#a pillowy grave

[bitten-fruit]

I am begging on my knees for a part two to cowboy price😭🙏

here she is!!! cowboy price part 2!! I really really hope you enjoy it ♥︎♥︎

18+ mdni - cw: spanking - ~2.8k words

John Price owns the ranch that neighbours your father's. You like to trespass. He teaches you a lesson.

Here's part 1! (and there will probably be a part 3 lol i'm having way too much fun)

Staring face down into the bale of prickling hay, sipping the turgid air like warm milk, you scoured your mind for your next apology. There was a long list of transgressions Mr Price could demand an apology for. Would he punish you for every single one?

Did you want him to?

His spread hand hovered over the skin of your rear, a threat – it ghosted over the fine fuzz and triggered ripples of gooseflesh to radiate out from the faint touch.

“I’m sorry for–” you uttered, barely a croak, “for making you chase me.”

The second you spoke it, your entire body tensed itself on instinct – girding itself for the discipline that would inevitably follow. Swift, and purposeful; he raised his arm, reeling it back like the string of a bow.

And he released it just as suddenly, hurling his palm downward rapidly enough to emit a whistle through the air; it collided with your ass in a sharp smack, over the same burning handprint he had already left there.

The force of it thrusted you forward, knocked a helpless squeal from your throat. You whimpered at the grit and dust grinding under your knees as it rocked you, your hands flat on the haybale turned to fists as you desperately squeezed handfuls of straw.

“Mhm,” he grumbled, grave and deep, “and?”

You swallowed air through your open mouth, your heart thundered in your ears – out of breath, but too wary to inhale deeply enough to sate it.

“For…” you hesitated, “for talking bad on your father.”

Keeping your hips still with his restraining forearm, he raised his free arm once again; you held your breath, squeezed shut your eyes in preparation for the blow. Swing. Smack.

Each collision of his vicious hand over the same spot burned worse than the last, as though his palm was adorned with barbs that pierced your fevered skin on impact. Yet a quiet moan slithered from your chest, slipped from your tongue, oozed like honey.

He drew in a grumbling breath, strained as he sucked it deep. Could he hear the pining titillation in your throat, dripping from each yelp? Might he hit you harder for it?

You winced, shivered, as his wide hand rested against the matching print that only grew more raised and more red by the second, the touch by turn warming and punishing. “Keep goin’.”

“I’m–”

Bitten off by a gasp as his fingers pushed in only slightly, burrowing into the pillowy flesh of your ass as though the squeeze was unintentional – the pressure on your near-broken skin inflicted an ache that made you whimper.

“I’m sorry for stealing cherries,” you force out, in a wet mewl.

He bore his dissatisfaction with a cocksure suck of his teeth. “Whose cherries?”

“Yours,” you squeaked.

“Mm,” he nodded, grinded out through a tight jaw. “Mine.”

Followed quickly your chastisement; the swish of his hand hurtling through the air, the ear-splitting crack of his open palm striking beaten flesh, the whine of twisted thrill that squealed out from your lips.

“My cherries–” he spat, unrelenting; again he lifted his palm, letting it hover in the air for a brief moment before he brought it down with a force.

Smack.

“–My orchard–”

Smack.

“–My hat–”

Smack.

“–My horses–”

Smack.

“–My stable–”

Smack.

“–My land.”

Smack.

The final blow threw a saccharine cry from your heaving lungs, dosed with a shameful squeak of desperation, wet and eager; eyes watering, your head collapsed into the haybale, prickly against your bright red cheek.

The skin of your rear stung numb, throbbing like a heartbeat, your knees shook with the adrenaline that riddled you from head to toe.

And as you adjusted your knees to balance yourself after he had knocked you off kilter – you felt the slick that had seeped from you, drenching your cunt in slippery syrup, the cool air biting cold at the saturated patch of your floral pointelle panties.

You could only suck your bottom lip between your teeth, biting down in abashment and guilt, self-flagellation for the burning heat that had pooled between your legs; almost as blindingly consuming as the white-hot sting of his hand-shaped brand.

He leaned back from you, balanced himself with his hand on your ass. Panting like a wolf, he wiped his brow with the back of his hand as though he had overexerted himself, broken a sweat in his outburst. Seemed to pause as he looked over his handiwork – had spanked you hard enough that you wouldn’t doubt how crisp the perfect outline of his hand would have been. Perhaps it was purple, speckled with the spots of broken capillaries and blood seeping under the hot skin.

But it mustn’t have been the damage he had inflicted that he was stuck on, as you heard his heavy breathing degrade into hoarse, animalistic chuffing; a broken grunt as though he had been kicked in the stomach.

You felt his thumb, slow and probing as though influenced by an unseen force – creep towards the cleft of your ass, running along the elastic lace hem of your panties. Teased the trim like it might slip underneath, but it didn’t. No, instead, he hovered it over the gusset, barely grazing the sodden fabric.

Eyes fluttering shut, you inhaled weakly, a quiet simper as he pushed his thumb into the valley of your cunt; wetting the tip with your fluid that soaked the thin cotton, dipping into you as though the single layer of fabric wasn’t the only barrier preventing him from plunging it deeper.

He must have felt the ring of muscle at your entrance tighten and twitch, an inadvertent reflex to his intrusion – because he abruptly tugged his hand away. You quickly released a sharp and feverish breath, cunt still pulsing around the painful absence of his finger.

“Alright,” he huffed, through teeth, as he rubbed the back of his head in exasperation. “Reckon you learned your lesson.”

You squeaked as you felt his pelvis press against yours, weighing against you from behind; as he leaned over you, reaching past you to pick up the cattleman that he had knocked from your head.

“Huh?” He persisted.

“Yes,” you croaked, realising his demand, you were quick to follow it. You leaned upright, kneeling still, as you tugged down the skirt of your dress to cover yourself; grimacing as the light fabric brushed over the burning welt on your rear.

With a hand on his knee he pushed himself to stand, sniffing in vexation as he dusted off his jeans. Bowed his head to put his hat back in its rightful place, pinching the leather crown with a single hand as he gave it a shimmy to adjust it. “Yes what?”

Through a whimper, you whispered, “Yes sir.”

“’Atta girl,” he gritted, “learned you some manners.”

You feebly swept a lock of your dishevelled hair from your face, tucking it behind your ear, too poignantly humiliated to think of anything pert to utter.

“Up y’get.”

It took you a moment to gather the nerve to stand, breathing carefully as you placed your hand on the edge of the haybale. Impatient, evidently, John bent down to you, slipping his broad hands under your arms in an effort to pick you up.

You yipped, wriggling away from his grasping hands as he hoisted you upright, and you landed on your feet with a wobble. “I can walk,” you bit.

“Yeah, right,” he groused, spinning you by the torso before hooking his arm around your waist; you yelped as he tossed you callously over his shoulder like a wet rag. “I ain’t letting you run off again, missy.”

“I wasn’t gonna run,” you whinged, but you mustered no resistance as he hauled you towards the stable door, kicking it open with his boot.

He snorted as he adjusted you on his shoulder, carting you out into the evening sun – appeared the sun had begun its approach to the horizon since you had run off from him, you forgot the days were beginning to grow shorter. The hum of the cicadas still blared just as loud as earlier, though, and the air just as warm, despite the fading orange glow of the sunlight.

Trudging through the long grass, no doubt towards his truck, he chided; “D’you expect me to trust you?”

You bit your tongue, scoured your scrambled mind for any retaliation. “I don’t want to get in trouble again,” you mumbled. 

“I don’t believe that for a second,” he sneered, “I think trouble is the only thing you want.”

The pressure of his thumb lingered against your entrance, a permanent impression that made your heart flutter at the memory. Perhaps he was right.

“That’s not true.”

“No?” He questioned scornfully, grasping hand digging into the side of your waist to keep you steady. “Then why’d you come back here, huh?”

You pouted, staring into the grass, watching the back of his boots rise and fall with each step. Would you tell him it was just to see him? Just to have him find and scold you? Just to toe the line? Long since crossed, wasn’t it.

“I wanted some cherries,” you lied.

“Uh-huh,” he scoffed, as the grass began to shorten, bleeding to the rubble and dust of the old road. You heard the deep click of a handle, the rattling of the truck door, the moaning of its old hinges as it swung open. “Was it worth it?”

You hesitated, gasping as he tossed you into the passenger door of his Chevy – you landed on your back across the worn leather bench seat, bouncing slightly in the fall, head narrowly missing the steering wheel.

“Yes,” you breathed, to answer his question, and he froze like you had caught him in a bear trap.

Stood imperiously between your knees, as your feet dangled out of the open door, skirt having been rucked up by the landing. He glowered down at you, lips in a thin and admonishing line, but his predacious eyes betrayed his stoic righteousness.

Glare clawed down your splayed form from your dewy lips, to the swell of your breasts, to the bare skin where your thighs met your hips. Catching a glimpse of the mound of your pussy from under the hem, hidden from him by the dainty fabric of your underwear.

He breathed raggedly through flared nostrils, put a white-knuckled hand against the top of the doorframe, casting a looming shadow over your body. His gaze was pointed, fiery, burned from lidded eyes - you felt the heat of his stare, it made you sweat, made your cunt ache unbearably for his attention.

Tongue squirming, too bashful to form a plea; you made your entreaty with a meek hand, tracing your fingertips down your stomach, catching in the pleats and folds of your linen dress. With a hook of your fingers under the hem of your skirt, you coaxed it upwards, coyly exposing yourself bit by bit. Watched cautiously as his lour raptly followed your movements, belying his stone-faced expression.

But he stopped you, or himself, with a pat of his hand on your thigh, just above your knee. Left it there. And he ordered, dark and strained;

“Settle down.”

With a moan of petulant defeat, you dropped your arm to your side.

“I’m takin’ you home,” he grumbled, reaching for your skirt – did so with purposeful cruelty, letting his calloused hand graze up your thigh as he grabbed the hem and tugged it downwards to cover your panties.

He took impatient hold of your knees and swivelled them inside the cab, before shutting the passenger door with a creaking swing and a loud slam. You sat yourself upright, wincing at the painful reminder of the lashings on your rear as it pressed into the firm leather seat. He marched around the truck and hopped in behind the steering wheel, you crossed your arms churlishly as you glared out the passenger window.

Peevishly huffing as he started the engine and accelerated off down the deteriorated dirt road, you bounced around in your seat, the vibrations of the rolling vehicle doing little to settle the sore throbbing between your legs.

“I’m telling my dad what you did,” you griped, rich with spite.

“You can tell ‘im whatever you want,” he scoffed, hanging his arm out his open window, wrenching the steering wheel in the tight grip of his closer hand.

“I’ll tell him you hit me.”

“Yeah?” He gibed, “Gonna tell him how worked up you got?”

Scowling, you felt your cheeks glow red as you glowered out the window. “I wasn’t worked up,” you fibbed.

“Mm. Sure seemed like it.” You could hear his smirk without having to look at him.

You fumed. “Sounds like you’re proud of yourself."

He only released a quiet and scornful huff of laughter in response to that. Nothing snide left to say, now that you’d accused him of purposefully arousing you. But he was right. It was all you could think about, writhing and sizzling in your mind and in your stomach; a fire that he had lit, and now he mocked you for being ablaze.

Daddy’s house came into view, two storeys high with a wrap-around veranda, cladded in chipped white siding and adorned in carved cornices. Sat atop a rolling hill of dry grass, surrounded by century-old white oaks that kept it shaded.

You could only sulk, keeping your arms vitriolically crossed and refusing to utter a single word until the truck rolled to a halt over the raw gravel of the turn-around driveway.

Your father was where you’d often find him; leisurely lounging on the wicker veranda bench, reading glasses on his nose and some dull book about the economy in hand. But he perked up at the arrival of Mr Price’s truck, an especially unfamiliar sight, one that would no doubt spike some suspicion.

John left the engine running and hopped out of the truck. You sorely begrudged the dire possibility that you’d be forced to return to your childhood home, stuck in the tedium of your quotidian life, left to only daydream about the events of the afternoon as you washed dishes and folded laundry.

So in the brief seconds you had before he stormed around to the passenger side, you slipped your hands under your dress. Tucked your fingertips into the waistband of your panties, bucked your hips as you shimmied them down your legs and plucked them over your feet. And you nestled them behind you, out of sight as John yanked open your door, beckoning with an impatient and commanding hand for you to step out.

You groaned as you followed his wordless demand, jumping down into the gravel and glaring up at him with a vindictive curl in your lips. You spitefully stayed still, then, not taking a step in any direction of your own volition, wary that he might glance upwards and spot the coquettish little calling card you left in his truck.

“Move it,” he ordered. 

You only pouted. “You’re a dick.”

With an exasperated roll of his eyes, he tugged your shoulder in the direction of your house – then lodged his hand at the back of your neck, under your hair, an authoritative grasp so that he could drive you by it. And he did, nudging you along, you stumbled awkwardly over your bare feet as you were carted towards your veranda.

Daddy pushed himself to stand, holding his hand over his eyes to shield them from the blinding setting sun as he ambled to the top of the deck stairs.

“Johnathan,” he spat, disgruntled and apathetic – just wanted to get back to his book, no doubt. And when he spotted you, last, of course, he queried; "That you, hun?”

You glared into the gravel, flushed with fervent humiliation, disguising it as malice.

“Found her trespassing,” John yelled, terse and irate. “Again.”

Your father hooked his thumbs in his beltloops, squinting down at him. “Fence is on your property, John. S’your problem if she fits through the gaps.”

“You need to keep a handle on your daughter,” John snarled, thick with derision, fuse running short. He released your neck with a slight shove, then, and you vindictively rolled your shoulder away from his lingering touch.

Your father snorted. “Looks like y’got a better handle on her than I ever will.”

Had enough, you stormed away from the condescending rancher, marching with your arms crossed towards the steps.

“Y’know what happens if I catch you back on my property, don’t you, girl?” John barked after you, a growl in his throat.

Shoving past your bewildered father as you trudged up the creaking stairs, you rolled your eyes. Concealed the coy smirk that curled in the corner of your lips, you answered with a grouse;

“Trouble.”

for the besties who asked to be tagged in part 2, here you go!! @lilliumrorum @stars4sar @itsalwaysbetternottoknow @iamnotfinedaddy @erajoie07 @rafaelacallinybbay

#can you tell i listen to lana del rey #john price #call of duty fanfic #john price x reader #john price x female reader #captain john price #cod fanfic #john price x you #captain price #captain price x reader #captain price smut

[peachesofteal]

The Pit

2/2

Ghost/Soap/female reader 4.7k words - AO3 Warnings-tags: 18+ MDNI, dubious consent. Smut - M/M/F. Forced breeding and kink (but we're soft). Medical inaccuracies. The Pit by Silversun Pickups. Misery inspired. Horror-ish. Whump. Caretaking. Imprisonment/kidnapping. Forced comfort. Addiction. Feelings of fear, panic, anxiety, hopelessness. Simon calls the shots.

It’s snowing.

The forest floor is covered in thick, white cotton, heavier than cement. It sticks to your clothes, your knees, soaking you to the bone. You slog through the snow; the forest grows longer. Taller. Trunks of trees enclosing you in a cold grave, a cage. 

You have to try. You have to. 

The moon illuminates your path, a swath of silver light refracting through weeping frozen branches, their backs bowed with the heft of the snow, cracking and shivering under their burdens. 

They’ll snap eventually. They’ll break. 

Just like you. 

Wolves howl in the distance. It makes no difference; how close they are. You can’t take much more, newly healed leg already spent, lungs heaving for what little air there is in this elevation. 

They circle. Blood-soaked maws snap at you, herd you closer and closer to the start, to where it all began, to where it continues to begin, again and again. 

The house. 

Your knees find ground. 

You’d rather die now. Freeze in the snow. Or… 

A jaw snaps. You hold out your hands. For freedom. For peace. 

The last thing you see is the flash of pearlescent canine, ripping into your flesh.

“Shhh, jus’ a nightmare.” Simon’s thumb works across your brow, concern shining on his face in the dim lighting. You shiver, even in a room like a sauna.

“Did- did I wake you?” He shakes his head. Of course, you didn’t. He’s always awake. He’s always watching. 

“Close your eyes.” He tucks you close, blazing heat from his massive, pillowy chest bleeding into your back, your ribcage expanding slowly. It’s rhythm, sick, twisted rhythm, syncing you together, your breathing evening out, steadying in his hold. He reaches for Johnny, who’s curled on his side, and strokes through some long, loved pieces of mohawk. Lips muss your hair. “Sleep, little dove.”

The floorboards in the hallway creak.

They talk to you, whisper about comings and goings, each spot singing a specific frequency just so, hitting the right pitch at the right time, a chorus of shifting weight echoed by hackneyed groaning.

The creaking is didactic in nature. It exists to teach you something, to plainly expose the things you should have been paying attention to all along: footsteps in the morning, in the evening, shuffles versus steps. Schedules, routines, things you didn’t pay close enough attention to, things you didn’t care enough to notice, all laid out very carefully in front of you. The weeping wood of the floor practically begged you to notice, but you were too distracted by the never-ending reminders of your agony, and the cups of tea that made you woozy. You were too busy craning your neck to catch a glimpse of the outside world beyond the window, too preoccupied with trying to stand on your own without vomiting all over the floor (again) to catch what the hallway was trying to say.

If you had listened, you would have stood a chance.

“Alright, here we go.” Johnny murmurs, an arm under your knees, another around your back. When he rises, cradling you into his chest like a child, you bite the inside of your cheek so hard you taste blood, desperate to tamp down the whimper that breaks free. “I know, I know. Almost there.” He soothes, lowering you to the couch where the pillows are all placed in very specific positions. One of the goes under your calf, another your knee, and they line the sides of your ribs for your arm to rest elevated, comfortably. He cups your cheek, warm thumb gently moving across your skin, sweet, molasses thick affection, like the cough syrup you used to swallow when you were young. “Do ye want some tea?” Yes. God yes, a thousand times yes. Yes, you want the tea. Yes, you want to fall into the bleak darkness of drugged sleep, the vat of unconscious swallowing you whole every time. You want the buzz of numbness, the shadow of an orphic, endless pit. You want to slink away from everything, from them, from whatever this is, from what’s happened to you.

“Yeah, I-“

“Johnny.” Simon says his name softly from the kitchen. “Let’s wait a bit on the tea.” His brow furrows, light venetian blue eyes tracking across your face. They catch the light just so, sparkling downward, sea foam, sea glass and ocean spray, all mixed together into kaleidoscopes spiraling outward from his pupils, and when he frowns, you swear they darken.

“She’s in pain.” He protests, straightening to full height. There’s something happening above your head, something he concedes to with a sigh, shoulders relaxing, a regretful glance cast your way. “I’ll get ye some naproxen, dove.” He promises with a kiss, and then you’re alone in the living room, unable to move, snuggled against the worn leather couch.

Your leg is in a cast. Paper and glue, you think, makeshift at best, and they both remind you of it all the time, how it’s not medical grade, how you can’t attempt to walk on it, how the bone is incredibly fragile, and will be, for a while. It’s in worse shape than your arm, which at least has a black brace on it, covered from elbow to wrist, immobilized with a dull ache, a pain consistently throbbing, but doesn’t make you cry. Not the way your leg does. Your leg screams with agony, still, pins and needles and buzz saws in your bones, a haunting torment keeping you awake at night, making you second guess your desire to live.

The tea helps though. The tea makes everything less, makes the pain round, instead of sharp, makes the fear feel farther away, instead of right on the tip of your tongue, like a monster on your doorstep.

Simon says your name, broad shoulders stationed in front of the fireplace, glass of water in one hand, two pills in another.

“Do you want to sit up?” You blink at him, and he kneels before you can answer, perching right next to your shoulders. “Open.” You give the pills a dubious glare, unsure, lips zipped tight. It could be the naproxen, but it could be something else.

After all, the tea is not just tea.

He sighs in the same exasperated sentiment, and then his thumb and forefinger are grasping your cheeks, cold shiver erupting down your spine at the contact, and he pushes your mouth ajar. “Don’t be like this, sweet girl. Thought you were going to be good today?” He’s referencing something you remember vaguely, a discussion from last night in the dark, a promise you made when the world was coated in sap and too far warm, sticky like the sweat clinging to your neck-

“Ye dinnae need to cry, little dove. Don’ we take such good care of ye?” Johnny cooed, eager. “Ye just need tae be good for us, and we’ll do everything else.” He was holding you tight, too tight against his skin, heat radiating from him like the sun. 

“I don’t understand.” You moaned, unable to move or twist away, trapped in the cage of his arms, Simon sitting prim on the edge of the bed, one hand on your hip. 

“You will, in time. By spring, we hope.” Simon told you, dark sympathy in his eyes, words stretching into a mixed-up sentence jumping around in your mind. By… spring? What does that mean? Johnny’s hands roamed over your skin beneath the blankets, stroking across your breast to delicately pinch at your nipple, before dipping further south, slipping into your folds without warning. 

“Ah!” You gasped, tense, frozen beneath his touch. 

“Shhh.” Simon pats your hip. “Let Johnny put you to sleep, dove. You’ll feel better after a rest.” Johnny’s fingers stuffed in your pussy, thumb dancing across your clit, would lull you into tea addled sleep, and warring emotions swirled in your head. Your desire for this, your acceptance of this, is sick. 

You’re sick. 

You think of the snow. The reflection on the floor in this room, crystallized shimmer on the ceiling. The sun has been out, and you’re dying, wilting, from not feeling it on your face. 

“Tomorrow.” You croak, and Johnny pauses. “Tomorrow can I… can I go outside?” 

“Will you be good?” Simon’s thumb rubs at a spot on the corner of your mouth, and you nod. 

“Yes… I- fuck.” Johnny’s breath hitches, and your walls clench up tight, squeezing. Small explosions of light dance across your eyes, pain mixed with pleasure, peaks and valleys rolling through your muscles. “Fuck.” A big, scorching hand spreads across your lower belly, just beneath your navel, and pushes. 

You come immediately. It’s overwhelming to keep yourself relaxed, to prevent the spike of pain from your injuries, but an orgasm dulls everything else, and you cry with its intensity. 

You’re sick. 

You don’t miss the way Simon’s hand lingers, how his eyes don’t leave that spot, how Johnny’s hand covers his, and they hold there, lost in their own world for a second. 

“If you’re good, sweet girl. We’ll take you outside.” He whispers, arranging limbs and waists and feet to his liking. 

You fall asleep dreaming of a blizzard.

The pills go down so easily.

And you suppose they help. For a while, anyway.

Enough time for Johnny to get you set up on the porch, zipped up in their clothes and propped up on a loveseat rocker.

You wonder if they sit out here in the spring. In the summer. Do they drink their tea and eat their biscuits and watch over their domain like kings? It’s so American, so southern, to envision, and you almost laugh at the idea of either of them swapping their black bitterness for something iced and sweet enough to rot the teeth right out of their head.

“Dove? Can ye look towards me?” Johnny sits half on his knee across from you, on another outdoor, plastic chair. He’s got his sketchbook and pencil in hand, excitement brimming from eyes to lips, like a child. Full of wistful bright light, the sun itself.

Simon’s sun, it would seem. 

You’ve noticed it, how Simon is the earth, but Johnny is the sun. The whole world, revolving around one ball of light, one eager, wild Scot, a star, the only, in Simon’s sky.

He draws you with efficiency. Moving and directing you just so, not daring to jostle you or cause you discomfort, but still ensuring he gets the best light. The barely-there dew drops of dawn. The glisten of a million frozen crystals at your back.  

He handles you like glass. He stares at you like you’re a doll, a fragile one, like you had when you were a girl.

In the quiet moments, which are many, you catch them staring at you. If they’ve brought you down to the living room, they lurk in the kitchen, murmuring to one another in voices too low for you to catch. If you’re in the bedroom, they curl around you like wolf pups, pawing and petting until you’re asleep.

You don’t understand.

They won’t even talk about it with you now. How you came to be here, how they’re insistent you’ll have to stay until spring, when the pass opens.

Their words are a sickness, infecting you, spreading through your system until they’ve touched every piece, inside and out.

It’s madness. The kind of madness that pushed you to the brink already, made you feel like you’re losing touch with reality, with yourself. The kind of insanity that nearly got you killed.

You test the weight. Just barely, just enough that it screams under the pressure. 

If you could make it to the door. 

If you could make it down the hall. 

If you could get out. 

You grit your teeth. 

The house has been silent for hours. No creaking floorboards. No heavy footsteps. You close your eyes, hold your breath, listening one last time. 

They must not be here. 

They go out, every once and a while. Bring things back. You’re not sure where, or how. 

You shuffle a step, dragging your foot. It’s more a hop, but you use the bed to offset the inevitable thump of your body weight, managing to make it to the end, fingers deathly tight on the wrought iron. 

You can do it. You can. 

It’s only three, four hops at most to the door. On one leg, in a weakened state, it’s harder than you thought, but when your fingers lay on the door handle, the release of relief in your chest is overwhelming. 

Yes! Yes. You can do it. Just- 

The knob does not turn. You pull, applying more force, trying to jiggle it, see if maybe it’s stubborn or just old. This cabin is certainly old. Even though it’s been hollowed out anew inside, the bones are ones of a hunting cabin. A long-forgotten place, now housing horrors anew. 

You twist and tug again. Every time it doesn’t budge, you try a little harder, each metallic scrap and jangle louder than fireworks. 

You tug and you fiddle. You close your eyes and push down the rising panic.

The truth comes rushing over you all at once. 

It’s locked. It’s always locked. That’s why Simon ensures it’s shut completely, each time they come and go. 

They never intended to take you home. They never are going to give you your phone, or theirs, they’re never going to get you back over the pass. 

You’re locked in here. With them. 

The tugging becomes something else, something wired and frenetic, until you’re jerking the door handle with all your might, shaking the frame, screaming. The motion destabilizes you, and your lack of strength does you no favors. 

Before you can self-correct, you stumble. You fall, instinct forcing your bad leg down, and when you try to catch yourself, you howl so loud you think the mountain shakes. 

Your head smacks the frame of the bed on your way down, and then… as always now, everything is dark. 

The first time you open your eyes after, Simon is seated in the chair. The same one he was in when they brought you here, severe and terrifying. The room is spinning, and you’re just as nauseous as the first day you laid eyes on him.

“I- I’m sorry.” You croak, but he only shakes his head, rising from his seat without even giving you a second look. 

For a fleeting moment, the indifference stings. 

“You’ll wear that,” he motions to your foot from the end of the bed, the good one, and you peek down to see a metal shackle clamped around your ankle. “until you can be trusted again.” 

Johnny crawls into bed with you at night. He cries, hot tears on his cheeks, and coos over the leg with the break in it, and then over the shackle. 

“I told him, ye dinnae mean to be bad.” His fingers shake as he traces your cheek. “Ye just cannae help it. It’s not yer fault, I know dove. Ye dinnae know any better. We have to teach you.” 

“Johnny-“ Please. Let me go. Help me. 

They all die in your throat when he presses his wet face to your neck like a dog, rutting his hard cock into your hip.“Ye’ll be right as rain by spring, I told him. Gon’ be such a good mum for the bairn, I know ye will.” 

The world fades away. The silence suffocates, and you pray to die. 

You cry the rest of the night, even when he shucks your pants down and licks your pussy until you’re coming on his tongue. You cry until he falls asleep, and Simon returns, settling in his seat, watching you both. 

“How do ye feel about chicken soup tonight?” Johnny draws you back to him, sweet boy smile on his face, and your stomach clenches involuntarily.

Stupid handsome Scot. 

You’re sick. 

“That’s fine.”

“But do ye like it?” He’s so eager, back straightening with interest, really trying to learn, trying to figure out what you like and dislike, what will earn him your good graces, and what won’t.

You shrug. “Sure, it’s… it’s good.” A thought occurs to you. “Where do you get the chicken?”

“We’ve got ‘em in the barn. Can’t roam in the winter but we keep ‘em warm in there. Along with some ducks. A goat.”

“Farm animals?” “Aye. How else we supposed to make sure you’re healthy?” He waggles his eyebrows. You try not to grimace. “Si slaughters ‘em fresh. Everything tastes better that way.” A soft light shines in his eyes, a wolf’s instinct, and the shudder trembling down your spine makes your hands shake. “Ye cold?” He clocks it immediately, as he he does with every other single thing.

When he gathers you into his arms to bring you inside, tucking you back into the couch, you don’t even argue. You just sit there. Like a doll. Theirs.

Night is the easiest. It’s simple, to give in to your body, let them take over, take control of the parts that have long betrayed you. You close your eyes as they touch you, kiss you, make you come.

You even enjoy it. 

That’s the worst part. You like it, when there are hands and fingers and tongues all over your body, like you’re being worshipped, like you’re some sort of god.

You like it, when Johnny gets overexcited and Simon settles him, guides him with a hand on his cock to your entrance, whispering slow in his ear, encouraging him to take his time. You like it, when Johnny’s pulse flutters under his jaw, when Simon holds you steady, when they get lost in each other, in you- you can almost pretend it’s not real, it's some fantasy, from a book, something dark and delicious-

Not your reality.

Tonight, Simon holds you in his lap on the edge of the bed, broken leg lying flat, his elbow crooked under your good knee and wrenched upwards, nearly pressing against your chest. The angle is intense, and Johnny grunts, muscles flexing with every thrust,

“Ah- fuck.” You moan and twitch, locked inside a cage, a confinement, the arms of your captors… your saviors. Simon swirls the pad of a finger over your clit, mouth open on your cheek, teeth nipping over your skin. You clench, Johnny cursing, some bitten off dialect you’re not familiar with, Simon’s voice dripping with smirk.

“Good girl, squeeze our boy, jus’ like that.” He does it on purpose, the talking. Knows how it makes you gush, long ago figured out the way to make your pussy clamp down around whatever he’s got worked inside you, his cock, Johnny’s, fingers, tongues.

Together, you’re an orchestra. Johnny is the strings, the violin, the viola, a cello. He plucks so perfectly, a harmonious blend of beauty spills from his bow, rising in the air until the audience is on their feet. His music trembles. It quivers and cries, like the wail of grief.

Your grief.

You’re the piano. An entire world, nestled in one instrument, but you play off tune, broken and sharp, pitch all a mess- you don’t even belong here.

Simon is the maestro. He directs each note, each melodious ring exactly as he wants it, working the music up to a brilliant crescendo, and it comes crashing like the force of a wave breaking onto sand. He conducts you, Johnny, the day, and night. He orchestrates the flow, lyrical give and take evolving in the house, your captor status slipping farther and farther away each night you take them into your body.

He knows you like it. Knows he’s in the lead, knows they’re winning-

And he doesn’t let up.

“Harder.” He coaches, and Johnny obliges, mouth open in bliss, eyes nearly rolled backwards. His fingers clamp down on your hip, too close, and you hiss in fear, the preparation of pain.

Simon snarls, yanking it away, holding to him tight before discarding it in exchange for the back of his neck.

“Sorry,” Johnny pants. “Sorry, dove.” You want to tell him to fuck off, to tell him you hate them, you hate them both, but you're only able to give them a high pitched moan of pleasure. “I’m gon’ come.” He grunts, and Simon yanks him forward, lips smashing together, tongue snaking messily between teeth.

For too long, the three of you hold fast. Johnny’s reckless, furious thrusts shove you backwards, over and over again. “Pull out.” Simon commands, flat palm on his chest. “Do not, Johnny.” He pushes him away from you like a dog, shoving him backwards with a firm forearm, a piece of rebar turned flesh.

He comes all over your belly, splashing thick white splatter across the mound of your cunt, up past your navel, choking on gasps of breath as Simon heaps praise onto the two of you.

Later, after they’ve bathed you, given you another orgasm, and all are almost tucked in, you whisper in the flickering fire light.

“Can I… can I have some tea?” Simon starts. It’s small, barely visible, but you feel it, in your bones. The echo of him in the room.

He holds your head between two palms, and you wonder if he’ll crush your skull. Decide it was all too much trouble. You’re too sick, feeble in your mind, too weak to survive.

“To sleep?” He asks softly, eyes darting over your shoulder for a split second, heavy with worry.

“Please?” There’s something in his eyes you don’t understand, a whirling mist of hell and desperation, and then it clears, and he motions a go ahead to Johnny.

“Alright, dove.”

The tea settles you into silence. With it, you can exist. You can survive.

It numbs you from the inside out, and as time passes, you feel no pain. You’re tangled in a dark web, a viscous manner of thing weighing you down from all angles. You feel nothing, and days turn to weeks, weeks to a month. Soon, the world is thawing. Snow melt turns to river and mud, greenery fighting for its chance to sprout and survive. Your leg is healing.

Spring comes. 

The day you roast a chicken is the day your life ends, for good.

It’s domestic, the act. An olive branch to Simon, who’s angry with you, again. Who’s frustrated, took himself outside to chop wood.

Johnny mopes inside the house.

“I hate it when the two of ye fight.”

“Well, if he wasn’t such a stubborn asshole.” You hold the wooden spoon like a wand before returning it to the cast iron, swirling it around in the mess of butter and onion. “Then there wouldn’t be an issue.” You swallow the sting of his earlier refusal. The quick rejection of your request.

All you wanted was to go on a walk. It’s a beautiful day. 

Why must the leash be so tight? 

“He’ll be happy ye’re cookin’ again.” Johnny grins wide, pretty face beaming over the counter, and you sigh.

Maybe. 

You’re watching out the window when Johnny approaches him in the yard. You can’t make out anything their saying, but the body language paints enough of a picture.

Johnny is rigid, angry.

Simon is calm, placating.

Words are exchanged, brows shifting with sympathy, sweetness.

Johnny erupts with glee. He shines like the sun, and Simon smiles, a real, true smile.

They’re beautiful.

And you’re sick. 

The three of you tangle together in the dark. It’s a sailor’s knot, thrice over, difficult to understand which piece is which, where one begins and the other ends.

Simon’s anger is long melted. A glacier, gone leaving only a gash in the rock behind.

It’s this gash, this quiet undercurrent, keeping you focused on the wrong thing, pliable in bed until you realize Johnny is murmuring something in your ear, two arms banded around your waist from where you lay on your back, atop his chest.

“We cannae wait,” His hand strokes over your belly with reverence. The words cut through the thick, heady haze, and you try to twist to look at him. “watch ye get big with our bairn, goin’ be such a good mum.”

“Wh-what?” you choke, tensing. They try to settle you, sweet words and mouths everywhere, but you cannot get away from the fear.

From them.

“You- ahh.” You’re on fire, a finger rubbing your clit, Simon’s width between your thighs. He spears you open on his cock, unrelenting, making you keen and cry, face wet with tears.

“Waited long enough,” He grunts. “Been wastin’ it for months.” He steals your whimpers, swallows them, takes them inside like you take him, like you’ll take him-

“- until you swell. Until you’re heavy, dove, round with us.”

Until you’re forever theirs.

It’s a snarled promise. A prayer. Your eyes find the ceiling, fire flickering in shadow across old texture, and you breathe.

He shoves your knees towards your chest, Johnny still lock tight around your ribs, tongue in the shell of your ear.

“Need to be still, cannae lose a single drop." His palm is searing beneath your navel, and he's practically singing, vibrating. “We love ye so much.”

They’re conducting Beethoven. Ode to Joy.

You’re playing Bach. Come, Sweet Death.

Simon comes in you for the first time, and you come too, clenching down around his cock as he praises you, holding onto him like you can’t let go. Like your body knows. Like you’re craving it.

“Good girl.” He croons, spooning whatever slips free back inside, shoving it deep, wet lips on your own. “Gotta keep me in, dove… jus’ like that, there you go.” You throb, squeezing again, pulsing for him. For the words.

You’re sick. 

When they switch positions, and Johnny smiles at you over your knees, his canines shine nearly red in the fire light. Two predators, one prey. 

Your heart cannot help but flutter.

Sick. 

Eight months prior: 

The bar is packed. Summer music festival, the banners say. The park is thriving, alive with melody, musical acts rotating on and off the stage, children running amuck with candies and balloons, families relaxing in lawn chairs.

An Americana tradition. 

They sat there themselves, for a while. Watching. Burning desire growing hot under his collar every time he saw a mum and her bairn, a small, precious thing cradled close to a chest, an overexcited five-year-old having a catch with his Da.

Eventually, they retreated to the darkness, hiding away in the one bar in town, it’s small windows and dim light practically a calling card.

And what they found inside, well... 

“Hey, what can I get you?” You’re perfect. Sweet and soft, like a dove. Kind faced; kind spoken. You make Johnny’s cock twitch just looking at you, and he pictures you on your back, legs spread wide, exposed for them to feast on. To fill. He can’t wait to taste you, hold you, kiss you, have all his firsts with you.

Will you fight them? Will you squirm? No, you'll be good. You'll be so good for them, their perfect, sweet girl. He knows it. 

How did they get so lucky?

Simon tucks his ballcap lower.

“Sorry, there are a million people in here!” You half shout over the raucous noise. “You’ll have to speak up!”

“Just two beers.” His yank accent needs work, but it does fine when there’s one hundred other faces next to his. A sea of forgettable memories.

Just as intended.

Your fingers brush his when you deposit two drafts on the bar top, shooting off a total, and for a lingering second, he stares at you.

Simon caresses the back of his neck, thumb circling a loving touch into his skin.

A warning. A reminder.

Can’t make ourselves stand out. Cannot be remembered. 

Johnny peeks at the name tag pinned above your breast, and files it away. Files everything away as they finish their pints, how you scrutinize the crowd, how you’re constantly working, looking for things to do, cleaning. Taking care of everything. The people at the bar, your coworkers.

His heart overflows with love. With warmth, and when they take their leave, he can’t help but look back one more, catching a glimpse of your profile, singing a silent goodbye.

See you soon, dove. 

#peaches writes #the pit #ghoap x reader #soap x reader #ghost x reader #ghost x soap x reader #soap x ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #simon riley #john soap mactavish #simon ghost riley #johnny soap mactavish

[catfern]

deliverance

in support of palestine ∙ the reality of tlou ∙ resources

pairing: priest!abby anderson x afab!sinner!reader

music: the deliverance playlist

word count: 5k

summary: your mother is dead, and you're left returning to a home that never really was to pick up the pieces. memories are haunting creatures, insistent on destroying you. luckily, your redemption may come by the hands of god yet.

WARNINGS: READER DISCRETION IS ADVISED ─ themes of religious trauma and abuse, hint of encouraged disordered eating, mother issues, non-major character death, some internalised homophobia

you never thought you had missed the magnolia trees. you had very little thought about the soft, white flowers of your youth after you left, scattered the pieces of yourself across the midwest to rot, forgotten.

a foreign pit sits in your stomach now as the jaunty convertible rolls across the dirt of the road. pillowy cream petals line the overgrown grass, dance in the wind and fall in your back seat. a concession. the only welcome you’ll ever get.

the soft smile on the solicitor’s face is a cruel, mocking joke. you don’t know how long he’s been waiting for you to roll down the long drive, but you can see the imprint of his shoes on the decaying wood steps, the scuffle of his path through the dead leaves, the rotten petals.

you had gotten the call late at night, breaking through an unwelcome silence. not from the hospital, but from the state. your mother was dead, and a team of lawyers had chased a harbinger trail left by your sixteen-year-old self to find you.

you left those breadcrumbs, in delusion, for your family. a final call, love me, love me, love me. years passed, no one followed.

you pull the car into park, the echo of the radio dying across the empty plains.

“miss-“ his voice is syrupy, a deep rasp coddled in the kindness of an all-american accent. he’s cut off by the slam of the car door, the scratch of your heels on the gravel driveway. you eye him, slowly, the foreign entity on your mother’s porch. stood by the neglected swing, the smell of rust and sand and infestation clinging to him, inane. 

“can’t you leave me to clear this place out in peace?”

he stutters something unsure, you can feel his eyes draping over you, a quick flash of something delusionally hungry, “w-well, miss, there’s the matter of the funeral. your mother named you executor of her will.”

of course she fucking did.

you sigh, something innately powerless nipping at your heels. your mother’s last laugh from the grave. well, from the morgue, really. if you could let that woman sit in a faithless freezer, an eternal purgatory, you would. she’s not worth the embrace of her god’s dirt.

“fine.”

you supposed you had hoped to get it all done in two days. pack everything in flimsy cardboard boxes and dump it in the parking lot of the nearest salvation army, purposefully forgotten.

and now, with the door forced open, the warm, unmoving heat of the sun pouring through and eating at your back, ghosts of a slighted childhood tease you, in the rotted landscape of your home. perhaps once, there was something happy here, but the domain of a conformist hoarder shows you no such peace.

the looming feeling of the cross your father nailed above the fridge when you were fourteen was something you had hoped to never feel again. a jittery taunt as the light inside it comes alive,

‘god sees your gluttony,’ 

clearly, considering the only thing left in the fridge was the whispering stench of rotted milk. you hold the carton at arms length as you toss it in the small waste basket in the pantry, and weigh your waning options.

spend a hundred bucks on food delivery fees, or make an appearance in town, for the low, low price of the dignity you lost years ago.

summer hasn’t changed, in the breast of the small town you grew up in. nestled between the buzz of marshes and the sprawl of empty, overgrown farmland, stately buildings with wasting foundations cast shadows, small reprieves from the unforgiving burn of the sun on the pavement.

the small chatter of young housewives echoes in the quiet of the late afternoon as you step out from the shield of the air conditioned supermarket, heaving your bags in tow. you forgot how much the underhanded heat sneaks into your body, lays in your bones. even still, with the foreign freedom of shorts and a shirt your mother would have never let you wear, summer sits in your crevices, uncomfortably in the hollow of your skin.

something flashes in the corner of your eye, something unfamiliar hiding in the sunlight. you squint, a misguided effort to chase the feeling settling deep beneath your stomach, pushing in on your organs. awareness abandoned, you stand in wait like a dog tied to a pole outside the corner shop, lips ajar as you stare into the blown light of noon, eager.

slowly, the anomaly comes into blurry focus. 

that’s new.

gold catches in the sunlight, a soft sheen of sweat like diamonds in your eyes.

a woman. you’ve never seen her before, and this place is hardly somewhere people choose to come.

She was shaking the hand of Mr. Collins, your neighbour. God, he aged poorly. Next to the shrivel of a man, she looked as if sculpted by god. a gift, the contour of her muscles beneath the relaxed fit of her shirt a taunting appraisal. cargo shorts and a graphic tee, not the expected attire of a woman. she definitely looked out of place, especially here, but the air of comfortability she carried said otherwise. people were happy to see her. her face, made so harsh and angular, was soft in conversation. figures.

you, an abomination. her, this stark difference to everything you were ever taught, welcomed.

your name echoes across the tranquility of the plaza, and for a moment, your eyes meet. the woman swallows.

“i thought that was you! my stars, i never thought i’d see you again!”

a manicured hand grabs at you, and you’re broken from your haze. 

prudence was smiling at you. you’d never seen her smile, only snicker and whisper.

“i haven’t seen you since high school!”

for a reason. you clear your throat, and manage a strained smile. friend, tormentor, you were always unsure whether she was going to unhinge her jaw and swallow you whole. you had hoped to never see her again.

“how’ve you been!” her voice was too sugary, too loud for the daze of a summer afternoon. you felt hungover.

“hm? fine, i’ve been fine.” you’re trying not to sound distracted, disinterested. you’re watching as the woman from earlier disappears around the corner of the store. her face, curious and kind, lingers in your mind.

the oppressive heat of the morning breeze wisps through your hair, beating the tenets of unease down onto your skin. the church stands foremost, casting a shadow that offers no cool relief, no reprieve. per her last wishes, you will bury your mother in her congregation.

the solicitor assured you that the old pastor has passed since you left.

an early morning appointment, for privacy, to discuss the burial. the way to go about it.

might as well get it over with.

it hasn’t changed, since you were young. you remember sticking to the pews, sweat melting your skin as you leaned to find a whisper of a breeze. the walls do well to trap the swelter of mid-year.

“for a minute there, i was sure you weren’t coming.” a low, calm voice echoes in the emptiness of the hall. 

there, the woman from yesterday stands, not yet looking at you. instead, she opts to fiddle with the cuffs of her blazer, her golden hair tied back in a neat braid, falling down her back and shimmering in the artificial light. when she meets your eye, there’s that flicker of curiosity and disquiet, the way she looked at you in the square.

she clears her throat, holding her hand out. “i’m abigail. you must be-“

“yeah,” you say all too quickly, taking her hand tenderly.

there’s a beat of silence, your bravery seeming to pin you looking at each other, unable to shake the gaze of the other.

finally, abigail speaks, “why don’t we-uh, do you wanna? let’s sit,”

you nod, following her as she leads you back, through the twisting, turning halls, a path so densely taken by you once. you knew the way, but you followed behind her all the same.

her office is .. different, to how father mckenzie decorated it. where his walls were bare, imposing, quiet and godly, abigail’s is showered in kindness, in humanity. pictures of her soccer team, of her volunteer work, her smile a littered memory through all of them. her degree in theology from a far off university is pinned proudly behind her.

learned, real, tangible.

“i was.. sorry to hear about your mother’s passing. i’m sure it was quite a shock to you as well.”

she uses that voice. the voice of pastors, the voice of god. for years, you’d wondered how long they practiced it. walking the line between genial and authoritative, the voice that brings others to kneel.

you nod slightly, remembering your obligation to reaction. your throat is dry, “yeah, well, we hadn’t spoken in a few years, so…”

she frowns, skin deep, a purchased expression, “i’m aware. she often confided in me her troubles, she was… kind. i can imagine a life without her support must have been difficult.”

a vicious laugh half erupts from your throat before you struggle to contain it, but you half expect abigail to shoot you a knowing smirk.

kind?

“are you sure we’re talking about the same woman?” you eye her now, slumped back in your seat, like a defiant child. tongue in cheek, you let your head roll back, “speak to anyone, i’m sure ‘kind’ isn’t the word they’d use.”

abigail clears her throat again, shuffling around some papers on her desk, letting the discomfort of the room get to her, “dutiful, then. i apologise if i struck a cord.”

“no, no,” your gaze is scrutinising, painful to be underneath. in a way, gratification snuck under your skin with how easy it was to upset her, to finally be the bigger, badderperson in this godforsaken room, “she was kind to you,” your eyes flutter over the heave of her body as she breathes, “you’re lucky then. that’s not a courtesy she extends-extended to many.”

“well, then i’m particularly grateful.”

“you should be.”

a stalemate, almost. your words sit dry in the air, hanging like a taunt.

“right, well,” abigail begins, looking down at your mother’s will, “your mother requested that i speak the sermon at her service. i know you aren’t particularly religious, but i would encourage-“

“did she tell you that?”

she looks up at you, her eyes hanging through her eyelashes. perhaps she grew tired of your contempt, perhaps she grew firm, “would it be such a bold assumption either way?”

that actually brings a laugh from you, harsh as it is. a beat, “no, i suppose not.”

you watch as she continues, skimming through the will and taking anecdotes with her right hand, penmanship on show. you can see the etching of her arm even underneath the cursed wool of the jacket, the broadness of her shoulders hiding beneath her holy uniform. you wonder how long it took for her to carve that out of herself. you wonder if the clergy collar was the thing stopping you from something you would’ve usually done.

“just do it according to what she wanted,” you say quickly, readjusting yourself in your seat as you break from your own glaring, “i suppose i’ll pay for it either way,”

abigail looks at you, a stare akin to a kind, confused dog. “oh, alright, well,” she stands curtly, going to shake your hand once more, “thank you for coming in then. it was good to finally meet you,”

you nod as if to say the same, but the words don’t actually fall from your lips. turning to leave, your name in her voice hooks you,

“i would encourage you to come to the sunday service, if you have the time.” she says, her face painted genuine, generous, “perhaps peace with the lord is something that you find you’ll need.”

it’s not like the invite was a mockery, you tell yourself as you buckle your heel. she was extending something kind. maybe she read you better than you did yourself.

you hadn’t exactly packed for a formal occasion, disregarding the knee length black dress you borrowed from walmart the day you found out you were staying for a funeral.

this was the next best thing.

dark red against the bare of your skin, your dress barely brushed mid-thigh, although the omission of fabric on your tits would be welcome in the afternoon trapped in the church. you eye the ornate glass cross your mother kept propped up on the console table,

oh, well. if god loved you, you suppose he would just have to forgive you.

you resolve to be david attenborough, you think to yourself as your convertible jaunts into park on the dirt road leading up to the congregation. scholar of these creatures in worship.

you can feel the town eyeing you as you take your first brave step, whispers a background to your arrival. makes you feel special, at least. you hardly have the time to act tough before prudence rushes you, husband on arm.

“we didn’t think we’d see you today!” she smiles, “you remember anthony?”

of course. anthony, the frightened young boy you had once shared a cigarette with outside the hubbub of the church’s youth mixer. you had comfort in you, back then, enough to share. you had told him once that his ‘weird feelings’ toward another boy at school was nothing to be scared of. nothing trumps the fear of god, though. he ran home and opened his mouth, he got you run out of town.

you stifle a laugh, and nod as you follow the swarm of people inside.

you know it’s narcissistic to assume that all eyes are on you, that every slighted giggle was directed at you, but right here, right now, it’s true. your mother no longer around to backhand your rebellion, you bare it full force.

you slip into an empty pew at the back, not scared, but rather hopeful to capture the breeze of one of the two standing fans.

the torrid heat already getting to you, a sheen of sweat is sitting on the cup of your cleavage that’s  bare, heaving with each thick, heavy breath. your eyes trail abigail as she takes to the pulpit.

“i am so, so happy to see you all here with me today, under the eyes of the lord,”

something about summer agrees with her, you suppose. the brutality of it doesn’t seem to cling to her, her stride and keen smile unbroken. you can still eye, from the back, the details in her hands as she flips through the paper of her sermon.

there’s strength behind how gently she carries herself. 

for one neurotic moment, you think you see her eyes dance over you, meeting yours before flittering away. you cross your legs and shake the feeling.

instead, you find yourself swallowed by the steel of her gaze. the authority that so well suits the sharpness of her features. you can tell she was not built to be generous, that god believed her stare to be absolution. the benevolence that she wears, that so illy sits on the brawn of her body, was never meant for her.

you wonder what abigail was like when she was mean. you wonder if she ever was.

“before we begin today, i want to remind you all that we will be bidding farewell to an esteemed member of our beloved community tomorrow. i beseech you all to attend if you can,”

softness doesn’t belong to her.

maybe, in another life, you would’ve seen the abigail god intended. crossed paths in the dive bar you frequent in the city, found her in the bathroom of a club, framed by the deafening beat of bad music.

you think to what her hand would feel like, rough and blistered with work unholy, pinning your wrist to the grime of a bathroom stall.

the warmth of her breath, coddled in whiskey and smoke, on your skin, the scent of her determined.

you eye her fingers as they turn the page of her notes, and imagine the strength of them pulling you apart, twisting you to her desire.

 “i urge you to keep her soul in your prayers, so that she may find her way home to the lord,”

you feel the trickling of heat up your neck, your ears burning, your breath quick and scattered. something sick and swallowing sits in your stomach, you can feel eyes on you, but when you look up past the congregation, you see nothing.

it’s like you’re being smoked out, a sinner in church. you almost fall to your feet as you scramble out into the aisle, chest heaving as you rush out the open door.

you break through the stuck door of your family’s home, arid and heavy. your grip on your mother’s glass cross is titan, as you toss it, watch it shatter across the floorboards.

this was a joke.

the soft, rhythmic flap… flap… flap of Mrs Dixon’s black bone hand fan was the drum procession of which you were to bury your mother.

considering the climbing heat of the day, it was a wonder her bones hadn’t already rotted in the cheapest coffin you could’ve found. the sun high and taunting in the cloudless sky, it burned down on the congregation, the swelling crowd that had come to worship the life of that creature. that tormentor.

the old women of the church, the same who had once chewed their cheeks over the skirt length of your sunday best, who had counselled your mother over her faithless daughter, stood crown among the sea of black, eyeing you, scrutinising you, as they had always done. and like a hare caught in the crosshair of a hunter, you found yourself shrinking, as you once did, when you were fourteen.

you purse your lips, and try to steel your withering facade.

“we gather here today, to put to rest our sister in christ,”

abigail’s voice was commanding, you had to give her props. gentle, but worthy of attention. you can imagine a kind word from her was heavily sought after, amongst the faithful, chasers of praise from the workers of the lord. you watched her, embraced by the back of the daylight, the skin of her neck glistening with a thin sheen of sweat. her breath was heavy but not scattered, the rise and fall of her shoulders, broad, something mesmerising, oddly comforting.

her hands tighten their grip on her sermon. you can spy the cursive writing sifting through the back of the paper, bathed in sunlight. she must feel the bristle of your gaze.

“a pillar of the community, a hero of the faith,”

you studied her, like you would a specimen, cut open and bare. there was something about her, something in her that your mother liked, enjoyed, despite her many ungodly flaws. like the indeterminable, you stood in fascination. what was it? what was it that she had, that you had lacked?

was she merely hiding behind the cross, behind her steadfast dogma? you could have done that. you didn’t, but you could have.

you could have stayed, here. played your part. you could have been that child of the church. you could have done it, had you not chosen your own convictions. would, then, have abigail still appeared, had you stayed and been your mother’s daughter? a perfect echo of everything you weren’t? 

was she just a spectre, summoned here to mock you in your failings?

the pit in your stomach is decaying, swallowing you whole. you knew perfectly well that had you stayed, you still wouldn’t have been what your mother wanted. you never were, never could be. you could not have deigned to touch the pedestal that abigail sat on.

a tear stings at the baseline of your eye, a foreign feeling, and you swallow the sharp presence in your throat.

abigail finishes, tucks her sermon away neatly in her pocket. the coffin is slowly lowered into the ground.

you never could’ve done the right thing, had you had the chance to go back and change it all. for your mother saw you, and saw everything she hated. every quality she herself turned away from god.

after all, filth begets filth.

the harsh clicking of the lighter broke a holy, suppressive silence in the halls of the church. you stare up at the great stained glass mural behind the lectern, fractures of colour scattered across the carpet. you pull the cigarette from the purse of your mouth and watch as the smoke swirls up, splits and ebbs into the clean, pure air.

“you can’t smoke in here,”

her voice isn’t harsh, or reprimanding, but rather, lost. quiet, unsure, like a mouse. something cowardly.

you hold the cigarette out to her, not risking to look back and face her. she takes it gingerly, but doesn’t bring it to her lips, doesn’t dare to put it out.

“my mother loved god. more than she loved my dad,” you look over your shoulder to meet her eyes. her brow furrowed, her expression meek.

“the lord is easy to love,” she steps forward, to stand level with you. her blazer brushes against the bare of your arm, soft cotton. you scoff quietly, mockingly.

“i never felt that.” you take the cigarette back from abigail’s hand in one fowl swoop and take another drag. she says nothing, “god is difficult.”

she looks at you, as if you were a mystery, quizzically, “you take His name in vain so easily.”

you meet her gaze and almost laugh. she’s frowning at you with the face of a child, with the same innocence that’s almost insulting, “yeah, well,” your words fall as you suck in smoke, “Him and i are old friends.”

there’s a sudden, shifting silence between you. the ash of your cigarette falls contrast on the red of the carpet, but you make no move to clean it. you hold your gaze at the cross at the front of the hall, almost daring it to look away first.

“i understand you and your mother had a complicated relationsh-“

“you know nothing about me and my mother,” you say quickly, sharply, negating any comfort. suddenly, you’re pinning abigail under your gaze, and her graciousness falters.

“she told me a great deal of things,” abigial says firmly, almost cementing herself in place against the wind of your unwavering disposition. for the first time, you see in her defiance, a challenge.

you step forward for a moment, unsteady on your tiptoes, and the fine details of abigail's features become briefly clear. the light, sun kissed pink brushed across the high of her cheekbones, the crook in her nose where she undoubtedly broke it once, the gold in the baby hairs that escaped her neat braid to frame her face wildly, contrast to the carefully kept order of her appearance. you had hoped to push her back into uncertainty, back into a quiet disposition, and perhaps you have. you watch her swallow headily. your closeness could melt you if you weren't careful, the heat from her breath swirling against your skin. you want to celebrate the nervousness creeping into her eyes, but instead you just feel... enthralled.

"and what did she tell you about me, hm?" you hold your chin high with a wicked cruelty in your smile, "did she disclose to you my many sins?"

her voice is a quiet choke, as much as she fights to keep it steady. she looks at you, examining you like a human to an animal, "you're troubled, you lack guidance-"

"your guidance? or god's?" your eyes flicker but you couldn't say to where. oppression is a symphony, in the house of the lord, makes the air syrupy, dazed. there's a blur in this moment between you, "is there any difference?"

you can hear her breath catch in her throat, the space between you thick, immobile. 

“tell me, am i exactly how my mother described?”

“more than.” she stifles an unearned breath, “you test me.”

you take a final drag of your cigarette, stamping the butt into the carpet. abigail says nothing, does nothing.

“is that what she told you would happen?”

she swallows, her breath shaky.

“you’re tempting me from god,” she sounds unsure of herself, even now. you, despite your air of ego, beg to close the distance.

“is that what this is?” your voice is barely a whisper on her lips, prickling at her skin.

in one fell swoop, she moves on you, wretched and despairing and yearning. her lips run down your neck messily, unsure of herself as she falls.

a jealous mantra, “forgive me, forgive me, forgive me,” as her face drags in the skin between your thighs, peppering fevered kisses with her warm breath up your dress.

you throw your head back in a quiet, celebrated ecstasy, ambrosia humming beneath your skin. you hear her pleas just faintly, “what?”

something simmers in her throat, a frenzy, her hands, so gentle, so firm, unseen from hard labour, drag up the silhouette of your body, bunching the fabric of your clothes up past your hips. laid bare, she means to worship you,

“for my sins, dear god,” she hums, her words a soft hum brushing your clit, your nails clawing wood from the pew,“forgive me,”

all grace forgotten, all discipline jilted, she’s tentative at first, so soft and unsure, her tongue dragging gentle, lazy traces, just to taste you. but you, oh you, weep ichor, something so velveteen and compulsive, something that sits in her throat and leaves her needing. her hands grab at the flesh of your ass, an anchor or a desecration against you as she moves, pinning you in your seat. shaky moans reverberate inside of you as she takes her fill, restless against you, her tongue an abuse that leaves you in threads.

your hands curl into the tight kempt of her hair, shaking her braid loose until it hangs on her shoulders, your nails scratching at her scalp.

“fuck, abby,” it falls from your lips before you catch it, not that you have the right to care anymore.       “right there, right -god- right there.”

abby, never before knowing this need, is ravenous, a temptation lost in your touch as she consumes you, greedily, a sharpness, a predatory unfamiliarity that is so unlike her. 

“god, oh god,” her lips drag sloppily up your body, smearing your own cotton slick against your stomach, your dress, a patterned trail to your lips, warmth resting in the friction between your bones. you taste yourself on her, but you smell her on you, pine and cheap cologne and sweat. 

“tell me to stop,” she chokes in a moment when she leaves your lips. she’s almost dragged back to you, a magnet to metal. “please, tell me,”

her hand is crawling down your body, down to rest between your legs. her fingers dance, hesitant, just brushing your clit. it stings, and your seethe melts into moans, “i don’t-i don’t want you to. don’t.”

“fuck,”

her fingers stretch you so uncertainly, so kind, content to just knowing the feeling of you. the push back you give her as your back arches, your breathing shivers. 

control. something so rarely desired by her, something you won’t give her. but for a moment, as she starts to find your heartbeat’s rhythm, her fingers pulling and pushing like the weight of the tide against you, she feels that rush. that supremacy she so desperately searched for. it only eggs her on for more of a taste.

her speed picks up, her forearm so lazily draped across the plain of your stomach, she looks up at you. pinned in your seat by her weight, your hair wild, your face contorted. a flush falls over your body, heat dripping down the dip of your chest as she pulls whine after whine from the swell of your lips. her.

“pastor abigail?”

prudence.

if pitchforks and torches were still in style, you’re sure an angry mob would’ve chased you, high on your heels, out of town. instead, you settle for a mournful, cowardly escape.

you slam the trunk shut, the sharp sound sending cacophonies of disruption through the magnolias. echoes of blue jays take flight across the muddled grey of the sky. the humidity is sticking to your skin, a sleekness that feels like an insult to the fragility of the moment.

abigail’s truck rattles down the distant drive, the silence of her despondence drowning as she screeches to a halt beside you. she stumbles out in a stupour, aberrant with an emotion difficult to recognise.

“you’ve led me to the slaughter,” her face is red, the heat clinging to her hairline, her chest heaving. christ, the redeemer, is slung around her neck, lopsided, “I will live forsaken from god.”

the taste of sulphur sits on your tongue, like a burnt match rotting in your throat. you look at her, and she looks at you, her pupils blown with pleading, like a child who has just become conscious of death.

what have you done to her? brought her down to you? pulled her down from the pyre, stripped of her defences;

has that made you happy? have you finally settled inside yourself, with this victory? looking up at her, seeing a pleading servant of the creature that turned you away, are you happy in her defeat?

you purse your lips, an ill attempt at forgiveness, at apology. moving past her, you feel her hesitance, her corroding need to reach out to you, like wading in waist high water.

in the car, your fingers wrap around the steering wheel, a vice grip. the last tether to this plane of existence, this piece of yourself.

“take it from me,” your voice is a soft croak, unsure of itself. you look up from the driver’s seat, and see her. is her own god forgotten in her eyes? you swallow, 

“your guilt won’t purify you.” 

─ psssst, hey! you made it this far! great! just wanted to let you know i've opened up a kofi to help support time for my writing. if you like my work and want to show your support, even just 1 buck would go a long way for me right now.

taglist; @whore4abby @endureher @beemillss @afraidofheightss @sentimentalyellow

#abby anderson x reader #abby anderson x female reader #abby anderson smut #abby tlou x reader #abby x reader #abby anderson x y/n #abby anderson x you #abby anderson x afab!reader #abby anderson

[oneforthemunny]

lazy mornings with mafia!eddie when he doesn't have to work or it's not as pressing and the two of you can be together <3 (also i know it's me lol, just using this as an example lol & bc i had the idea)

Eddie's arm was heavy over your back, the sun peeking through the heavy curtains, a sliver of light that made it's way through and right into your eyes.

The dogs lined the bed, ears down and resting, their chorus of snores rivaling their master's, who was currently drooling in your hair. Open mouth, loud snores pressed into your hair, tattooed hands wrapped around your torso.

"Ed," You groaned, voice groggy with sleep, fist rubbing at your bleared vision. The alarm clock on your side shone bright, red numbers- ten-eleven. It was early for you, late for Eddie, who was usually gone by now. Off to whatever horrifying things await him that he wouldn't tell you about. You didn't want to know anyways.

"Ed," Your voice cracked, feigning on the edge of a whine that had Hades and Lucifer perking up. The most protective of you out of the bunch, especially your baby, Lucy.

Eddie smacked his lips together, brows creasing at the disturbance, his eyes still closed. You hated to wake him up- he needed the sleep, you knew that. It was rare Eddie got a full eight hours- a full six, most of the time. But his arm was a steel gate over you, trapping you from moving.

You shimmied out of his touch, moving his arm as gently as you could, watching as he settled into the warmth your body left behind. Your heart swelled, his curls wilds and bed-messed, cheek smushed to his own silk pillow.

"C'mon," You whispered softly to the dogs, padding across the plush red carpet, walking into your slippers, and snaking Eddie's leather jacket off the bench in front of the bed. The four boys followed expertly, scrambling down the sun drenched marble stairs, bright with the light of the morning.

Eddie's jacket was warm, and you were thankful now the air cool now that the leaves were changing colors. The grass still wet when the dogs scampered out into it, doing their business in the newly renovated garden.

It was quiet, serene even with the looming skies. The chirping of song birds was replaced with crows squawking. "C'mon, boys." You cooed, stepping back to the back door. "Good boys." You hummed, your hand passing over their heads in a soft pat while they filed into the kitchen.

Dog food scooped into bowls, their water filled while they waited, sitting at attention, eyes trained on you expertly until you nodded at them to go. You started the coffee, some gourmet blend Eddie had imported from a Parisian cafe because you told him you liked it once. You insisted he didn't have to go to that trouble, that you'd be find with Folgers or whatever was at Melvald's, but he did it anyways for you.

Heavy steps fell down the marble, quicker than you expected for someone who just woke up. "Morning." You muttered, not bothering to turn around. You knew it was Eddie.

"Morning, baby." Eddie hummed, his voice still gravely with sleep, pillowy lips pressing a warm kiss to your cheek. "Wondered where you went."

"I let the boys out." You move in his arms, your arms settling around his waist, hands smoothing down the soft fabric of some band tee- one you usually stole when Eddie was working long nights. "Decided to make coffee. Was gonna bring it up to you." You frowned at him lightly.

Eddie grinned, lopsided and sleepy. "We can go back up. Just wanted to see where you went."

"Thought I was sneakin' out on ya, hm?" You grin teasingly, his hands tightening on your waist.

"Never." Eddie said firmly, eyes holding yours, curls bobbing when he shook his head. His lips brushed over yours, noses brushing, your arms making their way up his arms. "Just making sure you're alright. You know I can't sleep with out you."

You blushed, a heat burning from your chest, spilling up your neck and cheeks. "I know." You mutter, tilting your chin up to him. "S'you're staying home today?"

"Yeah." Eddie hummed, his breath ticking your lip. "Gare and Max are checking out the warehouse by the quarry, but I," His lips were on yours, a soft peck to the corner of your mouth that had your hear soaring. "Am all yours for today."

#oneforthemunny #munnyblurbs #mafia!eddie munson x reader #mafia!eddie munson #mafia!eddie #mafia!au #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x fem!reader fluff #eddie munson fluff #eddie x reader #eddie munson #eddie stranger things #eddie x fem!reader #eddie munson x female reader #eddie munson x fem!reader #eddie munson x you

[lacebvnny]

- Bound to you, among the flames -

Aemond Targaryen x Female!reader

Summary: Set after Storm's End. You are to marry prince Aemond Targaryen -the killer of your beloved friend Lucerys-, in the old Valyrian way.

Rating: +13, arranged marriage

A/n: Okay, I was pretty unsure to post this one. Keep in mind English is not my first language. Enjoy! Feedback will be appreciated 🥺

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

Her feet sank in the softness of the damp sand, and the sound of the waves crashing on the shore tore her attention away from the speech of the monk standing next to her and her husband.

/Hen lantoti ānogar/

No, he wasn't her husband yet. This wasn't a customary wedding, at least not in westerosi tradition. Perhaps that's why the dowager queen let her dissaproval be known and refused her attendance that morning, forcing the solitude and the intimacy in the ceremony to stand out in the vast coast where Aemond decided it would be held.

She cursed him in her mind when the heaviness of her eyelids made the restlessness she had the night before become more evident, as the prince instructed her days prior that she should be present before the break of dawn.

There was a chill in the cold, morning brisk that made her skin shiver, and the flames coming from the fire holders surrounding them weren't enough to warm her.

/Va syndroti vāedroma/

Y/n felt ridiculous, out of place even, when she saw herself wearing the ornamented headpiece and the silky, oversized robe meant for her to use that morning. It wasn't at all what she expected, not in the least close to the frugality of the dress she would be wearing in the evening at the sept.

Isn't this meant to be used only by pure blooded valyrians?, she wondered, but she was well aware that wouldn't be a fact Aemond would let in into his obtuse, stubborn mind.

She even imagined how Aegon the conqueror and his sisters would turn in their graves if they saw them tanting the millennial ritual by binding a Targaryen with a puny westerosi. Hell, even Aegon -the drunkard- laughed his ass off when he received the news of his younger brother being wed to her in the old fashion.

/Mēro perzot gīhoti/

He wore the same muted robe as she did, but this time a heavily decorated eyepatch adorned his angular face, besides the relaxed smirk he had from the second he spotted her moments before she stood next to him.

It was unfair, she thought, how the dressing fitted so well on him, as much as she hated to admit.

The ancient outfit was meant to combine with his valyrian, regal features, and the statuesque demeanor he showed made her feel like a fragile and simple peasant, as if he was a prince who came from the Old Valyria to be bound with her for eternity.

/Elēdroma iārza sīr/

Y/n spotted the pink wine tint on their shoulders and immediately reasoned how it blended together with the warm sky above them, the same as the creamy soft color on the ends of the robe, just like the sand where they stood.

Oh, so this is why he chose the sunrise...

/Izulī ampā perzī/

The lady felt her legs quivering when the monk handed the prince a small knife, but then she recalled how the main point of the ceremony centered around joining their blood together.

Aemond turned to face her, with a reassuring look on his only eye, as if he knew he frightened her by holding the small, glassy weapon. He closed the distance between them and raised her chin with his cold digits as he lifted the dagger near her face.

Hearing him mutter a soft look at me, y/n felt a sharp sting on her bottom lip, which made her eyes water as the cold material left a fresh wound where it slid down.

The Targaryen traced her pillowy lips with his thumb, collecting blood to draw a small figure on her forehead with it.

She didn't understand what it meant, and y/n wished, if he was so adamant on being wed to her, that he could at least had the consideration of taking his time to explain to her the vows the priest spoke in that rich language of theirs, and the blood sigils they were supposed to mark on each other.

/Prūmī lanti sēteksi/

Before she could ponder on the strange words, Aemond grabbed her hand giving her the knife with a determined look on his face, expecting her to do the same to him.

She stepped closer to him and, much to her dismay, her trembling hands dropped the knife to the ground. Y/n felt her face burning with shame and heard a small chuckle coming from the prince standing in front of her.

Asshole, prick, jerk, accursed kinslayer. A whole cascade of insults towards him crescented in her mind.

Clenching her teeth with anger she crouched, swiftly picking up the instrument while holding her headpiece in place to prevent it from falling. She didn't need to embarrass herself any longer that morning.

/Hen jeny māzīlarion/

Y/n held the dagger tightly and she stood on her tiptoes so she could allow herself to reach the towering valyrian, finding balance gripping his upper arm and finally giving him the small cut on his lip.

Aemond had to lower his face for her to draw the bloody symbol on him, and she prayed in her mind she drew the correct figure as she remembered it was.

Once his hand reached hers to take the knife, the knot on her throat tightened almost constrictingly as she observed Aemond giving himself a long slash, feeling immediate nausea when she saw the sanguine fluid pooling on the palm of his hand.

She was certain Aemond probably knew she wouldn't have the courage to cut herself, and proved right when he extended her arm by the wrist firmly to prevent her from pulling it back.

Without warning, the icy steel bit her and y/n flinched in pain, choking a small whimper as Aemond put their hands together intertwining their fingers, almost as if he tried to comfort her.

Her blood mixed with his when her palm rested between his long calloused digits, dripping through the small spaces allowing them to be joined together in this old rite the prince insisted so much to carry out.

The seeping crimson liquid gave his usually cold skin an odd warmth, almost nostalgically so.

/Qēlossa ozūndesi/

The priest approached them continuing his chanting, offering her a wooden cup to drink from. Y/n inspected the small runes carved on it before putting it to her lips and taking some slows sips of what appeared to be spiced wine, with her tongue starting to burn fiercely.

It seemed Aemond wasn't bothered by the fiery sensation after his turn to drink from the cup, his usual calm facade remained intact.

/Syndroro ōñō jēdo/

His feet took a step closer to her, as she tried avoiding the intense stare from his one eye while he slowly leaned down to caress her cheek.

The soft stroke became a strong grip on her jaw, and the prince began closing the distance between them, placing his lips on hers, need and want emanating from the rythm of his breathing.

Much to y/n's surprise, the kiss was soft, slow, maybe too passionate for a religious ceremony as his mouth found hers with boiling desperation, forcing the hotness under her skin rush to her cheeks in seconds.

One of his hands kept her in place while the other found rest in her shoulder, gently tugging at her robe as if he couldn't wait to free her from it.

Nevertheless, y/n had no other choice but to return the kiss, closing her eyes and imagining the one kissing her was the sweet prince who spent his afternoons on the library with her reading about history, and not the murderer who plotted her dear friend's death.

/Ry kīvia mazvestraksi/

She heard Aemond groan softly in frustration when he pulled away, as if he had to refrain himself from claiming her mouth how he truly wanted.

When the priest finished his vows, they both stared at each other while the fires cracked vigorously before being put out.

Y/n was too well aware Aemond could see the fear and rejection in her eyes, unlike him, whose gaze was so ardent it made her shrink into a tight knot of nervousness.

- Our blood is bound together now, Rūs.- he expressed, a hint of excitement blossoming on his voice,- ... I will finally make you mine tonight.

The soft burr from his tone and the lascivous threat almost made her spun on her heels to run away.

- I won't allow you in my bed!- she replied with irritation.

Aemond only chuckled, wearing his usual stance with his arms behind his back.

-Hm... I will be your lord husband once the high septon anoint us with the Seven's blessings, so...- the prince dangerously leans over her, revelling on her anxious state.

I think I'll have the right to do as I want with you.

#aemond targaryen #hotd #house of the dragon #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen fanfic #aemond targaryen x you #mine #aemond one eye #ewan mitchell

[eepywriters]

.✦°. • Birthday boy ( ´∀｀)

warnings: none, just pure fluff and simp Quackity

a/n: HI GUYS, I had to speedrun this so if it feels rushed I’m so sorry 😿 but I put heart into it so I hope y’all enjoy!!

Ah the bed, what a glorious invention. It’s comfy, fluffy, warm and, most importantly, it’s where, usually, one of the best activities it’s conducted: sleeping.

Now, Alex loves working, he does! It’s written all over his projects. The passion that drives every piece of work he makes couldn’t be as strong as it is without determination and etiquette. After all, he is indeed THE Alex Quackity, creator of the first multilingual server with live translations.

But sometimes, just sometimes, he doesn’t mind sleeping the day away. His pounding head and aching eyes beg for rest on the daily, so it’s nice to actually give his body and his mind a moment to shut down once in a while.

A touch on his naked arm made him stir in his sleep. He groans. He wasn’t ready to let go of his sweet slumber just yet.

“Alex, baby, wake up, I’ve got something for you”.

An half-conscious grumble leaves him, which was more of acknowledgement of hearing your voice speak to him rather than an answer to whatever you were babbling about. Cause listen, as sleep deprived as he could be, nothing could separate him from his bed when he was actually set on resting.

“Baby c’mon, we can nap later”.

The soft feeling of pillowy lips pressing against his temple finally rouses him from his sleep. He sighs, a throaty, sleepy sigh, while stretching his back lightly.

“There you are baby”

The gears on Alex’s head are slowly turning as his systems finally makes sense of the world surrounding him. And while most of his mind is concentrated on your delicate hand stroking oh so lovingly his cheek, he can’t help but notice the delicious smell that was floating around the air.

He opens his eyes, now wanting to find out what exactly was making his taste buds tingle in curiosity.

Oh what a grave mistake that was.

A streak of sunlight pierces his eyes instantly, making him close them back on instinct with a weak cry.

“Noo turn off the lights” he drawls sleepily, shielding his poor, aching eyes with his arms. His mouth was still pasty from his sleep and he, quite frankly, didn’t understand what was the deal about waking him up so soon.

And then you laugh, and on a normal occasion he would’ve bite back, cause you were obviously laughing at his idiotic behavior, but he was sooo sleepy and your laugh sounded sooo pretty. (When did he go to sleep again? 2 Am?).

Slowly blinking the sleep out of his system, Alex was met with a rather endearing sight: there you stood, a cute, big grin brightening your face whilst you looked down at him with an amused gaze. He could tell you where sleepy yourself, if not by your tired eyes, by the dark circle that were adorning your features. After all, what did anyone expect from the partner of Quackity? Two sleep deprived people are better than one. (He’s not gonna delve into what seeing you standing there with only an old t-shirt of his was doing to his body).

“Good morning birthday boy”.

Oh, now he knows why you rudely (not really) woke him up.

“Hey” he mutters, scratching his crusty, tired eyes, hoping that the sleepy haze that was still clouding his mind will go away.

“Damn that’s all I get? Not even a pet name? We live in a society…” you frowned.

“Shut up” he snorts, looking back at you, just for his eyes to stop at a little red box you were holding. It is very pretty: a big yellow ribbon was tying together the bright red walls of the box, and hey, was that a duck painted on the side of it?

Before his fogged brain can even come up with a question, you are already in action.

“Stand still, your only job is to look pretty now”

He quirks a brow. He’s not sure of what you have going on today, but he’s in for it, especially since he can still smell the sweetness of the treat you’re hiding inside that box.

He sits up and his head lolls backwards onto the cupboard, giving him the perfect angle to watch you fiddling around.

“It’s rude to stare you know?”

“Mhh is it? Even when there’s something so beautiful to look at?” he replies, jokingly wiggling his eyebrows up and down at you.

“You’re such a flatter” you sigh, yet he can see you hiding your smile in your arm.

You soon bring out a tray to him, which had a plate, a fork, an empty glass and a cute, pink piece of paper on top of it. You had obviously written on the paper - he could recognize your handwriting instantly in any context given - and really, it wasn’t even debatable since the paper read “Happy bday amor <3”.

He brought the paper up to his lips, leaving a soft peck on it before putting it on his nightstand. Was he dramatic with it? Yes, but he swears that when it comes to you he just can’t help himself but cherish everything you give him.

“Here you go, I hope you like it”.

You finally open the little box, reveling an adorable, tiny chocolate cake. It was simple: it was round, not more than 10 centimeters wide, and it feature a raspberry and two blueberries on top.

He licks his lips and dives into it immediately, not waiting for approval nor giving it any second thought. He chews on the cake with a satisfied hum, letting the sweet, but strong taste of chocolate invade his mouth. Again, it was really simple, but the fact that it came from you made it ten times more tasteful.

“Where did you buy this? It’s great” he says, searching for the label of the bakery on the tiny box you handed to him. Maybe later he could’ve bought some sweets for his guests there. He strangely couldn’t find it.

“Actually… I made it”.

Saying his mouth was agape would be an understatement, his jaw was on the floor.

“WHAT” he screams with his mouth still full. He did have the decency to swallow before screaming out again: “THERE’S NO WAY”.

He swears he could’ve died right there. Your shy smile and the light blush that paints your cheek enough to send his brain into override.

“Yeah, woke up early to make it today. I’m surprised you didn’t wake up sooner, I made quite the mess” you cackle to yourself, probably remembering all the ruckus you made whilst scratching your neck in embarrassment.

“Im surprised you liked it that much honestly” you trail off, insecurity dripping from your hushed tone.

Was it really though? Alex would eat anything you gave him if it followed a “I made it for you”. Yes, he was that whipped, and he isn’t ashamed of it. It always has been you, trough life and death, he knew from the moment he uttered the first “I love you” that you were his ride or die.

“You did amazing (Name)” he smiles, craning his neck just enough for you to share a sweet, short kiss.

“I can tell you worked hard for it, I’m proud of you” he whispers at mere centimeters from your face, like it’s something just for you to hear and hold dear onto. He leaves a peck on the corner of your mouth before sitting back again.

“I’m very glad you liked it” you say softly, giving him one of those genuine smiles he’d die for “BUT we got much more to do! It’s time to open your gifts!”.

You clap your hands excitedly, already scurrying off to put the tray away.

“What if I want to unwrap another type of gift” he taunts, moving his arms behind his head while wearing a sly grin. He kinda felt bad about making you do all the work, but he figures that maybe, just this once, he can let himself be babied a little.

You shake your head, looking at him with faux disappointment. Your hands found your hips as you scold him: “Cmon you horny bastard, we are going”.

“You called me a WHAT” he says in his typical high pitched voice, following after you. He catches up to you in an instant and wraps his arms around your frame, keeping you still.

“Say that again, i dare you” he threatens light heartedly.

“Nu uh”.

“Okay, you asked for it” he whispers in your ear, impossibly close.

The world went quiet. Your eyes widened.

You knew what was coming.

“No wait, we can talk ab-“

You weren’t fast enough to stop him. You signed your fate.

His hands move swiftly all around your body, wiggling his fingers on those he knew to be your weak spots. He laughs at you, laughs at your misery. Your body twitches uncontrollably and your lungs beg for air.

“S-STop FUGAHAH, oh my GOd- HAHAhH ALEX” you cry out, trashing around in his hold while he brought hell on earth on your poor body. He continues to laugh at your weak attempt to wiggle out of his grip, determined to make you regret calling him names.

“Nu uh”

Needless to say, you where among the few guests on Alex’s birthday stream, and you were also the one who had clean all of it up. Nonetheless, the afternoon was filled with laughter, a bit of alcohol, and carefree dances.

　　*･゜ﾟ･*:.｡..｡.:*･'(*ﾟ▽ﾟ*)'･*:.｡. .｡.:*･゜ﾟ･*

extra:

Well cleaning up that mess was sure a challenge. You had to do 3 Tiktok browsing pauses before actually getting it done (to be honest, you did spend more time on your phone than cleaning, but you’re sure nobody will snitch on you).

Right as you put down the broom, you spot Alex coming towards you, the shit eating grin he was wearing giving away his intentions.

“Can I get my final gift now?” he speaks, using a gravelly tone that catches you off guard. It was hard to take him seriously when he still had some confettis stuck to his clothes, even though you’d be lying if you said you minded the offer.

“You moron” you laugh, instinctively wrapping your arms around his neck.

“Is that a yes?” He whispers, leaving a soft peck on the crook of your neck.

“Fuck yes”.

#quackity x reader #quackity imagine #quackity x y/n #quackity x you #quackity fanfic #qsmp x reader #birthday fic #GUYS I TRIED #im actually proud of this #speedrun it and it came out good like whaaat #nvm guys it took 6 hours #i’m so tired #not edited

[frogchiro]

did you see that warren cole posted his motorcycle on his instagram?! it's given me some maaaaaaajor thoughts about biker graves, maybe even in a modern cowboy/rancher au? like imagine him taking you on rides through the desert and he's so distracted by your chest pressed against his back and your legs spread behind him that he runs out of gas because he just drives so far and him and reader just end up in the middle of nowhere... they end up doing a walk of shame to some dusty ass motel and have tired lazy sex PAHAHAHAHAHAHA (i love you, and your writing. i always will! sending infinite love! <3)

YES I SAW IT AND HHRRNNNN the way that I need that man is astronomical, like, interstellar level

I think I'm gonna go with a...dad's best friend/neighbour Graves scenario for this one since I need a dilf to just take me away ;;

Imagine Graves coming to your dad one day to show him his new motorcycle and oh he just so happened to mention that he takes his new baby for a ride into the vast Texas desert for a day or two, do a lil sightseeing and stuff like that and your dad would be so thrilled!

Being none the wiser, your poor old dad asked his old military buddy if he maybe could take you with him if it wouldn't be too much of a hassle. He said that while he appreciated you being a good student and generally a very calm and mild mannered girl, he thought that you'd need something...more adventurous to do during your summer holiday from collage and Philip being his trusted friend is the perfect person to do that! He trusted him with his life on the battlefield many years ago and now he will trust the blonde man with his daughter :)

Little did your dad know is that it's exactly what both you and Philip were hoping for, literally the perfect opportunity. You and your handsome older neighbour were in a,, let's say secret relationship, at least for the time being and every little sliver of time together was precious ;;

And so you quickly packed the few things you could, climbed onto the bike and off you two went, on a nice, relaxing trip, just the two of you until it didn't end up as relaxing as you though it'd be ;;

As much as Philip prides himself to be a man of iron self control with you it just slips away way too easy, but its one of those things he adores about you, how easy and young he feels when he's with you. Unfortunately this time it didn't come as handy as usual. You weren't supposed to travel too far, just around 100km, stay at a motel for a night or two, have some passionate intimate moments just between two lovers and then right back to put you back into your pa's arms with a pat on the head and call you a 'good kid' but as usual, everything went wrong.

As shameful as it is Philip got a little...distracted. The distraction being the feeling of your warm, soft body and the feeling of your pillowy boobs pressed tightly against his leather jacket clad back and he might have happened to drive a bit too fast for a bit too long and drove straight by the motel you were going to stay, with you not paying attention either being distracted too by all the pretty sights and Phil's cologne and musk :((

All was good and cool until the bike started to rumble and slow down into a dead stop. You drove too far for too long, you're out of gas and it's getting dark. Perfect.

You'd lie if you said you weren't at least a bit scared, after all you were literally in dead nowhere with the nearest town being at least 120km away, it was getting cold due to night approaching and Philip was cussing like a sailor trying to reach a towing company but to no avail, it was late already and no one would help you until tomorrow morning. As much as Graves was pissed off he vaguely knew the area having gone on bike drives here a while ago and he could remember there being a motel not too far away, maybe a 15 minute walk. Sure it was a dingy backwater hole with a shady looking old man behind the counter but better that than staying out here for the night right? Plus he could see that you were getting scared and so began the trek to the motel with you helping him pull his bike along the road.

After finally getting there, your fingers stiff from cold and from pulling the heavy machine you thanked all of the gods above and almost cried with relief and happiness when you saw the old blinking light of the sign of the motel. You didn't even care that it looked like the shadiest place on earth, all you wanted to do was to take a shower with Phil and jump straight into bed but,, it looked like the blonde male had other ideas ;;

What ensued was instead of you going right to bed and sleeping this eventful day off, way some sleepy, lazy and absolutely tired love making and it was the best you and Phil ever had <3

The way the older man was barely moving above you, your tired and sore bodies pressed together as close as can be with Philip thrusting his strong hips against you gently, his hot throbbing cock a warm and comforting weight inside you, right up against your cervix but not with the usual rough, fast pace but just resting there, taking in each others warmth in the otherwise cold motel room<3

Your breaths mingled hotly with each other as you lazily kissed before Philip returned his head back into the crook of your neck and started lazily making out with the sensitive skin, his hips barely moving at this point but it was the warmest and most comforting feeling you could ask for.

Tomorrow Philip would fill the gas tank in his beloved bike up to the brim so you could safely and uneventfully return to the motel you were initially going to spend your time but honestly? If someone were to ask you you'd say that this was the more or less perfect romantic getaway <3

#kin speaks #asks #interactions #this is so fucken shitty #i was so sleepy while writing this so i'm sorry if it's badly written ;; #cod x reader #cod mw x reader #philip graves x reader #graves x reader #philip graves

[teddyeyeseddie]

The Cherrywood Motel

Where Do I Go?

rockstar!Eddie x housekeeper!reader

masterlist

(a/n: this is really heavy so if you need an edited version without any of the trauma dm me so you can still read, ill send over an edited version <3 )

warnings: angst, mentions of drug addiction, alcoholism, some talk of p*ke, drugs, alcohol, abuse, child abuse, overdose, mention of someone getting murdered, eddies dad is awful, his mom isn't much better but

now playing:

“Sweets, my darling. Can you help me out?”

He stumbles into the room, pushing past you but falling to his knees shortly after. 

He's laid at your feet, brown eyes looking up at you. They’re glassy and blown wide, telling you stories you don’t want to hear as you look into them. 

You help him up as best as you can, all but plopping him into your bed. You look him over, groaning when you notice the dried puke on his shirt and pants. You grab the hem of his top, pulling it upwards and exposing his tummy which causes the rather incoherent man above you to finally speak.

“Gotta buy me dinner first,” he slurs, giggling after the words leave his mouth. 

“You have puke all over you and you are not sleeping in my bed like this,” you grumble mostly to yourself. 

He understands for the most part, lifting his hips when you unbutton his pants. You pull them down his legs, thankful this rockstar actually wears boxers. You throw his clothes into a pile on the floor before turning and pulling the covers over Eddie. 

The two of you don’t speak as you fall asleep, there is a silent understanding that this will be a conversation for in the morning. You turn to face him once he is fully asleep, admiring the way his face is illuminated by the bathroom light that you’ve left on. 

His lips are pillowy, red rimmed eyes now peacefully closed. He looks calm for the first time since you’ve met him, his body now settled as he lays in bed beside you.

You wonder how he ended up here. How a bright eyed underground rockstar could turn into such a trainwreck. You don’t know why you even helped him, the amount of times he directly disrespected you has you kicking yourself for even opening the door, let alone stripping him down to his skivvies and giving him a place to lie. 

You turn away from him, letting the bathroom light shine in your face as you try to fall asleep. It’s better than having to stare at him all night. 

You wake the next morning when you hear a groan come from behind you, it's low and guttural and makes your ears burn when you remember the source of said groan. You sit up in bed, swinging your legs over the edge as you turn your back to him. 

“Shit sweets, you get into my pants last night?” he smirks, his voice gravely and low as he speaks. 

You turn and look over your shoulder, shooting daggers with your eyes as you lock onto his brown ones. 

“No dipshit, you came over covered in puke and practically passed out at my feet. The least attractive thing you could have ever done. I’m turned off for eternity,” 

“Ouch sweets, coulda just said no,”

“Could just say no? You threw a whole party that I am going to have to clean, mind you. You threw a party, did god knows how many drugs and drank who knows how much and you showed up on my doorstep covered in puke and just expected me to help you?”

He stays silent, looking up at you where he is still laying on the bed. You have to avert your eyes so as to not stare too long, he’s pretty and he’s even prettier when he’s just woken up, so much more prettier when he’s sober. 

“M’ sorry sweets, must have gotten so fucked up I needed some peace. You’re my peace here, you know that?” 

“Eddie…” you sigh, getting up from your place on the bed, turning to face him. He props himself up on his elbows, looking back at you. 

“You-” you pause, “You can’t say things like that. You know we are no good for eachother. You run around doing whatever you want and fucking whoever you want.  I just want to be left alone, is that too much to ask?” you plead with him, wishing you weren’t the subject of his fixation. 

“Sweets,”

“Stop fucking calling me sweets!,” 

He stays silent at your sudden outburst, sitting up and propping himself up against the headboard. He doesn’t open his mouth, he simply casts his gaze down, avoiding any and all contact with you. 

“M’ sorry,” he finally mumbles. He gets up from his place in bed and heads for the door. He slips out without another word, not even bothering to put on his puke stained clothes, fighting the frigid October air in only a pair of boxers. 

You sigh once he leaves, knowing the inevitable that is to come. You know once word gets to Mr. Scott about what Eddie did in his room, you’re going to be the one who has to clean it. So, you get dressed in your work uniform, internally cringing that you will have to be in it around Eddie all day.

You make your way to the laundry room, collecting various trash bags, paper towels, and gloves. Lots of gloves. You know it’s only 8 o'clock in the morning and your shift doesn’t usually start until 10, but you think Eddie Munson deserves some kind of punishment for what he’s done to you over the last 10 days. 

You don’t even bother knocking, you just push right into the room. You find Eddie sprawled out on his bed, red solo cups and various pill bottles lying around him. If it were anything else, Eddie would look like a little angel lying in the middle of it all, his arms and legs pushing the contents around to form out the perfect shape. But here, with this, he looks like a disaster.  

“Come to yell at me some more?” he questions, propping himself up on his elbow to look at you. You shake your head and stick out your hand which is holding a broom.

“You’re helping.” you mumble before turning to close the door. 

He gets out of bed, still clad in only boxers. He groans when he goes through each drawer to find no clothes that are clean. He finally finds a pair of sweats and decides to forgo a shirt while the two of you clean. 

You’re silent for the most part, the occasional “excuse me” as you brush past each other being the only sound in the large room. 

It’s when the trash is all picked up and the initial grossness has worn off when you really start talking to Eddie. 

“You remember how you said you aren’t like the tabloids crack you up to be?” you ask as you’re on your knees, scrubbing at a drink stain in the carpet. 

“Yeah, about that-”

“You’re just like em,” you cut him off, the scrubbing sound echoing in Eddie’s ears as he tries to think of a response. 

“I- um. I want to get better,” he reveals, shifting from foot to foot as he nervously stands before you. 

“You have to put in more work than you are now,” you brush your hands off on the skirt of your uniform and turn to start working on Eddie’s end table. It’s covered in sticky spilled drinks and remnants of coke. 

“It’s just hard kicking it, ya know? All habits are hard to kick but this one’s got me in a vice grip,” he says as he runs his finger under his nose, mimicking him snorting a line. 

“If you’re serious about it, you’ve gotta stop putting yourself in situations that call for it. Like parties, bars, etcetera,” you spray down the surface in front of you, scrubbing at it with a rag as you try and get the sticky substance to come up.

“Gotta get out of this fuckin band if I really want away from it,” he mumbles, turning towards the bathroom in order to get started in there. The two of you continue the conversation, all but yelling back and forth to each other. 

“What do you mean?” you question

“They’re the ones who got me into it in the first place. Was a pretty straight shooting kid,” he says from his place in the bathroom, gagging when he sees the state of the toilet.

“I lived with my uncle growing up,” Eddie smiles at the memory of his Uncle Wayne, a smart kind old man that loved Eddie like his own. He was more a father to him than Al ever was. 

“He passed when I was 20, completely wrecked me ya know?” he finds himself sniffling, the fond memories of his Uncle causing tears to well up in his eyes. 

“He had some aggressive type of cancer, just came and took him one day and it broke me. I turned to my friends, but they all fucked off and got married or had kids so I was stuck mourning my Uncle while all my friends got hitched. Ended up at a party one day, met Ziggy and the other guys. Was 22?” he questions mostly to himself, the last 6 years wearing heavy on his brain. 

There isn't much in his brain from his time with the band. It’s all shows, crowds, random fucks and a shit ton of coke. His life was all a party and honestly that’s all he can remember. 

He doesn’t remember the last time he visited his Uncle’s grave, he doesn’t remember how old Gareth’s oldest is, his own goddaughter. He doesn’t remember the last meaningful conversation he’s had, can’t even recall a time when he actually enjoyed anything casually. 

The room stays silent as Eddie scrubs at the toilet, he moves to the shower shortly after, finally emerging once the bathroom is sparkling clean. He’s surprised to see the majority of the room is clean, the end tables now bare and sparkling. 

You’d stripped Eddie’s bed, cringing when you remember what happened here a few nights ago. 

“Tell me more about your uncle,” You break the silence, pulling the corner of the fitted sheet down onto the mattress. Eddie does his side, smiling before speaking up. 

“He was a good man, took good care of me. Dealt with me flunking and dealing drugs,”

You roll your eyes, turning around to grab a fresh comforter. 

“Thought you said you were a straight shooting kid?” you tut, throwing the comforter across the bed and into Eddie’s hands. 

“I didn’t use my own supply,” he states matter of factly. 

“He took me in after my dad went to jail,” his gaze is cast downward, lip pulled in between his teeth as he continues. 

“My dad uh- beat me growing up. Me and my momma,” he pulls the bedding up to the corner of the bed, standing straight up and walking away to grab a pillowcase. 

“I never really understood it, I was so little and loved him so much and he just beat the shit out of me, and momma she loved me like a wildfire but she had her demons too ya know?” He stuffs the pillow in the case, throwing it down on the bed before he walks and sits on the couch next to the bed. 

“Passed when I was 12, she never really fought against it or him,” His hands are cradling his head as he looks down at the floor, elbows resting on his knees. 

“He got worse after that, there wasn't enough of me to go around anymore so he started going out finding people to rough up. Ended up going too far and killed some innocent teenager in some alley on the wrong side of town,”

He's sniffling by this point, he’s never opened up about his life to someone like this, not in the last 6 years. His life was meaningless and his conversations he held were just as so. There wasn’t any room for these types of emotion to run rampant in his life. 

“Then my band, met Ziggy when I was 22. He uh- basically forced my nose through a line. Not really, he just dangled a frontman position in front of me for his band and I bit, never agreed to something faster. Did that line like a champ and I’ve given the same energy to every line ever since. Feels like being reborn every time I do it, throws me back to that first night when I achieved my dream,” 

You take a seat next to him, turning your body to face him better as he continues. 

“I uh- couldn’t stop? Wanted to try the next pill or the next high. Luckily it hasn’t gotten so out of control that I do like heroin but I’ve thought about it. Just can’t do that to my poor momma. She’s probably rolling over in her grave as we speak,” 

“So your mom-”

“Overdosed? Yeah,” he sucks in a breath through his teeth, clicking his tongue as he wills away the tears that have flooded his eyes again.

“Eddie-” 

“No, it’s okay. There’s no need to feel sorry for me. I’ve done it all to myself, I could have defied the odds but here i am just proving them all right,” 

“You don’t have to prove them right, Eds,” 

“S’ easier said than done,” 

It's silent between the two of you, the other not really knowing what to say after such a heavy drop in the conversation. 

“I listened to some of your songs the other day, went and bought a CD,” you state.

“Yeah?” He has a goofy grin on his face when he learns you’ve brushed up on your Corroded Coffin. 

“Yeah, like the slower stuff you do. Like it all actually,” Eddie shifts in his seat across from you, elbows coming to rest on the edge of the couch.

“M’ writing a really slow song right now. People are gonna hate it, but I don't care.” he shrugs.

“You’ll have to sing it for me sometime,” you say with a small smile.

“Tell me your name and maybe I will,”

You shake your head and get up from your place on the couch, collecting your things and loading them onto your cart. 

“Wanna know who's been stuck in my head for the last week and a half,” 

You suck in a deep breath, eyes meeting his. They’re dark in this light, almost black. You admire the rest of his face, too afraid to say anything to what he has just revealed. 

“Cmon sweets, can’t call you that for the rest of my life,”

Rest of my life rings in your ears, your mind wandering to a life where you could be Eddie’s. A world where you were two normal people in a normal town with a normal life.

“Sorry, Eddie. Kinda like you calling me sweets,” you lie, turning your back to him as you attempt to push the cart towards the door. 

“S’ a name reserved for you, my momma used to call me that,” 

You physically recoil at that, bile rising in your throat when you remember days earlier when he had a woman in his sheets. 

“I’ve gotta get to work Eddie, have a good one,”

tags: @yunnie-f1 @nope-thanks @meganwinchester @daisyridleyyyy @ostricx @aysheashea @emilyshortcake @bebe07011 @miss-celestial-being @bblunuh @dandelionnfluff @bibieddiesgf @erisdogwood @emxxblog @sidthedollface2 @josephquinncore @lottie-90 @ali-r3n @tlclick73 @annie-maximoff @findmeincorneliastreet

#Eddie Munson #eddie my baby #eddie x reader #eddie x you #eddie fanfiction #eddie stranger things #eddie x y/n #eddie x fem!reader #eddie smut #eddie blurb #Eddie series #Eddie Munson x reader #eddie munson one shot #eddie munson fan fiction #Eddie Munson x you #Eddie Munson x y/n #eddie munson fluff #Eddie Munson angst #Eddie Munson x fem reader #eddie munson fanfiction #eddie munson smut #rockstar eddie munson #rockstar eddie #rockstar!eddie munson #Spotify

[aklaustaleteller]

Should've Known

When fate made them stumble across each other in an art shop, Y/n should've known that what was coming with Klaus couldn't be anything more than an affair because of her true identity. And yet when she fled town, Y/n hadn't expected the news of a grave mistake made by Klaus' own town to shatter her heart into so many pieces that she’d just let them lay.

Warnings - mentions of death, and a description of an intimate moment.

Word Count - 1.3k

I'm so sorry but here I am, serving you guys with another two part-er (I deeply apologise) Part two should be out withing two days and eeek I'm so excited to write it! Hope you all enjoy this one until then <3

This was the second time that their eyes had locked since Y/n had entered the shop, and their mouths instinctively shared a smile once again. Klaus quite simply couldn’t stop looking at her, she was so mesmerising that he wished she didn’t keep catching him every time his eyes would drift onto her to drink in her dreamy sight. 

Her hair was half up and half down, intricate patterns designed like a labyrinth with the sinister intent to hypnotise the one looking, which Klaus very easily was. His eyes trailed down further and met with her eyes, only they were looking down at something while a small frown sat between her brows. Her nose led him lower and then his gaze landed on her mouth, on her lips that looked so pillowy and compelling, their corners lifting up in a smile making Klaus lift up his eyes with a defeated smile that gave away his realisation that he’d been caught staring again. 

She shook her head, a soft laugh escaping her mouth before she went over to the elderly man to pay him for the art supplies she’d collected. She was a piece of art herself, Klaus thought as he saw her leaving but not before passing him a last smile. 

He came back to that art shop more and more frequently then, hoping to see her there but returned home every single time with disappointment weighing his heart lower and lower into his stomach. He just wished to see her again, and again, and again. She was all that was on his mind and with her portrait beginning to lose colour in his memory, he was pathetically desperate to see her again. 

But as he went inside the shop again for the insurmountable time, Klaus’ nose caught a scent that immediately made his eyes light up. This was her fragrance and  once his gaze had lifted, it immediately landed on her already looking and very gently waving at him. 

Klaus smiled at that, focusing his attention on the floor for a bit as he tried to hide his blush and giddiness at finally seeing her again. She looked the same, if not even more alluring because of the green coloured clothing she was dressed in, the colour fading into different shades as her dress poofed and flowed down to meet the ground. 

He nodded at her, his smile not once leaving his mouth as he picked up a set of paint brushes to buy along with a paint set of which the colours fit her appearance the most – which had him staring at her again and again to make sure he wouldn’t mess up any hue. On the other end, Y/n picked a sketchbook and a set of pencils before going back to the front to pay for it. 

Klaus came out soon after her, watching as she paid and left the shop. Klaus hurried to pay for his stuff as well, rushing outside to not miss her, only to find her standing there, waiting for him with the slyest of smiles he’d ever seen. 

As if their eyes had spoken for a brief moment, Klaus’ feet began following hers down the dirt trail that led to a large field bordering a shimmering river. Neither of them uttered a single word on the way, only Y/n glancing back every once in a while to make sure Klaus was still with her. 

It was when Y/n sat herself down by the river when she looked up at him and patted the spot beside her, “come sit,” she added, her voice so soft that Klaus instantly obliged. 

“I’d like to get to know you,” she said, looking him in the eyes with the purest of looks. “Tell me, do you paint as well?” 

Klaus looked ahead of him, a smile stretching his lips as he nodded. “Yes,” he whispered, as if maintaining the peace they had surrounding them. “I don’t think I would survive if I ever stopped,” continuing, he looked back at her only to find her beginning a sketch.

But that didn’t stop her from confabulating further with him. They talked until the sun had begun setting and Y/n suggested it best that they parted ways and reached home before it got entirely dark. She’d mirrored Klaus’ sad expression before she’d leaned in to press a kiss to his cheek, which had him profusely blushing. 

“Meet me here again, if you decide that perhaps, I didn’t tire you so much of myself,” she’d laughed, allowing Klaus to pull her up from the ground and telling him that he should come if he wanted to see the sketch so badly, earning a laugh from him. 

Since that day, they’d met up several other times to share long walks and steal sweet kisses from eachother. They had officially been meeting up for a fortnight when they shared a bed, his skin on hers without any barrier as they relished in eachother’s warmth erotically enough to make them lose their breaths.

Their meetups had admittedly been growing more and more frequent until that night, and from then on, they found themselves meeting everyday, doing everything and nothing away from all prying eyes. 

But the prying eyes were slowly turning into suspicious gazes as the news about Vampires spread in the town and Klaus was growing more and more tense that they were going to take Y/n away from him and stake her, bringing anxiety into their relationship but she always managed to make him forget about his worries every time he met with her, which now happened after longer time periods because of the dark fate looming over them like dark clouds. 

Long gone were the days spent down by the river, hidden in long grass or camouflaged among wildflowers. Now they met up under the blindness of the night sky, moonlight directing to them their paths to each other and Klaus would end up sobbing in her neck almost every single time while she mumbled sweet nothings into his ear, telling him that she’d forever stay with him in the sketchbooks he had filled up to the brims with her portraits.

On their last night together, she’d told him that she’d always be watching over him from the same dark sky that they were laying under and usher to him her stories through the winds. She’d kissed on every inch of his body, every muscle that flexed under her touch and every spot on his face, letting him kiss her lips until neither of them could breath and their mouths hurt. Until she’d come undone under him and he’d fallen on top of her with the faintest tears brimming on the rims of his eyes. 

“I love you, Niklaus Mikaelson. I always have, and I always will,” she whispered and pressed her mouth against his to punctuate her promise. She couldn’t understand why she was so hurt – this was just an affair, something that couldn’t last forever because she was a vampire and her lover was a human.

She should’ve seen their paths diverging a long time ago, and yet, another tear slipped past her eyes and into her ear.

“Always and forever?” Klaus questioned her, his tears mixing with hers as he rested his forehead on hers. And when she nodded with the saddest and littlest smile on her mouth, Klaus knew it was time to go.

Y/n had stayed there a little longer,  reminiscing over her life before she sped out of town under everyone’s sniffing noses. 

But on his walk home, Kaus had walked into an alley where the men with lit pitchforks lighting their sight had put their suspecting gazes on him, believing that he was one of the Vampires making one of them shoot him out of the sheer freight that Klaus might’ve drained them of blood if he didn’t act fast enough.

And when the news reached Y/n, she heard her dead heart shatter into so many pieces that she just decided to let them lay instead of picking them up piece by piece to put together an ugly heart that had its love taken from it. 

#tvdu angst #klaus mikaelson angst #klaus mikaelson #the originals #the vampire diaries #klaus mikaelson x reader #klaus mikealson fanfiction #klaus mikaelson one shot #klaus mikaleson imagine #elijah mikaelson #rebekah mikaelson #the vampire diares imagine #kol mikaelson #niklaus imagines #niklaus mikaelson #angst no comfort #tvd klaus #klaus m #klaus mikaelson x y/n #klaus michaelson #tvd universe #hope mikaelson #klaus mikaelson headcanon #klaus mikaelson fluff #klaus mikaelson yandere #klaus mikealson smut #klaus mikaelson x yn #klaus mikealson x reader #tvd fanfiction #tvdu fanfiction

[whatifyoulivelikethat]

time to dig up those graves, m | myg, jjk

misfit toys au continuation of intro >> don’t play >> this game

pairing(s): yoongi x reader, jungkook x reader

summary: In this world, there are those who get stabbed and the ones who do the stabbing. Is it fun for you, Min Yoongi? Is it fun to see who gets the fatal strike in this game of sex and lies you've created with your stepsister? It's not so fun, though, when you actually witness her parring hits from your very own father.

warnings: rated M (18+) for language; warning! implied sexual abuse (no direct actions are described); name calling; equally wealthy and SHIT parents that abuse their adult children in the name of filial piety narcissism; descriptions of a peeping tom event and a physical fight; stepsiblings; intense smut (fem reader, D/s (switches, sub!JK), fucking in a hot tub, thigh riding, nipple play, heavy biting / marking / scratching, fingering, cumming on reader's face, cum eating, m-receiving oral, restraints, blindfolding(?), use of a makeshift gag (panties) + cock ring, cock-warming, spitting, choking, cowgirl, cum feeding (from a condom ew), reverse cowgirl, ball torture); non-idol!AU - orange-haired!Yoongi x savage, bad bitch!reader, ft protective, security guard!Jeon Jungkook; shifts between Yoongi's, yours, and JK's POV

--

“Enjoyed your date, slut?”

He had to hand it to her for the hotel selection at least. The large penthouse balcony allowed for a sprawling view of a city skyline below, complete with tiny glittering windows, artificial stars shining for the restless still awake in this late night. The separation from inside area to the outside veranda was a wall of glass doors that only required a few buttons to fully open up the space, folding back into the wall to allow the guest to walk freely from the massive bed to the hot tub.

Min Yoongi walked into this extravagant hotel room with a curled lip and spite in his tone.

A voice rose from the water like rising steam.

“It wasn’t a date. It was only a client from the club.”

“That’s not what the media said.”

He saw her back first. Base of shoulder blades and up. Her elbows rested on the stone tile edge of the hot tub. Her hair was twisted into place with a long metal hairpin, revealing the curve of naked shoulders, the glistening skin imploring for his bites.

The more vicious, the better.

As he approached his stepsister, Yoongi noticed the hairpin had a thin silver chain with a charm on it.

An onyx cat head.

Her head turned, barely. The charm swung ominously in the air, making him feel like some sort of body should be attached, but the design was clearly meant to be a disembodied head attached to the end of a thin metal stake. An instrument with the sole purpose to be stabbed into tangled hair to thereby deem the wearer put together.

“You shouldn’t concern yourself with the squabble of simpletons, Yoongi.”

A wry chuckle.

“It was a dull dinner, honestly. The client was asking for some of the girls for his birthday party.”

The sound of churning water mixed with fingertips dancing on the surface. A low, mirthless hum. He could feel the cloaked rage in her otherwise calm tone.

“I told him my employees are not circus animals.”

“You don’t own the brothel, you know,” he muttered.

Silence.

An Icy itch slithered down his spine.

Yoongi had the distinct feeling that if his stepsister had a knife with her, it would now be buried into his anatomy with furious precision.

Instead, she inhaled slowly. Long digits fanning out, lifting, right hand gracefully landing on the stone tiles. Sliding out, her shoulders and head tipping back, and he saw her eyes were closed, wispy strands of hair fluttering over her cheeks and forehead. The water was milky with bath salts, aerated waves washing over her chest, concealing it save for the upper swell of her breasts.

She sank down as she leaned back, pink pillowy lips parting to let out a smokey sigh.

The onyx charm of the cat head clinked against the stone.

Scraping.

“The establishment is a gentlemen’s club. Not a daycare that rents out adult babysitters for crass, immature worms that still have birthday parties.”

Those beautiful eyes opened, darker in the dim light of the wall sconces set on low. Yoongi stayed where he was, a few meters away from the hot tub. Any closer and he didn’t trust himself. Her head tilted, gaze piercing right through him even when upside down. He noticed his eyes were wandering, glancing at her hands. Her arms. Her lips. The shape of her collarbones now prominent from the position. His tongue flitted over his lips, wetting them.

Flexible.

He knew that about her, of course. Remembered the arch of her spine with his hand on the small of her back, his tongue licking a thick, wet stripe up her torso, tasting the sinful sweetness of her skin.

Yoongi shoved his shaking hands into the pockets of his gray acid-wash jeans.

Nodded slowly, looking away from those accusing eyes.

“It’d be bad for business,” he mumbled. “Doing that kind of service.”

Seconds that felt like hours.

“I knew you would understand, Yoongi.”

The sound of shifting water.

When he glanced back, he was staring at the back of her head again.

“Where are your guards?”

“I sent them home,” she drawled absentmindedly, waving her hand. “No need for them when you’re around.”

He scoffed, ticking his head. “Hah. Like I would save you from any danger.”

“We both know saving is the last thing I want.”

The conversation lulled once more. An unpleasant, bitter feeling festered within his chest, her words ringing in his ears. He had received the envelope only a couple hours earlier. The day had been wasted away in his music studio once again. Eventually, he had given up and collected his bomber jacket to leave, finding a bright red envelope taped to the outside of his door. It had contained an address and a keycard.

“How did you know I would come?” Yoongi muttered.

The middle finger of her right hand tapped against the stone. The rhythm of her nail was barely audible over the roar of the jets of water.

“I didn’t.”

He flinched.

As if shot.

A strange kind of ache in his ribcage, as if a gaping hole was forming.

A part of him wanted to run. Not just physically removing himself from this moment. Running  could mean so many more things than that. Running was lashing out. Running was trying to find the words that hurt most. Running was holding onto the meaningless pride of needing to be more than. Running was the kind of thing his father did; exercising clout, money, pettiness to defend his conceited, selfish character.

Yoongi tucked his tongue into his cheek.

His right hand raised and rubbed the left side of his chest, pressing the jersey fabric of his t-shirt to tense muscle.

He saw her left arm shift.

It swung out, landing in the same position as her right. Fingers fanned downward, elbow resting on stone. Her decorated wrist didn’t touch the tile, keeping the silver chain bracelet with black glass beads out of harm’s way. It shone wickedly, catching the light.

Yoongi lowered his hand.

Kicked off his shoes.

Removed his jacket, letting it fall to the floor.

Her hands remained the sides of the hot tub, at rest. Calm. Not reacting to the sound of his pants falling onto the carpet, socks shed, shirt pulled up and over his head. Hooked his fingers on the elastic waistband of his boxer briefs and pushed down. Fabric collapsed onto the floor, one by one, and then the sound of his heavy step on wood.

And yet.

Nothing.

“Hey.”

Nothing.

Yoongi found he hated her saying nothing more than her calling him brother.

He lowered himself to his knees.

His hand reaching out, gliding it against her cheek, stroking her damp skin with fingertips. His thumb brushed against her lower lip. An exhale. Her soft lips pressed against the pad of his thumb, making him shiver. The ache in his ribcage was transforming into something ravenous as his fingers pressed into her jaw, turning her head while he lowered his, blurs of red-orange shielding his peripheral vision as his hair swung forward. His eyelids lowered, weighed down by the heat radiating from the bubbly, hot water.

Her head turned.

Her chin lifted with his touch, half-lidded eyes finding his.

Yoongi kissed her deeply.

Her body twisted, rising slightly, nimble tongue flitting between his lips.

He stilled his breathing.

Trying not to shudder.

She drew back, alluring eyes pulling away from him, her fingers skimming his knee. Floated backward to make way for him. He lifted his knee and swung his leg into the water, propelling his body into the waves. The temperature change from night air to churning heat shocked his nerves, sending pinpricks of goosebumps all over his skin, but he ignored it, reaching out again, his hand grasping her upper arm and pulling her back to him.

“Don’t try to escape,” he whispered.

Husky and rough.

The corner of her lips ticked upwards.

“Speak for yourself.”

She planted her hands above his shoulders, gripping the edge of hot tub, and closed the distance.

Kissing him.

Yoongi knew he didn’t have any particular morals. He didn’t care about being perceived as right or having correct conduct or who the fuck knows what else people wanted to be. Breaking rules, crossing lines, digging his fingers into his stepsister’s hips and sliding his thigh between hers while sucking on her tongue, he did these things without much remorse and without much thought, because thinking too deeply about it would mean facing parts of himself that he wished weren’t real. He knew what he should be doing. He should have stopped.

He knew that.

Her body rose, rivets of water trickling down her breasts, beading when they reached her hard nipples, fierce kisses deepening and his head tipping back, giving into the addictive, binding taste of her saliva and his mixing together, tongue to coiling tongue.

A few times of this, sure.

A few times could be forgotten.

Under the churning water, she sat on his thigh. Angling her hips downward, making them both hiss at the contact. Sensitive nerves rubbing against hard muscle. His tight grip guided the deliberate pace, staring into each other’s eyes, shaking breath shared in the mere centimeters between their faces.

Yoongi knew he could have many beautiful things.

Her eyes gleamed as her smirk reached them, shamelessly stimulating her clit against his flexed thigh, not hiding, aroused enough that he could feel the viscous juices clinging to his skin for a split second before it was washed away by the jets of water around them.

He could have many beautiful things.

She’s the most beautiful one.

He tilted his head and ran his tongue over the side of her neck, feeling her hips flinch and her head fall back, a sweet moan injected into the air above his ear. The city sounds were akin to white noise due to how high up they were, but Yoongi wouldn’t have heard them anyway, too focused on cascading water and rolling hips and the taste of her skin, her head moving aside to give him more access. Muscle and pulse under his teeth.

He bit down, marking her.

A satisfied, airy chuckle.

“I hoped you would, Yoongi.”

Power and blood underneath his mouth and his fingernails, dragging them roughly across her ass, sucking hard as she fucked herself harder, riding his hard thigh with lustful vengeance, chasing her orgasm in pain and pleasure and heat.

Out in the open, high in the sky, seemingly untouchable.

Her left hand flew off the edge and grabbed the back of his head, locking her fingers into his hair and sending flicks of red-orange tips into the edge of his vision, pinning his vicious mouth to her throat as she came, sliding closer, her soft thigh flush to his erection. Hips strongly flinching in his hands, pulsating softness pressed into his skin. Leaking honey washing away, washing away, the traces of her release reduced trembling muscles and heedless, hazy sighs laced with his name. Heartbeat roaring in his ears, his own breathing erratic and melding with her moans, all of it drifting up, up, up into the night sky where planes roared past.

Clueless sheep flying above the tangled snakes.

He kissed up her bruises and his marks, curling his tongue around her earlobe, diamond earring quivering from his raspy growl.

“Turn around.”

She slowly let go of his head.

Her breath feathered against his ear, words breezing past twin platinum hoops.

“Don’t want to look at my face, hah?” she whispered, light in tone and heavy in implication.

Yoongi said nothing.

She obeyed, untangling for less than a second before twisting her body, backing up without fear, leaning against his chest, layering their heartbeats. He raised himself a little, sliding his erection into the dip of her ass, a familiar feeling now. She hummed and rocked her hips back, rubbing his hard cock against her juicy ass.

He stopped her.

One hand gripping the inside of her thigh and the other in her hair, his fingers digging into the bun held together by a metal hairpin. The onyx cat head charm swung unsteadily, metal to gemstone rattling.

A breathless beat.

Yoongi flicked his wrist, forcibly rotating her head ninety degrees so her parted lips were against his cheek, holding her there. He breathed out. Exhale, unhurried, her warm breath drifting over his left cheek. His hand on her thigh sliding down, down, bodies surrounded by aerated water, brushing his fingertips against her shivering slit.

His eyes shifted, turning his head to look into hers.

Said nothing, letting the direct eye contact do the talking.

She held her breath.

Yoongi let his eyes explore every detail of her face, pressing two fingers to her engorged clit and rubbing slow circles. He memorized her expression. The tension in her jaw lessening at the hunger was soothed by his touch. The lowering of her lush lashes, gazing at him with desire. The way bliss slowly but surely crumbled the cloaked anger, swollen lips parting and snaking moan rising as his fingers tangled in her hair, pulled, tugging her head back and exposing his bites.

Broken vessels and seeping blood the cause of those red-purple marks, his teeth marring perfect, pampered skin.

He stared into her eyes and leaned in.

Shoved two fingers into her pussy as he covered her open mouth with his, swallowing her cry.

Yoongi did not want to forget.

His hand cupping the back of her head, pressing her body to his with his forearm, adding a third finger and thrusting his tongue into her mouth, devouring her stifled moans with greed, and he knew he did not want to forget, knew he wanted the memorize the way her body clenched around him and sucked him in, more, needing more, countless times, a hundred times, a thousand times, never enough, looking into her beautiful eyes, roughly fucking her with his fingers all the way to his knuckles, encouraged by the way her hips bucked and shuddered. Lips locked, continuous. The constant milky water adding sensual slip between their bodies. Her left hand on his hip, sharp manicure digging in deliciously. Her soft ass bouncing against his stiff length, keeping him on the edge of almost enough.

He shoved her up against his torso repeatedly.

Over and over.

Her other hand lifted from the bubbling water, sliding into his hair and intensifying the kiss.

Lost in his tongue and his hands.

Heat intensifying, lust compounding, lightheaded from shared breath. Neither of them stopping. Faster, harder, in unison, her tight grip on his ass, the kiss broken with a faint gasp, suddenly staring at the perfect arc of her straining throat and feeling the sting on his swollen lips.

“Yoongi, fuuuck…”

His name so saturated with ecstasy that even he felt his nerves sing.

She writhed against him and her hands shot down, jamming his three fingers as far in as they would go, locking him in place so he could feel deep inside, feel the powerful, slippery walls clenching around his digits, feel the cum drenching his skin in waves, bear witness to sharp throbs rippling up her torso, her back arching, moan so wanton that the sound itself was enough to make his already hard cock swell even more.

He worked his fingertips into her hair, massaging her scalp, his body on fire.

Pressed his lips to her neck, nicking the skin and eliciting a fucked-out hiss.

“You…”

She was breathing hard, winded from the high achieved at this height.

“You should cum on my face,” she breathed out.

Arousal hiking, feral want clawing up his insides, the gears of this misfit toy click, click, clicking.

“Cum all over me, Yoongi.”

The air outside the hot tub was cold, but his body was too hot to notice. Splashing water as they repositioned, but neither of them cared, too ensnared by each other, lured too deeply by the forbidden passion, her elegant fingers spreading out over her jaw and open mouth, pink tongue hanging out and loose strands artfully framing this display, looking him up and down as he gripped his cock, sitting on the stone tiles, pumping himself right in front of her face, water streaming down his tense muscles.

Her eyes gleamed with rapturous glee.

Flexible tongue coiling in the air, dancing, teasing him as he thrust into his hand.

He clenched his jaw, looking down at the unabashed, lewd, pornographic display of indecency.

“I…”

The corner of her lips ticked upward.

I love you, so I act this way.

“I fucking hate you,” Yoongi gritted out, his core tightening, already there.

She grinned, and he gasped, shoulders jerking and throwing his hips forward, shooting a thick string of white across her cheek and neck, choking back his groans as she leaned back, floating closer and showering herself in his orgasm, his twitching cock painting dripping lines over her lips, her tongue, her cheeks, her neck, even down to her collarbones and up to her forehead, his heavy scent stuck to her skin.

She smeared it all over her face, collecting his cum, sliding her fingers into her mouth and licking them off, pressing her fingertips onto her tongue and rubbing circles right below the shivering, dark red head sticking out of his tight grip.

Yoongi panted hard, chest heaving.

Saw a bead of white clinging to the tip.

Quivering.

His eyes flickered to her, unsure.

That intense gaze locked with his immediately. No malice. No anger. Only a carnal craving unsatisfied, desire unrelenting, wanting him still. Wanting more, just as he wanted more of her. Both knowing the night was still young. Both still waiting to put their hands around each other’s necks and cum together without air. Both still waiting for the ache between their legs to be fulfilled.

She glided in the water, smooth and sleek, and her lips closed around his cock.

Yoongi let his eyes close and he let go, sliding his cum-covered hand into her hair instead as her head began to bob up and down, persuasive tongue swirling around his re-engorging shaft, and he cared not for what was right or what was correct conduct, tipping his head back and burying his cock into her throat with a moan.

-

“You are a disgrace. I leave on an important business trip and I come back to my lawyer informing me that my son has fuckin’ assault charges, again. Again! Do you know how expensive these settlements to these lowlife peasants are? Tch, and you still have that disgusting orange hair I’ve been trying to get you to dye back. Fucking clean up. Why are you dressed like a dirty street rat? Shit. You should be more like your sister. As usual, the gentleman’s club has no issues and I’m forced to clean up your messes instead. If you doing jail time didn’t reflect so poorly on me, I’d lock you in there myself.”

You said nothing.

Entire body on high alert, wearing a thick cream turtleneck tucked into suit slacks, hands folded in your lap, legs firmly crossed. No easy access. You were sitting on the rigid, black leather sofa of the living room that had not seen much living. Glass coffee table, ivory shag rug. Your immaculate hair was pinned back, every strand in a smooth wave cascading down the left side of your face.

You stepfather sat beside you.

To your left.

He was wearing a lavish gold and black robe, open to reveal his toned chest. Gold silk pants to match. Holding a glass of scotch in his left hand and his right arm was resting on the back of the sofa, his fingertips stroking the nape of your neck.

You didn’t look at him.

It took everything in you to not flinch away from the vile, parasitic touch threatening to caress your bare skin.

Your jaw was clenched so tight that it hurt. You couldn’t even look at Yoongi, who was standing at the other side of the coffee table with his tongue in his cheek. Dressed like the street rat he wasn’t, distressed black sweater with the threads torn apart, washed-out gray long sleeve underneath, and light blue jeans with giant holes exposing his scabbed, scraped knees. His freshly dyed, long red-orange hair was hanging in limp strings due to too much gel and fingers combing through it too many times.

Your mother sat on your right; artificially tightened body stuffed into an even tighter, low-cut, flashy cobalt blue minidress. She didn’t add anything to the tirade except her tight-lipped disapproval and the condescending upturn of her nose.

Her hip pressed against your hip.

She scooted even closer to you, practically sitting in your goddamn lap because you refused to more any closer to your stepfather, keeping a fixed fifteen-centimeter difference between your leg and his open legs.

“Do you have anything to say for yourself?” you stepfather barked shrilly.

His knee flapped open more and hit yours.

You bit back a snarl, clasping one hand over the other, forcing your fist down.

Yoongi clicked his tongue and dropped his shoulders back.

Cocked his head.

“Yeah. I got a question,” he replied lazily. “How young was the youngest girl you fucked in Europe this time? Another high schooler? Or have you stooped to middle schoolers now?”

The corner of your lips quirked upwards.

Your eyes shifted, locking with Yoongi’s smug expression.

“You–”

Your stepfather flew off the couch and kicked your stepbrother in the knee with his fur-lined, designer loafer, making him grimace and buckle. A loud thud as Yoongi caught himself with his hands, visibly restraining himself as his own father poured the expensive scotch onto his head and clothes, soaking him in alcohol. His head was barely visible above the glass surface of the coffee table.

Dark eyes shot towards you.

Yoongi smirked, rivers of liquid poison sliding down his temples.

You smiled, licking your lips.

Your mother finally rolled her eyes and stood up, huffing as your stepfather hurled the glass into the far wall, and now they were yelling, he does this all the time, what is the point of getting angry and destroying my fine crystal, roaring back, don’t tell me what to do, woman, and your crystal that you bought with my money?

Yoongi got up, shaking off the excess liquid in his hair with a growl, pushing past the maids that suddenly appeared to rush and silently clean up the shattered glass right away.

“Oh, don’t be so full of yourself! You can’t even get it up anymore without the pills.”

“I told you those were for my blood pressure!”

“I’m pretty, not stupid! I asked the doctor since I had to go to find out that I somehow mysteriously got chlamydia, again!”

Your stepbrother stopped by the hall.

Looked back.

Your lips parted.

His eyes darkened, cutting that nonverbal communication, and Yoongi looked away, turning to the right, disappearing around the corner without another word.

Your mother began to grab the various equally expensive and meaningless trinkets around her, vindictively throwing them at her husband as you got up from the sofa, in a haze, wandering out as strong-armed butlers rushed in, the shouting escalating, but all you did was run, turning to the left when you reached the hall, running, still feeling the ghost of a vile, parasitic touch at the nape of your neck.

-

Jeon Jungkook entered his apartment, closed the door behind him, and turned on the light.

The young Master was standing right in front of him.

“Woah!”

He jerked back and dropped his keys, the loud clattering shattering through the disturbed air of his exclamation. He was out of his security guard uniform, handed to the laundry clerk at the gentleman’s club for them to clean and return to him when refreshed and re-pressed. He had remembered to take out the switchblade with the engraved black tiger, of course. It was currently weighing down his dark-wash jeans, the clip concealed by his long-sleeved black shirt and padded leather jacket.

The woman who was effectively his boss was standing in his apartment.

Just standing there, staring at him with a blank expression.

Jungkook swallowed hard.

His lips tingled with memory, remembering the taste of her pussy and the way her hips grinded into his face, suffocating him in the stone basement as she toyed with his overstimulated cock.

“Um… Hi, Master.”

She blinked, slowly, and it was like she finally saw him, taking the time to observe his appearance from his thick-soled black boots, up his legs, up his torso, to his face.

“You’re home, Jungkook,” she said.

He reached down cautiously, looking up at her inquisitively as he picked up his keys. Her eyes followed, tracking his movements like a newborn hawk. “Uh, yeah. I live here,” he managed to get out, lingering a little before straightening, tossing his keys in the ceramic dish by the door. “I guess it’s in my employee file, huh? My address?”

The young Master tiled her head.

Jungkook felt the same way he felt when he saw her outside the employee lockers, seeing again those empty eyes bleeding distress. He should probably be bothered, annoyed, maybe even angry at this invasion of privacy, and yet he didn’t sense any ill-will emanating from her.

It was as if she too didn’t understand why she was there.

“Ah, did I give you a key?” he asked, now unsure what he had done in his lust-filled stupor. “I guess I must have–”

“I picked the lock.”

“What?”

He gawked at her, wide-eyed.

She ticked her chin to the console table by his door and he started, seeing a strange, brushed black leather pouch open with various pointy instruments.

“A chubby boy taught me how to pick locks in middle school in return for not ratting on him for peeping at his female classmates in the gym changing room.”

It was almost comical how fast Jungkook whipped his head around, his own black hair hitting him in the face as his jaw dropped in the stunned disbelief at this very sudden, very specific explanation of how she broke into his apartment. She nodded, looking up from the lockpicks to his shocked face.

“I found him stuffed into one of the tall lockers,” she continued calmly as if she was delivering a dry speech instead of explaining how she learned literal criminal activity. “He was being bullied by the older jocks. They would beat him up, piss on him, and then shove him into one of the tall lockers in the girls’ changing room.”

“What… the fuck…”

She shrugged. “He didn’t seem that distressed about it, because then he realized the girls liked the small lockers more than the long ones. They never opened the tall ones, so he stayed there and watched them. Wasn’t gonna do anything. Just watch them take their clothes off and put them back on. Eventually, the jock boys got bored bullying him, so he went back on his own and kept locking himself in to watch.” Her head ticked, as if remembering something. “I was in there by myself, skipping class, and I heard breathing. Yanked him out. At first, I thought he was hurt. I thought he needed help.”

Something strange flitted in her eyes.

“He didn’t want help.”

Jungkook felt an icy itch slither down his spine as he witnessed her vacant expression as she explained.

“He wanted me to go away. I told him I would tell the teachers. He said he would teach me how to pick locks then. He taught me, and I went away.” Wry laugh. Nothing was funny. “I moved back to Korea for high school. Never saw him again.”

Her eyes rose, locking with his.

Searching.

Jungkook didn’t back off.

He couldn’t figure out what wasn’t quite right behind those eyes.

She looked away, turning, gazing in the direction of his expansive windows in the living room with the sheer curtains pulled. “Did you know Papa owns this building? He owns a bunch on this block. Seems like a nice area,” she commented hollowly.

Jungkook found he despised her talking about her stepfather, even in passing. “It’s okay. I picked it because it was close to work.”

That was not the reason why he picked this apartment building.

The young Master turned away from the windows. “Do you like work?”

The reason was standing in front of him.

“I’d hate it if you weren’t there,” Jungkook confessed.

She smiled.

It felt like a mirage, too distant to be a façade.

“The world is savage, Jungkook,” she said.

Clear and simple.

He answered, steadfast.

“I’m trained to be tough, remember?”

Later when he thought about it, he was surprised that he was even able to continue this kind of conversation. He usually struggled when there was a lack of straightforwardness. Yet this moment was so surreal that it felt like a dream. Something about this moment in reality was just slightly off track, a mis-clicking gear stuttering in place, all the right pieces but having trouble syncing up.

“Careful not to get backstabbed by the one you’d take a knife for,” the young Master told him, standing in his apartment after having broken in.

Jungkook took the pause that followed.

Followed the teeth of the gear, click, click, clicking into place.

“It’s true that there are two kinds of people in this world – those that get stabbed, and the ones who do the stabbing,” he found himself saying, and he could see the wary child peek out from the tangled forest of those eyes, not yet trusting him. Maybe wouldn’t. Maybe it was too late now. “But I think there’s one more.”

She tilted her head.

“The knives.”

Her soft lips parted.

“I don’t really have any particular thoughts about anything.” He shrugged. “I don’t have any solutions to the complexities of the world. I don’t know of or understand the sides to take.” He cast his eyes down, feeling strangely guilty about it. “But… I can listen. I might not know the words to say, but I have a voice. I’m capable.”

His eyes flickered upward, to the innocent fascination that received him.

“I’m a knife.”

Jungkook smiled sheepishly, hoping he made some sense.

She smiled too, then swiftly lifted her hand, hiding her lips behind her fingers as her eyes sparkled with revived mirth, relief washing through him at the sight. Her shoulders lightly quivered.

“You’re funny.”

He pointed to himself, wide-eyed.

“M… Me?”

The surrealness fell away, suddenly in reality with his warming ears.

“A-Ah, so… why are you here, Master?” Jungkook sputtered. Had he done something? Maybe a client complained about his behavior? Maybe it was a co-worker? Or… Maybe… But before his mind could go back to memories of the dark that sung melodies of pain and pleasure, he saw the shift in her demeanor. Her hand fell, no, playfulness trickling out to vacancy, no, please, the feeling of having said the wrong thing looming over him.

“You’re right.”

Detached tone and it tore up the insides of his chest.

“I should leave.”

Her face turned away from him and suddenly he saw all the details of her appearance – her immaculate hair windswept, the ivory turtleneck molded to her neck and torso, slacks made of a heavy-weighted black fabric that were wrinkled from running, and was he so preoccupied with his attraction that he forgot to observe all the pieces of this puzzle, forget this wasn’t his version of good luck and actually meant something else–

Jungkook’s hand reached out and touched her shoulder.

She recoiled.

As if shot.

“S-Sorry!”

Pulled back his hand, panic rising in his voice, the accusation in her gaze slicing through him.

“Sorry, I…”

His chest was so tight that it was hard to breathe.

“When I asked why you were here, I didn’t mean go away,” he rambled, his fingers curling inward in the air, crumbling inside, frustrated at his heart, shaking his head quickly, running away from her cowered stance and cornered eyes.

His voice.

Stricken.

“I don’t want you to go away.”

He raised his head, afraid.

It wasn’t anger that received him. Something else. Faltering, unable to look at him. “I… I shouldn’t be here. I broke in. You should be calling the police so they can lock me up.”

His mouth went dry.

He didn’t know.

But he knew.

The young Master locked eyes with him again and he hated it, hated this poisoned guilt looking back at him, hated that her lips were moving, and hated that he knew he wouldn’t like any of the words he would soon be hearing.

“Sometimes you can only be safe from danger if you’re the one in the cage,” she breathed.

Only an exhale, because annunciating those words was the equivalent of telling a dirty secret.

He bit his lip.

Jungkook shoved his hand into his jeans pocket and yanked out the switchblade with the engraved black tiger, holding it out on his palm, angry at the complicated world and angry that he could not make that poisoned guilt disappear.

“Is he the one hurting you?” he snarled.

The young Master did the thing he was afraid of.

She shook her head.

Jungkook felt like he was bleeding out with each slow, miniscule shake. Fatigue in the form of helplessness, unable to say anything, pulling his hand back and clutching the switchblade so hard that the ridges cut into his hand. No. Of course not. And he had a hint who, which was the worst part. He slid the switchblade back into his pocket, the weight not as tangible as the stale air in his lungs as he remembered the way the old Master’s husband looked at his stepdaughter, hell, even the way the old Master glared behind her daughter’s back, her own flesh and blood.

Tentatively, he raised his hand again.

Her right hand intercepted, sliding up her sternum and up to the left side of her neck, fingers curling over her shoulder. Her eyes flickering to his, but this was simple guilt now, no longer poisoned. He stilled, right hand still outstretched, centimeters from her cheek. She tried to look away.

His shaking lips let out a weak cry.

Jungkook didn’t want his selfishness to interfere, but it was inevitable.

She stayed in this eye contact and let out a soft sigh.

“I don’t want you to see even though you know what happened in that hotel room that night,” she murmured.

He swallowed.

Hard.

Made a decision.

His left hand lifting, and Jungkook closed his eyes, covering them with his hand as his right closed the distance, stroking her jaw gently. Breathed in. Breathed out. Listened to the sound of her caught gasp, felt the way she shivered, but didn’t back away, staying still as his fingers traveled, running his thumb over her lower lip. Involuntary shudder, remembering the insistence that mouth possessed, and he too wanted to be possessed again, lightly pressing his fingertips into her cheek, imploring.

Her body shifted.

Stepping closer.

His hand fell, covering hers over her shoulder.

“That’s none of my business,” Jungkook whispered.

Somehow, she understood.

Her hand slipped out from under his. He held his breath, seeing only the inside of his eyelids. Her hand came back, fingers wrapping around his, stroking his knuckles. Sank her fingernails in. He gasped, her name savored by his tongue like a delicate sweet, and she leaned in, bringing her heat and that carnal insistence, kissing him deeply in the darkness he created.

-

“Shh…”

Wrists bound with natural-fiber rope. So simple, the knot between them wound around several times and then brought up with another square knot, tied securely to a large lasso around the square base of the extremely heavy travertine coffee table.

Your fingers ghosted over the straining arms.

One heavily inked all the way to the shoulder. One clean save for a mole in the inner upper arm.

You leaned down and pressed your lips to that mole.

Licked it, dripping saliva and blowing on it. A cool stream over hot skin taut over hard muscle that shivered at the change in temperature. You continued kissing, down, down. Over collarbones sticking out due to the arms pulled upward. Over the shaking throat, hearing muffled shudders under the white towel placed over the head.

Your panties were stuffed into his mouth, partly overflowing to create a small pocket of air between the nose and towel.

Your fingers crept under the towel, pushing it up a little, and traced his lower lip, knowing there was a small mole underneath them, at the center. Wiped away his spit. Cleaned him up. Pulled your hand out and dragged your nails down his neck in the process. A small whine that clearly indicated syllables. A word.

Harder.

You raised your naked body and slid down, sinking your fingernails into Jeon Jungkook’s shaking chest and scratched him with your pointed, almond-shaped manicure, leaving behind angry red lines, growling deep in your throat.

His wanton moan under you, familiar and grounding.

You breathed out.

Calm now.

“You want me to be addicted to inflicting pain?” you dreamily sighed, question hazy like smoke, rolling your shoulders as you pulsed your slick pussy lips against his hard length that you had been sitting on for a while now. “That’s a dangerous game to play, Jeon Jungkook.”

His fingers curled into fists, muscular arms quivering, deliciously whimpering.

His head was on his living room rug, but the rest of his body was on the unforgiving hardwood. A jumble of clothes beside your bodies, along with two other things. You were straddling his hips. Slid back, jamming his stiff length in between his thighs forced together by yours pressing inward, rubbing your wet heat against the shaft, coating him with your juices.

You toyed with his nipple as you mused.

“I was not surprised your had condoms, but I was surprised that you had a cock ring.”

You flicked the small nub repeatedly, running your nail over it, feeling it harden under the pad of your finger. Abused the other one too, listening to his snuffed gasps and seeing his arms buckle, pulling at the rope. The travertine table did not move, of course. Licked your finger and pressed your saliva to his irritated skin to add a new sensation, slow circles agonizingly tender as you rolled your hips. You deliberately kept your pussy away from stimulating the head of his cock.

Then you pinched his nipple, hard, making him cry out at the harshness.

“Maybe I shouldn’t be surprised.”

You lifted your lower body, reaching for a condom in the pile.

“Do you touch yourself and think about that night in the basement?”

He moaned desperately when he heard your rip the packaging open.

“Do you jack yourself off with the cock ring on, abusing yourself and wishing it was me?”

You picked up the silicone circle, surprised at the firmness. It had only a little give. A slight adjustment of your legs and you looked down, his twitching cock glossy with your slick, the dark red tip leaking pre-cum.

You leaned down.

Licked it.

Without the stabilization of a hand, his rigid length slipped, smearing pre-cum onto your cheek and bouncing wildly. A stifled sob shuddered under the white towel. Begging. You licked again, intentionally messy and not enough stimulation, tasting your vicious sweetness mixed with the strong bodily flavor of his pre-cum.

Jungkook whined, the sound vibrating in his chest.

You snaked your tongue around the head and collected it into your mouth.

Stopped.

Just covered the throbbing head with your soft lips and stilled, holding the condom in one hand and the cock ring in the other. Warmed it with your saliva, spit running down the length as seconds tick, tick, ticked by.

The whine morphed into inaudible pleas, his back arching, chest flexed, arms locked, muffled cries of your name to move, suck, do anything, anything at all, but you simply kept him in a warm, wet sleeve, not even the length but only the twitching head that was leaking more and more, tongue pressed to the underside to stimulate the thin skin and keep him hard.

The towel began to slip as his head tipped back.

You removed your mouth.

He barely had time to gasp before you seized his cock, squeezing roughly, his gasp shooting into a pained groan.

“Watch the towel.”

He made a subservient noise of agreement, lowering his chin again.

You let your breath out.

Gripped his thick girth and rolled the condom down, slowly, steadying your heartbeat to even. Taking your time. Pressed two fingers to the base and slid the cock ring over the latex, additional lubricant making it easy, closing your eyes as Jungkook quietly sniffed under you, relenting to your pace.

“Shhhh…” you murmured.

Soft and gentle and delicate, your thighs rising from his, leisurely opening your eyes as you lowered yourself again, relishing in the way his whole body shook and tightened when your pussy wrapped around him, swallowing his cock on one smooth stroke.

You glided your hands up his abdomen, not yet moving your hips.

His begging was silenced by his own teeth clamping down on your panties, his neck glistening with sweat and strain.

You spat on his stomach.

Jungkook’s entire body lurched, suffocated choke of your name striking the air.

You slapped your palm down onto the saliva and raked your fingernails over his side, bucking your hips with the slash and sending his body into a frenzy, shock and pain and pleasure barreling into him all at once. His hips jerked up and you slammed your hips down, fucking him into the floor with your knees to wood, switching between clawing his torso and pinning him down to fuck him harder, chasing, chasing the rush and the ecstasy, adrenaline high rippling through you with his swelling girth threatening to stretch you out, but you clenched your core and all around him, your sweet slick mixing your spit on his balls, loud smacks of hips to hips echoing throughout Jungkook’s apartment.

You wrapped one hand around his neck.

You fucked him right there, on his hardwood floor.

White towel over his face and his depraved moans distorted by your panties shoved into his lips and your hand gripping his throat. Tighter, blood thinning and oxygen not enough, his chest aflame with red lines, muscular body straining against the rope, writhing to fuck you back and get that agonizing depth, and you raised your other hand, scraping your fingernails against his now-reddened, hard nipples, causing him to howl and cry out, closing in his biceps to his head and holding the towel down over his face, black hair flaring out, wild and insane, your name torn unwillingly from his throat.

You felt his cock jerk and his hips froze.

“Oh?”

You clenched above and below, feeling the hardness twitch uncontrollably.

A distressed whine from under the towel and quivering, bulging arms.

“Came already, even with the cock ring?” you hummed, letting go of his neck. No outright disapproval. Just a hint. It was enough, maybe even better for him. You could tell by the despair radiating from the muffled sounds, the upper half of his chest flushing pink.

The corner of your lips ticked upwards.

“Shhh.”

You patted his hard pecs, the ricocheting heartbeat under your palm as you lifted yourself off his slightly softening cock, still maintaining some hardness due to the choke of the cock ring. You removed both, careful with the condom so to not spill the milky liquid inside.

Set the sticky cock ring beside his crumpled jeans.

Leaned over and folded back the bottom half of the towel, exposing the tip of a nose and swollen pink lips with your black lace panties crammed into them, the fabric now saturated from his drool. You tugged at the makeshift gag and his jaw unlocked, gasping as you pulled it out, silver lip ring on the edge of that sinning mouth trembling.

You pressed your thumb to the small mole right below his mouth.

Rolled the pad of your finger, nicking his lower lip with your nail, dragging it down.

“Open up.”

So obedient.

Waiting, soft pink tongue so inviting in the darkness.

“Let’s be dirty together,” you whispered, voice rough from the wrongness of what you were about to do.

Jungkook whimpered in agreement.

You spat into his mouth.

He moaned, runny clear liquid sliding down his tongue, gulping awkwardly, his lips still somewhat open from your hand gripping his chin. You forced his jaw open even more, hooking your index finger into the inviting darkness, pressing onto his teeth.

Then you poured the contents of the condom into his mouth.

His own cum and traces of used lube, wringing the condom as his body jerked, disbelieving gurgle at the taste, unformed questions beneath your grip, but you dove down with a starving hiss, releasing his chin and covering his mouth with yours, thrusting your tongue inside to drink it too, cum and saliva and the bitter hint of latex, turning his shocked cries into guttural groans, your hand over his eyes, pinning the towel down as your tongue-fucked him.

The only thing that made the tainted taste bearable was the sweetness of saliva and the high of orgasm.

His cock slapped against your thigh, already hard again.

Sweat was soaking through the towel, damping your palm.

You yanked the white towel up, pulling it away from his face as your body turned, dropping the used condom and picking up another, swinging your leg around his waist to face the other way. Wiped your hand with the towel, throwing it aside carelessly when you were done. Not going to bother with the cock ring this time.

You ripped open the condom.

Slid it down his purple-red, throbbing length and then sat on it, immediately starting a harsh, intense pace.

Behind you, a thin gasp and then a ripple of tension over his body, traveling down his torso that your calves were pressed against, to his legs, hard thighs clutched in your hands, snapping your hips and clawing at the inside of his shaking legs, jaw clenched, fucking him, chasing your high. Closer. Closer to between his legs, scratching him so hard that you marked up that tan skin, closer.

You gripped his balls and closed in your knuckles, hard.

Jungkook cut off his own pitched, obscene moan, reducing it to a stifled scream behind closed lips.

You tightened your core and smacked your ass down into his crotch, over and over, putting your power into your hips and just enough to your hand, keeping him in the immobile enclosure of your rigid fingers, clenching your jaw and feeling the rise, the climb to the high, every second another click, click, clicking gears of this misfit toy intoxicated by savagery.

Grasped the inside of his thigh, tipping your head back with a hazy moan as you left red crescents of pain.

Jungkook wailed behind gritted teeth, thrown into painful ecstasy.

The pleasure snaked to every nerve. Electrifying, oppressive, brutal bliss with the locking of your hips, pulsating flinches constricting around twitching hardness. Once again pumping a condom full. Your grip on him loosening, so good, losing yourself in wave after shuddering wave of hazy orgasm as you ran your palms up and down his inflamed thighs, irritated lines raised from the points of your nails dug too deep.

His muscles were tense and shaking, struggling to come down and uncurl his toes.

What have I done?

-

She fell.

The movement was so swift that Jungkook didn’t notice until it was too late.

Her back arched gracefully, left arm shooting out, grabbing the switchblade from the pocket of his jeans and yanking, her other arm arcing back even faster, grabbing one of his bound wrists and then her fingers glided to the joined knot between them.

Her shoulder blades touched his shivering pecs.

She sliced clean through the rope with a single flick.

Jungkook gasped, startled at the speed and dexterity. His arms smacked to the floor, pins and needles radiating due to his wrists becoming suddenly slack with no support, the shreds of rope scattering. She sheathed the blade and threw it back on his jeans.

Panted on top of his heaving chest.

His cock was slipping out, but the soreness and heat of the marks she left kept his afterglow at an all-time high, hazy and delusional and running on fumes. His forehead was sweaty. His back was sweaty. There was definitely a puddle of cum and saliva under his ass, sticky and cooling. His arms were aching, not from the tension of the rope but the tension of himself, stressed from keeping his whole body taut to prevent himself from moving too much, leaving himself at the mercy of unpredictable pain and pleasure.

It was torture.

It was the best.

He peeled his right arm off the rug and settled it over her collarbones, holding her left shoulder. Shuddering, the brutal bliss ebbing against his will. Staring at the ceiling of his apartment, wondering what the fuck he had just done.

Jungkook felt light fingertips ghosting over his trembling, hard forearm.

“You have scars.”

Soft breath and tone, just for him.

He did.

“Y-Yeah…”

He placed his left arm over his eyes, puffing heavily from exertion.

“I got thrown out a window.”

She touched the back of his hand, tracing the lines of his tattoos and the whispers of healed wounds.

“A long time ago, when I was a teenager. It was an older building, my high school. The windows were basically just thin panes of old-ass glass. No reinforcement on the first level, so I didn’t break any bones, but I got really sliced up.” He chuckled airlessly, pressing her to his sweaty body. “I was fighting.”

“About what?”

The irony was too real.

“I slept with some guy’s girlfriend, apparently.”

Curious inquiry. “Apparently?”

He snorted. “She failed to let me know beforehand. But, for some reason, it was my fault more than hers and I’m the one that got beat up. Go figure.”

Her hand settled on his wrist, fingertips resting on his knuckles.

“I knocked him out after crashing through the window. My taekwondo teacher always told me that learning martial arts was not about hurting others, but this guy threw me out the window, so I got tired of holding back and made him eat dirt. After that, I took up boxing lessons too. Just ‘cause.”

Her body vibrated under his arm.

She was laughing, laying on top of him, naked body to naked body.

“You’re funny, Jungkook.”

-

“Why do you like it?”

He was shirtless and eating out of the ice cream tub with a spoon. “What?”

You tilted your head at him.

“The sadism.”

Jungkook turned bright red despite the hefty chunk of ice cream he just shoved into his mouth. Choked and whipped his head away, dragging himself and the chocolate ice cream that had a whole lot of things in it that could only be described as the components of a small diabetes bomb. You craned your head to try and see around that broad back. There was an odd fleshy sound and then a wheezing gulp. He whipped around, face still shockingly scarlet, awkwardly laughing, jamming the lid back on the cold-sweet-death confection.

The spoon clattered into the sink.

“T-That’s–”

You looked at him, confused.

“That’s–D-Do you hate it?” he blurted. Black strands tousled and curled around his cheeks. His long hair was a mess. The floor wasn’t, not anymore. You asked what to do to help, but Jungkook instead took you to the bathroom and gave you a fluffy white towel from a linen closet. By the time you had come out, the traces of rope and cum were gone. Wiped away, as if it had never happened. Your clothes had been folded in a neat pile, set carefully onto the coffee table.

You had put them on as you heard Jungkook moving around in the kitchen.

Your panties were in the trash can.

They couldn’t be saved.

In contrast, Jungkook was in gray sweatpants and no shirt. He was probably commando too, but you didn’t ask or look.

You frowned at his question. “I don’t–”

I don’t do things I hate.

You stopped speaking.

That’s not true.

You looked away, furrowing your brow. “I don’t hate it,” you said firmly. That much was true. “I like it with you.” You tucked your tongue in your cheek, thinking. “It’s different.” And now you were realizing it was different. You have had shameless, mindless, pointless sex. Of course. This much money and nothing but time to kill when your mother had her back turned and ass up? Naturally, you took advantage of the situation. Got yourself into tangled limbs and dubious positions. Nothing was shocking anymore. Nothing and no one tasted good.

Except Yoongi.

Because…

You shook your head quickly, cutting the thought off.

Jungkook called your name and you looked up, surprised it had sounded so far away for a moment. So far away, but you dragged yourself back to Jungkook and the questions in his eyes.

You found yourself taken aback as a new thought popped into your head.

“I like hurting you because you want it,” you breathed. “Because it’s not an internal emptiness you are trying to fill. You just like the idea of me in complete control of you and your body.”

And then, the question.

“Why?”

His fingers on the ice cream carton tightened. He was a lot less red now. Large brown eyes shifting. Light shrug that consisted of a single lift of his right shoulder, the black mandala inked there gleaming under the overheard lights from his movement.

Jungkook found your eyes again.

You stared into those clear irises.

You had become so accustomed to the ways of the world where everyone shot everybody. So used to always scrambling for ammo to load your gun, so familiar to your silence so no one had any bullets to use against you, so used to war as second nature when money was the terrible master, and you had become so accustomed to it that you forgot that not everyone was a servant.

Not everyone was hiding something in order to step on others.

You were born into this game. You toyed with the players because you learned that, if you didn’t, bad things would happen. You had to become the snake that charmed without a charmer. Alluring enough to slide by on good graces, dangerous enough to warrant a warning label, and always keeping everyone guessing what your next move was.

You had to become an object of wonder to survive.

But, when Jungkook looked at you, he put this misfit toy on the other side of wonder.

“Are you ever in complete control of anything, Master?”

-

“Daughter, I don’t understand. What is the big deal? I don’t say anything about you coming to work and then disappearing during the night, but, you know, he does notice. This is such a small thing you can do you settle his nerves. How many times have you done it? Come on. You can help me out once again. He’s becoming so irrational and ridiculous. You have the power to control him.”

“I’m not going to fuck him, Mother,” his stepsister spat coldly, saying the last word like it was a venereal disease.

Yoongi froze in the dark hallway, staring at the crack of light from the ajar door.

“Hah, I keep telling you, don’t say it like that,” his stepmother cooed, sounding like she had slapped her palm with her other hand in slight exasperation. “That’s so vulgar and uncouth. That’s not what this is.”

He had been slinking around the family mansion, trying to find her. The moment right before he left the living room kept repeating in his mind for days. He couldn’t focus on music. He couldn’t go out and drink at shitty bars. He couldn’t look at the Han River without wanting to throw himself in those dark churning waters, all because of the last time he and his stepsister made eye contact.

He didn’t give a shit what his father did to him.

And yet.

He saw his father’s hand on his stepsister and didn’t say anything about it.

What was there to say?

Yoongi did the same thing to her, only worse.

The glaring revelation closed him off. He saw the hurt in her eyes when he ran and yet he still ran, ran and ran and ran, thinking about nothing until he was locked in his music studio, surrounded by soju bottles, and then all that liquid streaming down his checks wasn’t alcohol, because all four bottles were empty.

“You’re so full of shit.”

The hostile snarl sliced through his thoughts.

Yoongi realized that he had never heard his stepsister angry before. Known she was angry, yes, but she had always maintained composure when she was in his presence. He had never heard her voice fanged with malice, every word festering hatred.

Never.

An icy itch slithered down his spine.

“Oh, because putting your husband’s dick in my mouth isn’t vulgar and uncouth. That’s something, especially after your doctor’s appointment.”

“Ugh, I’m aware and I’ll have that taken care of,” was the dismissive reply. “Let’s not get too technical. I will be beside you the entire time. Haven’t I always kept a roof over your head? Besides, these kinds of men are stupid and easy. He will last seconds. You’ll practically do nothing.”

“A fuckin’ doghouse would have been preferred over those motel roofs. And why are you even asking me? The Master can’t do it alone?”

His stepmother was beginning to sound annoyed, the cloying façade crumbling at the mocking. “How many dirty, pill-popping addicts have you let cum in you? You are being selfish and not thinking about the big picture. I am trying to keep this family in one piece. This kind of thing is so small in the grand scheme of things. Tch, can’t you see this from my perspective?”

Yoongi backed away from the door.

Silently, quickly, turning and walking fast. His heartbeat roaring in his ears, wishing it was loud enough to drown out the words from his memory even though he knew they were true, even though he could see it between wordless gazes and inappropriate touches, even though he had said it himself, accused outright, hoping.

Hoping his stepsister would vehemently argue that no such thing was going on.

She never did.

He had hoped that she enjoyed it, hoped he could hate her and wash his hands free.

Instead, she enjoyed his hands, his touch, his kiss.

Yoongi stopped at the end of the hallway, now standing in the foyer with the large windows and crystal skylight high above. Bright and airy. Expensive and vapid. The sun’s hazy rays streamed down all around him, diffused from the faceted glass.

He turned back and faced the dark hallway.

Called her name.

Waited.

-

“Don’t pretend. You don’t give a shit about this family. You’re here to get some ammo to load your gun so you can enjoy holding it against that old man’s head as he pays you an even fatter alimony to keep your mouth shut. What do you think I am? Pretty and stupid? You have been trying to trap me in this childlike mindset even as a grown adult. How convenient it would be if I believed you? If only I take this bait and do what you want so I can be just…”

Pausing to let the damage sink in.

“Like…”

Taking the moment to drive the knife in deeper.

“You?”

You backed up and turned around, hearing Yoongi yell your name again, louder this time.

“You’re miserable and fake, inside and out.”

You didn’t look back to see at you mother’s infuriated face. Didn’t hear her hissing at you to apologize, instead kicking the door wide open and stalking down the hallway in deliberate, large strides, white-hot anger scorching your veins, nearly colliding into Yoongi when you turned the corner. Gelled back, red-orange hair and all black outfit of a ripped denim jacket, designer t-shirt, and paint-stained jeans.

All of your fury dissipated once you saw him.

You cocked an eyebrow.

“What’s with you? Miss this that much, hm?”

You stuck your tongue out and smirked around it.

And you suddenly stopped, seeing his face. Something stricken across his sharp features caused your hesitation, pulling your tongue back. You had never seen this hopelessness before, especially not from Yoongi who was one that discarded everything and everyone with distrust. It must have only been milliseconds, but it was so potent in his expression that it was unmistakable.

Yoongi grabbed your left wrist so tightly that the glass beads of the chain bracelet you wore sharply pinched your skin.

“Come with me,” he breathed.

You felt your body lurch with his power and suddenly you were walking fast and he was walking faster, pushing past maids and butlers who pretended nothing happened, pushing past people living in the motto of better to feign blindness than to know, pushing past the sheep. He clutched your wrist like it was his lifeline. It hurt, but not in an unpleasant way. Confusion rippled through you and yet you let it happen, taking twice as many steps in your high heels and tight minidress, constricted by lace sleeves and a ruffled, high collar. All-black, just like him.

A pair of funeral-goers, maybe.

Apt for this household.

He practically dragged you down the stairs to the large garage with too many cars, shoving your keys from his pocket into your hand.

“Yoongi–”

He yanked your caviar leather cardholder out of his other jacket pocket and flashed it, jerking his chin to your vehicle.

“Get in.”

He didn’t have your cellphone and you didn’t ask him if he had it.

Your car unlocked as you neared the door handle. You got in, seeing your stepbrother throw himself into the passenger’s seat. Snapped the car door closed and tapped the button, whipping your head to him as the car hummed to life.

“I’m not your personal chauffeur, bro–”

“Please drive.”

You froze.

Yoongi was breathing hard, staring straight ahead.

“Please, drive and get us the fuck away from this house.”

You shut up and backed out of your spot. Put your foot on the accelerator and drove, just drove, Yoongi’s please ringing in your ears, taking a leaf out of his book and fuckin’ booking it out of there.

--

masterpost

#yoongi x reader #bts smut #yoongi smut #jungkook x reader #jungkook smut #yoonkook x reader #yoonkook smut #yoongi x you #min yoongi x you #min yoongi x reader #jungkook x you #jeon jungkook x reader #jeon jungkook x you #misfit toys au

[whatsnewalycat]

Psychomanteum / Chapter 9

Pairing: Dieter Bravo x F!Reader

Chapter 9: Dearly Departed

Chapter Summary: You and Dieter use the psychomanteum again, then go out on a date.

Rating: Explicit (18+ only)

Word Count: 8.3k+

Content / Warnings: alternating POV, psychomanteum, talk about addiction, grief, homophobia, infertility, suicide, violence, fluff, sexual tension in public, cigarettes & smoking, river, restaurant, praise kink, fingering, the driver deserved that tip and more, disaster bisexuals

Notes: Chapter title from "Dearly Departed" by Shaky Graves. Just a heads up, since we're going back into the psychomanteum, there's a lot of heavy shit in here. Also I will definitely be releasing a little mini not-really-a-chapter with Lua and Dee's sex toy play that takes place between this chapter and the next because I think that's fun even though it's not super relevant to the story lol.

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“Ok how the fuck did we do this last time?” you mutter as you drop two folded black top sheets onto the floor of your closet and squint up at the popcorn ceiling. 

“I think we tacked them up,” Dieter answers, his brown tootsie pop eyes sticking to the tall chest of drawers against the westernmost wall. His fingers thrum against the mahogany and he raises an eyebrow at you, “Is this where you keep your sex toys?” 

You plant your hands on your hips and tilt your head, an amused smile creeping across your face, “That’s what you’re thinking about right now?” 

A wide grin dimples his cheeks and he swings his head around to meet your gaze, “Look, I’ve always wanted to meet them in person.” 

You start to feel flushed and tingly when you recall the dozens of times you’ve lined the collection up across your comforter, letting him select one or more. The video calls where you’re splayed out on your bed, headphones whispering his instructions right into your ears, what he wants you to do to yourself for his viewing pleasure. The wet slap of him getting off on it from his bedroom almost three thousand miles away. His own private cam girl. 

“Don’t run off on me this time, I’ll let you play with them ‘til your heart’s content,” you smirk and drop your eyes to his lips, watching his pink bubblegum tongue dart out and coat them with saliva. The shiny, eau natural gloss gains your undivided attention. 

It’s maddening how two pillowy pieces of flesh fill you to the brim with desire. But after six weeks apart, you’re obsessed. In his absence, you’ve been starved for his touch. All you want to do is kiss him. Hold him. Fuck him. The heat of his skin against yours has become a necessity as basic as shelter, food, water, oxygen. 

By the way Dieter has been worshiping every square inch of your body, responding to each needy affection with enthusiasm. You can tell that he’s been famished, too. 

Yesterday afternoon, Dieter pushed the door to your apartment open the second you flipped the lock and threw down his suitcase, grabbing your face and kissing you like he just returned from war. He pinned you against the wall and groaned against your mouth, “Oh my fucking god I missed you.”

This morning, his warm brown eyes followed his fingertips as they traveled the roads of scar tissue on your leg and arm, lips curved in a serene smile. So content learning each intimate detail of your body. Like if he memorizes every scar, every tic, every spot that makes you putty in his hands, he’ll never have to be apart from you. 

You watched him practice this reverence while combing your fingers through his unruly locks. He was nestled into the softness of your belly, using it as a pillow. Tiny, heated flutters like hungry fireflies chittered away in your chest cavity as you told him, “I think I’m ready to do it again.”

He raised his eyebrows and smiled up at you, “You are insatiable, doll.” 

Despite the teasing comment, you could see his flaccid cock surge with want. Your face flushed and you giggled, “I’m not talking about that.”

He looked up at you with those sweet puppy dog eyes and waited for you to elaborate. 

“I want to try the psychomanteum again,” you explained timidly, resisting the urge to break eye contact, “I think I’m ready.” 

His adam’s apple bobbed in his throat, then he asked, “Today?” 

“Sure,” you brought your hand to his face and rubbed your thumb against the scratchy gray patch in his beard, “You don’t have to do it if you don’t want to, though.” 

He scooted closer to you, scooping you up in a warm embrace. His lips pressed gentle against yours. A hot, fuzzy tightness knit itself around your heart. When he drew back, you pushed your fingers through his mop of curly brown hair. His eyes softened into a ganache as he watched you do this. 

“I’ll do it,” he finally responded. Hesitancy quivered the edges of his voice. 

“You don’t have to,” you assured him. 

“I know, love,” he mumbled and grabbed ahold of your hand, then laid a kiss on your wrist and held your palm against the heat of his cheek, “But think I’m ready, too.” 

Now, as he plops down in the tangerine armchair and squints into the mirror, dipping and tilting his head to test different angles, he tells you, “I think we’re ready to roll.” 

“Oh yeah?” your thumb turns white with pressure as you pierce a clear thumbtack through the black bedsheet, driving it into the popcorn ceiling. You look down at him from your perch on the highest flat of your step stool and ask, “Wanna flip a coin to see who goes first?” 

Dieter gets to his feet and offers up a hand to you, which you take and descend the step stool. 

“I’ll go first,” he tells you, interlacing his fingers with yours, leading the way out of the closet, “And I swear to god I’ll scream if you tell me I don’t have to do that.” 

“I was not going to say that,” you protest, but have to clamp down on your smile that would tell him otherwise. 

He turns around and raises both eyebrows at you, grinning, “Wow, you’re fucking terrible at lying.” 

“I… am a great liar,” you push his chest playfully, making him smile wider as he pulls you into a hug. 

“I’m just kidding, you’re an excellent liar,” he mumbles against your hair. 

“Really?” 

“And gullible? Wow,” he teases, then starts giggling when you scoff in faux indignation and poke at his belly. 

You pull back to search his face as your giddy smiles soften and sober. Worst case scenarios swim around your head and make you dizzy. 

“For real, you’re gonna be ok?” you whisper, grazing his cheek with the back of your hand. 

He leans into the touch and his shoulders relax, a pleased smile spreading across his face, “Don’t worry about me, sweetheart, seriously.” 

“Ok,” you breathe. 

The nerves must be rolling off of you in waves, because his dark eyes dart around your face and he sighs. He cups your cheeks with his hands, leveling his gaze with yours, “Lua. Do you know what we have planned for tonight?” 

You blink and nod. 

“I’m taking you on a real date. Like a fancy-schmancy date where I have to wear a tie and underwear.”

“Dee, underwear is an everyday-“ 

“Then we’re gonna come back here and play with your sex toys.”

“Oh, and I made a cheesecake!” you tell him. 

“You… made a cheesecake for us?” he raises his eyebrows and searches your face. When you nod, he throws his head back and smothers you in a hug, groaning as he rocks you from side to side, “Louella, you’re fucking amazing holy shit.” 

You hug him back. A spring of joy bubbles up inside you and you laugh at his infectious enthusiasm. 

Dieter pulls back and meets your eyes, “I’m not gonna bail on you. Do you believe me?” 

“Yes,” you smile. And you mean it. And you can tell that he knows it’s the truth. 

In an attempt to vent the thick black cloud that collects soot in his chimney throat and makes him choke, he reminds himself that things are different now. He’s been practicing. Rationing his grief in manageable chunks. Allowing James to come out of the lockbox in his head for short periods of time to stretch his legs with little incident.

He intakes a sharp breath through his nose, the exhale whooshing out his exhaust pipe lips, allowing him to breathe just a little easier.

Dieter imagines a pack of Pall Malls. The maroon fliptop box that fits in the palm of his hand, the tobacco company’s name in Art Noveau over a silver seal.

When he sees the Pall Malls, he sees General Thompson plucking a cigarette from his tight, lipless scowl. Sees the gruff, soulless man grinding its glowing orange cherry into his son’s forearm. Smells the seared flesh. The howling from his lover’s throat echos in his skull.

It happens every time he spots a pack of this particular brand of cigarette. The memory an intruder in his brain. This is usually where Dieter tries to put an end to it, shoving James back into the depths of his brain in a desperate attempt to make it stop before it could show him what happened next.

Because what comes next is the wet smack of General Thompson’s swollen knuckles on his son’s face. His freckled, sunburnt cheeks an unnatural purple that puffed up under his skin. His delicate lips split and oozed a thick, deep red that Dieter wished he could kiss away.

But he couldn’t. His joints all seemed to be superglued in place.

After this, there’s the sound of James screaming. It filled his brain with TV static. It still does sometimes. He stood there, frozen in place, and wished the screaming would stop.

Until it did.

Then Dieter realized how much worse it was when James went silent. Just the thud of one body hitting another. In this dreadful muted thudding of flesh on flesh, a switch flipped and propelled Dieter forward, yanking General Thompson off of James.

He’ll never forget the horrifying realization that his limbs could move the whole time.

Dieter’s stomach twists and sours like it always does. He takes another deep, venting breath, exhaling the dense plume of guilt that builds up in his lungs. Pushes past the scent of burnt skin and the paralysis. He sees the Pall Malls again. He remembers better things.

A shed that was down by Lejeune High School’s beat-up outdoor track that he and James used to frequent. The tawny gravel littered with stomped out cigarette butts. Their daily ritual of going against the tides of their classmates rushing to the cafeteria for lunch to sneak behind the shed.

Every day, James leaned against the shed, red paint chips flaking on his shoulders like dandruff. He would fish out two mashed up Pall Malls from his pocket, then hand one to Dieter. A cigarette pinched between their index and middle fingers, the boys would cough and giggle from the tobacco high. They were hidden from sight except for two blue smoke stacks that rose from their side of the shed, which no one ever seemed to notice.

They had a similar ritual on Saturdays at The VIP Lounge.

Sharing cigarettes to stretch them out further. James seemed to lodge the filter deep into the wet of his mouth when he took a drag. It was always damp with his saliva when passed back to Dieter. He didn’t mind. In fact, for a long time, he thought that would be the closest they would get to kissing, the cigarette a surrogate for them to swap spit.

Dieter thinks about New River. How it would cool their heated skin on the hottest North Carolina days. The baptism of its current washing away smoke residue, traces of their teenage rebellion, before they had to return home and resume the roles they played for their families.

He remembers going there for the first time, when James told Dieter there was a place he liked to go to and write. A secluded beach. 

“Sounds exclusive,” Dieter smirked.

“Practically a dang VIP Lounge. You’ll see,” James responded as he heaved a backpack over his bony shoulders. 

Going there for the last time, after James was discharged from the hospital and Dieter’s family was packing their belongings. Moving once again. He waited until nighttime, when the house was silent and he was sure everyone was asleep, then snuck out the backdoor, tiptoeing through backyards to the Thompson residence. 

All the lights were off, but Dieter tapped on the window pane of James’s room until it slid up, revealing his still puffy and mangled face in the moonlight. 

“Can you sneak out?” Dieter whispered. 

James nodded solemnly and mumbled, “Gimme a sec,” then slid the window closed. 

A few minutes later the window slid back open. Out came James, backpack in hand as he landed on the grass with a quiet grunt. A worn baseball cap kept his face hidden in the shadows. He swung the backpack onto his shoulders and started off. 

Dieter followed, already knowing where James was headed. 

The forest they had traversed many times before was dewy and soft under his feet. Dieter became nocturnal. His ears seemed to dial up the chirping of crickets and croaking of frogs, the rustle of ferns and tree branches, the hard thudding of his aching heart, the buzzing of his frayed nerves. The rumble of the river grew louder and louder, until he breached the clearing to The VIP Lounge. 

By then, the rumble was a roar. 

James dropped his backpack on the damp sand with a muted thud and unzipped it. He pulled out a quilt and handed it to Dieter, who shook it open and spread it flat. Dieter sat down on the blanket, watching the way James kept his head tilted down, his battered face hidden by the bill of the baseball cap. He pulled out a baggie of cigarettes and a lighter, tossing them onto the quilt haphazardly before taking a seat next to Dieter. There was a metallic clinking from the backpack, and James handed Dieter an aluminum can of Busch Light. 

Neither of them spoke. 

New River’s roar was background to the tsch-hiss of their beer cans opening, the slurp of Dieter’s cautious sip, the glug-glug-glug of James chugging half of his in one go. The resulting belch was so loud in contrast to all the other hushed noises, it made Dieter snort a laugh. James laughed, too, a high-pitched giggle that stabbed Dieter’s ear drums in a way that he missed dearly. 

It seemed to cut the tension. Both boys relaxed and scooted closer to the other, and James asked, “You’re movin’, huh?”

“Yeah,” Dieter answered, glancing over at James, hoping to see his face. It was just a shadow. 

He turned his gaze back to the river, finding his vision sharpened in the night. The moon, a ripe, glowing cream-colored circle, hung in the sky above them among an infinite number of diamond-like stars that varied in size and purity. Moonbeams shone silver streaks across the thick, inky black water. Specks of sand glittered in the light. 

“I don’t wanna be here anymore,” James confessed in a hoarse whisper. 

“We could run away,” Dieter turned to James, finally catching a glimpse of his face in the moonlight. His heart pitter-pattered with hope. Immediately, his brain started working on a plan, and it flew from his mouth rapid-fire, “I- I have my chore money and could take some from Ma’s purse. We could go to New York, find places to work. We could write, we- we- could act-” 

James raised his beer can to his lips and tilted it back, taking big swallows until it was upside down and empty. He crushed it between his palms and tossed it next to his backpack, then pulled out another. 

As he cracked open his second beer, he shook his head, “S’not what I mean.”

The silence that followed was so heavy, it broke Dieter’s heart. The life he had just dreamed up for them on the spot was shattered into pieces. 

“What do you mean?” Dieter spat. 

“Nothin’, nevermind,” James murmured, then hugged his knees to his chest, dangling his beer in one hand while the other wrapped around his shin. 

Dieter stared at the boy, trying to control the heated flame of rejection in his chest from shooting from his mouth. Like he was some kind of ill-tempered fire-breathing dragon. 

“I jus’ mean… Maybe my story doesn’t go that far, y’know?” 

And if Dieter knew then what he knows now, that this was a cry for help and not a breakup, maybe things would have ended differently. Maybe he would have stayed next to James on that beach until the sun rose. Maybe he could have begged James to change his mind. Maybe they would have run away together. 

“So that’s it? You’re done with this?” Dieter bit off, his anguish disguised as rage.

And if Dieter knew then what he knows now, that rage was the only language his sadness knew how to speak, maybe things would have ended differently. Maybe he would have stayed and told James about how scared he was to lose him. Maybe he would have promised James that he didn’t deserve what happened to him. 

But that’s the thing about things. They’re exactly the way they are. No backsies. 

“Guess so,” James answered in a croak. 

“Fuck this,” Dieter muttered, then got to his feet and looked down at the baseball cap that covered James’s face and spat, “Fuck you, James.” 

He tore through the forest trail, fighting off branches, kicking blindly at ferns and bushes, trying to shove down the sorrow that felt like drowning. It quivered in his chest, trying desperately to claw its way out. When he arrived at his house, he snuck inside, back to his bedroom. 

There, with his face smothered against his pillow, a comforter tenting his head, Dieter released his anguish. His pillow absorbed the tears and the sobs. He cried until the springy fabric was sopping wet and his voice was hoarse. 

Dieter thinks about all of this now. About how much he wishes he could redo that last conversation. How he wishes James could have known that Dieter loved him. How he wishes James could have seen that there was so much more for life to give him. 

This heavy, midnight blue fills his chest with lead. Loads a backpack full of rocks. Sinks him to the bottom of New River. 

His eyes brim with tears when he looks up into the psychomanteum and sees the mirror reflecting those shiny silver streaks across the current of thick, inky black water. 

A chill ripples across his body and leaves his hairs standing in its wake. He stays there, up to his chin in the cold water, grounding himself from the pull of the undertow. He ignores the smoke signals clogging his throat, hazing his mind. 

Then, it’s warm. And calm. And sunlight is kissing his skin. 

James is there. 

Dieter can’t see him, but his presence fills the space like a shimmering golden fog that makes him feel weightless and peaceful. A sense of total oneness. 

“I’m so sorry,” Dieter tells him, the message only a thought that’s absorbed into the ether. 

“Ain’t your fault,” is the response that comes, “None of it, y’hear?” 

A lump surfaces in Dieter’s throat, and he chokes out, “I could have-”

“Coulda woulda shoulda,” James chides. 

He smiles as a sob bubbles up his throat. 

“I’m happy, Yay-go. I’m at peace. I want you to know that.” 

A wave of relief washes over Dieter. Tears roll hot down his cheeks. The nickname rings in his ears and rolls off his tongue, “Yay-go. I forgot you called me that.” 

“I see you been makin’ it in Hollywood. Mighty prouda you.” 

“Thanks,” Dieter chokes out, “Couldn’t’ve done it without you.” 

“You gonna try writin’ again?” 

Dieter shakes his head again, “I literally can’t do that without you.” 

“Fuck you can’t,” James scoffs, “You were just as good as me, don’ you remember?” 

“That’s a goddamn lie.” 

“It’s the goddamn truth, brother, whether you believe in it er not.” 

“Fine,” Dieter concedes, “I’ll try.” 

“Alright, you take care now, y’hear?” 

“I love you,” Dieter tells him. 

“I love you, Yay-go.” 

When Dieter emerges from the closet, his eyes are puffy, red, and shrink-wrapped with tears. A jolt of panic surges through your body. You jump off the bed and rush over to him, holding a palm to his chest, “You ok?” 

He nods and sniffles, glancing around the room before locking his eyes on yours. As soon as they do, they overflow with tears. You cup his cheeks and whisper, “You did great, Dee.” 

His face crumples at this. An empathetic ache radiates across your chest. You envelop him in a hug, and he returns it, burying his face in your hair with shaky sobs.  

After a minute, he pulls back and sniffles, “Wow,” he shakes his head and throws a hand up, running it through his hair, “That was fucking crazy.” 

“It’s a lot to take in,” you press your eyebrows together and nod. 

His face crumples again, “God, it was just so good to hear his voice.” 

Your eyes start to tingle and your throat cramps up. You manage to croak out, “I’m so happy for you, Dee.” 

He pulls you back into an embrace that warms your insides, “Thank you.” 

“You’re welcome, love,” you mumble back, closing your eyes as you hug him back. 

He hums and nuzzles against you, “Are you ready?” 

The question, although innocuous, sends your heart racing. A panic fills your chest and tightens the cords of your neck. You thought you were ready. You swore you were ready. But what if it doesn’t go well?  

“I’m scared,” you admit in a whisper. 

The wet gulp of his throat only incentivizes your nerves. He probes, “What are you afraid of?” 

You push the words from your knotted vocal chords, “He was just… fuck, so hard to talk to at the end, ya know?”

“Are you scared he’s going to be like he was then?” 

You nod. Tears burn behind your eyes. Thick phlegm coats your throat and makes it hard to breathe. You inhale a shattered breath, then whimper on the exhale, “What if that’s just who he really was?” 

“Come on, Lua, do you really think that’s true?” he pulls back and meets your shiny bloodshot eyes with his own. When you shrug, his shoulders deflate, “I promise it’s not.” 

Your panic starts to protest, “But he’s been bothering yo-”

“He’s doing it because I can see him. It’s the same with all of them,” Dieter searches your face, then tells you with conviction, “Speaking from experience, that thing he was when he was fucked up was not him.“

You know he’s right, really. 

But what if he’s not? What if I fell in love with a monster in disguise? And what if I’m doing it again? 

Then you see Dieter’s eyes, all doughy and sad. You see the fragile pieces of him, his softness and his warmth. There’s a darkness in there that’s dialed up when he’s on blow. 

You know Ethan was the same way. 

All the blackened parts of him floated to the surface when he was on a binge or coming down. Those hard edges, they were a part of him, but they didn’t define him. Everyone has those undesirable qualities they’re able to keep hidden until circumstances make it impossible, yourself included. 

You drop your gaze and nod, “You’re right.” 

“Lua, look at me, baby” he murmurs, and you meet his eyes again, “You can do this.” 

“I can do this,” you repeat, then take a deep breath. 

When you were a kid, you had this toy called a View-Master. 

It was a Christmas gift from your parents and came with 6 different reels that each had a theme, like Bugs Bunny, Wild Animals of Africa, Charlie Brown’s Summer Fun, etc. The reels were sturdy cardboard discs with 14 pieces of film spliced into squares around the circumference. When you loaded a reel into your View-Master, you brought the device to rest on the bridge of your nose like binoculars, pointed it towards the light, and voilà! A 3D image. 

Each image change was punctuated by the click-slide of your View-Master turning the reel and exposing two new splices of film to the light. Very analog. 

You used to sit in the bay window of your childhood bedroom in Ohio and go through each reel, yanking on the handle seven times to ensure you saw all seven pictures. You would load your reel for Wild Animals of Africa: 

Zebras

Click-slide

Lions

Click-slide

Giraffes 

Click-slide

Antelopes

Click-slide

Elephants 

Click-slide

Hyenas 

Click-slide

Crocodiles 

Click-slide

Zebras 

In the past year, you’ve been flooded with thousands of memories of Ethan. It’s as if each day, your grief would decide to set off into the dense forest of your mind with a little foraging basket. Throughout the day, your grief would dump the basket out at your feet and ask, “Can we make sense of it now?” 

And you would tell your grief, “No. None of it makes sense.”

So it would go out again, filling the wicker basket to the brim, emptying it at your feet. Again, you wouldn’t be able to derive anything from this mess. Grief would dump the memories again and again and again until they were piled above your head and you would say, “That’s enough! I’m fucking drowning!” 

But even then it wouldn’t stop. It would sift through the pile and shove them down your throat, “What about this? Is this something?” 

There you were, every single day, choking on the memories of your life with Ethan. Sometimes you thought it would kill you. Obviously, it never did. But there were some days you would have preferred death over this torture. 

The forest of your mind has become picked over. Grief has slowed its frantic collecting, tired of finding the same things over and over again. Most days, it’s manageable. You don’t feel like you’re drowning anymore. 

Every once in a while, it comes to you bearing something shiny and new, asking with hope, “Is this it?” 

And you clear your throat, testing its width and integrity, and you know it won’t choke you. Not actually. 

And, throughout the past year, where grief has replaced your husband as your primary partner, you’ve been able to reduce this tragedy to seven distinct 3-D images. Of course, nothing will make it make sense, not really, because tragedy is senseless. And nothing will make him come back, not really, because Ethan crossed the threshold of death where there’s no return to his body. 

You can’t say he stayed behind the thick membrane of the afterlife because he’s still here in some ways. Not in the memories that grief brings you or cheering from the sidelines, like how it is with your dad and grandparents. Ethan does exist in these ways, but also as a presence that clings to your skin and makes your hair stand on edge. Tangled in the thin veil between this life and the afterwards. 

But those seven images you’ve isolated into a View-Master reel… you know that there’s something significant held in those moments. 

The honeybees that crawled around your bridal bouquet. 

Click-slide

The fingerprint ink pad when you were booked for drug trafficking charges. 

Click-slide 

The infinite, tunneled reflection of the mirror maze. 

Click-slide

The IV drip of antibiotics being replaced with another as Ethan cried and held your hand. 

Click-slide

The pile of crescent moon fingernail clippings on your mother’s dining room table. 

Click-slide

The black ink stain on your carpet. 

Click-slide

The picture of him and his brother that you found on the floor of his room. 

Click-slide

The honeybees that crawled around your bridal bouquet. 

You’re in the psychomanteum, gripping the tangerine armchair so hard your knuckles are tinted white. You only allow yourself to glance at each image for a moment before yanking on the lever for the next. When you reach the beginning of the reel again, you study the mirror and only see opaque, unmoving blackness. What Dieter told you that day in his suite at the Plaza echos back into your mind:

“He tries to talk to you. But you’re closed off. That’s why he couldn’t come through the psychomanteum.”

The click-slide of the View-Master makes you flinch. You slow down this time. 

The fingerprint ink pad when you were booked for drug trafficking charges. Under arrest for selling controlled substances in the 4th degree, a Class C felony in the state of New York. The cops tried to plea bargain with you, offering to drop charges in exchange for testimony against your husband. Your assigned public defender urged you to take this deal, but you refused. 

“You should’ve taken it, Lou,” Ethan told you afterwards, “Don’t ever take the fall for me like that again, you hear me?” 

Click-slide

The infinite, tunneled reflection of the mirror maze. Where you and Ethan, stoned out of your fucking gourds, found a little boy crumpled on the floor crying. You consoled him and then the three of you found your way to the exit together and returned the boy to his mom. 

“We parented the shit out of that,” he told you later, “I think we’d make a pretty good team.” 

Click-slide

The IV drip of antibiotics being replaced with another as Ethan cried and held your hand. An OB/GYN just advised that the infection was so severe, your reproductive organs were damaged beyond repair. The scarring told the doctors that conception would be almost impossible. 

Ethan’s choked sobs, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I should have told you.”

Click-slide

The pile of crescent moon fingernail clippings on your mother’s dining room table. Ragged edges where they were just attached to you. Your mom screaming at Ethan, “You ruined her fucking life, you worthless piece of shit.”

You stop there. 

The memory settles in your body like you swallowed a quart of battery acid. Your throat burns and your eyes well up with tears. The caustic substance eats through the layers of your stomach and pools inside you, liquefying your guts. 

You look up at the mirror and all you see is the blackest ink in the city and a fucking abyss of darkness and nothing at all. 

Your grip on the chair tightens. More than anything in the world you want to leave. But you somehow know that he can hear you and you need to tell him. 

“Ethan-” 

A sob catches in your throat. You bury your head in your hands and squeeze your eyes closed, trying to calm the hysteria buzzing across your tightening skin. When your breath starts to even out, you continue in a shaky voice, “I- I know you’re here. And- and I’m sorry, I don’t think I can do this right now. It’s too hard. I’m sorry. It’s-”

An unbearable ache radiates from your heart. You sag down further into your own lap, digging your fingers into your hair and tugging at it just to feel some kind of external pain, “It’s my fault. I know it is. I’m s-s-so sorry.”

It’s like your whole body is collapsing in on itself, dissolving cell by cell without mercy. Your heaving chest pulls your sobs so tight they just come out airy like a dog whistle.

“Lou, it’s not your fuckin’ fault,” Ethan’s coarse voice cuts through your mind like a machete. 

Your spine stiffens and you sit up, wiping the hot tears from your face, “Wh-what?”

Just when you think it was your imagination, some kind of an auditory hallucination your inflamed mind conjured up to make you feel better, you hear him again. 

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. Christ’s sake, Lou, of course it’s not your fault.” 

You blink and sniffle, furrowing your brow when you see that you’re still in the psychomanteum, mirror unchanged. 

“I love you and I’m sorry,” he cuts through again, “But it’s not your fault and I couldn’t let you go on not knowing that, ok?”

And you feel him, like you used to. Before the coke deteriorated him into a stranger. His presence is a blanket around your shoulders, protecting you and keeping you warm. 

Your heart pounds so thick with love it’s like a miracle salve on your open wounds. The tissues and organs so putrid and rotted, a puddle at your feet just a moment ago, start to regenerate and reassemble. 

Your chest flutters and you nod, “Ok. I- I love you too.” 

“I know you do, baby.”

You whisper, “I miss you so much. Fuck, it sucks so much without you.” 

He doesn’t say anything, but you understand that he hears you. 

You swallow the thick saliva in your throat and ask him hesitantly, “How do you… feel about Dieter?”

“You know, I always liked him,” Ethan tells you, “Triangle guy. Know who else is a triangle guy?” 

Your stomach flips and you chuckle, dropping your gaze to your trembling hands “Me.”

“That’s right,” he says, and you swear you can hear the smile in his voice, “Listen, Lou, I want you to be happy.”

“Ok,” you sniffle. The ache in your chest swells. You twist around the plain white gold wedding band on your ring finger. 

“Does he make you happy?” 

“Yeah,” you smile and your vision goes blurry with tears as you nod, “Yeah, he really does.” 

“Well, there you go.” 

You wipe your eyes on the sleeve of your sweater and chuckle, “You gotta let him be, though. Stop trying to scare him off.” 

“Hey now, I just needed to get your attention. You don’t have to worry about me any more, ok? I’m gonna get out of your hair.” 

“Can I visit with you this way? With the, um, psychomanteum?” 

“Anytime, babe,” his voice is warm and reassuring, “Hey, remember our first dance? That Everly Brothers song?”

“Yeah,” you grin, then sing softly, “Whenever I want you, all I have to do is dream. Dream, dream, dream…”

His presence starts to wane.

Then he’s gone. 

You take a deep breath and fold your legs up underneath you, dwelling in the stillness. The ache in your body fades into a whisper. Your crying slows to a trickle. 

When you swing the closet door open and step into your bedroom, you find Dieter pacing back and forth at the foot of your bed. He strides up to you immediately, his brows pressed together and warm brown eyes wide with worry. His hands cup your cheeks as he searches your face with the silent question: Did it work?

Tears burn behind your eyes again, a fresh new wave. Residual sorrow. Relief. You manage a tight nod before the sobs start vibrating through your ribcage. 

“C’mere sweetheart,” he rumbles, presses a kiss into your forehead, and pulls you into a hug. 

As you let the heaviness inside your soul expel through your heaving chest, Dieter guides you to your bed. You follow his persuasion, curling up against him. He holds you close and pets your hair, assuring you in a hoarse whisper, “You did great, Lua. I’m so proud of you.” 

You wipe your face with the sleeve of your sweater and meet his gaze, “Thank you.” 

His lips twitch into a smile and his thumb grazes your cheek. You relax into his side again with a content sigh, feeling the emotional fatigue start to set in, “I’m so sleepy now.” 

“Take a nap, doll,” he murmurs, “I’ll wake you up in time to get ready.” 

His thumb works against your shoulder in a soothing back and forth rhythm. It works like hypnosis, lulling you into a deep seeded comfort, blooming in your chest with a yawn. Your bones feel heavy inside your body.

“Mmmm ok,” you manage to slur out before your eyelids flutter shut and the world goes dark. 

The main dining room of Gabriel Kreuther is lavish, but cozy. Wood beams stretch up the walls towards the curved ceiling, from which a flock of sparkling crystal storks hang. The table cloth and wide, upholstered chairs are a creamy white. Rosé cloth napkins and a gold lamp sit on the table and add a touch of soft romance to the atmosphere. 

Dieter sits perpendicular to you, grinning as he watches your sparkling eyes study the menu. His gaze drops down the black satin shoulder straps of your dress, following the plunging v neckline. He licks his lips. A wave of smooth, shiny fabric flares out from the cinched waist.  That fucking dress, Louella, holy shit. 

“Is it too boob-y?” you asked him after getting dressed, looking down into your own cleavage with a frown. Then you turned around and showed him the back, adding an addendum to your question, “Or too short?”

Most of your back was left exposed by the garment. The hem sat just below your ass, teasing his hungry eyes. To most people, the answer would probably be yes. But he fucking needed to take you out while wearing it. Needed to show you off and make spectators ripe with envy at this stunning woman he somehow managed to woo. 

He ached with lust and shook his head, practically drooling, “I refuse to let you leave in anything else.” 

Dieter drinks in your form now, thinking of all the things he wants to do to you. Imagines his cock smashed between your tits, thrusting slick along your sternum as you push your tender flesh together around him. Imagines your pink painted lips sealed around his girth, face shiny with spit, eyes watering as he fucks your mouth. Imagines your cunt, all swollen and begging for attention. Sliding his finger along the wet seam of you, watching the breath enter your lungs in a gasp. 

“Are we doing three courses or four?” you ask, pulling him from his depraved thoughts. 

He clears his throat and scoots his chair closer to the table, trying to conceal the erection that manifested while his mind ran rampant, “Fuck it, let’s do four.”

Or five, he thinks, imagining himself crawling under this table on his hands and knees just to taste you. 

“You ok?” you chuckle, raising an eyebrow at his lingering gaze. 

He looks around to make sure nobody is within earshot, then leans in and husks, “I want you so fucking bad right now.”

Your lips part and your tongue darts between them, then your eyelashes flutter, “Well, you’re gonna have to be patient, then, aren’t you?”

A hum emits from his throat involuntarily. He throbs against the seam of his pants. 

You react to this with a quick glance to his mouth as you purr, “You’re gonna be a good boy for me, right?” 

He swallows a moan. Your lips curl into a sultry, knowing smile. You press your eyebrows together, batting your lashes, pouting your lips, “Because good boys get rewarded. Is that what you want?” 

“Holy fuck-” he rasps, leaning towards you.

“Yes or no,” you’re so close he can feel the words against his lips. 

“Yes,” he croaks. His ears feel hot, pulse thudding hard against his neck, cock stiff and leaking against the constraints of his slacks. Pleasure tingles at his core and he wants desperately to bend you over the table and fuck you right here, right now. 

“Then you’ll be a good boy for me, right, Dee?” you whisper the words, and your lips stay apart from the utterance of his name, tongue poised at the entrance of your mouth. The restaurant fades into the distance. Nothing else in the world exists except your lips, your tongue, your hot gaze on him. 

“Yes,” he manages. 

You drag your finger along his jaw and coo, “Good.” 

“Hi, my name is Liz and I’ll be your server, how are we doing tonight?” a squeaky voice sounds from the opposite corner of the table. 

You jolt upright and smile politely up at her, “Hi, good, how are you?” 

The two of you go back and forth a little. He’s not sure what you’re talking about, because he’s still lost in a wanton haze, trying to catch his breath, staring at you with heat in his eyes. Eventually you blink at him, as if the faceless waitress asked him a question. 

He shakes his head back and forth, trying to snap out of it, clears his throat, and looks down at his menu with a frown, “I uh… I’ll have what she’s having.” 

The waitress, as it turns out, does have a face, and when he glances up at her, her bright blue eyes widen in recognition, “Oh wow, Dieter Bravo?”

He smiles and nods, extending his sweaty hand across the table, being sure not to stand up and present his tented crotch to the poor girl, “Yeah, what’s your name?” 

“Liz,” she reminds him and shakes his hand. 

“You already told us that, sorry,” Dieter chuckles at himself, “Nice to meet you, Liz. Hey, could we get a bottle of champagne?” 

“Nice to meet you, too,” she beams a wide, starstruck smile, “Oh, um, of course. Which one?”

“Well,” he sighs, glancing at you, then clasps his hands together and shrugs, “Most expensive one you have. We’re celebrating.” 

“Absolutely. If you don’t mind me asking, what are you two celebrating tonight?” 

He frowns and tilts his head towards you, not sure what to say. You take this as your cue to explain. 

“We exorcized my apartment,” you tell her, grinning from ear-to-ear. 

The waitress’s mouth gapes open in confusion, and she looks to Dieter for guidance on how to navigate the response, but he just bursts out laughing.

You wince and your face gets all flushed, “Sorry, I-” 

“No, you’re right,” Dieter assures you, his voice still quivering with laughter, then flashes a charming smile to the waitress, “Thank you so much, darling.” 

“Oh, um,” her cheeks tinge pink and she tucks her hair behind her ear, “You’re so very welcome, sir. I’ll be right back with the champagne.” 

After the waitress walks away, he swivels his gaze to you with an amused grin, “Woooow.” 

“I’m so sorry,“ you put your hand over your mouth and laugh, “Why did you take me out, again?” 

His smile stretches wide and he releases a content sigh, “Because I like you.” 

“Good,” you smirk, dropping your gaze to his lips, “Can I kiss you, or is that not allowed in public?” 

“God, please kiss me,” he murmurs, leaning in towards you. 

“Yeah?” you smile, your shining eyes meeting his before they flutter closed and you drift closer. 

Dieter hums in the affirmative, pressing his lips against yours. Your lips are so fucking soft and warm and he loses himself in the kiss. His throat rumbles with want and he brings his hand to the nape of your neck, pulling you closer, kissing you deeper, savoring the taste of your saliva and the perfect way your tongue rolls against his, and the the huffy, barely audible little whines that squeak from your mouth. 

He could lose himself for hours like this. 

Liz interrupts again, gently placing a bucket of ice and two champagne flutes on the table. 

You pull back, clearing your throat before telling her, “Thank you so much.” 

“I apologize, I totally forgot to ask before, and- and my manager just reminded me,” Liz grimaces, “Can I take a peek at your IDs for the champagne? If I don’t I’ll get in trouble, I’m so sorry.”

“It’s no problem,” you assure her with a wave. Both of you pull out your wallets and hand your ID cards to Liz, who surveys them both, eyes lingering on yours for a bit longer than his. 

She hands them back and flashes a cheery smile, “Perfect, thank you. I’ll be right back with that bottle.” 

Once the driver puts the black SUV in drive and sets course for your apartment, Dieter rests his hand on your leg. An electric current buzzes under his skin, pulsing from his head to his toes. 

It’s a miracle he held it together in the restaurant. You didn’t make it easy. Gazing over at him with fuck-me-eyes. Wearing that goddamn dress. Purring in his ear between each course, “Look at you, being so patient.”

And:

“You’re doing so fucking good, Dee.” 

And, his personal favorite:

“Are you thinking of all the fun treats you’ll get if you keep it up, baby?”

He sets his thumb in motion and lightly grips the soft flesh of your thigh, leaning close to your ear to murmur, “So how’d I do? Was I a good boy?”

“Oh, Dee,” you coo and plug your index finger into his jugular notch, then drag your fingernail up the center of his throat. Over every ridge and valley. You split his adam’s apple in half. Your nail catches against the grain of every stubbled hair in its path. Curls up to the bottom of his chin. 

And he’s yours, all yours. 

“You were such a good boy,” you whisper, and it strikes your vocal chords just enough to gain a raspy edge, “I think you should get a reward, don’t you?”

Dieter nods, his fingers working further up your thigh, closer to your heat, “I think so.” 

“Go ahead, baby,” you breathe, letting your legs fall open for him, “You deserve it.” 

The closer his hand slides to your sex, the hotter it gets. You whine and arch your back against the seatbelt. 

“Jesus fucking Christ, Lua,” he chokes out, pulling your underwear to the side, “I can feel my fingers defrosting.” 

You giggle just as his knuckle grazes your clit, and your breath hitches. 

“Look at me, baby,” Dieter husks. You do, and your eyes are all glazed over and dark in the passing streetlights. He presses his forehead against yours and strokes the sensitive nub, slow and meticulous, and your eyelids flutter. 

“That’s perfect,” you whimper, nodding your head in approval. Each pant from your lips becomes more vocal than the last. He kicks himself for not getting a ride in something with a fucking privacy partition. 

Dieter turns towards the driver and asks, “Do you mind turning on the radio?”

The man mutters something to himself, then twists the volume knob on his stereo. An upbeat pop song fills the silence between your strained whimpers. 

Dieter brings his focus back to you. Your face, all twisted up with pleasure. Your swollen clit under the gentle strumming of his knuckle. Your lips, fuck, your goddamn lips. All pouty and wet from your own spit because you can’t stop licking and biting at them. 

“Faster, Dee,” you whine, knees falling further apart. 

He adjusts his touch, dragging his fingers through your slick before quickening his pace, drawing circles around the erogenous bud, “Like this?”

“Yes- oh, fuck. That’s it, baby,” you purr. 

Dieter rasps into your ear, “So fucking wet for me, Lua, oh my god-”

He glides his touch down your seam, and you’re so fucking gooey and hot, coating his fingertips. A whimper flutters from your lips when he traces your soaked entrance. Your tight cunt squeezes around him as he slides two fingers inside you. 

You gasp and cover your mouth. 

He stiffens his fingers into a hook, pulling up through the drenched silken fabric of your pussy to that rubbery plane that makes you muffle your own choked moan. His thumb finds your clit and starts to roll against it. Your back arches towards the roof of the car and you nod and whimper under his control. 

His heart starts pounding as he watches you start to lose yourself in his touch. Beads of sweat gathering on your forehead, muted moans against your trembling hand, the steady pressure of his fingers hooked into your g-spot, the incessant strumming of your clit. 

He brings his lips to your ear and whispers, “Wanna see you cum all over the seat of this fucking car, baby, can I do that? Can I make you soak this fucking seat?”

You nod frantically and withdraw your hand from your mouth, panting, “So fucking good, holy fuck, Dee, you’re such a good boy-“

And you’re getting frenzied and louder, so he kisses you, and he rubs you from the inside now, too, little movements he has to strain himself to control. You gasp against his mouth and pull back, grabbing your car seat head rest with one hand as the other clamps over your mouth, your eyes fluttering, limbs shaking, and he’s in fucking awe of how breathtakingly hot you are right now. 

The moans are barely dampened by your hand and he’s sure the driver can hear you but he doesn’t fucking care, all that matters is your shivering body and his hand all wrapped around your cunt as your breath hitches and the walls around his fingers spasm and you’re practically fucking howling he could just marry you right now jesus fucking christ. You cum hard, your delicious nectar marking everything between your pulsing pussy and the back of the driver’s seat. 

You collapse back into your seat, chest heaving, and look up at him with dreamy, half-lidded eyes, smiling sweetly. He pulls his fingers out of you and brings them to his mouth, sucking your cum off each digit with reverence. You tug on his jacket and pull him into a gentle kiss. 

The driver clears his throat and Dieter looks around outside the vehicle, realizing it’s in park in front of your apartment, “Oh shit, we’re here.” 

“I didn’t want to… interrupt,” the driver tells him awkwardly, confirming his suspicion that your backseat activities were not discreet. 

Lua, you fucking angel, you burst out laughing, “I’m so sorry!” 

Dieter tips the man $200 and the two of you make your way up to your apartment. 

[ Next Chapter ]

#dieter bravo x f!reader #dieter bravo x female reader #dieter bravo x reader #dieter bravo x you #dieter bravo #dieter bravo x ofc #dieter bravo fic #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal character fanfic #pedro pascal character #pedro pascal #the bubble fanfiction #psychomanteum

[serickswrites]

Hello! If you have the time can you continue “Chatter, please?

Thank you <3

Absolutely I can, Anon! Please enjoy!

Part 1 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5

Warnings: restraints, hypothermia, torture, exposure, defiant whumpee, unconsciousness

True to their word, Whumper left Whumpee in the snow. Whumpee knew that they would likely die here. They knew that the moment Whumper captured them they were dead. But they would rather die on their own terms than on Whumper's. They had that much at least.

Whumpee was beyond cold. And they were tired. Their teeth barely chattered anymore, their shivering slowing. Their body was shutting down and they knew it. Still, at least Whumper wouldn't get what they wanted.

Whumpee's head jerked up as they realized they had drifted off. Maybe that was for the best. They blinked a few times, fighting the heaviness of their eyelids. They hoped that Caretaker didn't find them. That Whumper wouldn't leave their body for Caretaker. They'd rather have Caretaker accept they were gone without knowing the how. Caretaker shouldn't have to see them like this.

Slowly, Whumpee's eyes closed. They couldn't keep fighting. They curled up as close to the post they were tied to as possible, their arms held up at an awkward angle. It was the best they could do. As they sunk deeper into the snow and the snow continued to fall, covering them like a fluffy, pillowy blanket, Whumpee realized maybe it wasn't as cold as they thought. They closed their eyes one final time, relishing in the warmth they were finally feeling.

When Whumper returned, Whumpee was completely buried in the snow. Whumper cocked their head as they stared down at the snow drift, they couldn't see Whumpee at all. Carefully, Whumper crouched down and began to brush the snow off Whumpee's body with a gloved hand.

Whumpee's skin was pale, almost translucent, and their lips were blue. Frost coated their delicate eyelashes and clung to their bangs. But they didn't move as Whumper touched them. Didn't move as the snow cleared their face and body. They just lay still and silent in their would be snowy grave.

"I think you're good and ready for us to begin," Whumper said at last as they released Whumpee's arms from the chains. They lifted Whumpee over their shoulder. "More than good and ready," they chuckled as they headed towards their cabin, delighting in all the promised fun they would have with Whumpee now that Whumpee wouldn't fight back.

Tags: @writing-prompts-and-more @tempoghast @lady-pirate @writinggremlin @novawhumps @whump-me @whump7401 @bloodshottears @poorlittlekittycat

#serickswrites #whump #whumpblr #whump writing #whump community #tw restraints #tw hypothermia #tw torture #tw exposure #tw unconsciousness #defiant whumpee #requests #queue

[amaisnumber1groupie]

A loose remake of a fic i wrote yonks ago, with an extra dash of mentioned kidnapping. hope u enjoy, baby.

4 @amaichou, sorry for any grammar errors bae

Something big rumbles behind you.

Watch it, (L/N).

Strong hands squeeze your pillowy waist from behind, and you squeak.

You're sure he's going to shoot you.

No, he'll bend you over the tall stack of stolen shoes and fuck your nerve-endings raw, split open your peach and lap up all the juices, before hitting you over the head with one of those heavy little mahogany cases, courtesy of Gun.

You've really done it this time. All you wanted was to let her know you are safe.

That might not be so true now

For weeks, not a single scrap of clothing on your soft little body was bought with your hand. Nor the food glutting your rosy cheeks he'd kiss by the minute. The very ground you shiver upon now does not belong to you, and you are sharply aware of how this dependence makes you vulnerable to the various ways in which Johan can punish you.

The phone in your sweating hand grows cold and the line falls flat, crashing into the bamboo flooring with a tittering thud.

He has never been outright cruel, but he could be terrible at managing his passions.

You being the most important of them.

"Puh-please! I only wanted to call my mom! I'm sorry, I'm really, really sorry... please, don't punish me, I won't try it again!"

You beg like a caught babe, a dumb broad fumbling before her disappointed patron as you posture before him in a way you hope entices him. His little sweet would never want to anger him, yet that seems to be all you're good for. Your delicate lashes or cute curves do nothing to prove him otherwise.

"Turn around. I want you to look at me."

The collar around your throat feels tighter with the thick tension that wafts between you. He stands impossibly tall before you, impassive and cold as a marble statue carved in the heat of the Renaissance fervor. You know better, he is anything but calm.

Shiiit.

The corner of his hard lips curl.

"The line on that phone has already been cut. I had only one rule for you, and you still chose to break it."

You wail.

Damn this. Damn it all.

"Fuh-fuck you! I'm allowed to call fucking mom! How dare you try to stop me!?"

Before you can continue to dig yourself a bigger grave, stern hands take hold of your slight shoulders and rock you with an impatient force. Your tongue turns to lead as his quarts eyes fix on the gleaming silver tag on your collar, writ with his initials.

"How dare I." He murmurs blankly.

You swallow.

"I sh-should be allowed to call my mom! She deserves to know I'm alive..."

He cocks his head to the side, canine curiosity in the elegant folds of his muscular shoulders.

"Does she? What would you say to her?"

You frown, watching him stare at the pout of your confused lips. Was he humouring you?

"I-, I would-"

"You would what? Give us away? Tell her I've kept you stuffed with my cock? That I've trained you to only think of crawling after me and drooling to be fucked?"

You blanch. "You haven't trained me like that at all! I'm not a fucking dog-"

"Kneel."

Your knees quake and without the barest hint of hesitation, you drop to the ground, thighs splayed and calves tucked under your cute bum.

Johan towers over you, boyish brown curls and smooth skin bellied out in their cherubic beauty by the cruel slant of his cheekbones and heavy brows.

He grins wolfishly, sharp teeth glinting pearlescent in the artificial light of your small space.

"There. Now, what were you saying? That I haven't trained you like a dog?"

You want to rage at him, but all that comes out from between your trembling lips is a pathetic little squeal.

"I'm not a dog! I'm not a stupid mutt-"

"You're a bitch."

Your teeth clamp in a sharp contraction, wide eyes stare up at him in a decadent mixture of hurt and anger.

"You're my little bitch," he croons, his long fingers reaching forward to run blissful strokes through your scalp, "you're my girl. You're my puppy that still needs her owner to guide her when she misbehaves."

Your mouth wobbles, spine frozen by the near months of steady grooming into what makes you crumble to his feet.

Helpless to the traitorous thrum in your needy clitty.

He snaps his fingers, "bark for me. If you have any idea of what's good for you, you'll do as I say.

Your eyes are pits of molten fire, but the pink spreading over your cheeks or the scent of your arousal dripping into a small puddle beneath you are not kept from his attention.

When you make no mover to do as he says, he rolls his eyes and snaps a big palm to grasp your hair. His grip is firm and you cry out at the mounting pressure, embarrassing tears blurring the edges of your vision. You quake to rapid obedience in lifting your hands to curl down in front of your chest to mimic paws.

"Wo-woof, woof, ..." You trail, humiliated.

He smirks, paternal pride gleaming in his youthfully masculine face melting your center.

"Good girl."

His pale fingers dash rapidly in front of you.

"How many fingers am I holding?"

"Th-three?" You mutter, unsure of where he is going.

He sighs, reaching to methodically undo his belt, staring down at your loveliness with the air of an aggrieved yet fond patriarch.

"I see what the problem is. You can still think."

His smile is haunting, an effervescent fury that rumbles through your bones knit from his being.

"We'll just have to fix that, won't we, puppy?"

-------------

I'm not actually sure if this was cohesive, but o well

#johan seong

[princetorn]

❛ i want you to fuck me so badly. ❜

Girls didn’t speak like that, not where he had come from. Back there – back then – they had plucked demurely at the hems of knee-length skirts, keeping them pulled down, told him no even as they leaned into his touch. It was important that they seemed chaste in the retelling, lest they be branded hussies. Good girls, Royce would say, but Persephone was a good girl too – she just happened to have a mouth like a pistol. It thrilled him, her words running through him like a bullet.

An exhale seemed to thrum in his throat, though he had no breath. Beneath the cage of his arms she lay, nestled naked on the rumpled bed sheet, blankets peeled back and spewing onto the floor. Soft and full-figured, all parted lips, pillowy breasts and rounded hips. Perfect, perfect, perfect. For her, Royce manifested fiercely, pushing outward, bearing down, making a conscious and constant effort to be solid, to have a form she could touch and kiss and hold.

With grave-cold hands he explored her, distantly aware of the poke of a nipple against his palm as he licked the inside of her teeth, his skeletal fingers sinking into her flesh like blunt knife tips. He was a horror show, but still Persephone kissed his mouth, still she held his half-flayed face in her hands and wanted him. Royce wanted her too, wanted to give as much as his hellish half-existence would allow.

“You want me to fuck you?”

The question was asked with jockish confidence, despite the vulgarity lying foreign and strange on his tongue. Drawing away – as though he intended to deny her – he widened his kneeling stance, deliberately nudging alabaster thighs further apart. Sitting back on his heels, Royce then feasted on the sight of Persephone unabashed, devouring her with his haemorrhaged gaze. He liked her like this, spread open, wide-eyed and wanton. Lips dressed in a wicked smirk, he captured one of her hands, leading it to the bulging pitch beneath the fly-shield of his jeans, coaxing her into rubbing his cock through the denim that suffocated and strangled. Whether he was hard because he willed it, or because ghosts were not immune to arousal, he could not say – only that it did not matter, not when the desire was as real as the heart that pulsed and squeezed in her pretty chest. If he wasn’t already dead, this girl might have been the death of him.

From his shoulders he shrugged his tattered letterman jacket. It fell soundless onto the bed, rapidly melting away into the shadows, as though it had never existed. Beneath it, a white t-shirt soaked in blood, half hanging off his frame in ribbons, a ruin of road-rash flesh and exposed ribs peeking through the rips and tears. It swiftly went the way of the jacket, stripped away and swallowed by the preternatural dark. Persephone watched him, he could see the catch of distant moonlight glinting in her eyes. Still she ground the heel of her hand against him, where he ached with need. It was enough to make the hot-rodder feel that he was built of flesh and blood and bone once more.

“Say please.”

#percy vc: fuck #royce vc: heavens to betsy #just a girl and her ghost nothing to see here #✮ royce × persephone — you look beyond the veil of form and separation #spiritdreamt #cw: nsft

[theshotsheardacrossworlds]

Pipe

In which Halsin offers his beloved Annie some weed to calm her anxious butt down. Mostly SFW.

“Do you mind?” Halsin rumbled, showing Anais his pipe. She was reading what she called “an extremely bawdy” romance novel and sitting next to him on her bedroll.

“Not at all. What do you put in there?” She watched him curiously as he packed his pipe.

“A variety of herbs used for relaxation.” Finishing that, he lit a match. “I thought perhaps we may both partake.” His hazel eyes met her brown ones. “You’re under such stress, my heart. I can feel wave after wave of anxiety pour off you.” You’re all smiles and full of cheer but underneath how you suffer so. I see how your muscles are always tense, even causing you pain. I’ve heard your cries of frustration as at every turn yet another tells you they cannot cure you. When you realize you cannot save someone. How you cry for your mother when you’re hurt. He put out the match and puffed on the pipe. “Let me help you.”

Tears pricked her eyes. “Is it that obvious?” She whispered, looking away from him.

Oh no. No. No. No. I must fix this. He reached one of his long arms around her broad shoulders, his hand resting on her pillowy upper arm. “My love, I did not say that to chastise or shame you. I said it because I love you and because…I have been there too. This helps my body and mind relax, and I hope it does the same for you.” Please believe me, Annie. Know that I only wish to help.

She leaned her head against him, closing her eyes. “I suppose it can’t hurt. So,” she opened her eyes again and raised an eyebrow. “What exactly do I do?” Picking her head up, she eyed the pipe in his other hand.

“Puff occasionally. That’s all, my heart.” He handed it to her, and she stared at it for a second before bringing it to her perfect lips. Those lips I long to kiss. On her first puff she coughed a little and eyed the pipe warily. “You’ll get used to it.” She doesn’t look convinced. What can I do? “Try again, and maybe—”

“I think slower.” She said, eyes still on the pipe. She puffed more slowly the second time, her tense shoulders already relaxing. Good. Good girl. Be at peace, my love.

An hour later, Halsin knew his beloved was at peace.

She’s staring at the sky, head against my shoulder. It’s as if all her tension has faded away.

“The sky’s just…so fucking pretty, you know?” She murmured.

She’s also high as the trees in High Forest.

He chuckled and rubbed her upper arm. “It is but pales in comparison to you, my heart.”

“You are so fucking cute, love. That’s the kinda shit Da always said to Mum.” Anais sighed dramatically, drawing another chortle from Halsin. “You know, Da…he was amazing. He was just a fisherman, and then he fell in love with a countess.” Her demeanor changed in an instant. “And he was disrespected from the day they married til the day he died.”

“Oh?” Let her speak and unburden herself. Maybe she’s keeping much inside that’s troubling her.

“The Wildhearts drew up an ironclad prenuptial agreement, detailing everything Mum and Da could and couldn’t do. Mum couldn’t take his name. Da had no claim to her wealth or title. Da couldn’t attend certain events with her, and even if he could, he wasn’t allowed to be seated near her.” Her brown eyes narrowed. “Or me. He wasn’t allowed to attend my eighteenth nameday ball. I mean fuck, he’s dead and not allowed to be buried in the Wildheart family crypt! He’s just…fucking in a grave!” I believe she could have worded that better. She suddenly shifted and pulled his face to hers, her expression almost pleading. “I don’t want that for you. I don’t want you treated like how Da was.”

My sweet Annie… He relished her touch and kissed one of her palms. “That you are so concerned for me is touching. However, I do not plan to ever marry.”

Her mouth dropped and tears began forming in her eyes.

Oh. Shit.

He quickly put his pipe down, taking her hands off his face and holding them tightly. “Annie, when I say I will never marry it is because of who I am. Remember what I said? I am unbound in nature, my love. That doesn’t mean I love you any less. What we have is more grounded in nature than the rules of civilization. I would never, never leave you. I always wish to be by your side, Oak Father willing. I love you. To be with you and have your love are the greatest gifts I’ve ever been given.”

She blinked several times, and Halsin noted that her eyes seemed unfocused. “Okay.” Anais nodded as if he had casually told her something unimportant. Realizing that perhaps he said something important, her eyes widened and kissed him soundly. “I love you too, my big sexy bear.” She then tapped his nose and turned towards her bag. “I need chocolate. I’m such a slut for chocolate, love.” She says the most amusing things. Pulling out a bar of chocolate (how long has that been in her bag, I wonder), she offered a piece to him with a smile.

He took the chocolate gratefully, his eyes never leaving hers. What a sight she is. And so generous too.

They ate in silence for a few minutes before Anais spoke once more.

“You know, love…besides my little happy circle of Mum, Da, and Nadia, this is the first time in my life I feel like I belong. It’s nice.” Smiling softly, she took a very large bite of chocolate. “I’m the half-elf adopted daughter of a dwarven countess---I stick out like a sore thumb no matter what. But with everyone…this weird as fuck not-so-little anymore family…I fit right in.” Ah, such a beautiful and slightly awkward wink. “And then there’s you!” Her lips barely touched his before she began to giggle. “I belong with you all right! I belong in your lap and in your bed and on the ground when I feel like it,” When she feels like it is when she wants the bear, which is more often than even I would have predicted. “And…AND…” She popped the rest of the chocolate in her mouth and grinned. “Like this.” She snuggled into his shoulder and chest, holding onto him tightly. “Big sexy cuddly bear…all mine…not gonna leave me, my bear?”

Wrapping an arm around her with the other bringing her long legs over his lap, he kissed her not quite as pale as before cheek. “Never.” How could I let go the one dearest to me? The one who saved my life? Who saved the grove? Who continues with such grace despite impossible odds? Who makes my heart flutter when I glimpse her? Who has listened to my frustrations, ramblings, hopes, and dreams, and comforts and encourages me endlessly? “Never, my heart.”

The next sound Halsin heard was a soft snore from his lover. Trying hard not to laugh, he let a few chuckles escape as he continued to hold her. I will never let you go.

***

When Anais woke the next morning, she was very confused at first. “Wait…did I…sleep in your tent?”

The large elf beside her laughed heartily. “You certainly did, my love! Truthfully, I’ve never seen you so at ease than last night. How do you feel?” Considering all that happened, I hope she feels less anxious.

She hummed as she turned to rest her head over his heart. “Better. It was nice to just not think for a while.” A smile tugged on her lips. “Though, I’m sorry if I said anything weird.” Her brow furrowed, and her nose wrinkled. “Did I talk about my Mum and Da?”

He grinned. “You did. You clearly love your parents very much, as I’m sure they do you.” As I did with my own parents. So, so long ago. “Would you be open to doing this again? Not that I’m pressuring you, mind you—"

Giggling, she pressed a kiss far too close to a nipple. Silvanus preserve, you are too much. “I would, but only if you’re with me. Gods forbid someone like Astarion find me! I’d never hear the end of it.” They both laughed and then settled into a comfortable silence for a while. “I,” she began. “I don’t know if I say it enough, love, but…I’m so grateful for you.” As I am for you, dear one. “I never thought in my wildest dreams I could find someone who not only loves me for me but is as truly wonderful as you. I’m so very grateful, Halsin.” He could feel his eyes filling with tears and his heart near bursting with love as she spoke. Light of my life, how could I not love and cherish you? He suddenly felt her vibrating but not with anxiety---with excitement. “Oh my goodness, I just had a brilliant idea! You like sweets, right? What’s your favorite, love? Once we’re in the city, and I have a godsdamned kitchen again, I can make it for you! Or we can just buy it, if the bakery is a decent one…oh shit, what if it’s something you absolutely adore, I’ve never made it before, and I fuck up so badly you hate those for the rest of your life?!” She shook her head quickly. “Nah, that won’t happen. I’m not that bad of baker. I’d like to think I’m pretty good…sorry.” Her cheeks turned pink. “Getting ahead of myself there. Back to the original question, love---what’s your favorite sweet?”

He chuckled softly, giving her upper arm a squeeze. The next time we are intimate, worship her arms and hands. They are just as beautiful as the rest of her. “How very thoughtful, my heart! Both in thinking of that and not letting your mind run so far so fast. Hmm, I enjoy most sweets the same, but if it has honey, then I’d be most pleased.”

“Honey cakes for my loveable bear.” She sighed happily, rubbing his chest. “Loveable, cuddly bear…can we stay like this a while? Still early yet.”

“As if I could refuse you, my favorite slut for chocolate.” Halsin teased, suddenly tickling her. She playfully thrashed in his heavily muscled arms, eventually straddling his waist and her lips just above his.

Wrinkling her nose, she giggled. “Just how many sluts for chocolate do you know, love?”

His hands moved from her thick waist to her behind. Nature was very generous when making her ass. And her breasts. And her height. And her belly. And her heart, of course! His eyes twinkled as he rubbed her. “Only you, Annie. Thus, as the only one, you also just happen to be my favorite as you are my favorite sorcerer, my favorite star in the sky…”

“Flatterer.” She laughed softly, picking her head up slightly to meet his gaze. “Who knew the famous archdruid Halsin—”

“Famous? Ha!” Am I truly that well-known? Surely not.

She placed several kisses along his jaw and mouth. “The extremely famous, expert healer, and very comfortable bear, the archdruid Halsin is such a flatterer when he wants to be.” Her lips touched his, the kiss slow. “I love you,” Anais breathed. “Gods, I love you.”

He held her tightly to him, relishing the warmth and feeling of her. “I love you too, my heart.” Oak Father, allow me to care for and cherish her in all the days we have together, whether they be short or long…preferably long. She is my sun, moon, and stars---protect her, Oak Father, in the battles ahead.

#anais wildheart #annie wildheart #halsin #bg3 halsin #halsin x tav #plus size tav #halsin x annie #annie like me irl has a ton of anxiety #bg3 fanfic #bg3 fanfiction #halsin x plus size tav #half-elf tav #these other two dorks and one of them can turn into a bear

[tinyfishtits]

Need a Haircut, doll?

Micah Bell / Gender Neutral Reader

Photo by @red-dead-simp

Summary: Reader notices Micah's had a rough time since returning to camp and decides to pamper him with a haircut.

Word Count: 3,203 Rating: Teen and Up ~ for foul language Author's Note: Fluff and Flirting! I just want to pamper my boy 🥺

✖︎ Read On AO3 ✖︎

It had only been a few days up at Clemons Point, but I already found myself falling in love with the place. The heartlands had their own charm, sure, but it was hard to beat the picturesque serenity of being by the water. Night was quickly approaching as I lounged on the shore, aimlessly sketching the pillowy clouds that reflected in the expansive mirror of water before me. The graphite lines didn’t do the sunset justice. 

The gravely earth at my back crunched with approaching steps and I turned to see who they belonged to. Micah Bell walked over to a tree a few yards away and leaned against it with a deep drawn out sigh. I’d only interacted with him a few times since he showed up at camp after the move, and even though the majority of the camp seemed to despise him… I kind of pitied him. 

He was obviously an outsider. Even though he played it off like he was a lone wolf I could tell he craved connection. Always provoking people, trying to get reactions out of those that would otherwise ignore him… I could only guess the kind of upbringing he had to have him put up so many defensive walls to keep people out.

Either unaware or just indifferent to my presence, he started grumbling about Mary Beth. I’d noticed her shoot him down on a few occasions, just like every other woman he flirted with. But today she’d really got to him. He was mumbling about her ‘damn smarmy romance books’ giving her all types of unattainable expectations. Upon further eavesdropping, I deduced that he had asked her to dance and been rejected. 

He reached for a stick at his feet and unsheathed his knife to start whittling away at it, still mumbling under his breath. The sun had dipped below the horizon at this point, bringing an end to my doodling. With the darkness came the cold. I hadn’t brought a jacket and the chilled breeze that wafted up from the water was already making me shiver. I wanted to head back to camp but, glancing over at Micah, I wondered if he’d be upset at me for eavesdropping on him… 

“Are you okay?” I broke the silence, which got a startled grunt from Micah as his head whipped around to me, still sitting on the ground, partially concealed by the large rock I leaned against. He gathered his composure quickly and hit me with one of his usual sleazy retorts. 

“Why darlin’? You wanna come over here and make me feel good ?” His southern drawl dragged on the last word. 

“Not as lewdly as you’re implyin'.” I said, getting up and walking over to him. From what I’d heard from the others, he’d been locked away awaiting the noose up in Strawberry until Arthur broke him out. Spent a month camping up in the mountains before showing his face back here earlier this week. All that time out in the wilderness was obvious on his appearance. His hair had grown out past his shoulders, the stubble on his chin threatened to turn his mustache into a full on beard, and his entire body was caked in layers of dirt and dust. Micah let out a low hum as he watched me inspect him. 

“I have somethin’ in mind” I finally said, to which his brows raised. His light blue eyes peeked out from the brim of his hat and I reached out to tip it up, revealing more of his face. He seemed wary at first, his body stiffening as I got closer to him, but he didn’t stop me. 

“Oh yeah?” He said, his tone attempting to reach its typical tinge of cockyness, but it came out a bit too breathy to accomplish it. After a hard swallow, he continued, “What did you have in mind, doll?”  I ran my fingers through a lock of hair that cascaded over his jaw and down to his collarbone. His eyes followed the movement and I could hear his breath hitch at the unexpected contact as my fingers brushed against the exposed skin on his chest.   

“That I could cut your hair.” I said, tugging lightly on the strand I was playing with. A laugh burst out of him and he seemed to regain his normal air of arrogance. 

“What makes you think I’d trust you with a blade by my neck?” He said, a grin plastered on his face. His stick and blade were forgotten at his side now and I took advantage of his distraction to slip the knife out of his hand and throw it quickly at the tree beside us. The blade landed snuggly, smack in the middle of the trunk with a satisfying ‘thud’. 

“Cause doll” I said, taking his hat off and placing it on my head, “If I wanted to kill ya, I would have done it already.” The corner of his mouth twitched up at that, and before he could come up with a retort I started off back to camp. “Meet me by the fire when you’re done strokin’ your stick!” I yelled back to him. A low chuckle rang out behind me as I walked away. 

I had always loved doing things for people. It was a gift and a curse. The feeling of helping somebody with a task big or small, taking a weight off their shoulders, surprising them with something they needed - that feeling was close to the best in the world. But it also meant I often found myself putting other people's needs and wants before my own. I would work myself into the ground if it meant someone else got to take a break, go above and beyond for the simplest tasks… and that’s how I found myself boiling water at the scout fire with the hope of giving a disgruntled outcast the best goddamn haircut he's ever had. 

“All this for me?” He said, sauntering over to the log I sat on and eying the various supplies I’d gathered for the task at hand; scissors, comb, powdered shampoo, towel and a pot of water. 

“Mmhm.” I hummed, starting to feel a bit embarrassed about all the effort I was going to. I kept my eyes on the fire as he sat beside me, holding the glass of shampoo in his hand. 

“You gonna give me a bath?” He asked. I could feel my cheeks flush at the implication and hoped the heat of the fire camouflaged it enough that he wouldn’t notice. 

“I was rather hopin’ you’d keep your clothes on for this.” I said, removing the small pot of water from the fire as the first bubbles started to spring to the surface. I dumped it into the larger pot of cool lake water I'd collected and dipped my hand in to test the temperature. It was warm enough that my skin reddened at the touch, but not too hot. “Perfect.” I continued, collecting the supplies in my arms and nodding at the pot of water, “Grab that and follow me.” 

I led him back down to the lake and had him set the water beside the large boulder I had rested against earlier. He waited patiently for me to set up my supplies. When I was ready, I patted the flat top of the boulder and motioned him over. “Okay, lie down.” I ordered. He glanced between me and the rock skeptically, but relented with a grunt and came over to sit on it. 

Standing behind him, I pulled him down by the shoulders to lay flush against the rock. “Scoot toward me so your head hangs off the edge a bit.” I said, tugging at his shoulders until he obeyed. 

“You sure are a bossy one ain't ya?” He said, to which I gave him a soft laugh in acknowledgement. With his head resting in my hands, I knelt down beside him, the vat of water nestled between my legs. Taking cup-fulls of the warm water, I began pouring them over his hair. I could feel him relax into my hand as I went. “Damn that feels good.” He admitted with a whistle. I laughed, he was so easily pleased. 

“Ain’t even got to the good part yet.” I said, sprinkling some powdered shampoo in his hair. It was my own stash, something I was gifted by an herbalist out in Cumberland Forest after I’d helped him find some sage, which is what the shampoo smelt of. I personally loved the scent, it wasn’t too floral or perfumy, it had a nice earthy musk about it that just felt so natural. 

The moment my fingers started massaging into his scalp he let out a gravely moan, followed by a string of expletives as my hands continued to travel around his head, kneading out the tension at the base of his skull. “ Fuck darlin’.” His voice came out in a whisper. I gave him a generous head massage, lathering his long hair far more than was really necessary. But the poor man seemed so peaceful for once, I wanted to make it last. 

I dipped a hand in the water between my legs, checking it hadn't gone cold before I rinsed his hair. Luckily it was still lukewarm. I slowly began washing the suds out of his hair, and with it an obscene amount of grime. Did this man sleep in the dirt? Once his hair was clean I bundled it up in my towel and gently wrung it out. Micah didn’t move a muscle or make a sound while I worked. 

Seeing as he was being so cooperative I decided to go ahead and comb through his hair before having him get up. Working as gently as possible with his - not so surprisingly -  tangled mess of hair, it took a good half hour to get it all smoothed out. He let out a few soft grunts during the process but was otherwise quiet. When I was finally done, I patted him on the shoulder and stood up. My legs tingled a bit having kneeled in an awkward position for almost an hour, but with a few testing stretches they calmed. 

I expected Micah to get up or at the very least say something, but he was completely still. I leaned over him and noticed he was dead asleep. His mouth hung crookedly agape and his eyes fluttered under his lids. I almost didn’t want to wake him, but I knew sleeping strewn out on a rock with his neck hung over the edge would be a bitch of a position to wake up in come morning. Still, I wasn’t exactly sure how to go about it. 

It hit me then that I'd never actually seen him asleep before. I hadn’t seen him much anyway, sure, but the few days he’d been at camp I couldn’t recall one moment he had so much as shut his eyes. He was always moving, pacing around, polishing his guns, going off to smoke or widdle… but never sleep. He was the last one at the fire before I went to bed and the first up in the morning making coffee.

Without thinking, my hand reached out and lightly caressed his sleeping face. His skin was surprisingly smooth for how rough he appeared. My fingers traced along his thick blond facial hair, brushing down to the scar on his chin, just barely visible beneath the stubble. He looked so peaceful. His hand shot up suddenly and grabbed my wrist, holding it in place at his jaw. I let out a gasp at the quick movement. My eyes met his and he seemed to relax, realizing where he was, but he still kept a hold of me. 

“Sorry doll.” He said, his voice heavy with sleep. “Didn’t mean to startle ya.” The hand that gripped my wrist slid down into my palm and bought my knuckles up to meet his lips. He gave my hand a soft, scratchy kiss before sitting up with a groan and jumping off the rock to stretch his limbs.  I was taken back by how beautiful he was in the moonlight. 

His normally golden blonde hair was darkened with moisture, falling over his broad shoulders in shiny wisps. He was a nicely built man, the perfect inbetween of muscle and thickness. I could tell he was strong and sturdy, but soft as well. Not like Arthur or Charels who were mountains of men and muscle that towered above you and seemed like they could kill someone with a single punch. Michas strength was more subtle. Someone at first glance you’d think you could pretty easily take in a fight, but his quickness and dexterity would soon prove you wrong. 

“Are ya tired? I can cut your hair tomorrow if you’d rather go to bed.” I said, trying to shield the blush burning on my cheeks under the brim of his hat. He was silent for a moment before closing the distance between us and pushing the hat up with his thumb. 

“You offering to go to bed with me?” He smirked. My cheeks were on fire now and I was sure he could tell, as his smirk grew into a full on beaming smile. He let out a chuckle and tapped the brim of the hat so it sunk back down over my face. “I’m just messin with ya darlin’. Like seein ya get all red.” A part of me hoped he wasn't jokin’ around. The kiss he’d given my hand still tingled, and mixed with his flirtatious words I felt a warm churning in the pit of my stomach. 

I let out a sigh, trying to exhale the tension that was building up under my skin to no avail. “Sit down, would ya?” I gestured back to the rock beside us and he did as I asked. I brushed through his hair once more, evening it out. “How short ya want it?” I asked, taking the long strands that framed his face in my fingers. 

He hummed, his lids drooping the more I touched his hair. I took the ends of one strand between two fingers and held it up to him, about two inches of hair poking out at the ends. “That okay?” 

“As long as ya don't go cuttin’ all my hair off darlin’, it’s okay.” He said, closing his eyes and letting me work. I started snipping away at his hair, trimming it just enough that it still grazed his shoulders. The long look really fit him, though his features were sharp and strong enough I was sure he’d look just as good with a really short cut. 

“Have you always had long hair?” I asked. He hummed in thought for a moment. 

“No.” Was all he said, short and firm, like the topic wasn’t something he wanted to dip into. 

“Hm.” I said, and decided to push my luck. “Is this the longest your hair’s ever been?” He started to turn his head to look at me but I put a firm palm on his scalp and kept him in place. “Don’t move.” 

“Why so many questions?” He grunted. I didn’t answer at first, letting the silence around us fill with the rhythmic snipping of hair. 

“I’m just curious about ya is all. Seems the only thing anyone here knows about you is that you're an ass.” I admitted. 

“You been askin’ about me darlin’?” I could feel a grin stretch across his cheeks and circled around to face him. His smile softened as I got closer, my eyes flickering back and forth across his face as I lined up each side of his hair with my fingers to make sure they were even. I was so close to him I could feel his warm breath brush across my lips. 

“I- Um, I think that’s good.” I said, a little flustered by how close we were, my hands lingering in the hair on either side of his face. He reached up and took my wrists in his grasp, holding them in place. 

“Why you bein’ so nice to me?” He asked, his brow furrowing a bit as his steely blue eyes bored into mine. 

“Look who’s got all the questions now.” I said, trying to mask the breathlessness in my voice. He didn’t move, waiting for a genuine answer. “I- I’m nice to everyone, Micah. Why would I treat you any different?” This answer seemed to suffice and he let go of my wrists, standing up with a huff. Not that he’d ever admit it, but I got the feeling that he wanted me to be treating him different from the rest of the gang. 

The moon was a halo behind him as he stood an arms length away. He wasn’t as tall as the other men in camp, but he still had a few inches on me. He was dusted in loose strands of hair and I reached out tentatively to brush them off, approaching him more slowly than normal as he seemed to have a habit of gripping my wrists in reflex to any sudden movement. 

He let me approach, brushing my hands over his shoulders and chest to rid him of the scratchy remnants of hair. I circled him, making sure to get the hair that coated the back of his shirt. My hands lingered a bit as I brushed over the muscles on his back, feeling the dip between his shoulder blades and the tension so evident in the long muscles that stretched down from his neck. 

“You know, I’ve never seen ya sleep before today” I said, resting my hands on his back and feeling the deep breath he took. His body moved under my palms as he turned to face me, my hands now on his bare chest, unwilling to move away from his warmth. He locked eyes with me for a long moment, searching for words. I’d heard him say something along the lines of ‘sleep is for the weak’ before, and wondered if he would give me the same retort. 

“If ya keep touchin’ me like this, it may not be the last time.” He said, a smirk twitching at the corner of his lips. I smiled back at him, giving the furry skin of his chest a squeeze before I reached up and removed his hat from my head. I placed it onto his hair, cleaner now than I'm sure it’d ever been. Another breeze wafted up from the water and brushed through his hair, carrying the scent of sage to my nose. Having my smell on him sent its own chill down my spine, erupting in a burst of electricity between my legs. 

My mind went hazy with warmth as his eyes continued to burrow into my own. Not knowing what to say, I simply leaned in and gave him a soft kiss on his cheek. I could feel his skin burn under my lips. “Night Micah.” Was all I said as I gathered my things and started off back to camp, leaving him blushing and still as a statue on the shore.

♥︎ thanks for reading ♥︎

#the quiet intimacy of cutting someones hair #like 😌😗🤗 #Micah Bell #Micah Bell fic #Micah Bell Fan Fiction #micah bell x reader #Micah Bell x You #Micah Bell fluff #RD2 fanfiction #Red dead redemption 2 fanfiction #my fics