growled as he stood from his seat, fluffy ears laying flat to his head. Clawed fingers gripped Y/n’s wrist and yanked her away from the bar. A surprised yelp escaped the woman as Alastor dragged her towards the staircase, his anger evident with every stomping footstep.

“What’s wrong?” She asked, her words laced with uncertainty. “Where are you taking me?”

He didn’t respond, only continuing to trudge forward as she stumbled behind attempting to keep up with his quick and deliberate strides. As they ventured onward, his other hand rose to dig at his neck, the itching sensation now unbearable as his body’s excitement and irritation intensified. By this point, the man was nearly operating on hormones alone. 

The pair halted at Alastor’s room just long enough for him to open the door before roughly pushing her inside.

“Hey!” Her voice was now raised as she stared down the man before her. “What was that for?!”

Shadow tentacles emerged from the room’s corners and encircled the woman, wrapping around her form with a vice grip. She squealed when the appendages lifted her into the air, her feet dangling above the carpeted floor. Her eyes widened when Alastor advanced toward her, his form appearing to grow larger and his antlers having extended.

When the pair were mere centimeters apart, his steps ceased. Bending forward, his nose brushed the crook of her neck before he inhaled deeply. Her scent was even stronger than before - like a hypnotic miasma the man could feel himself getting drunk on with every wiff.

“Umm, Alastor?” Her voice wavered as she questioned his actions. But she made no attempt to move away.

“Apologies, my dear.” His ever present radio static sunk into her bones, her expression visibly softening when he pulled away to meet her eyes. Oh how he longed to see that face morphed with bliss and pleasure as he ravaged her. “I simply couldn’t stand to watch that pestering feline continue his advances on what is mine.”

Her cheeks were brightly flushed, but she made no effort to deny his statement. Instead, when Alastor lifted a hand to cup her cheek, she leaned into it. “Perhaps you should claim me then.”

The noise he made in response was akin to a crackling purr, his eyelids drooping and pupils dilating in a lustful gaze. Tangling his fingers through her hair, his lips crashed into hers in a devouring kiss. His tongue invaded the wet cavern of my mouth when she moaned against him. She tasted of sweetness and desire, not unlike the musk of her arousal Alastor’s heightened senses allowed him to take note of. She wanted him, and the longer their mouths remained plastered together, the more their carnal need for each other grew.

Once their lips had separated, the shadow tentacles moved her to the waiting bed. Their grip loosened, allowing her limbs to regain blood flow while still holding her firmly in place. Her body rested against the plush comforter beautifully, her hair splayed out in a halo around her face as her chest rose and fell in rapid breaths of anticipation.

Alastor’s smile broadened, sharp teeth exposed and menacing in the room’s dim lighting. She was willing prey before a deadly predator, his perfect doe - compliant and eager. He climbed atop her form, the mattress dipping as he did.

Sharp nails clawed up the female’s sides as he drew into her neck once more, his tongue coming out to lick a long stripe along the supple flesh. Beneath the sodden muscle, he could feel her pulse quicken. The scent of blood flowing beneath her skin enticed the demon, who sunk his claws into her hips - fabric and skin tearing as his knee came up to brush firmly against her clothed cunt. The resulting whimper which fell from her lips was like music to the Radio Demon’s ears.

By this point, his pants had grown uncomfortably tight against his needy erection. Dragging his digits upwards, the sundress was ripped from her form as a shudder rippled through her. 

Long streaks of bloody claw marks ran up her torso, the shallow cuts bringing a new sense of exciting danger to the female. She began to writhe against the shadow appendages which still held her in place, but it was clear she wasn’t looking for escape. Rather, she struggled against her bindings in an attempt to reach out to him - to touch him as he touched her.

He paused to take in the sight of her black lace undergarments, appreciating the delicate fabric and the lewd implication that she’d donned them deliberately. A dark chuckle fell from the man as he hooked a single finger beneath the band of her bra, right at the point where her breasts met and pulled the fabric away from her form. “Tell me, cheri. Did you intend to spend your evening beneath me?”

She didn’t respond, only turning her head to the side and looking away from him. 

“Now, now.” He gripped her cheeks between his thumb and forefinger, forcing her to meet his gaze. His tone was akin to a parent chastising their child. “It’s rude to ignore someone who’s speaking to you. Especially when you’re at their mercy.” The ripping of fabric punctuated his statement as her bra was shredded, her breasts bouncing free with nipples hardening in the cool air.

“I could tell you were suffering, what with the time of year and all.”  Her voice came as a whisper, as if she were afraid of admitting to her knowledge of his rut.

Alastor sighed, his knee moving to bring some much needed friction to her clothed core. His trousers grew damp where he rubbed, her arousal soaking into the fabric. “What a foolish little doe you are, cheri.” Sitting upward, his pinstripe tailcoat was removed and tossed aside. His eyes took on a darker hue as he began to release his tie. “I am going to enjoy devouring you.”

The moment he’d finished the statement, the shadow tentacles pulled her limbs apart - spreading her wide for him. Removing his shirt and then her panties, he trailed a finger along the scarlet stripes on her side. Sticky blood gathered on his digit, which was quickly brought to waiting lips. Wrapping his tongue around the extremity, he hummed in approval. 

“Delicious.” 

An audible gulp came from the female as she watched the man before her with lidded eyes, her pupils blown wide. Two of the tentacles slithered up her form, encircling her breasts with a tight squeeze. A deep moan erupted from her throat as the shadow appendages began to move, squishing and manipulating the tender flesh whilst the tips toyed with her perked nipples in unison. Her breath came in pants, fists clenching and releasing as she allowed the pleasure to wash over her. 

The welcome ministrations happening at her tits had distracted the woman, who failed to notice Alastor moving downwards. She missed the sensation of his hands massaging their way from her torso to her thighs, nor did she notice when the man positioned his upper body between her legs. Only when she felt his tongue slide through her folds did she let out a surprised gasp. Looking down, she finally took note of the head of crimson hair buried between her limbs.

Alastor’s ears were laid flat as his mouth worked on her, lapping at the slick of her heat. His lips engulfed her pussy in a passionate kiss to her lower lips, tongue darting inside as his nose brushed her clit. His sharp nails dug into the skin of her thighs when her hips began to buck, holding her still against his face as he continued to eat her out.

He consumed her like a man starved, savoring the flavor of her arousal. Lewd slurping sounds filled the air as he continued to lick and suck at her center, eliciting moans with every breath the female took. Moving upwards, his lips came to rest around her bundle of nerves whilst two long fingers entered her now soaking hole. The digits moved in a scissoring fashion as he pumped them within her, his mouth providing suction to her clit.

It wasn’t long before she unraveled on his fingers, a sharp whine shuddering from her body as her walls convulsed. Alastor continued his actions, working her through her orgasm until finally she settled. Withdrawing from her, his lips and chin shone with the moisture of her arousal.

When the tentacles holding her in place withdrew, the woman looked surprised. She sat up, attempting to catch her breath as she looked at the bulge in her companion’s pants.

“On all fours, darling.” The order sent a shiver down her spine. 

She complied in silence, turning around to present herself to him. Her juices dripped down her thighs, pussy clenching around nothing as she waited to be taken.

The clinking of metal was the only sound as his belt slipped free of the loops on his trousers, before said garment was unzipped and allowed to crumple on the floor. Finally, his cock sprang free as his bottoms and underwear were kicked aside. The angrily flushed tip weeped beads of precum as he stroked it lazily. 

Climbing atop the bed once more, Alastor settled behind his mate and brought his member to her entrance. Sinking into her slowly, they vocalized in unison. A guttural growl came from deep within the buck’s chest as he bottomed out within her. Laying himself flat against her back, he took her dangling tits into both hands and gripped them as he stilled.

He wanted to savor this feeling - to commit to memory the sensation of her silken walls surrounding his impossibly hard cock. She squeezed him deliciously tight, already milking him before the true fucking had even begun. 

Gently kissing her shoulder, Alastor began to move. His thrusts came slow at first, his dick dragging against her at an agonizing pace as he withdrew until only the tip remained inside before reentering just as gradually. This repeated several times until the woman let out a noise of frustration, her hips jerking backwards in an attempt to increase the pace.

At her sudden movement, Alastor gasped. He hadn’t expected her to try and take charge - especially with him mounting her from behind. He was the male here. Perhaps he needed to remind her of their places in this sensuous act.

Quickly, a clawed hand removed itself from her breast and came to the back of her head before pushing. Her face landed sideways against a pillow, her eyes wide as she looked back at him. 

“Impatient, are we?” The demon’s voice held a malicious edge, his eyes glinting with dark excitement. “Allow me to ruin you then.”

He left no opportunity for her to respond before he began thrusting into her once more, fucking her in earnest. His hips pistoned against her, the squelching of fluids mingled with slapping of skin each time his dick was plowed into her dripping heat. He held her head firmly against the pillow, his other hand ripping flesh at her hip to keep her still. A cry of pained pleasure came from the woman as she took his brutal assault.

Continuing to pummel his doe, Alastor picked her up so they were both upright on their knees. Her legs spread around his as she sat back onto his lap. A hand encircled her throat, choking her sobs as tears began to form at the corners of her eyes. His hips incessantly slapped her ass with each repeated thrust.

Bringing his other hand from her hip, the bloodied palm drug against her chest before his claws pierced her skin once more. Ripping down her front, she screamed in a high-pitched whine that vibrated his hand on her neck. Sanguine rivers now flowed freely, staining the fabric below.

The scent of her spilled blood was now too much to bear. Continuing his brutal pace, the Radio Demon brought his mouth to the conjunction of her shoulder and nape. He needed to taste her again - to feel the thickness of her blood against his tongue. And so he bit down, his dagger sharp teeth sinking into feverish skin. Salt was the first thing he tasted as her sweat mixed with his saliva before a metallic taste bloomed within his hungry maw.

“A-Alastor!” She screamed, one of her hands quickly tangling into his locks. Her other palm slapped against his upper leg, supporting her unsteady weight. Her eyes closed as she hissed from the pain. But oh, did it hurt so good.

Drinking greedily, he began to choke her in earnest. He couldn’t have the other hotel residents overhearing. The hand in his hair moved to grip one of his antlers, its twin now clawing at the fingers cutting off her air supply. 

When her feeble offense against his vice grip began to lesson and the  hold on his bony outcropping waned, Alastor knew she was close to passing out. He could also tell she was close to her second orgasm, the increasing force with which her pussy clamped around him signaling imminent release. And so, he withdrew himself from her and released his chokehold. The wine that accompanied her gasps for air was almost heartwrenching.

Tears now freely fell down her reddened cheeks as she struggled to hold herself up on both arms. She was shaking, her expression one of hurt and expectancy as she turned to face him.

In an instant, he was on her again. This time, she lay on her back while he held her legs in a folded position with her knees against her chest. Not hesitating for even a moment, he sunk back into her and resumed fucking her with an unrelenting force.

Snarling into her face, his brows furrowed in aggression as he spoke. “I say when you can cum.”

“Y-yes, sir!” She hadn’t missed a beat with her response. Grasping his antlers with both hands, she held on tightly as he continued to take her.

“Good girl.” One of his hands slotted itself into the space where they connected, softly circling her clitorus.

He knew he was close to his own end. After just a few more thrusts, his cock began to twitch within her. Kisses were trailed from her lips down her jaw and to her collar, all the while grunts that crackled with static filled the space between them. Beads of sweat dripped from Alastor’s forehead as he sucked bruising hickies across her skin.

With each mark left in his wake, she whined like a bitch in heat. His body responded to her cries, eager to spill his seed and breed her. 

With the combination of his delicate ministrations against her clit, the pain of his claws and bites, and the pleasure of his dick battering into her, she had become a babbling mess. Single syllables and nonsense words flew from her mouth between pants and moans.

Licking the trails of blood along her chest, he mumbled against the fat of her breast. “Cum with me, Y/n.”

Two more thrusts into her needy cunt and they were both done for. Powerful spurts of cum painted her collapsing walls, coating her insides with his seed. He held onto her tightly, his pelvis pressed firmly against hers as he released deeply into her womanhood with a shouting moan. Wave after wave of blinding pleasure washed over them both as they rode out their highs.

 Collapsing atop her with one last spurt of his cock, Alastor sighed in contentment. Panting heavily and burying his face into her neck, they both began to come down into a glorious afterglow. 

“Feeling better?” Her arms were wrapped around his torso in a warm, loving embrace as her fingers traced mindless swirls across the expanse of his back. 

“Much better, my dear.”

#hazbin hotel #hazbin alastor #smut #lemon #rut #alastor #x reader #female reader #fem reader #alastor x reader #alastor x you #alastor x y/n #y/n #reader insert #self insert #explict #bd/sm kink