#and shes wearing all dingy white

[your-highnessmarvel]

Repairs

Requested by @talesofreading : Would you write something where you're a close friend of Steve and one time as your Bike needs some repair, he tells you to bring it to Bucky as he's good in fixing it. You're hesitant first as you have a bad crush on him but you decide to do it. So when you get there he's wearing a muscle Shirt, is all dirty and Looks pretty hot with his metal arm. So after you watch him fix your bike you can't resist the way he also Looks at you, so it happens that you end up in his shower together with some passionate smut. Later then he asks you for a proper date? 🤭

AN: omg this was sooooo good to write omg

Warnings: SMUT SMUT SMUT, piv, oral (f receiving), fingering, language

*gif not mine

MASTERLIST

"Yep, totally busted," Steve said, looking back up at you from where he knelt next to your smoking bike.

You put a hand to your sweaty forehead. Both of you had been at this for the better part of the afternoon, trying to figure out what was wrong with your motorcycle. Steve was in his white wifebeater, stained black from oil and grim, nails coated in dirt. He'd sweated right through his shirt and even his jeans were full of mud and dirt.

You'd sweated your fair share as well, competing with dirt under your nails and sweat right into your hairline. you didn't look any better, but you didn't care; this was your best friend, after all, and you had no reason to try to impress him.

"You know what?" Steve said, putting his tools back into his box. "You should go see Bucky."

You immediately rolled your eyes.

"He's good with bikes, y/n," he commended, seeing the way you shook your head.

"Is this another ploy to set me up with your grumpy best friend?" you retorted, crossing your arms over your chest.

Steve got to his feet, dirt-stained hands going right into his pockets. "I mean it, y/n," he said, almost scolded. "I'm not as savvy with bikes as he is. He'd do it if you said I sent you."

"Then come with me!" you said. "Every time I'm alone with him, there's this awkward silence and all he does is grunt as a response."

Steve smiled. "I wish I could come, but I've got a date," he answered.

"Yeah, right," you grumbled. You watched him carefully, your best friend and mentor, and something along the edges of his eyes was curious.

He was shy.

"Who is she?" you asked.

He shrugged. "A girl that I saw at the library." He cut that off pretty short, picking up his tools, his towel, and throwing the keys back at you. "Now, get to Bucky's before it's nightfall."

Bucky lived way out of the city, into the utopian suburbs. You found it funny that this was the life that Bucky chose. After everything you'd heard from him, you'd pictured him in a dingy, half-lit, half-crumbling one-bedroom in Manhattan. Not in the outskirts of the city.

Thank God your car could pull a trailer, or else you'd have had to ask Bucky to meet you at your place, and that just wasn't happening. The thousand-year-old soviet asset was known to be a judger of literally everything.

You pulled into Bucky's parking space, the garage to his tiny little house open, like a black mouth ready to swallow you in. By this time, it was nearing four in the afternoon, and the sun was searing, hot and humid, and with just a foot out of your car, you were already sweating.

You closed the door loudly, maybe trying to announce your presence so you didn't have to knock on the door.

"Hey." It was Bucky, coming out of the shadows of his garage. It took you a second to get the hinges in your jaw to work because, damn.

You'd always thought of Bucky as a man who passed as good looking. Well, when you met him, he was still in heavy therapy and on government surveillance. He still had long, matted brown hair and a face dragged down by sorrow.

But now. Now he'd taken to cleanly shave his hair, leaving a few inches of thick, curling locks on top of his hair, not totally covering his ears. And even though he was slimmer than the last time you'd seen him - he hadn't been working out as much - he still looked... better. Real better.

"Hey," you said, awkwardly waving at him. He was carrying a white rag, cleaning his hands from oil or dirt or whatever else he'd been doing. "Steve said I could come to you if I had problems with my bike?"

He pursed his lips. He came closer, out of the shadows and into the mid-afternoon sun, and you got a good glimpse at him. Golden skin, scars matting his hand, his knuckles. He was wearing a muscle shirt, the kind that was maybe a bit too small for him, molding to his muscles, straining across his metal bicep.

You'd never really seen the arm before. Only flickers of his hands or fingers, but never the entire machine.

You licked your lips, something squeezing in your lower belly.

"What's wrong with it?" he asked.

you shrugged. "Dunno."

He glazed his eyes, rolled them. "Alright, take it down and bring it into the garage."

With a tiny sigh of resentment - he wasn't helping you - you unlatched the ties of your bike and rolled it into the garage. it was darker, a little cooler, inside. As you settled your bike in the dead center of the room, Bucky brought two stools, effortlessly carrying them around.

He sat on his and motioned with a wrench for you to sit beside him. Even though you'd sweated all day in your black t-shirt, and God knows whatever he'd down today, there was something terrific about sitting this close to Bucky.

His tanned fingers worked to open up the bike, his metal hand working the wrench.

"Ah," he said, poking around the engine. "I see what's wrong."

"Is it fixable?" you asked.

He chuckled. "Don't worry, darling," he whispered.

You swallowed the heat climbing up your throat, watching him get to work in silence. Unlike Steve, Bucky didn't tell you what he was doing or why; he just did it.

It took longer than expected. And the more he worked, straining against your bike, the sweatier he got, the more figetting you did.

His flesh arm was glistening with a thin layer of sweat. His hand was veined, strained against the metal piece he was holding aside. His fingers were dirty with grime and dust. Even that God damned muscle shirt was stained with dirt and sweat and grime.

By the time he was done, a light sheet of rain was coating the ground outside. It was pitter-pattering against the cement, a slow drone of rain against the tin roof. Almost comforting.

"You can't take your bike out in the rain," he said, putting everything back in its place, stowing his tools and his rags.

You gulped. "Yeah, I'm sure the rain will let off soon." You dragged your sweaty palms onto your jeans nervously. It caught Bucky's eye.

He stood, dragging your eyes up to his figure. He was so tall, so wide at the shoulders, sweating in his shirt, hair a mess.

"I've got beer inside," he said, throwing the rag in the corner of the garage, placing his tools on his self-made wooden desk. Then he turned to you and gestured to the front door. "Come on."

You followed him out into the rain, walking quickly up the steps and into his home, which smelled of him, something woodsy, and air freshener.

You were humid, rain dotting your skin as you took off your sneakers and followed him into the kitchen. The air conditioning was making you cold.

his home was cozy but so boyish. No decorations but a huge TV. A grey couch with not pillows or blankets. Empty liquor bottles as props over the refrigerator, which droned on and on. There was only one magnet on his fridge, and it read "I love NY!" Which was ironic because Bucky didn't love anything.

"Here," he said, offering you an ice cold beer, but it did nothing to warm you up. You leaned back against his kitchen counter, sipping on your beer, watching him poke around the inside of his fridge. The yellow light cast on his face like a glow, and he hummed when he found what he wanted.

By the time he took out the rolled up cheese, he saw you shivering by the sink.

"I'm sorry," you said, settling the beer down. "I'm just a bit cold from the rain."

He hummed, slamming the cheese rolls on the kitchen table.

"We ought to warm you up," he said, diving back into the fridge to get a beer, which he opened and took a five good gulps before he wiped his wet mouth.

"Yeah," you chuckled, pressing your hands against your arms, searching for heat.

The super soldier, immune to any heat or cold or anything really, stood before you with his sticky muscle shirt molding to every nook in his muscles. His arms, his chest, down to his abs. Water had made it almost see-through, and you felt like a perv watching as he breathed, watching his muscles contract beneath the fabric.

"You should take a shower, y/n," he said, tone low.

You startled, eyes dragging from his abs to his face in a split second. Did you smell? Was that why he'd said that?

"You're shivering, poor thing," he said, clucking his tongue, taking another wild swing of his beer. And you noticed that he was eyeing you took, at your jeans sticking to your thighs, your hips. At your wet shirt glueing to the curve of your waist and breasts.

He set his beer down and offered his hand. "Come."

On some instinct you'd never registered before, you took his hand, flesh fingers warm and calloused.

He led you into a small bathroom with no windows. where various male paraphernalia was strewn across the sink. He pulled the shower curtian back and started the shower and you just stood there like a fish out of water; mouth slightly agape, your hand still loosely holding on to his.

"Bucky?"

He hummed.

"I don't get it," you said.

He returned his gaze to yours, satisfied with the steam rising from the shower. He gave you a small, tight smile. "Get undressed," he said, gesturing his chin at you, dropping your hand.

You stood there like a statue, examining him; from the hard jawline, the seriousness in his eyes, the way his skin pulled back when he moved his mouth.

Then, harder this time, "Get undressed or freeze, sweetheart."

The nickname, the pet name, sent a wave of fresh heat right into your face.

He watched, then slowly, he smiled. Like a rpedator trying to win its prey without having to sink teeth into flesh.

He took a tiny step towards you, watching your breath hitch, and he slid metal fingers under your shirt, pulling it up until it came right off your head. Your hair flopped back down over your shoulders, covering your bra.

He bit his lip. You watched, entranced as he moved to unbutton your jeans and slide them down your legs. He was agile because he took your panties off with it.

He came back to his full towering height, and he brushed your hair behidn your shoulders, exposing your chest, your full flesh to him.

He snaked an arm around your waist, and you gulped, the feel of his hands, burning metal fingers, was like a lightning bolt had erupted under your skin.

"You're so beautiful," he whispered, close to your ear, his breath in your hair. "So fucking gorgeous." He slid his metal hand up and then your bra was sliding off your arms.

"Let me touch you, y/n," he whispered in your ear. You gulped, nodded. "Use your words, sweetheart," and his voice was rugged, wretched, as both his hands slid careful fingertips up on your ribcage.

"Yes, Bucky," you whispered.

He huffed against you. And then his metal hand engulfed your breast, knead it the way he wanted, and his lips found your neck. You whimpered, taken by surprise by his sudden act of devotion. His tender fingers pulling your nipple, drumming against your ribs, lips leaving a wet trail of kisses up your jugular.

When he kissed you, his mouth was warm and wet, and he molded his lips to yours carefully, like he didn't want to scare you off.

You kissed him back just as carefully, confused and distraught, unaware that for years, Bucky had been yearning for this opportunity. For this moment where he finally had you alone.

Quickly, the kiss became rougher. Your hands pulled at the soft, thick strands of his hair and he pulled you aainst his with his metal arm around your waist. He nipped at you, teeth sinking into your bottom lip, groaning as his flesh finger felt you.

He skimmed along your navel, until he could cup you in his palm. You squeaked, taken by surprise. "Easy there, princess," he whispered against your mouth. "Just wanna make you feel good."

He dove right back for a kiss, delving his tongue behidn your teeth while his fingers started working circles around your clit.

You had realized how riled up he'd gotten you, like a hardwire ready to snap.

You bent like a bow in his arms, moaning against his mouth as his fingers continued to circle your clit in slow, languid circles. And when he prodded farther, where you most ached for him, he moaned against your mouth when he felt just how soaked you were.

"Fuck, y/n," he groaned, pulling his mouth from yours.

You almost whimpered at the lost of contact, but he picked you up so effortlessly, so quickly, that you hadn't registered that you were now sitting on the edge of the sink until you couldn't see him anymore. All you could see was the steam rising from the shower, clogging the bathroom, settling on your skin in dotted water drops.

And Bucky, on his knees, pulling your knees apart. His eyes, hooded and so blue, looked up at you as he kissed the inside of your thigh.

"One leg on my shoulder, baby," he ordered, his metal hand under your thigh, helped you move until you were almost straddling his face. "That's it, good girl," he groaned, biting into the plush of your thighs.

The angle sent you backward, back against the cold mirror, and one hand hanging onto the edge. Ready to plummet or fly, you couldn't tell.

His mouth teetered around your pussy, kissing along your thighs, until he settled over your clit and gave you one long swipe of his tongue.

Your head fell backwards, eyes closing, hips searching for his mouth.

"You taste so sweet," he cooed, pressing another long lick from your hole to your clit.

A strangled moan escaped your clenched teeth when he sucked on your clit, one of your hands digging into his hair and pulling him where you wanted him.

The room was filled with the filthy sound of Bucky getting his fill, lapping you up and sucking in your clit like a man starved. Both hands leaving ink-blue marks in your hips.

He worshipped your clit, flicking and sucking to a rhythm that had your thighs shaking against his face, with you pulling his hair by the roots. He sucked and fucked your hole with his tongue until a knot formed right under your belly button and exploded in white hot lightning.

As your orgasm washed through you in waves, rocking against his face, a moan hitched in your throat.

Bucky held your thighs open, refusing to let them close, and lapped up his fill.

When you were but a trembling, babbling mess, Bucky it into your thigh, kissing up your knee until he was standing between your legs. His eyes were hooded, pupils blown, mouth red and glittering, swollen from the kisses he'd lain on your clit.

"Come 'ere," he groaned, grabbing you by the back of the neck, bringing you upright on the counter. He brought his mouth to yours in a feverish, harsh kiss that left you dizzy and scrambling to keep up with him.

You pushed him away, grappling at his shirt, pulling it over his head. You gorged on the sight, on the tanned skin exposed, the scar where his metal shoulder meshed with his flesh. You touched the tips of your fingers to his metal shoulder, skimming down to his hand.

He took your mouth again, pressing you back into the mirror, hands in your hair, on your breast, skimming down back to your dripping hole.

He entered one flesh finger, pressing against your walls, so slippery and warm. He hummed, feeling your breasts against his chest as you bowed your back at the sensation.

You patted him through his pants, feeling him warm and hard against your touch. He hissed at the sensation, nipping at your mouth.

He continued to move his digit in and out of you, pressing his palm to your clit. You continued palming him, pressing against the impressive length of him until he groaned and took himself out of his pants, dropping them at his ankles and kicking them away.

Your mouth opened in a small 'o' at the sight of him, hard and thick, tip dripping precum.

"Too much for you sweetheart?" he asked, pressing his forehead to yours, thumbs on each side of your jaw.

You shook your head, gulped, saw the faint smile that crossed his face. He watched you with keen eyes as he lined himself with your soaked heat.

He pressed his thumb against your mouth, kissing you, as he slowly inched in. He watched you take it, watched as your mouth opened, brows curving upward.

"Don't give up on me baby," he whispered, nipping at your mouth, pressing open-mouthed kisses to your jaw.

He slid himself to the hilt, grabbing your hip in a bruising grip, metal hand pressed against the foggy mirror over your head.

You gasped, latching onto his shoulders for dear life as he pulled back and thrust back into you, feeling you clench and flitter around him.

You whimpered, body pressing up against the mirror with one harsh thrust from his hips.

"That feel good, huh?" he asked, boring his eyes into yours, keeping a slow, languid pace with his hips. "Tell me, y/n, that feel good when I fuck you?"

You nodded, feeling him slick, sliding into you with ease, stretching your walls and hitting that spot deep in you that made you writhe.

"Yes, Bucky," you answered, breathlessly, scratching at his flesh shoulder.

He groaned, taking your mouth with his, speeding up his thrusts, making your head catch on the mirror. You moaned against his mouth, giving up full control of your body to his, at the mercy of every thrust, every change in rhythm.

"Taking me so well," he grunted, hiding his face in your shoulder, bruising grip on your hip helping him thrust himself deeper into you. Then he pulled himself up, face hovering over yours, searching your gaze wildly. "You like it when I fucked this tight little hole?" he asked, and again, his tone was scratching the surface of something wilder.

You nodded, feeling a knot form in your belly, your thighs closing around his hips. His mouth stretched into a smile, pounding deeper and faster into you. "Yeah, you do," he said, almost mockingly, pressing a sweaty forehead to yours. "I see the way you always look at me," he grunted, kissing your mouth, humming at the moan that left your lips.

"Bucky, please," you whispered, eyes falling shut, your orgasm on the brink of breaking.

"I feel you, y/n, come on," he grunted, keeping a harsh, pounding pace until your legs shook and your orgasm broke through you in waves. "Fuck, that's so tight," he breathed, chasing his own end, pounding into your tightening hole.

A stuttered moan left your lips as you clung to Bucky, rocking into your orgasm with every thrust, feeling the wave of pleasure reach your toes. His metal hand came slamming onto the mirror beside your ear, cracking into the glass as he pounded into you, breathless and wordless until he gave you a few sloppy thrusts and he was spending himself in you.

He stayed there a few moments, breathing with you, kissing you softly until he pulled out of you. You stuttered, a breath hitched in your throat, as you felt him leaking out of you.

He met your gaze, leaning back to examine his work, and then he slowly helped you to your feet. You giggled at your loss of coordination, hearing Bucky chuckle too as he helped you into the shower.

You let the warm spray wash his seed from the inside of your thighs, soak into your hair.

"Warm enough?" he asked, chin on your shoulder.

You chuckled. "I've been warm enough for a little while."

He hummed, placing both hands along your waist. He helped you wash up, lathering your skin and hair, helping you wash out the suds.

"Are you okay?" he asked, pressing tender kisses to your shoulder. "You're quiet."

"Yes," you answered, looking over your shoulder at him. "Are you?"

He smiled, eyes low. He raised his brows. "I am now," he whispered.

When you were done with the shower and you were both drying up, Bucky tied his towel around his waist and watched you put your hair up in a towel.

"What?" you asked.

He snorted. "It isn't like me to do...this," he said, leaning against the sink. His chest was wet, glistening spots lingering down to his abs. It was enough to make you want to do this again.

You smiled but didn't answer, focused on getting your towel around your torso.

"Do you want to go out to dinner sometime?" he asked, and you looked up, met his eyes across the steamy bathroom, and smiled.

"Yeah, of course."

#bucky #bucky barnes #bucky x reader #bucky smut #bucky x you #bucky x yn #bucky x y/n #bucky fic #smut #bucky fanfic #bucky imagine #james bucky barnes #james bucky buchanan barnes #winter soldier #the winter soldier

[sanjisjuul]

Say Please!

Summary: You're a burlesque dancer and you spot Sanji in the crowd

Cw: Where do I start... fem reader, sub Sanji, cursing, smoking, you step on him, choking, slapping, nipple play, pussy eating, vaginal penetration

Note: I'm sorry I'm so inconsistent on here! It's hard with school and work, but I'm glad I could post something that I really enjoy!

Word count: 3.4k

Mini 18+

Cigarette smoke clouds the dingy locker room, the clouds circling around you and evaporating into the hot, sticky air. You roll the fabric of your black fishnets into your hands before pulling them up the expanse of your leg. The once-exhilarating feeling of getting ready for a show has turned into a mundane routine. Every Saturday, you sit in the same spot at your little vanity, placing hot rollers into your hair and intricately lining your eyelids and lips, all while swaying your head to the muffled jazz music playing in the background.

You enjoyed being a burlesque dancer; the glitz and glamor of it all is intoxicating. The extravagancy of the hair, the makeup, and the outfits makes you feel alive. The hot gazes of pathetic men as you dance your routines make you feel untouchable. and untouchable you are, because no matter how many men wait outside for you after shows or offer you a drink after a routine, you always politely decline. You do, however, enjoy teasing them; you love the looks on their faces as you sway your hips, their jaws slacking when you remove items of clothing; it's exhilarating and quite honestly turns you on.

“Y/N, 5 minutes to showtime!” You hear a voice call out to you as you buckle on your heels, standing to stare in the mirror. You smile, as you’re quite pleased with your appearance tonight. hair perfectly curled in a vintage curl pattern, your lips tightly lined and filled in a ruby red to match your sparkling red corset and panties. You slip your matching feathery robe over your body, followed by your black silk gloves. You pin a large feather into your hair before grabbing your fans and shuffling backstage.

Cheers and whistles are heard over the band as one of your coworkers finishes up a routine. She looks amazing as she smiles at the crowd as she blows a kiss, exiting stage left. You clap along with the audience, cheering for your fellow dancer, before your announcement starts. You strut onto the stage, the lights illuminating you and causing your skin to heat up. The crowd erupts in applause before the band starts to play.

You start with your back turned to the audience, swaying your hips to the music before twirling around. You smile to the crowd, slowly covering your fans over your body. Your eyes scan over the audience as you pulse your fans. You see some regulars, eyes locked on your figure as they sip their scotch. Some new faces appear as well: a group of men sitting in the right corner, faces heating up at the very sight of you, but your eyes lock on one person. Dead center, a man sits at a table alone; his legs are crossed as he takes a long drag of his cigarette. You mentally decide to nickname him Blondie, as his golden locks cover one side of his face. From the side, you can make out that he’s quite handsome with defined features. His jawline is well accentuated, although you can tell he’s tightly clenching his teeth together. He’s dressed in a suit, the maroon jacket thrown over the back of the chair, leaving him in a black button-down and white tie. His sleeves are rolled up past his black gloves, revealing his forearms to you. He wears matching maroon pants and black dress shoes. Good thing for you; you’re a sucker for a well-dressed man.

You tear your eyes away, deciding to pick on him a bit later. While continuing your routine, you twirl your fans around your body, the air whirling around you somewhat cooling you and relieving the burn of the harsh stage lights. You drop your fans, latching your fingers to the first glove, pulling it off ever so slowly before discarding it behind you. You latch your teeth to the next one, unconsciously locking eyes with the blonde as you tug it off seductively. A light blush coats his face as you twirl the glove and toss it.

You walk downstage, wrapping your hands around the tie of your robe, before undoing the knot, shimmying the fabric off your body, and letting it pool around your feet. Whistles and cheers erupt as you turn around, strutting back towards center stage and bending over, giving the audience access to marvel at your ass.

Nothing in the world could compare to the feeling you get on stage; it's high like no other. You love the feeling of having men absolutely lust after you as you dance and strip for them. You love the way their hungry eyes watch your every move. Tonight, you were most excited to have Blondie’s eyes on you. You feel his burning gaze on your backside as you lift your body back up, turning to face the audience once again.

You point a finger out, beckoning for the newcomer to approach you. His eyes widen in disbelief, looking around him to make sure he’s the target. He lifts himself off the chair, walking nervously towards you. You bend down on the balls of your toes as he comes closer. grabbing him by the tie as you pull him on stage. You can hear the grumbles from the audience as they wish they were so lucky to be in his shoes.

A chair is pushed on stage. devilishly smirking, you drag him over to it before pushing him down to sit. He looks absolutely astonished, his pupils blown and his face beat red as he adjusts his tie, Adam’s apple bobbing as he tries to gain composure. You turn around, arching your back to give him access to your corset, ass dangerously close to sitting on his lap. He gets the idea, swiftly biting his gloves off before reaching his shaky hands to loosen your corset. You smirk as it drops to the ground. turning first towards the audience as they marvel at your almost bare chest. You grin ear to ear as you shimmy, your nipple tassels shaking along with your breasts.

You turn back towards Blondie, who looks as if he’s about to cum in his pants. You settle yourself over his lap before taking a seat. Your eyes widen as you can feel a bulge through his pants. You’d be lying if this scenario didn’t turn you on as well. It’s not so often you get to tease an audience member as attractive as this one. paired with his fluster, you couldn’t be more excited as you ground your hips on him, pressing your chest towards his face. His breath hitches in his throat as his hands tense at his sides. The loud music comes to its climax behind you, so you turn around, bend down in front of him, and ghost your ass over his lap. You can tell he’s enjoying this; the sound of his groan is audible to only you.

You lean back into his lap, bringing your back to his chest and grabbing his tie once again. You roll your hips rhythmically, bringing your lips to his ear. “What’s your name, Blondie?” you half yell and half whisper, tugging his tie so he can hear you. “Sanji,” he breathes out, almost stuttering over his own name. “Hmm,” you respond, knowing you need to cut the conversation short to finish your routine. “Meet me at the back door when the show ends.” You let him go, grabbing his hand and directing him off stage before grabbing your fans off of the stage and finishing up.

The choreography almost slips your mind as arousal takes its place. You go through the motions as you wave your fans around once again, shimmying and twirling. Once the music ends, you hold your fans up high, smiling as the audience applauds your routine. You wink at Mr. Blondie before shuffling off stage, being greeted with a bottle of water by one of your coworkers.

You make sure to thank everybody’s praise, high-fiving the next dancers, before pushing the dressing room door open. “Quite the show,” you hear a voice from beside you. You snap your head in the direction of your friend and fellow dancer, Nami. “Jesus, you scared me!” You laugh as you unbuckle your heels, kicking them off by your station. "It seems like you had a good time,” she winks at you through her mirror as she takes bobby pins out of her hair. You roll your eyes. “Let me live; he was hot!” She cringes at your words, turning to face you. “The only thing men are good for is their money; besides that, they can’t provide anything.” You smirk at her words. “I don’t know about that,” you wink. She groans, turning back towards the mirror. “You’re gross.” You both laugh as you take off your outfits and get into something more comfortable.

You leave on your panties and heels, peeling off your pasties and slipping on a white t-shirt, which you could most definitely see through. You take a seat at your station, anxiously pulling out a cigarette and lighting it as you await the dancers exits. Slowly but surely everybody leaves, and one after the other, you say your goodbyes as they exit the dressing room. To your surprise, nobody really questioned why you were staying; either they were blissfully ignorant or Nami opened her big mouth (you knew it was the latter).

You grin as the last girl exits, running over to lock the door behind her. At this hour, mostly everybody had gone home, aside from some bartenders and managers, but to your delight, they never dared to come back into the dressing room. You approach the back door, grinning as you push it open softly. And there he stands, back to you, smoke twirling around his frame. You cross your arms, leaning against the heavy door. “Did you enjoy the show?”

He snaps his head around in surprise, noticeably eyeing you up and down with a blush still littered across his face. “Yeah,” he sheepishly smiles, “it was fantastic.” You grab one of his hands, "Why don't you come in?” He follows you, taking a seat in your chair, not bothering to take in his surroundings. His eyes stay trained on you, wide and almost in surprise, as you come to straddle his lap.

“i’m glad you liked it, Sanji." You purr out his name as one arm wraps around the back of his neck, the other reaching for his still-lit cigarette. His eyes follow your movements as you lift the stick to your mouth and inhale, blowing the smoke into his face before placing it back in between his lips. You can feel that he’s still aroused underneath you. his erection poking your inner thigh as his shaky hands ghost over your waist. You flip your hair over your shoulder, "What would you say was your favorite part?” You bring your lips to his neck, inhaling his cologne, before pressing soft kisses and licks along his skin.

He twitches underneath you. “Y-you,” he stutters out, “you were so amazing, so beautiful.” You hum in approval, the vibration of it causing him to let out a soft groan. “So sensitive,” you giggle before lifting your head to look back into his now half-lidded eyes. “You were my favorite part too,” you say, tapping his nose. “I’ve never brought up an audience member before,” you grin at him, to which he reciprocates. “Well, I’m honored to be the first madam,” he beams.

“You wanna have some fun,” you say, gripping his tie and pulling his face close to yours. You love this; being in full control. He looks so helpless underneath you as he nods his head frantically, eyeing your lips. You waste no further time, wrapping your hand in his tie and pulling his lips into yours.

You hum into the feeling of your lips melting together, and his hands plant themselves on your waist. You immediately open your mouth, allowing him to push his tongue past your lips, to which he moans. You stay like that for a moment, and the sounds of your lips smacking echo throughout the dressing room as you rock into each other's clothed sexes.

You break the kiss all too suddenly, leaving him panting and whimpering for more. You unwrap your arms from him, standing over him. “Get on your knees,” you command, to which he immediately obliges, dropping to his knees in front of you. He stares up at you desperately, a pure look of desire painted on his flushed face. You lift your leg up, sticking your heel into his chest and pushing him onto his back. He doesn’t resist, his body falling back onto the carpet with a thud. His hands fall to their sides, not bothering to brace his fall. Your heel comes into contact with his thigh, sliding it up to press on his cock. “You like that?” you question, digging in a bit harder, but not hard enough to cause any real pain. He nods erratically, his hands balling into fists as his hips twinge up into your touch. “Oh my god, yes,” he groans, his teeth clenching together as he fights the urge to cum right then and there.

Once you’re satisfied, you lift your foot off of him, and he whines at the loss of contact. You position yourself over his face. Before you can act further, Sanji’s hoarse voice comes from underneath you. “Let me taste you, please,” he begs, his hands coming to grip your ankles. You giggle before bending down, hovering over his face. “Go ahead, pretty boy.” You plant yourself directly on his face, not bothering to give him room to breathe. And to your delight, he doesn’t mind, bringing his large hands to grip your ass and breathe in your scent. His breath trembles as he exhales, his cock twitching in his pants, precum soaking the front of his pants.

He nips and licks the insides of your thighs as your chest heaves above him. You clench around nothing when he presses kisses on your cunt through your soaked panties. He whimpers from your taste, the corners of your lips twinging upwards in delight. You grip his hair, tugging his face further into your cunt. "Look at me." His pretty blue eyes stare up at you as he continues to please you. The sight of him trapped beneath you is delightful. He looks so pathetic like this, face buried in your clothed sex, drunk on your scent, hips rutting up into nothing just the way you had planned.

You reach down and pull your panties to the side, giving him full access to what he desires. He hums into your cunt, his lips wrapping around your clit and sucking softly. You grind your hips into his face, sighing at the feeling of his hot, warm mouth on your most sensitive area. “Just like that baby,” you egg him on, his tongue now swirling around you in sloppy circles. Your eyes are screwed shut in bliss, and your focus is now on the way he expertly uses his tongue. You grasp his shirt, your knuckles turning white as you feverishly get off on his face. He holds onto you for dear life, his fingertips digging into the soft flesh of your thighs.

The feeling of orgasm creeps up on you quickly as he sets a steady pace, allowing you to do as you please while he lies helpless underneath you. “I’m close,” you whine, your body trembling and your legs turning to jelly. He quickly removes a hand from your thigh, bringing a finger towards your entrance and inserting, it into your greedy hole. “Oh shit,” you clench your jaw, his finger finding your g spot almost immediately as he twists his finger in and out of you. Black specks fill your vision, your core tenses as the most powerful orgasm of your life washes over your body. your mouth parts in utter bliss, your eyes rolling back all while spitting out chains of curses. You rest for a moment, Sanji’s movements coming to a halt as you mentally regroup.

“Was that good?” He questions you eagerly, licking your juices off his lips with a goofy smile. You lean down to kiss his forehead. “You did very well,” you praise, beginning to unbutton his shirt. You kiss each inch of skin to be revealed, leaving love bites along his defined chest. You look up to him as you lick over one of his nipples, bringing the other between your fingertips. He throws his head back as you suck harshly on his chest, his legs shaking in pleasure.

“Fuck me,” he cries above you, his hands reaching to grip your shoulders. You take his nipple between your teeth, softly biting the sensitive flesh before releasing it. “hm? I didn’t hear you,” you tease, climbing up his body to take his face between one of your hands. “Fuck me,” he begs, his hair sticking to his forehead. You release your grip on his face, testing the waters further. “Say, please,” you command, slapping him straight across the face. He moans in pleasure at the connection, his head turning to the side as his hips twitch. “Please, love, please fuck me.”

You decide to give in; after all, he has been such a good boy for you. and you let him know, reaching down to undo his belt. You lick your lips as you tug his pants down his waist, surprised by the sight. “Oh my, look at the mess you made,” you coo, smirking at boxers absolutely soaked in cum. He covers his face in embarrassment, looking away. “I’m sorry.. I couldn’t help it.” You ignore his apology, tugging his boxers down. His cock is still as hard as ever, slapping his abdomen and leaving a wet spot slightly above his belly button.

“Ready?” you question, tugging your shirt over your head, tossing it behind you, settling over his length, but not yet giving him contact. “Mhm,” he hums, shaking his head and pushing your hair out of your face. You position yourself over his waist, grabbing his cock and guiding it inside of you. You groan simultaneously as you sink down, his cock filling you to the brim. “You’re so tight,” he croaks, his hands coming to cup your breasts to stabilize himself. You laugh, grinding your hips and throwing your head back in ecstasy. “You like that, pretty?” you question, setting a slow pace to begin. He takes a moment to answer, fighting back the whimpers to vocalize an answer. “Feels s’good.”

He attempts to raise his hips to meet yours, to which you lean forward, wrapping your smaller hand around his throat and forcing him to look you in the face. “Did you ask to do that?” You raise an eyebrow, squeezing lightly. He halts his movements and swallows, "No, ma’am.” You bring your lips to his ear, biting, causing goosebumps to spread across his skin. “Why don’t you ask nicely?” He quivers, “Please let me fuck you, my love, please!” You lean back, releasing your grip on his throat. “Good boy.” You finally let him take some sort of control as he gripped your ass. He plants his heels into the ground, lifting his hips to meet yours. You cry out as you plant your hands on his chest, your nails digging into his flesh, surely leaving marks.

He ruts into you at a harsh pace, desperation getting the best of him as he chases his orgasm. “Oh, Sanji,” you cry, his large cock hitting all of the right spots inside of you. “So beautiful,” he mutters, bringing a thumb to rub at your clit. You yell out at the feeling; your clit still sensitive from your orgasm. Sanji’s mouth is parted as he trains his gaze on where your bodies meet. The squelching of your mixed fluids echos around the room as you both near your highs. “Go ahead, Sanji, cum for me,” you encourage, holding his pretty face between your hands. His pace becomes erratic, his hips sputtering, before he deeply moans. His whole body trembles as he cuts inside of you. His seed paints your walls, causing you to come undone for the second time under his ministrations.

You collapse onto his chest, letting your arms fall limp as he wraps his larger ones around your frame. You pant into each other, reveling in the aftermath of your orgasms. He rubs circles into your back, relaxing you to the point where you almost forget your setting. “You’re perfect,” he says, pressing a soft kiss into your hair and holding you tight. You smile into his shoulder, sweaty, exhausted, yet utterly delighted.

tags: @kibblz-n-bitz @bby-deerling @stardustcrustaders @pileofmush @willowbelle @bokutosbiceps @anemptypuddingcup @yoonavii

love bia ૮ • ﻌ - ა

#one piece fan fiction #one piece #one piece smut #sanji #sanji vinsmoke #sanji oneshot #vinsmoke sanji #sanji smut #sanji x reader #one piece sanji #black leg sanji #sanji x you #with: sanji #op sanji #love bia ૮ • ﻌ - ა⁩

[serendipityrogers]

Undressed

pairing: simon riley x afab!reader

word count: 1.2k

content warning: creeper!ghost, she/her pronouns, reader gets undressed while simon is in the room and she doesn't know he's there, mention of male masturbation, body descriptions, no actual smut but MDNI.

an: more cod stuff, whose surprised? i saw a tik tok, and i came up with this. so i hope you enjoy. let me know if i should write some more stuff, even send me some ideas! not proofread!

Weirdly enough, Ghost enjoyed safehouses. 

Maybe it was the quietness that fell over the house when everyone was way too tired to be loud.

Or the secludedness of the house, away from all the political bullshit. 

Even if most of them were in shitty condition. 

Or the size of a one bedroom flat. 

Which both of those statements could be said about the one the five of you were currently in now. It was dark and dingy, none of the overhead lighting worked, so everyone was guided only by the few table lamps scattered across the house. Most of them being used by Gaz and Price who were using them to light their maps, trying to figure out the best way to get to their next location. But Simon had stolen one to read, cooped up in the only bedroom in the entire house. 

It was an old novel, one he found on the dusty bookshelves out in the living room. Even for its age, it was quite interesting. Almost interesting enough for him to miss the commotion coming from the small kitchenette that was located right outside the closed door. It sounded like a loud frustrated groan, and the shattering of glass. 

That’s when the bedroom door flung open, and you walked inside. Ghost only briefly looked up from the book resting in his large hands. You were mumbling something under your breath, and that’s when he noticed a large red stain on the white-beater you were wearing, and even on your jeans. “God, fucking damn it.” You muttered, picking up your rucksack from its place on the ground, and throwing it on the bed which was accompanied by a large creaking noise under its weight.

You began rummaging around in your pack, pulling out what looked like another tank top and a pair of issued-thermals. He was almost positive you hadn’t noticed him sitting in the corner, because you began unbuckling your belt, more mumbled curse words flying out of your mouth, and something to do with Soap, who he assumed was the cause of your frustrations. Once your belt was undone, you began fiddling with the empty thigh holster you still wore. 

Your small fingers fumbled with the small multiple small buckles, shaking with anger. Ghost looked back down at his book, figuring you were about to change into a new set of clothes that weren’t so saturated with whatever that red substance was. His eyes started on the first sentence on the new page he had flipped to right before you barged into the room. But his brain couldn’t concentrate on the tiny-printed words, reading the same sentence three times. 

When he glanced back up at you over the top of the book, you had finished fumbling with the holster buckles, and it was discarded on the floor. Now ripping your belt from the belt loops of your pants, discarding it in the same place. You had the same issue with the button and zipper of your pants, unsteady hands trying to fiddle with something so small. He glanced back down to try reading again, trying to give you the privacy you deserved. He could just stand up and walk out, but he could have startled you, or made you even more mad for not announcing his presence in the first place. 

So, he sat as still as possible, trying to just keep his eyes off you. But that didn’t last for very long, after trying to comprehend the same sentence for the fourth time, his eyes glided back to you, almost unintentionally. You were now shimmying out of your jeans, struggling as they clung to you in their wet state. “Fuck you, Soap.” More muttering under your breath. Ghost’s eyes trailed over the newly exposed skin of your legs, noticing your calves, defined from the years of training. Your thighs, also toned, but more malleable, a slight jiggle when you move. He imagined himself leaving bruises on the insides of them, bite marks even.

He admired the white cotton panties that covered the apex between your thighs, and hugged the fullness of your ass. He couldn’t help but notice the small bow that decorated the front of them. Definitely not in regulation, but he couldn’t care less at this moment. His mind was running wild with thoughts of you. He would be lying if he hadn’t thought about you in this exact situation. Except usually, it was him undressing you instead. 

Ghost had been attracted to you since the moment he laid eyes on you, almost three years ago. But he was not the type to act on it, or even hint at it, unlike Soap and Gaz. It was no secret that most of the team, excluding Price, who had taken on almost a fatherly role to you. The remaining three had some sort of interest in you. It seemed only natural when you were the only female in an all male group, but everyone was respectful about the situation. Gaz and Soap would joke about certain topics with you, but at the end of the day they would take a bullet for you without any question. Ghost would too, obviously. 

Ghost shook his head almost cartoonishly, trying to free his mind of the thoughts plaguing him. He shouldn’t think about you this way, you were his comrade, and these thoughts were too distracting to have while on a mission. At least, he thought that until you pulled the soaked tank-top over your head, exposing your bra-clad chest. The bra was nude, perfectly matching your skin tone. It was also stained red, so in one quick motion, reaching behind your back, you let the bra fall to the floor along with your other clothing. 

Ghost only had a side-view of you, but your breasts were perfectly sculpted for your chest, everything he had dreamed of while cumming into his fist after a long day of pretending you had no effect on him. Ghost had completely forgotten the book in his hands, the cover falling closed. He was completely gawking at you, no shame, well, maybe a little. But that was the last thing he was thinking about at that moment. He was disappointed, as he watched you latch another bra around your chest, covering your breast once again. 

Next was a white tank top, similar to the one you had on earlier. His eyes wandered down to your ass, taking it in for the last couple moments. Who knew when, or if, he would ever see it again. You struggled with the thermals, swaying your hips back and forth, trying to get the tight-fitting garment up your legs. They fit you snug, not leaving much to the imagination, the other men would surely get a kick out of them, but Ghost was the lucky bastard who got to see you without any of it on. With one last huff and shimmy, you turned and walked back towards the door, ripping it open again. 

“Soap, I’m still gonna kill your stupid ass!” You exclaimed, slamming the door shut in one smooth motion before disappearing back into the kitchenette. Leaving Simon there, the book still shut and completely breathless. And not to mention a raging hard on.

#simon riley #simon ghost riley #ghost #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #simon riley one shot #simon riley smut #simon riley imageine #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley x you #simon ghost riley imagine #simon ghost riley one shot #simon ghost riley smut #ghost x reader #ghost x you #ghost one shot #ghost imagine #ghost smut #cod #call of duty #modern warfare #modern warfare 2 #modern warfare ii #modern warfare 3 #modern warfare iii

[hier--soir]

on the ropes

pairing: boxer!frank castle x f!reader summary: a dive bar, a stranger in an alley, and a punch to the kidney. warnings/tags: [18+ MINORS DNI] boxer!frank au, explicit descriptions of violence, blood, injury, creepy men at bars, harassment, angst, anxiety, hints at trauma regarding violence. word count: 6.7k main masterlist a/n: a little boxer frank castle series that i’ve been playing around with for a minute now. i have fun writing it, so thought i’d share x

“Millie, what the fuck?”

A body jostled roughly into you, and you stumbled forward with a huff, casting a disgruntled look over your shoulder.

“What?” your friend stared at you. The room was dark, but the shadowy yellow light did little to hide the way she batted her eyelashes in an awful attempt at faux innocence.

“You said we were going for drinks,” you spoke slowly, arms raising to fold tightly across your chest. Your eyes darted around the room, taking in the less than desirable company.

The bar she brought you to was crowded. Packed to the brim like a tin of sardines, full of men gripping bottles of beer and shouting to be heard over the god awful music. The second you walked in with Millie and her brother, you’d known something was amiss.

Normally when Millie invited you out it was for cocktails or a bottle of wine, and often at chic rooftop bars that you could hardly afford to be in – never a dingy dive bar with sticky floors and pictures of shirtless men covering the walls.

They were framed, at least—the pictures—denoting a clear sense of veneration and pride from the owner. Covering almost every square inch of the walls around the bar, depicting sweat covered men. Some bleeding, some flexing their biceps; some holding another man in a headlock. Your stomach rolled each time you dared to glance at the décor and caught sight of blood or bruising.

“We are having drinks,” Millie responded sheepishly.

On cue, her twin brother, Ed, wandered back from the bar and handed you a glass of rosé. He looked decidedly casual, wearing a soft pair of shorts and a thin white t-shirt. A backpack rested on his shoulder. You narrowed your eyes, wondering why you hadn’t questioned his outfit at all until that moment.

“I don’t know if it’ll be any good,” he frowned. He had the type of voice that made it sound like he was always on the precipice of clearing his throat. “It’s the only wine they had.”

You scowled, looking back to his sister with raised eyebrows. Ed nursed a glass of water while he peered around the bar, sizing up the men stationed across the room.

“Okay,” she grimaced. “Look, I knew if I told you earlier you wouldn’t have come, and I need you here for support!”

“Support for what?” your voice had risen to a mouse-like squeak at that point. Inside of your chest, your heart had begun thrumming a little faster, and the echo of it rushed faintly in your ears.

“I’ve told you before,” Millie tried. “You know, about Ed doing these boxing games?”

“Boxing match,” Ed corrected quickly. Your eyes flicked between them, and you stayed silent, praying that she wasn’t going to say what you thought she was.

“Boxing match,” she remedied easily. “And so tonight is actually his first big fight, and he wants me here of course, and I want you here—”

“Millie,” you gaped. “I don’t do blood, seriously, I can’t. This—this is not my sort of thing, and I-I’m sorry but I don’t particularly care to see your brother beat someone up.”  

“There won’t be any blood!”

“Well, there probably will be blood.”

“Ed,” Millie hissed. “Not helpful.”

He held his hands up and sent an apologetic smile sizzling in your direction. “C’mon, kid, this is my big break! You’re practically family; we need you here.”

You stared for a second, silently willing the racing cogs in your brain to slow down so you could think. Not for the first time, you realised how alike the twins looked. Even in the dim bar, their choppy flaxen hair shone where it streaked across their foreheads, and their soft almond shaped eyes held you in their gaze, like a mother held a crying child. So comforting, and so fucking encouraging.

Trust us, their eyes sung. Stay with us.

They reminded you of the twins from The Shining, using their silent benevolence to lull you into a false sense of security before you ultimately met a grisly demise.  

God damnit.

“So what, it’s like some kind of fucking Fight Club?” you asked slowly. “Is this even legal?”

The siblings shared a quick look before Millie gripped your elbow. “You don’t need to worry about that. There’s a ref, and coaches – it’s safe.”

“Jesus Christ.” Her words didn’t reassure you in the slightest. You took a large gulp of your wine, lips puckering at the acidic taste. They watched on warily, awaiting the news that you would be leaving, going home to curl up in bed with your cat and watch re-runs of I Dream of Jeannie. But you couldn’t bring yourself to say it. Couldn’t bring yourself to disappoint two of your closest friends.

“I’ll stay,” you vowed begrudgingly.

Millie whooped, the wine in her glass sloshing dangerously close to the rim as she raised her hands triumphantly in the air. The sound garnered a few looks from men around the room, and you shrunk away at the attention. They all seemed to be at least twenty years older than you and Millie. Adjusting your feet on the ground, you downed the last of your wine and tried not to gag as it slid down your throat.

“I just need a minute, though,” you exhaled, discarding your empty glass onto the closest table. “Need to get some fresh air before whatever is about to happen, happens.”

“Okay but don’t be long,” Ed fiddled with the strap of his backpack. “We kick off downstairs in 20 minutes.”

You gave him a quick nod, and for a second you tried to picture him throwing a punch. When you found yourself unable conjure the image in your mind, you turned to walk outside.

The bar was tucked away in a side street, and the only way in or out was nestled twenty metres down a dank alleyway that reeked of something metallic. A red neon sign buzzed above the doorway, and worked as the only indicator that the location was a place of business. The low electric was somewhat comforting, as you took up a spot on the opposing wall.

New York in early March was no more delightful than if it had still been the middle of Winter, and you shuddered at the press of cool bricks against your back. A cool wind rushed past you, snaking underneath the gaps in your clothes and whispering cruelly against your skin.

Nonetheless, you’d always enjoyed the cold. Any excuse to layer clothes until your skin was warm and pleasantly itchy beneath knitted material. Friends chastised the way you left your window ajar all year round; didn’t understand when you explained that you can’t sleep unless there’s a slight breeze. The chill was a welcome reprieve – something familiar to greet you as you stepped out of the bar. Having to warm yourself up always felt kinder and more loving than having to cool yourself down. Hot chocolates and weighted blankets in Winter were a heartfelt embrace, while ice cubes and swimming in Summer were futile efforts.

Cold air, you cruel mistress. I will never be able quit you.

Your phone buzzed every few moments, displaying the latest update in an incessant stream of texts from your roommate about how the radiator in your apartment was playing up again. A frustrated huff escaped your lips, and you put it away without responding.

There were a few men out there, cigarettes dangling between chapped lips as they shared mumbled, gruff conversation. For a moment, you wished you had one. To light a fire in your throat, to bring that heartfelt embrace. You shoved the thought down, reaching for a piece of gum in your purse instead. Numb fingers found the small cardboard packet after a moment. You fumbled with the wrapper, struggling to get it open, until a low voice gave you pause.

“You here alone?”

Your fingers froze, the piece of gum tumbling back down into the dark abyss of your bag. Suddenly you were hyper aware of a presence standing much closer to you than before. Cigarette smoke swirled in the air, seeping out of the burning cherry and drifting past your face. You resisted the urge to inhale.

The guy was lanky, with greasy hair and a word tattooed across his neck that you couldn’t quite make out. “You a mute or something?” he chuckled unkindly. “I asked you a question.”

Your eyes flashed up to his, frowning. The conversation amongst his friends died down, and you could feel them watching your interaction, quiet chuckles leaving smirking mouths as their friend hovered over you. If you just closed your eyes again, you were sure you could imagine you were at home in your bed; that you’d left the bar like you wanted to, could feel the warmth of Cynthia curled up and purring against your calf while Barbara Eden and Larry Hagman chattered away in the background.

“Hey,” he groused, taking a step closer. “It’s not polite to ignore someone when they’re tryna be friendly.”

The calming image disappeared, gone in a cloud of cigarette smoke.

“Is that what you’re doing?” you steeled yourself, squaring your shoulders and attempting to pretend as though your stomach was churning inside of you. “Being friendly?”

“Oh, so her highness does speak,” he leered, lips pulling back to reveal a crooked smile and a missing tooth on the left of his mouth. “This isn’t a good area y’know? Bad idea for a thing like you to be out here all own.”

“I’m not here alone,” you muttered, flattening your back further against the wall.

“No?” he raised an eyebrow. It had a slit in it, a puckered white scar marring the skin beneath his hair. “You look pretty alone to me, doll.”

“I’m n-not,” the words rattled out of you. You focused on inhaling slowly, letting the crisp air expand your stomach, but another stilted exhale spilled out anyway. “In fact, the guy I’m here with will knock out all the teeth you have left if you don’t leave m—”

“Is that fucking right?” he interrupted, advancing a step closer. Your heart thundered in your chest, blood thundering in your ears. Your lungs tightened, all thoughts of breathing techniques evaporating in your mind as panic slowly took over. His friends were still laughing. The hand holding a cigarette lifted toward you, the burning end suspended dangerously close to the bare skin of your chin.

“Johnny, why don’t you fuck off and leave ‘er alone?” a rough voice cut through the alley. You flinched at the sound of it, but didn’t take your eyes off the man.

“Mind your business,” he snapped in response. Spittle struck your cheek and you cringed as it settled on your skin.  

“I mean it,” the voice came again, from somewhere deeper in the alley, to your right. “Get the fuck outta my sight or you won’t like what happens.”

The man—Johnny—spared a glance in the direction of the voice, and only then did he hesitate. The smirk on his face drooped, mouth hanging open as he fumbled for something to say, boots scuffing against the ground as he took one hasty step away from you, and then another.

“Hey man,” he said in a low, wary voice. “I didn’t realise. No harm done, alright?”

“Not yet,” the voice responded plainly.

Johnny gave a short nod, dropped his cigarette onto the ground and stamped it out with the tip of his boot. His friends weren’t laughing anymore. With a jerk of his head, he led them back inside, and only when they were all gone did you allow your shoulders to relax. A dull ache had started up behind your left eye.

You scraped trembling fingers against the brick on either side of you, finding solace in the way the coarse material snagged against your numb skin. But a shuffling sound to the right made your ears prick up, and your head darted in the stranger’s direction. The man walked closer to you, almost entirely obscured by shadows. Your eyes strained, trying to see him clearer, but he leant against the wall and kept his head trained straight ahead at the closed door of the bar. Faded orange letters on the door read Hasta La Muerte.

A grey hood was pulled up over his head, working as an accomplice with the darkness to obscure his facial features. But he was tall, and broad, that much was evident, and the red glow of the sign exposed the bare skin of his hands. Faded purple and blue bruises blossomed over the hills of his knuckles, small cuts and scabs decorating the spots where thin skin covered bone. The chill on your skin seemed spread through your insides at the sight of it; wariness filling your stomach until your muscles clenched tight, bracing yourself for another antagonising encounter.

“He’s right.”

His voice sent a shot of heat through your chest, eviscerating the cold until you could feel your palms warm, sweat beading across your skin. 

“What?” Your voice was quieter than you cared for it to be. You felt so small, suddenly. 

“Place is a shithole,” he gestured loosely at the bar entrance. “Filled with scumbags. You shouldn’t be here.”

The stranger made a step to move inside, hand raising to push open the door. 

“Not safe for a thing like me?” you emphasised the word with a curl of your lip, vaguely unsure what had inspired you to continue an interaction that had already ended.

But you did know that Johnny had made you feel so powerless, like an ant he could squash beneath his boot if he felt so compelled. Whereas this man was entirely uninterested – he almost seemed bored with the whole thing. And it spurred something inside of you.  

His stance tightened somewhat, and you watched him roll his shoulders back slowly.

“Yeah,” he spoke, still facing the door. “Something like that.”

You couldn’t pinpoint what compelled you to speak again. and if you were to retell the story, you were sure you’d be ashamed of yourself for pushing, for not letting go and simply thanking him. But maybe that was the thing – maybe it was because he had saved you from that guy, whether it came from a place or care or not. Or perhaps it was because he spoke quietly, didn’t raise his voice. Something about him seemed trustworthy… safe.

“Why are you here then?” you rushed out. Heat soared through your face as he paused, head tilting to the side to spare a glance in your direction. “If it’s as bad as you say.”

As he moved, the glow of the sign lit up his profile. You stilled, eyes widening a fraction as you caught sight of his face for the first time. He watched you out of the corner of his eye, and didn’t speak for a moment.

A mottled purple bruise shone beneath his cheekbone and travelled across the bridge of his nose. His jawline was sharp, the muscle underneath the skin twitching as his teeth clenched together. He still didn’t move, allowing you a moment to rake your eyes over him, to devour the imperfections and discolorations of his abused face. Almost as if he wanted you to see – wanted you to know that his warning wasn’t made up of empty words.

You were no stranger to violence, and all the ways it could manifest. Painfully familiar with the way blues and reds and purples and yellows could discolour skin until natural hues were all but gone. Well acquainted with discerning the difference between an injury inflicted by oneself or another, if only you looked closely enough. It was something you’d grown up considering—the juxtaposition between defensive and offensive wounds, and the way one chose to hide or not hide them.

The way he moved was so nimble, so quiet. That hood was tucked up over his head, and yet hands were bared to you, exposing himself in a way that said this is what I will allow you to see; this is what I can control.

And somehow, amidst the brutality of it all, he was handsome. Dark eyes—so dark they almost seemed black under the humming red glow—and a strong, crooked nose with a bump along it, as if it’d been broken at some point and never reset properly. He looked fierce, and maybe not as safe as you’d first thought.

You swallowed thickly.

“Pays the bills,” he clipped. You let a noncommittal hum vibrate inside your mouth. He works here.

It made sense, you supposed, that he was a bartender. It matched his rough exterior; gave clarity to the guys from before being so cautious of getting on his bad side. You pondered how his face had gotten so fucked up; considered that maybe a patron had gotten out of line recently, and had perhaps taken a swing at an innocent hospitality worker.

It was almost comical, the lengths your brain went to in order to rationalise his appearance.

“I actually live pretty close to here.” Why are you still talking?

“Is that your way of inviting me over, sweetheart?” His shoulders shook with a short, silent laugh. “I’m flattered.”

“What?” you stiffened, gaze darting to his torn knuckles once more. “No, no. I’m just—I’m saying I know the area.” He caught the movement of your eyes and tucked his hands into his pockets after all.  

“Well, if you live so close,” he said. “You should go home.”

A short, indignant scoff rushed from your nose. “I can handle myself,” you muttered unconvincingly.

“Oh yeah?” he snorted, demeanour shifting into something that bordered on incredulous. All nerves you’d once felt seemed to have vanished, and yet you were painfully aware of how his stature dwarfed your own. You swore you saw him roll his eyes, perhaps taking note of the same thing. “My bad, hot shot, I’ll stay out of your way next time.”

Your phone vibrated in your back pocket, and you tugged it out quickly. Millie’s picture lit up the screen and then disappeared, and your eyes darted over the notifications.  

meet me downstairs

it’s about to start. where are you?

please don’t tell me you left

“Go home,” he repeated finally. Tone softer this time. “This isn’t the place for you. I mean it.”

You looked up from your phone. He had turned his head almost entirely, giving a full view of his face. Short dark hair peaked out from where his hood had fallen back an inch. His face looked solemn; lips pressed together tersely.

“Yeah,” you replied quietly. “Maybe I will.”

With one final look in your direction, he pressed his hand firmer against the door and stepped inside, leaving you alone with the cold air once more.

You gave it five minutes before you followed him inside.

Tacky stairs led to a large basement. To floors and walls made of concrete slabs that brought an extra iciness to the space. A chill that was eradicated, however, by the sweat and body heat that emanated from the mass of men crowding the room, jostling against each other as they shouted and yelled and geared up for the show.

Animals.

Excited chatter drowned out the low, droning music that played from speakers in each corner of the space. You spied men handing each other cash, speaking in hushed tones, placing bets on what was about to happen. You wondered if anyone had bet on Ed. Tried not to think about the possibility of them betting on his opponent.

Millie was front and centre, standing beside the ring with a shorter man that you didn’t recognise.

“Where the hell were you?” she asked, handing you a fresh glass of the sickening wine. “It’s about to start.”

“I told you,” you raised the glass to your lips, glancing at the bald man hovering by her shoulder. “I needed some fresh air.”

“This is Rodge,” she followed your gaze, introducing you quickly. “Ed’s trainer.”

You shared a polite nod, but no words were exchanged. Rodge’s eyes were trained on where Ed stood, hopping up and down on the balls of his feet and stretching his arms. A navy mouthguard rested behind his thin lips, matching the shorts he wore. You’d never seen Ed shirtless before, and he was lean, almost as lanky as you’d expected him to be. But he had a sleeper build of sorts. Clear firm lines of muscle protruded through the skin of his arms and stomach, hinting at a strength that you’d never expected him to possess.

“Have you seen him fight before?” you asked.

“Loads of times,” she nodded. “He’s got this, don’t worry.”

You nodded absentmindedly, attention stolen by a tattooed man dressed in black entering the ring. You felt the hairs on the back of your neck stand up, and your fingertips tingled sharply, as it they’d each been pricked by a small, invisible needle. He raised a hand, and the crowd quietened a fraction, all eyes turning to him. Silently, he motioned to someone on the other side of the ropes. And with a sinking feeling in your stomach, you watched Ed’s opponent step into the ring.  

He had his back to you, but you allowed your eyes to trail over his figure, sizing him up in an attempt to gage how much of a risk he posed. He was dark haired, and he looked strong. Stronger than you cared to admit. Small black shorts clung to his upper thighs, but his torso was bare, and very little of his body was left to your imagination. His back was broad, the muscles in his shoulders shifting with every movement he made. A few scars littered his bare skin, defacing otherwise unmarked flesh.

The dark-haired man stretched his arms over his head, bending them this way and that, flexing the muscles in his biceps and triceps as the crowd jeered. His physique was different to Ed’s.

Where Ed was discreetly muscular, this man was imposing. He stood a few inches taller than Ed, and was obviously a decade older, showing a clear advantage. And then as he lowered his arms and flicked his head to the side to listen to what his coach was saying from outside of the ring, and you caught a glimpse of his face.

Crooked nose. Bruised cheekbone.

It was like you’d been punched in the stomach yourself.

You glanced uneasily at Millie, but she had her eyes solely on Ed, fists clenched by her side as she muttered inaudible words of encouragement. Movement in the ring drew your attention once more.

It can’t be. He was a bartender, for god’s sake. Or… you had just made that up in your head and decided it was true.

Pays the bills, he’d said. But he’d never said what exactly he was doing to make money.

“Shit,” you breathed, hands shaking as the man from the alley turned to face Ed and you saw him in all of his glory.

With bated breath, you watched the two men meet in the middle of the ring and knock their boxing gloves together. And then before you could prepare yourself, it had begun.

Ed threw a punch instantly, the force of his glove whipping the man’s head to the side. Millie let out a shrill whooo and you flinched, stomach coiling as he retaliated, delivering a heavy blow to Ed’s ribs.

He grunted, stumbling back from the force of it. It seemed like he wasn’t expecting such a fast response, and in his surprise, failed to block the next two punches sent his way. First to his ribs and then a quick second to the side of his face. A lump formed in your throat, and nausea twisted inside of you as blood and spittle flew from Ed’s mouth, painting the mat like a Jackson Pollock. For a moment you feared you might truly be sick.

The blood didn’t deter the man, who advanced on Ed like a predator, caging him in against the ropes. He didn’t let up for a second, delivering punishing blows wherever he could find a gap in his opponent’s defence.

“Come on, Ed!” Millie hollered, and your head snapped to the side. Her eyebrows were drawn tight in the middle of her forehead, mouth hanging open anxiously.

As if he could hear her, Ed propelled himself forward, colliding with the other man. They grappled for a second, both searching for purchase, but Ed had his arms wrapped tightly around the other man. What the fuck?

“What’s he doing?” you asked, but nobody could hear you over the roar of the men in the room. They clambered around the platform from all angles, getting as close as they could. Spit flew as they shouted profanities at the fighters, faces reddening as they bellowed with all their might.

Rodge yelled something inaudible at him, but Ed persisted, planting his feet on the ground and pressing his chest against the other man’s. And then the man’s body jolted to the side and he was stumbling to the ground, a loud grunt echoing through the room as he held a gloved fist to his waist. The referee shouted and everything stopped for a second as the man rested on the mat. Cold dread flooded through your veins as you noticed the way he glared at Ed. Even in the light, his eyes seemed black. The men around you were roaring, and harsh boo’s reverberated off the walls of the basement.

“What the fuck just happened?” you asked breathlessly, looking to Rodge for an explanation.

“He punched him in the kidney,” Rodge ground out, arms folded across his chest. He seemed to be glaring at Ed as well, although you couldn’t tell if that was just his face.

“Okay so?” you questioned cluelessly, eyebrows raised. The man rose slowly and walked to his corner of the ring, where someone held a water bottle to his lips.

Rodge ignored you, stepping toward the ring where Ed was waiting for him.

“He can’t do that.” Millie told you anxiously, staring wide eyed at her brother. “Why the fuck would he do that?”

It appeared as though the words Rodge had for Ed were of a similar sentiment, based on the way he was cowering under the bald man’s glare. Blood dribbled out of his nose in thin lines, and he wiped them away with his glove, leaving a crimson streak smeared across his cheek. You held your breath and looked away.

After thirty seconds the men gathered in the middle of the ring once more, and you attempted to quell the anxiety that swelled inside you. But as much as you internally begged for it to end, the second round began and the sound of gloves smacking skin hit in your ears. And you couldn’t bring yourself to not look.  

Because, god, it was a sight to behold.

The dark-haired man was back on his feet, and he was furious.

He moved quickly, twisting and ducking around Ed, never giving him a moment of respite as he sunk his fists into his flesh. He found all of his weak spots and targeted them in a second, attacking with finesse, and knowing all the right moments to pull back and block Ed’s futile attempts to return a punch. He was too fast, too agile, too big. And when he struck, it was brutal, every single time.

Sweat seeped through the thick material of your shirt, sticking it to the skin of your back. Everything was too hot, too loud. You felt lightheaded as you watched Ed take another hit to the face, blood spurting as his head jolted to the side.

It was disgusting, he was disgusting. It was animalistic, it was brutish. And yet you couldn’t stop watching him.

Sweat shone on his shoulders as he moved, shimmering under the harsh white light dangling above them. You could hear him grunting through the black mouthguard covering his teeth; could see how the corded muscles in his abdomen clenched and shifted beneath his skin with every movement of his arms. It was painfully mesmerising.

Ed’s body hit the ropes and bounced back towards the man, and a gloved fist met his already bruising ribs. The air rushed out of your lungs, chest aching as if you were the one who’d been struck.

“I think I’m going to be sick,” you said, but Millie didn’t hear you, too busy shouting mindless instructions at her brother.

Sucking your lips into your mouth, you looked back just in time to see the man swing his fist upward into the bottom of Ed’s chin, snapping his head back. And when he fell, intercepting the mat with a sickening thud, he didn’t stand back up. A harsh, guttural shout came from the man’s mouth, so loud it felt like your body vibrated. Whether it was a triumphant battle cry, or a sound of exhaustion, you weren’t so sure, but you didn’t take your eyes off him as the referee counted eight seconds and then gripped his forearm, raising it in the air to signal him as the winner.

A deafening cacophony of sound rose from the crowd, louder than you’d heard it all night. Praise mixed in with heckles of abuse, and yet the man stared into the crowd as if it were all below him. His chin was raised in the air, blank eyes gazing into the swarm of people, flitting from face to face as if he were still trying to process the victory. It was nonchalant, as if the entire thing was no big deal to him. As if he hadn’t just beaten someone to a pulp. And then suddenly, those dark orbs were on you. Your entire body stiffened, eyes widening as you held his gaze. His eyebrows quirked into a soft frown, chin lowering as he squinted a little, perhaps trying to determine whether you were the same person from the alley or not. But his gaze shifted away just as quick, and you relaxed somewhat, relieved to have escaped the intense scrutiny. His glistening chest heaved with breaths of exertion, and you watched as he gave a single jostle of his fist in the air, before turning to exit the ring. 

Rodge led Ed out a side door, Millie rushing behind them with his water bottle gripped between her slim fingers. The red colour of her acrylics shone against the black plastic. You stumbled behind them as fast as your feet would carry you, but your body felt light, stomach shifting inside you like you were on a boat, a feeling that had you swaying from side to side; set aimlessly adrift in the teeming crowd. Like a small fish against a strong current, you wormed through thick arms and tall torso, finally slipping towards the door tucked so discreetly against the back wall. When you plunged through it, and the door had clicked shut at your back, you found yourself alone in a long hallway.

A multitude of closed doors decorated the path ahead, worn silver handles shining below the brassy light on the roof, taunting your uncertainty. Soft murmurs rose from somewhere in the distance, but boisterous cheers still rang in your ears, and you couldn’t pinpoint the exact location of the voices. An image of Ed hitting the mat swum through your vision and your first step faltered, palm colliding with the wall in an effort to steady yourself.

Your throat was thick as you swallowed, but the ball of anxiety stayed lodged in the top of your chest. You began to walk, ears pricked in hopes of recognising a familiar voice as you passed by the first set of doors. Millie or Ed—hell, even Rodge would do.  

You’d only made it a few steps when one of the doors smarted open, the hinge creaking painfully loud. The expectation that Millie was about to step out and greet you brought a welcome relief flooding through your veins, and your shoulders relaxed somewhat.

“Thank god,” you muttered.

And then stopped short, feet planting on the ground as the person fully entered the corridor.

Definitely not Millie.

Not for the first time that night, you were struck by how large he was. In fact, it was probably the hundredth time the thought had crossed your mind.

One hand gripped an ice pack to his waist, right where his kidney sat, and the other rubbed a small towelette across his chest, absorbing the sweat that still shone across his pecs. A pink mark covered his unbruised cheek, a stinging reminder of Ed’s first punch. Black, unruly eyebrows twitched in recognition, and the hand gripping the towel paused as he assessed you.

“What the hell are you doin’ down here?” he bristled. His voice was deeper than it had been earlier. Rougher.

You didn’t respond for a moment, eyes glazing over as they flicked in a constant loop from his face to his bare chest, his arms, his thighs. His bicep flexed as his hand tightened around the ice pack.

Jesus Christ, you thought. Get a hold of yourself.

“M’serious,” he griped. “If someone finds you down here when you’re not supposed to be, you’ll get your ass handed to you.”

He was more intimidating now than he had been earlier. Expression frustrated—almost pissed off—as he stared at you. It was a stark contrast to the interaction in the alley, where he’d kindly but firmly told you to get the fuck out of here.

The memory of Ed hitting the mat reared its head once more, and you flinched.

The ball of anxiety seemed to grow another inch, inspiring a low throbbing sensation behind your sternum. It screamed at you, pounded against your bones and hollered, you don’t know this guy, what the fuck are you doing? Sweat dampened your palms, and you allowed your eyes to dart down the hall over his shoulder, just for a second, before looking back at his face. Where the fuck is Millie?

Something shifted in his demeanour then. His eyebrows softened a touch, the corners of his mouth relaxing.

“You okay, hot shot?”

Heat soared through your belly at the nickname.

“Uhh,” your voice was a higher pitch than normal, and you cleared your throat quickly. “Yeah, yes, ‘m good.”

He nodded once, face unreadable. “Did you see it?” Black eyes watched you closely.

“Yeah,” you wiped your palms on your jeans. “Yeah, I saw.”

“All of it?”

“Yes.”

The tip of a pink, wet tongue slipped out of his mouth to swipe along his lower lip. So fast you almost missed it. Your face felt hot.  

“And what’d you think?”

You thought you could see the smugness in his eyes. The way his chest puffed out a little, knowing you’d seen his victory. You hated how pleased he seemed to be with himself… almost as much as you hated yourself for noticing how soft the inside of his elbows looked; for wondering what the sweat on his neck tasted like.

“I thought it was awful,” you told him truthfully. His smirk faltered a little, the spark in his eyes dimming as he stared. “I… I didn’t want to be here.”

He contemplated your response for a moment, eyes shining curiously as they ticked down your body, giving you a swift once over before flashing back up to your face. You shifted uneasily under the scrutiny.

The bag of ice crunched in his grip as he readjusted it against his side. For a split second he cringed, lower stomach tensing as he modified his footing, leaning most of his weight on his other side. The sight of his pain intrigued you. It had such a flawed, human quality about it. Something as real, as universal as hurt seemed to bring him back down to earth – to the same lowly reality that normal people lived in; ones who weren’t made of brick and couldn’t throw their fists with a god-like agility.

For as long as you could remember, you’d believed that any person who made the cognisant choice to inflict violence, was dangerous. And yet, your feet didn’t move. Couldn’t bring yourself to side-step his broad figure, to dash down the hall and bang on the doors until a guardian angel in the shape of Millie appeared. Because after a few short moments alone with him, away from the crowd and the bright lights and the fighting mat, you remembered why you didn’t feel the need to. Safe.

“But you stayed,” he said. It wasn’t a question, but a statement. An indisputable fact. Indeed, you had stayed.

“Call it morbid curiosity,” you muttered, scuffing the tip of your shoe against the ground.

He opened his mouth to respond, but you were already speaking. “Do you know if Ed’s okay?”

“Who?” he frowned. Your face mirrored his, confusion zapping through your body. However, the train of thought was interrupted by the door swinging open, and another man’s head dipping into your line of sight.

“Alright, we gott—” the man cut himself off, mouth hanging open as he caught sight of you a few metres away. “Oh.”

He was tall, taller than the boxer, with dark skin and black hair shaved short. Lips peeled back to reveal teeth, and you realised he was smiling at you. A polite, comforting smile. You recognised him from the fight; standing beside the ring, holding a water bottle to the boxer’s mouth in between rounds.

“Sorry to interrupt,” he said, gaze darting between the pair of you before landing on his friend. “But we need to talk.”

He nodded in acknowledgement of the words but didn’t tear his gaze away from your face. A splotchy, deep red mark had formed on his side of his stomach, hinting at how hard Ed must’ve punched him.

“’M Frank,” he said abruptly.

You blinked.

Frank.

Frank, Frank, Frank.

A name to put to the violence.

The man in the doorway glanced curiously at you, his eyes soft. After a long stretch of silence, in which you did not respond, and did not offer your own name up, a low scoff erupted from Frank’s mouth and that almost familiar smirk slid back across his lips.

“I get it,” he let out a low chuckle, a sound that echoed a simmering tone of disappointment. “Can’t go around giving your name out to just any scumbag.”

You cringed at the word choice. But as you went to defend yourself, to tell him your name, to say anything, he had already turned his back, readjusting his ice pack as he disappeared through the doorway.

It banged shut behind them, a whoosh of air rushing into the corridor with the movement. Alone once more, you took a steadying breath. The lightbulb hanging from the ceiling flickered once, a low hum emanating from it, and then a faint tap tap tap. You glanced up to see a small, black moth flapping it’s wings in earnest, repeatedly knocking against the warm glass of the bulb.

And then that soft, lilting voice was calling your name. You saw the blonde hair first, then the acrylic nails.

“Millie,” your feet carried you down the hall to where she stood, hanging halfway out of an open doorway.

“C’mon,” she hurried back inside. “We’re taking Ed to the hospital. They think he might have a concussion.”

You caught a glimpse of him inside the room. Rodge was wiping a damp cloth over his face, trying to clean away splashes of dark blood that stained his chin. Vacant eyes burned a hole into the ground, and the corners of his mouth turned down as he murmured something under his breath. Millie crouched to rest a sympathetic hand on his knee.

You spared a final glance down the hall, to the spot where you’d stood with Frank only moments before. Perhaps you were curious to see if he’d reappear – if he’d stalk back out and demand to know your name after all. But he didn’t, and you could hear Ed beginning to cry. So you did what Frank had done; turned your back, and let the door close behind you.

#frank castle #frank castle fanfiction #frank castle fic #frank castle x reader #frank castle x f!reader #boxer!frank castle #my writing #on the ropes

[melpomene-writes]

scream (just for me, sugar)

im nayeon x fem!reader // smut (minors dni)

the whistle of the kettle is almost loud enough to drown out the sound of your erratic pulse.

almost.

it’s a deafening thump, thump, thump, that seems to irregulate itself every few beats, tormentingly prominent. your blood runs like ice, your skin prickled by a sweat so cold that you envy the boiling water inside the appliance.

your once sleepy town is now riddled with anxious insomnia, kept standing by a ceaseless stream of adrenaline, intensifying with every homicide report. so many murders. multiple culprits. nobody is safe.

at least you’re fortunate enough to be safe from one of the killers. ‘ghostface’ is what they call her: the masked monster who guts and cuts her victims, stamping their corpses with a polaroid capturing their dying breaths. psychotic. cruel. unpredictable.

you, on the other hand, call her nayeon. the love of your life.

it’s not that you’re oblivious to her nightly atrocities. rather, you’ve elected to not give a shit. ever since you first met the woman, when she bought you a drink at a dive bar and taught you how to play poker in a dingy booth with a strong arm around you, you’ve been infatuated. she oozes suavity, sex, and a protectiveness over you that makes you feel all warm inside. you’re safe with her, and she knows how to take care of her woman. so, you look past the barbaric crimes. it’s easier that way.

mostly, sure, your decision to turn a blind eye to her ways is horrendous. sometimes it upsets you. but nayeon kisses away the tears, holds you close and tells you that you’re perfect. her angel, incapable of doing any wrong. and it only feels right to believe her.

presently, however, she isn’t here to keep you safe. impenetrable darkness blankets the sky, leaving you vulnerable to the bloody fruits of the night.

with a shaky breath, you reach for the kettle, fighting off a tremble as you lift the spout to your mug. your unoccupied hand buries itself in the sleeve of your jumper—hers, to be specific, but it brings you the illusion of comfort. desperately trying not to hone your senses in on your pounding heart, your eyes focus on the water streaming from the kettle.

two loud raps sound against the back door of your house. a silent scream leaves you, the kettle falling from your grip. frantically, your hand flies to your mouth. it stifles your shriek as your phone begins to ring from the counter.

tears prick your eyes as you stumble towards the ringing. your quivering hand moves to check the caller id.

nay ♡

without thinking, you accept the call, bringing the device to your lips to whisper into the microphone.

“i’m outside. open up, baby,” resounds her voice through the speaker, deep and inviting as always.

instantaneous relief floods your system. it’s just her.

the frozen blood in your veins thaws as you hang up, shakily making your way to the back door. breathing deeply, calming yourself, you sequentially unfasten the numerous locks bolted to the door. even though they only lock from the inside, you still replace them every year, just in case.

the door swings open, unveiling the caller.

nayeon leans against the back porch with a perfected nonchalance. her height and broadness obscures most of the porch light, faintly silhouetting her formidable frame. she isn’t wearing the cloak she kills in, only an old pair of jeans and a wifebeater, and the shadow she casts would have to work overtime to conceal the rippling contours of her muscle. her arms, delightfully bulky with strength, are littered with small visible scars, her left arm especially while decorated shoulder-to-wrist with clockwork tattoos. dark crimson stains her forearms—her torso, too, forcing her tank to cling to the sculpted flesh beneath. the bedevilled mask after which her title was earned, a black hood with a now-bloodied white, ghoulish face contorted into a scream, still shrouds her beautiful face.

even though she’s currently working two extremely sodden leather gloves off her hands, and you can’t see the smirk inevitably residing beneath her guise, she’s a work of art. a forbidden sculpture, as captivating as she is fear-inspiring.

one look at her, and all the past hours of anxiety melt from your veins.

“did i scare you?” nayeon lilts bemusedly, faintly muffled by the mask, pushing up from her languid stance. she invites herself into your home, stuffing her filthy gloves into her jean pocket. the delightfully strong hands underneath are pristinely clean, to keep forensics guessing, of course, but she likes to keep her hands tidy just for you.

a rattled breath escapes you as she closes the door behind. “everyone’s scared right now, nay,” you shake your head. “halloween is only a few days away, and the bodies will pile up like they always do. plus, you never told me you were coming. you have to expect the worst these days,” you frown, gesturing to the kitchen knife you keep out for emergencies. she sharpened it herself, coupled with a promise that you’ll never have to use it with her to protect you.

beneath the mask, she snorts. “takes a new kind of stupid to go around killing on halloween,” nayeon chuckles. “cops are on high-alert, you got parents and kids walking about knocking on doors—”

“does that ever stop anyone in this town?” you sigh. a chill overcomes you as you dwell on the thought. shuddering, you rub your arms through your sweater.

“it stops me.” a sympathetic smile is audible in her voice, even if you can’t see it. “so i’ll be right by your side if anyone tries something, and you know they’d take one look at me and run for the hills, sweetheart,” she reassures you. the tone is a medicinal honey for your ears, soothing all your fears in a matter of seconds.

gently, your lips quirk into a small smile. “will you tell me when you’re gonna get here, instead of just showing up unexpectedly like today?” you ask, taking a step forward.

nayeon matches your stride, closing the gap between you. she towers over you, a viper poised to intimidate its dinner, a pitiful little mouse.

both of you find it exhilarating.

a psychological gravity wills you backwards until the edge of the counter meets the small of your back. the display of submission doesn’t go amiss. she elicits a pleased hum, closing in on you, musing, “i thought you expected me tonight, honey.”

confused, you quirk your brow. “oh?”

“don’t tell me you’ve forgotten about the pictures you sent me a few hours ago,” she light-heartedly tuts.

oh, those pictures.

the thick, perturbed night air had wiped the slate of your mind clean. you had forgotten all about the fact that underneath nayeon’s old jumper, you’re donning a pink, lacy matching set that you bought earlier this afternoon, knowing full well she adores you in anything dichotomous to her rough nature. With the intention of riling your girlfriend up, just enough to make the night unforgettable, you snapped a couple of pictures without the jumper…

images that she saw, she opened, before leaving you on read.

recalling this frustrating detail, you pout.

nayeon observes this, reaching to toy with the hem of your jumper. “what’s the matter?” she purrs, ghosting her fingers over the tops of your thighs. “are you mad at me, or something?”

she’s teasing you, knowing full well you couldn’t resent her if you tried. besides, there’s no hope in trying when her fingers are so warm, despite the autumnal chill she walked god-knows how long in to reach your house.

pout faltering in part, you hook your fingers through the belt-loops of her jeans, beckoning her dangerously close. “you didn’t text me back when i sent you those pictures,” you mumble, looking up into the abyssal black sockets of her mask’s eyes.

she sucks in a breath; with her expression obscured, you can’t determine whether it’s one of titillation or mocking pity. with her, they typically coincide. “oh, baby,” she drawls, her other hand reaching to caress your cheek. “you know i would have. i was a little preoccupied, that’s all.”

your eyes flicker to her left wrist, mesmerised briefly by the whisps of black ink painting a machine of cogs and gears all the way to her shoulder. the carefully administered art is jarringly tainted by splashes and sprays of dried blood.

“i haven’t stopped thinking about them,” she continues, trailing her fingers down your neck, drinking in the way you shiver at the gentle touch. “you were so distracting, i got a little messier than intended. that poor sucker had no idea what a treat i had waiting for me,” she mutters, her implications somehow disturbing yet positively nectareous. “let me make it up to you, yeah?”

“hm… boots off first,” you smile, kissing her clavicle where it’s exposed.

unlacing your fingers from her belt loops, you spin on your heel and embark on a path upstairs, leaving nayeon to remove her filthy footwear. she kneels down and begins to work at them, but the freakish face of her mask is tilted towards you. “you’re gonna make me chase you, huh, sweetness?”

giggling lightly, you look over your shoulder. “i thought you were into that?”

rather than awaiting her response, you elect to disappear behind a door frame, excitedly making your way up the stairs. when you reach the bedroom, you discard your jumper, roughly inspecting it for any smears of blood under the glow of the lamplight before deciding that it can wait until tomorrow morning. you toss it carelessly somewhere behind you, far more focused on giving yourself a final once-over in the mirror.

nayeon could care less about what you wore in her presence, but whenever you make a special effort for her, she thanks you in full. an artistic streak lives in her, and she can’t help but want to see you dolled-up in every delicate fabric, every color, in every light. her passion for photography knows two flavours: malevolence by her knife and knuckles, and sensuality by you, her seraphic muse, her aphrodite.

absent in the morsel of vanity you allow yourself, you fail to register nayeon’s shadow lingering by the door frame. “isn’t that a sight,” she marvels.

your attention shifts to the door, where nayeon shamelessly lets her eyes roam over the curves of your body; you don’t need her to remove the mask to feel the weight of her lustful, wandering gaze.

she stalks over to you. despite having met her almost a year ago, butterflies still emerge when she closes in on you like this: unhurried, yet with ravenous intent; a lion cornering a gazelle.

“so beautiful,” she murmurs as you gravitate towards her, muffled under the mask. a cloudy warmth floods your skin at the sincerity in her tone.

in an unnecessary—but swoon-worthy—display of unwavering strength, nayeon bends down and lifts you into her arms by your thighs. your legs wrap around her waist as your hands cup her neck, thumb grazing over the flexing tendons underneath her skin, while she carries you over to the bed. you’re eye-to-eye with a blood-soaked mr. hyde, yet safe in the embrace of dr. jekyll.

brutal as she may be, nayeon lowers you onto your bed with nothing but care, aligning your head with the plumpest pillow she can see. she hovers over you, parting your legs gently with her knee, working it snugly against your clothed heat, admiring the way your mouth parts breathlessly at her touch.

your hands explore her, eagerly ushering her closer until your chests are flush against one another. she’s wonderfully warm; the intimacy of the proximity is enough to offset the strange feeling of her wifebeater, damp with blood, pressed against you. you deeply inhale her scent, looking past the remnants of gore, focusing on the spiced jasmine of the soap she likes. caged between her body and the mattress, you’re home.

the need to feel her lips against yours is an incandescent flame, her knee between your legs only serving as fuel for the fire. ordinarily, you would savour the firmness of her arms and back, ghosting your nails over the muscle in the way that deliciously tests her patience, but at the present you want nothing more than to rid her of that damn mask. you reach for the black fabric of the hood, tilting your head to pre-emptively align your lips.

alas before you can pull it off, a hand clasps around your wrist. a whimper escapes you, a pang of desperation striking your heart. “kiss,” you mumble half-intelligibly, pouting at the denial.

nayeon chuckles darkly, revelling in the despairing look in your eyes. god knows she could never refuse you completely. but there’s something inexplicably delightful about making you ache for her, having you succumb to the depths of depravity, especially with the remnants of a kill fresh on her mind and body. a slither of ghostface has to surface on occasion—she can’t have you getting too spoilt.

“patience.”

as delicately as it’s spoken, the word is a command. a whimpered plea might alter her decision, maybe with a few frustrated tears; you know that rendering yourself to such a pathetic state historically garnered the sweetest outcomes. the quietest “nayeon” would have her ripping the mask off without question, banishing any thought she had of continuing this little trial of obedience.

obedience, however, always comes with rewards. the promise of over-indulgence is left unspoken. thus you suppress your visceral urge to give into the craving, relaxing back into the pillow.

“that’s my good girl,” nayeon coos, running her thumb over your bottom lip. it quivers at the pet name as your heart swells with emotion. no euphoria compares to being her good girl. there isn’t a higher praise she could offer you. being hers, nayeon appreciating your submission and discipline… the world could collapse and it wouldn’t dampen your adoring pride.

“let me make you feel good,” she murmurs, nudging your legs further apart with her knee.

bracing herself with a thick, veiny forearm by your head, she lets her hand inch its way down your body. nayeon takes her time, grazing her thumb over your nipple through the lace of your bra. you shiver under her warm touch, a welcomed contrast to the crisp night air.

her touch lightens as she drifts her fingers over your abdomen—not light enough to tickle, but enough to evoke a reflexive twitch. your stomach flutters with anticipation, heat emanating from between your thighs as her fingers inch towards where you need her most.

“don’t tease me, nay,” you blurt out, thoughts a wanton, foggy mess.

as her calloused fingertips slip beneath your underwear, torturously close to the crest of your desire, she pledges, “i wouldn’t dream of it, sugar.”

in tandem, as the heat radiating from nayeon’s fingers coalesces with your aching arousal, you both suck in a short, shallow breath. not even your bout of bone-chilling fear from earlier was enough to offset the product of hours of yearning leading up to this moment. and, while a clearer-thinking version of yourself would protest, the sight of her all roughed-up and covered in the aftermath of bloodlust only intensifies those feelings. it’s only natural; anyone blessed enough to have had a taste of what she can do to a woman, just with a couple of fingers and a few buttery-sweet words, would find themselves craving seconds and thirds.

beneath the pantomimic veil, you can picture the arrogant smirk on her face clear as crystal. she reserves every right to be cocky when she has you conditioned to practically drip at her whim.

calculating, she presses against your heat, rubbing slow circles over your quim until it’s thoroughly coated in your slick. it’s a dizzying sensation: the pleasure is faint enough to leave you wanting, and she seldom allows her fingertips to brush against your clit, but when she does, it’s electric.

“do you want me inside?” she asks with prurience. with a shallow breath, you nod, gently rocking your hips into her touch. “words,” she demands softly.

“please,” you whimper, praying to some indulgent deity that it would suffice. you pull her as close as you can manage, a hand slipping under her tank to roam the powerful muscles of her back. nothing compares to feeling her raw strength.

hasteless, she sinks a thick finger into your heat. you bite your lip, feeling yourself clench around each knuckle as she buries herself to the hilt. humming contentedly, she gives a couple of slow, experimental thrusts, musing to herself, “i’ve been thinking about this all afternoon.”

a breathy sigh escapes you as her finger ghosts over something devilishly sweet inside of you. it awakens something. opting to poke the bear, judgement overridden by need, you ask, “even while you were—” she works a second finger into you, delivering a delightful fullness. “—‘out’?”

amusement rumbles through her chest; your hand flattens against her sturdy back, bracing yourself for her response. “i didn’t take you for a deviant, sweetness,” nayeon laughs, beautifully sinister. you whine as she curls her fingers, her thumb sweeping over your clit. she thrusts again, deeper, sights aimed down at the spot that will have you writhing underneath her. her anatomical knowledge extends well beyond arteries and veins—you’ve learned that much over the months.

“is that a—oh—no?” you choke on a moan as she caresses that spot within. she doesn’t stop, undulating her fingers deliberately while you lose your ability to think, melting into the bedding.

“you wanna know the truth?” she husks, taking her time with her heavenly affliction.

lost in sensation, you nod, the gesture cut short when concurrently with her blissful ministrations, she begins to rub circles against your clit with her thumb. your head lolls back with a ragged mewl.

nayeon feeds her ego with your ruination. “the truth is, i woke up wanting to fuck you into the mattress,” she groans, her wave-like rhythm inside of you bleeding into something slightly rougher, something you didn’t know you needed until it sends shockwaves through your core. “i had a whole plan going. i was gonna go home and shower after dealing with my little ‘problem’, strap up just for you, bring a bottle of that wine i know you like. but then,” she growls, accentuated by a rather mean thrust, “you just had to send me those pretty little pictures. and that bastard couldn’t bleed out fast enough.”

the hiss she relinquishes as your nails sink into the thick muscle of her back was almost enough to send you into orbit. “i must have stabbed him forty times before he finally stopped breathing. i even asked him to speed it up. explained i had a meal waiting for me back home, and i intended to eat good tonight,” she chuckles with cruelty.

“fuck, nay,” you moan, indescribably turned on by her tale. it’s wrong, it’s so fucking wrong, but knowing you have that effect on her feels right. you’re meant to be together.

“you’re squeezing me, baby,” she drawls, effortlessly maintaining her pace through the added force. “you don’t care what i am, do you? not when i make you feel this good.”

relentlessly, she rips mewl after mewl from your throat. you’re drowning in the lewd sound of your wetness muddied with the upper palm of her hand slapping against your heat with every deep thrust. clawing at her back, you pant, incapable of thought beyond nayeon.

overwhelmed, you bury your face in her shoulder, whining against her salt-licked skin, “just like that. just like that. ‘m gonna come, nay—”

“come for me, sugar,” she grunts.

the world grinds to a halt as you fall over the precipice with a sweet, hoarse cry. relief rocks through you with intensity, all the tension leaving your body in a violent shudder. nayeon slows down, rolling her hips alongside more tender thrusts to prolong your ecstasy, murmuring, “that’s it. always so good for me.”

as the stars disappear from your vision, a hazy bliss washes over you. nayeon is still nestled inside of you, and you feel her fingers twitch with an eagerness to pummel you to peak all over again, but she stills as she watches you succumb to that foggy afterglow.

in a brief moment of clarity, you glance up at her. right now, all you want is to see her face. her face, not the visage of a blood-spattered ghoul.

shakily, you reach up and tug off the mask by the fabric of its hood.

nayeon, while her lips are quirked with unadulterated arrogance, stares down at you with a softness in her gaze you don’t think you’ve ever seen before. her dark hair is tousled and struggling to stay in its style, and a splash of crimson stains her neck, yet she remains the most beautiful woman you have ever laid eyes on.

maybe the tentativeness in her steel eyes is extra prominent because this is the first time you have given yourself to every part of her. for possibly the first time, she realizes you love her for who she is, even if it isn’t right, even if it’s depraved, immoral, criminal.

you think, as a smile finds its way onto your lips, that you’re overdue for a kiss.

tossing the mask to the side, you crane your neck off the pillow and seal the gap between your lips. they’re smooth, warm and taste faintly of the plain, unbranded chapstick she swears by, and after what feels like an eternity, they’re on yours at last. sighing, nayeon leans down further so you don’t have to exert yourself, resting her weight on you to deepen the kiss. every languid, intimate glide of her lips against you makes your heart flutter.

all too soon she breaks away, panting softly. “mind if i take my shirt off?” she rasps. “it’s starting to dry.”

laughing softly, you roll your eyes. “yes, severely,” you tease. “keep wearing your crunchy tank top.”

nayeon sits upright, carefully withdrawing her fingers from your warmth, groaning, “let’s keep ‘crunchy’ out of the bedroom, shall we?” she smiles at the giggle you let out.

the giggle is swiftly cut short as she pulls the tank off her body, leaving her bare from the waist up—wearing a bra gives her one more thing to clean blood off of, so she rarely wears them. muscle ripples through her rich brown skin, a testament to her formidable strength. years of hard work is chiselled into her flesh. if that isn’t enough to make a woman drool, your eyes shamelessly drift to her chest, zeroing in on her dark areolas. you follow her body down, past the enticing swell of her chest, following the faint happy-trail down to the line of her belt.

you almost regret sending nayeon those pictures, otherwise, according to her, she would be packing.

she doesn’t need to ask if you like what you see, although her ego does persuade her to do so on occasion. she knows she’s a sculptor’s dream.

equally as greedily, nayeon indulges in the sight of you sprawled out beneath her, a monolithic demon of lust towering above you. absentmindedly she licks her fingers clean of your spend, smirking as you tremble at the sight.

just like that, an ache begins to well in your core all over again.

hungry for another slice of euphoria, you hook your thumbs underneath the band of your panties, pushing them down from your hips. nayeon helps you, and if you’re hungry, she’s positively voracious; you hear the distant snap of elastic as she rids your legs of them.

frowning, you give her a vaguely disappointed look. “i bought those today,” you pout.

nayeon attempts to soften the blow with a kiss to your ankle. “please, they were already ruined. your bra has blood on it anyway. i’ll replace them,” she grumbles, rolling her eyes, discarding the underwear.

the former comment brings warmth to your cheeks. rudimentary as it is, she always takes pride in how your body responds to her leading up to the deed, and the state of you afterwards.

with your legs either side of her, nayeon lowers herself back on top of you, bracing herself on the headboard as she leans down for another kiss. the buckle of her belt is cold as ice against your navel, evoking a shiver from you as you arch up to meet her halfway. this time, there are no illusions of romance as her lips move against yours, only burning passion and an insatiable appetite. softly, you moan against her, silently willing for her to take the reins.

hushed against your lips, she murmurs an offer you doubt you could ever bring yourself to refuse: “more?”

your body begs for it. “i’m yours.”

fervently, nayeon trails wolfish kisses down your neck, the imprints of her lips warm in her wake. she laves her tongue across your nipple over the lace of your bra, the warmth and sensitivity rendering you breathless. but she is as desperate for a taste of you as you are to satiate her, so she continues her path south until her face settles between your spread thighs.

nayeon wastes no time in easing them over her broad shoulders. her breath is tantalising, fanning over your nerves in an evil fashion as she admires how you glisten for her, craving a reckoning only her mouth could ever bring.

with an iron grip on your thighs and a ravenous growl, she closes her lips around your heat, devouring the remnants of your orgasm with a swipe of her tongue.

the sound that escapes you is unintelligible, bleeding into an even sharper mewl as nayeon moves to lazily suck on your clit. pleasure spikes your veins, a rapturous injection of white light that makes you forget your own name.

she takes her time, staring at your panting chest and twitching stomach, watching as you surrender yourself to a delightful madness under her control. you’re perfect in this moment to her: oblivious to anything other than the pleasure she eagerly delivers you, incapable of anything but garbled moans of her name and senseless, impulsive pleas. delirious. utterly delirious.

so she stops.

despairing, you whimper while she grins, hips bucking into the air with the hope of finding relief. your clit throbs, begging for the return of her lips and tongue.

“nayeon, please,” you sob. you hold your breath as she appears to descend once again, met only with the betrayal of a chaste kiss to your inner thigh. frustrated tears prick your eyes.

“you look like an angel right now,” she hums sadistically. “so used to getting what you want that you shut down when you’re denied it.”

the gnawing in your core spirals with each passing second her lips are detached from your slick heat. a scientist testing a hypothesis, nayeon analyses your face as it contorts into a display of pitiful desperation. she purrs as your hole clenches around nothing, essence dripping.

“this is torture, isn’t it, sweet thing?” she laughs fiendishly. “that needy little pussy is crying for me.”

the weight of her gaze borders on humiliating. the denial is agony. those crystalline tears threaten to spill.

“don’t worry, baby. i won’t make a habit of this,” she coos, a mocking undertone laced in her whisky-smooth voice. “you’re always so good for me. it wouldn’t be fair, now, would it?” god, you’re aching with such ferocity it makes you want to claw off your skin. delicate pleas tumble from your lips. “even though you look a damn treat,” she adds lowly, confirmed she’s playing out a long-lived fantasy from the depths of her mind.

as your hips rock against nothing but the warmth of her breath, nayeon removes a hand from your thigh—she only needs one to keep you pinned to the mattress—and withdraws her phone from her jean pocket. “you know, we haven’t added to our little portfolio in a while, honey. what do you say?” she husks.

that portfolio. your dirty little secret. nayeon can work a camera lens as masterfully as she can work her fingers and tongue, if the gory polaroids of her victims in the newspaper was proof of anything. she had a penchant for immortalising your rapture-ridden body in the forms of picture and film. a not-so-guilty pleasure of hers, for her eyes only.

nayeon made it clear on your first ‘set’ together that your face would never appear in frame, not once. if you told her to stop recording, she’d stop. she’d snap her phone in two if you asked, or displayed the first sign of regret. and if anyone managed to pry their way into her phone and find your hidden tapes, she promised to gouge out their eyes with her bare hands, saw off their tongue, break every bone in their damn body—

oh, god, her lips are on your thigh, her unoccupied hand applying a pressure to your pelvis that shouldn’t feel as fucking good as it does. you breathe out a pitchy whine, feeling yourself drip onto the bedding.

nayeon smirks knowingly. “you’re so pretty like this… one little video, and i’ve got this image forever. you can go back to being my spoilt little princess, just like you want.” the marionette strings are within her grasp. she knows just what to say to make an offer irresistible.

breathlessly, you nod, praying for the bittersweet torture to end. “whatever you want, nay. i need you, please,” you whimper, weakly reaching for the hand just above your mons.

“you can say no, sweetheart,” she reassures softly. nefarious as she is, she wouldn’t want anything but your enthusiastic consent.

a question eats away at your heart. morally dubious, but plaguing in its intrigue. an answer would cement your agreeance to her proposal. “do you watch them back after you film me?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper.

she chuckles briefly, sinisterly, as if replaying a delightful scene in her mind. “stakeouts can get real lonely. sometimes i need a reminder of what’s waiting for me,” she confesses without a modicum of shame.

the notion of your lover camping out of sight, only half paying attention to her prey in favor of watching you shake and unravel in one of your homemade videos, just to tide her over until she can get her next dose of you... your mind blanks, briefly forgetting about the ache between your thighs in dire need of soothing. that’s a new level of transgression you couldn’t prepare yourself for.

“i want to,” you blurt out without further pondering.

“that’s my girl,” she grins. nayeon pushes up, unlocking her phone, reaching for a pillow to support it by your side. a clothed knee finds purchase between your legs; to destroy your mind further or to gently appease the ache, you’ll never know. using the front-facing camera, she positions her phone so that your body from the chest down is in shot.

satisfied with the angle, she gently taps the red record button, biting her lip at the anticipative rising and falling of your chest, nipples pebbled with arousal through your bra. “beautiful,” she mutters under her breath, pressing a hot kiss to your sternum on her descent towards your core.

“don’t you worry about the sound not picking up, sugar,” she grins, folding your thighs in on yourself for easier access to your cunt. her thumbs spread you apart for her, out of shot, but her eyes are the most important recipient to the way you shudder at the rough handling. without warning, she spits on your pussy, ripping a gasp from your lips, one that swiftly bleeds into a mewl as she runs her tongue along your folds.

her eyes meet yours, glinting wickedly.

“i’m gonna make you fucking scream.”

for the anon that requested this to be reposted. i remember writing this while watching ncis.

#kpop x reader #kpop imagines #twice x reader #twice imagines #twice nayeon x reader #twice nayeon imagines #im nayeon x reader #im nayeon imagines #nayeon x reader #nayeon imagines #girl group imagines #gxg imagines #kpop #twice #twice nayeon #im nayeon #nayeon #girl group #gxg

[topguncortez]

Do I Wanna Know?

synopsis: It's your friend's bachelorette party, and she drags you to The Hard Deck where a certain brunette stripper catches your attention

word count: 3.3k

warnings: stripping, mentions of drugs, mentions of violence, mentions of being cheated on, sexual tension, mentions of prostitution

A strip club was not on the top of your list of things to be at this Saturday night. You could probably name about a hundred other places you would rather be at, but it was your best friend’s bachelorette party. Even though you had been hailed with the lovely title of maid of honor, you left the party details up to her sorority sisters from college.

You loved Malia with all your heart. She had been your longest friend, sticking by your side through everything. Your bond was really sealed when she stood in the same handicap bathroom stall as you took a pregnancy test at some random Walmart. But that bond had become somewhat weak when she went to NYU for college and you stayed back and got a two year degree at the local community college. 

“A strip club?!” Malia’s cheery voice sounded out from the middle of the party bus. Also, not your idea whatsoever. 

Malia seemed to be having the time of her life as she wore a white fringe dress with a sash across her body and in glittery gold writing it spelled ‘future bride’. One of her sorority sister’s had given her a sparkly white cowboy hat to try and complete the look. Everyone else was told to wear black, so you dug out a black off the shoulder dress from the deepest parts of hell, aka your closet. You were surprised that you even still had this dress. 

“Everyone deserves one last dance!” Jessica, no Jennifer, you were pretty sure her name was Jennifer, shouted and held up her red solo cup. That was one thing you didn’t like about sorority girls, they never seemed to grow up. 

You walked somewhat behind the group as they got off the bus, your feet were starting to ache from bar hopping earlier. You were probably the more sober one among the group, choosing to opt out of the fireball shots at the last club. One of the girl’s gave her name to the bouncer, a tall tan man with a mustache, who smirked and then walked their group into the club. You rolled your eyes at the sign above the door. 

‘The Hard Deck’ 

You knew it was a play on words since the club was near the port. San Diego was known for its dirty dingy clubs that were more than just strip clubs. With the military base so close by, restless sailors were always looking for a way to blow off some steam when they reached port. But this club was a lot nicer than most, whoever owned it obviously took pride in their business.

The bouncer led your group to a section right at the front of the stage. The sorority sister who booked the section winked at the bouncer before he left. You huffed as you sat down in a chair as far away from the stage as you could get. 

“Hey,” You turned your head to see Malia sitting down next to you, “Thank you for coming out tonight. I know none of this can be easy. It totally sucks that Justin broke-” 

“Let’s not talk about my sham of an engagement,” You shook your head and grabbed Malia’s hand in yours, “This is your night. You’re going to be the future Missus Malia Pfifer.” 

Malia squealed and stomped her feet. You couldn’t help but giggle at her excitement. Malia always reminded you of a golden retriever, constant energy, always a ball of sunshine. You were truly happy for her and her fiance Max, it was the timing of everything that couldn’t have been worse.

A week ago you had walked in on your fiance Justin, who was Max’s best friend and best man, in between the legs of your coworker. He had tried to justify the scene, telling you it was an accident, but you were smart enough to know that you don’t just fall in between someone’s bare legs. You threw the ring at him, as well as some other items until he got out of your house. You called Malia in tears and she was over so quickly you knew she broke traffic laws. She spent the night helping you dump glitter into boxes of Justin’s clothes and put them in your driveway for him to get in the morning. You knew that if you needed to hide a body, Malia would be the one to call. 

But you also didn’t want to be the dark shadow in her way. Her wedding was three weeks away, and this was her night to let loose before she took on the role of the doting wife. She had already accepted that role so well and there weren't any legal ramifications about it. 

“Well, as long as you are having fun. And hey! Who knows, maybe you’ll meet your future husband here!” Malia smiled. 

“This isn’t Magic Mike, Mals,” You chuckled. Malia just shrugged and kissed your cheek as a redhead, who you think is named Amanda, walked over with a fat stack of ones and a tray of shots. You sucked in a breath and looked around the club. If you couldn’t beat them, you might as well join them. 

— — — 

Everyone had their own pre-show prep. Some of the guys went over their new dances in their heads, some of them lathered oil on their abs to make them shine just that much more, some popped pills and snorted white lines on a tray, some of them did a last minute workout to make their muscles plump a bit more, and some of them sat on their phones and looked through tiktoks. 

Rooster was the last of the options. 

He felt confident in his dances for the night. He hardly changed up his routine from week to week, knowing that simple was better. He worked out a couple hours before work so he had time to shower and knew for a fact that he didn’t stink. He also hated putting excess baby oil on him, it made everything slippery and he has had one too many slips on stage. And he stayed away from the drugs that floated around the locker room. He had seen one too many guys get hooked on the junk and fired for not being able to perform. Stripping was about all Rooster had going for him, and he was not about to do something stupid. 

No, working at a strip club wasn’t what he imagined he would be doing when he was a little kid. He thought he was going to be a pilot, but one stupid mistake cost him his whole future. He had nowhere to go, no higher education than a high school diploma, and was facing jail time. That’s when he stumbled across the Hard Deck. It was the middle of the day, and from first glance he thought it was just a regular bar, but when he walked in, he quickly learned it was not. He was about to turn around when a sweet voice called out to him. 

“Boys! I told you to keep the bathrooms clean! I am not your damn maid!” 

Rooster looked up from his phone, hearing that voice that had called out to him all those years ago. Penny Benjamin, aka their house mother and partial owner of the club. She had welcomed Bradley with a plate of food and a place to lay his head. The only thing she asked in return, is that he worked to pay his keep. At the time, Rooster didn’t know a single thing about dancing let alone stripping, but Penny told him not to stress about it. Declan, the MC and mainshow boat took Rooster under his wing and taught him everything he needed to know about working the stage and getting the tips. 

“Sorry mom,” Rooster said and gave Penny a lopsided smile. 

“Not your fucking mother, Rooster,” Penny pointed at him, “Keep this shit clean, or I’m taking wages for a cleaning fee.” 

“Payback said there’s a bridal party in the house,” Jake said, taking a seat next to Bradley. He was one of the ones who lathered more oil than necessary onto his abdomen, “You know what that means.” 

“Horny middle aged women trying to pull my pants down?” Bradley said, looking up at him. 

“No, more tips man,” Jake rolled his eyes, “Bachelorette girls are fucking crazy. Fucking wink at them and their pulling their panties to the side.” 

Bradley tossed his phone onto the counter in front of him and looked at himself in the mirror. His hair started getting a little long, but the women in the club seemed to dig it. He trimmed up his mustache a bit and put some light makeup over his face. That was another thing Bradley never thought he would do, put makeup on his face. But Declan said it helped bring in tips, so Bradley wasn’t complaining as he put foundation powder on his nose. 

“Declan also wants us to do It’s Raining with the new kid,” Jake said and Bradley groaned. He looked over to the other side of the room where Bob, the newest recruit, was going over the steps to It’s Raining. It used to be a trio between Bradley, Jake and Javy. Bob wasn’t the average looking stripper. He wasn’t supper ripped, or had an oversized ego. He was cute, and had just the right amount of muscle on him. He also looked no older than eighteen, which made the two-time divorced mothers go absolutely feral. 

“Fucking Coyote just had to get a concussion,” Bradley mumbled and pushed himself up from his chair, “What are you doing tonight?” 

“Thinking about a lil Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy,” Jake smirked at himself, flexing his abs in the mirror. He wore a pair of tight Wranglers with an obnoxious belt buckle. He was shirtless and had a red bandana tied around his neck. He picked up his black cowboy hat from the counter and put it on his head, “What about you? Another 80s rock song?” 

Bradley rolled his eyes, “Not sure yet. Depends on the crowd. If you crash and burn then I know that I shouldn’t do country.” 

“Ha, ha,” It was now Jake who rolled his eyes. He took one glance at himself in the mirror and winked at his reflection, “See you on the flip side, Rooster.” 

— — — 

You hate country music. And what made it even worse was the blonde haired green eyed stripper who was dressed as a cowboy, grinding his junk into your friend’s face. He traded his black cowboy hat for her white one, and pulled her up on the stage. You stifled a laugh as you watched Malia turn as red as a tomato as he dragged her hand down his abs, landing on his crotch. 

So far you had been impressed with the guys that had been up on the stage. You felt a bit uncomfy with the baby-faced one who danced to some remix of Toxic and Pony. He might’ve been slender but he sure could move his hips. You thought Jennifer was nearly going to have an aneurysm for how much she screamed for the stripper’s attention and stuffed money into his jeans. You also found it quite comical how red he turned when he had to push her hands away from him and scramble for his shirt before going off stage. 

“Alright, alright,” The MC, who had introduced himself as Declan said, walked back out on the stage. Your eyebrows raised as you noticed him now wearing a tight pair of leather shorts, “A little birdy told me that we have a bride among us. . .” He talked low and slow, trying to be seductive, but you could not take a man in short shorts seriously, “Where is the lucky lady?” 

“Right here!” Malia said, shooting her hand up. 

Declan’s eyes went to her and he kneeled down right in front of her. Malia blushed profusely and bit her lip, “Your poor husband is going to have to ward off men for the rest of your lives.” You rolled your eyes, “Do you wanna know your surprise?” 

“Oh yes! Yes!” You choked on your whisky at the breathless pleas from Malia. If you didn’t know better you would think she was getting railed instead of standing in front of a forty year old male stripper. Declan smiled and stood up on his feet. 

“Well, ladies, I think you better take cover, would hate for you to get. . .wet. . .” 

“Of fucking course,” You rolled your eyes at the entrance of the song, meanwhile the other girls lost their damn minds. 

Three men stepped out on stage as smoke filled the stage. You recognized the two from earlier, they had changed into black jeans and yellow rain jackets. You had to give it to the Hard Deck dancers, they could actually do more than grind on the ground and do body rolls. You sat back in your chair and watched as the three of them moved on stage, and turned around to face the crowd. Your eyes locked on the tall brunette in the middle with the ridiculous porn stache. He caught your eye and winked at you as he slid forward on his knee, pushing his open raincoat back to show off his abs. 

— — — 

Bradley hated this song more than anything. He thought it was a cliche and Bob was half a count behind. It had been Declan’s idea about a year ago, and it had become almost a weekly thing that they’d do for the bachelorette parties in the club. It wasn’t that Bradley hated sharing the stage with others, it was that when the three of them were on stage, women tended to look at Javy or Jake more. But not her. Her eyes were locked on him, roaming over his abs. He smirked as he moved forward, as Bob and Jake took the sides of the stage. Bradley felt the confidence go through his body as he tossed his head back and held on to the ridiculous yellow rain hat, and thrusted his hips into the air. 

When the song ended, Bradley was out of breath and had probably 200 hundred dollars shoved into his waist band. Jake took extra time getting off stage, enjoying the young women swooning over him, and returned the white cowboy hat back to the bride to be. He knew that she was engaged but he couldn’t help that electric feeling when she placed a quick kiss on his cheek before placing his cowboy hat on his head. 

“Did I do alright?” Bob asked, huffing and puffing for air. He grabbed a water bottle from the mini fridge and handed one to Jake and Bradley, “I know that’s yours and Javy’s thing.” 

“You did alright, Floyd,” Jake said and took a gulp of water, “It’s just this part. . .” 

Bradley ignored whatever Jake was explaining to Bob about the dance and walked over to the DJ booth, telling him what song he was going to do tonight. He had spent the last two weeks working on it, and it was Declan approved yet, but Bradley didn’t care. He knew that it would catch the eye of the girl in the crowd again. 

Bradley quickly wiped the sweat off his body, and change out of his yellow rain jacket, deciding to just go without a shirt. He peaked out from behind the black curtains and noticed her still in her spot, a bit behind the group of young women who stared up at Fanboy with wide eyes like kids on christmas. She looked bored and for whatever reason, that spurred Bradley on even more. 

Call it what you want, but Bradley Bradshaw liked women who could give him a run for his money. 

Fanboy walked off the stage giggling, running a hand through his curls. That was one thing that Bradley liked about Fanboy, he was the comedic relief they all needed sometimes. He told Bradley to break a leg and patted his shoulder before dipping back into the dressing room. Bradley let out a breath and shook out his shoulders as his song started. He nodded his head to the beat and when the guitar started strumming he walked out on stage. 

He could hear the whistles and cheers of the women, but he wondered if she was cheering for him. The DJ had placed a black chair in the middle of the stage for Bradley to use. Usually, he’d pick a girl from the audience to sit in it, but it didn’t feel right unless he was picking her. 

Bradley closed his eyes as the voice of Alex Turner filled his head. His body moved with muscle memory as he struted around stage, using the chair to his advantage. He opened his eyes as he turned the chair around backwards and sat down, rolling his hips as he did. She still had that same bored expression on her face and it fired him up even more. 

He wasn’t sure what caused him to do it, maybe it was the eye roll or maybe it was the way she sipped whisky from a rocks glass, but he jumped off the stage and swaggered his way over to her. The same bored expression never leaving her face as he flooded her personal space. 

— — — 

Malia’s jaw hit the floor as the porn stached man jumped off the stage and walked right to you. You clenched your jaw and tightened your grip on the glass. He was skilled, clearly spending more time practicing his routines than anyone else here. You wondered if maybe he was an actual dancer before he decided to strip. 

He was intoxicating and you thought his song choice was interesting. You sucked in a breath as he stood in front of you, he rolled his hips, pushing his junk towards your face, but you kept your eyes trained on his face. His eyes were dark, but you could see that they were honey brown. He smirked as he dropped to his knees in front of you. And damn you for opening your legs for him to slot in between them. 

You knew the rule of the strip club, no touching costumers unless they consent, and he did a good job at remembering that. He placed his hands on either side of your chair as he lowered his head towards your lap and snaked his body back up to look at you. He was trying to get a rise out of you, to see you break and stick money into his waistline. But you were not about to give him that satisfaction. 

‘Crawlin back to you, never thought I’d call’ 

He was going to push the limits, you could tell by the smirk on his face as he grabbed your glass of whisky from your hand, and took a drink. There was a glint in his eye and you nodded your head subtly, giving him permission. He grabbed your jaw, digging his fingers lightly into the skin to get you to open your mouth.

You kept eye contact with him as he spit the brown liquid back into your mouth. You swallowed without a second thought, your eyes on him the whole time. He smirked and wiped a dribble of whisky from your lip before setting the glass back in your hand and going back to the stage, making sure to put an extra swing into his hips. 

“Dude!” Malia swatted your arm, snapping you out of your trance, as the Arctic Monkeys' song came to an end, “What the hell was that!” 

Your eyebrows furrowed as you looked down at your now empty drink and then back at your friend, “I’m not entirely sure. . .but I liked it.”

to be tagged filled out the taglist form:)

#top gun #top gun imagine #top gun fan fic #top gun fan fiction #top gun au #top gun maverick #top gun maverick fan fic #top gun maverick fan fiction #top gun maverick au #Bradley Bradshaw #Bradley Bradshaw imagine #Bradley Bradshaw fan fic #Bradley Bradshaw fan fiction #Bradley Bradshaw AU #Bradley Bradshaw x reader #Bradley Bradshaw x you #Bradley Bradshaw x y/n #Bradley rooster Bradshaw #rooster Bradshaw #rooster #rooster fan fic #rooster imagine #rooster fan fiction #rooster x reader #rooster AU #rooster x you #rooster x y/n #stud & sugar

[lemonofthevalley]

alice dyer amiright

[ID: a digital drawing of the character alice dyer. she has a peachy skintone, with a ginger mullet and grey-green eyes. alice has side burns, as well as some arm hair and partial facial hair that are all a darker brownish red than the rest of her hair. she is wearing a white tshirt under a beige sweatervest that has white markings in a diagonal pattern, blue jeans, tall white socks, and beige sneakers. alice has a locket and a chain necklace on, and the jewellery is a dingy silver color. she has a small gauge piercing in her ear, as well as a very small skeleton earring. she is lounging backwards, one arm crossed over her stomach and one leg up as if propped up on something. on the hand that is visible in frame, alice has two rings on, and red nail polish. the other arm hangs down and out of the frame. in the background, there is a yellow circle behind her head, similar to a halo. the background is a grey-green similar to alice's eye color, with added blues and greens. the colors are arranged in a spiral around alice, and the centerpoint is alice herself. the colors of the background become more muddled the closer to the centerpoint, and more distinct the further from the centerpoint. /end ID]

#tmagp #the magnus protocol #alice dyer #image id #aliceeeee <3 love her <3 #outfit is inspired by @phillycheesesteakcore 's post :3 #the spiral in the background and the halo do not have anything to do with The Spiral/jesus h christ himself they just look cool #this took me. way too long to finish whoopsies #lmk if i need to edit/change my image id at all i dont write these super often

[muldermuse]

Hallöchen!

Will it be okay for you to write a nsfw sequel to “reader gets jealous of Fox’s new coworker” headcanon? That ending was perfection 🤌🏼

PS Love love love your writing and can’t wait for spooky season fics 💗

the fact that i will never get to make out with Fox Mulder in his dingy basement </3333

nsfw belowwwwwww

(also this is the hc that was referenced in the ask!!! i love u all tysm for sending things through)

Fox had been working a new case, Scully was off so he had this new agent with him…and god, she was gorgeous. A bright smile, beautifully styled hair and her shirt and skirt combo was pressed within an inch of it’s life. She was called Amber and yes, she was gorgeous- she was also rude. A rude person. A rude person who was currently staring at your fiancee like he was a slice of cake.

You brought her and Fox a coffee (you’d learned from your interactions with Agent Wilson), Fox smiled and thanked you as he took a sip of his usual flat white. Amber didn’t take a sip, she politely smiled but did not make eye contact with you. She didn’t thank you. A lot of these things may sound petty but in this moment; you decided you had to do something. 

You manage to leave your desk early so you can be there for when Fox and Amber are leaving the basement. She confirms with a wink that she’ll be there for 9am sharp and Fox politely agrees with a smile as he wraps you into his arms and asks you about your day. You do not miss the way Amber’s eyes track your body up and down before she leaves. You can practically smell the jealousy coming off her body.

To be honest, it kinda makes you feel primal. He’s your fiancee, you wear your engagement ring every day, Fox’s desk has two framed pictures of you and Amber definitely knows about your relationship. So, even though you have already made your relationship clear to one co-worker, you realise you need to go nuclear with this one. 

***

The plan starts in the morning, whilst Fox is showering and brushing his teeth, you apply your dewy make up and put his favourite lipstick on. You time it perfectly to ensure that when Fox is leaving the shower (with a towel hanging loosely around his waist) he sees you bent over your vanity in your garter and suspenders. Fox has never been shy about how much he loves them, when he goes down on you he asks if you can put just them on with no underwear so he can feel the nylon of the tights pressed against his ears. You clock his expression in the mirror as he realises how you’re dressed. Before he can see your smirking reflection in the mirror, his naked body is pressed against you.

“Baby, you can’t do this- we have to go to work” He presses slow kisses to the back of your neck as you continue to dab on your lipstick “How am I supposed to work knowing you’ve got this on all day”.

You know the plan is stupid. Really stupid and like something from an awful porno- but as Fox slept soundly last night, you ran through the plan in your head and you’re fully committed to it.

You run your hands through his damp hair and press your chest close to his; feeling his heart rate accelerating with the skin to skin contact. You move your hands down to his waist and run your fingers lightly over his towelled waist.

“I’m not sure baby…you’re just going to have to try really really hard” You softly bite his neck and push his towel down, your hand passes gently over his hard dick. He moans into the touch and kisses you deeply. You make eye contact with a smirk.

“I need to get to the office early today so you’ve got 5 minutes” You press a quick kiss to his lips as you scamper off. Fully aware of how great your ass looks with the garter and suspenders. You know you have Fox wrapped around your finger at this point.

Fox drives to the office and the tension is high, he keeps his hand on your thigh throughout the drive and keeps rubbing his thumb higher and higher. You can’t help as you move in your seat and moan softly into his touch. As he parks up, he kisses you and gently slips his tongue into your mouth. He goes to open his door but before he can leave, you kiss the side of his face and whisper into his ear that you forgot to put panties on this morning. Fox looks at you dumbstruck as you exit the car and head to the elevator to take you to the basement.

***

All this planning had lead to the moment that Amber walks in. You’re obviously not fucking over Fox’s desk (although it was highly tempting, it was also a lil bit unprofessional) but to be honest, the scene she walks into is just as intimate. Fox’s shirt and your skirt have been thrown onto the ground as you straddled him on his office chair. You were pressing deep kisses to his neck and feeling his moans leave his mouth. He has one hand grabbing your ass and the other one tangled in your hair to push you deeper into his neck. 

It’s highly compromising.

It’s private.

It’s fucking perfect.  

You know it’s Amber by the gasp and the sound of two disposable coffees being dropped on the floor in shock. “Oh my god-Fox I’ll give you a minute”. The door quickly slams shut as Fox kisses you in apology. 

“Fuck baby, I’m so sorry…I knew she was coming in early just…time got away from me I suppose” He grabs your skirt from the floor and throws it at you, both of you trying to hold back giggling as you quickly dress in an attempt to look professional- despite what you’ve both just been caught doing. 

Fox pulls you into a kiss before he goes to sit down, he goes to wipe the smudged eye make up from your under eye but you stop him before he gets chance. The smirk on your lips seemingly reveals your sordid plan. Fox smirks back at you, he pulls you into a deep kiss as he grabs your ass with both hands, he murmurs against your lips “Pretty good revenge plan baby”.

#the x files #fox mulder #fox mulder imagine #fox mulder fanfic #the x files fluff #fox mulder fluff #fox mulder x reader #the x files fanfic #the x files fanfiction #david duchovny #txf smut #txf fluff #the x files smut #the x files hc #the xfiles #fox mulder oneshot #fox mulder smut #fox mulder fanfiction #agent fox mulder smut #agent fox mulder hc #agent fox mulder #agent fox mulder headcanons

[harrywavycurly]

I like how Wayne handled asking about Eddie’s relationship could we get more of that? Maybe Wayne helping Eddie spoil the reader?👀☺️

Hiiii babes!! Of course you can get more Wayne!! I hope you enjoy 💖

- Look here for everything related to Eddie and his Princess✨

*Wayne may not understand why Eddie does what he does but that doesn’t mean he won’t help him when he asks*

“You need what?” “One of those things that when you cut up watermelon or that green melon what’s that called?” “Son you’re asking the wrong person about fruits…” “right..doesn’t matter what it’s called but I know you have one of those things that makes it into like little balls and shit I need to borrow it.” “Ohh you’re talking about a melon baller?” “Is…that really what it’s called?” “Don’t look at me I didn’t name the damn thing…but yeah it’s in the junk drawer I’ve never used it…you can keep it.” “Thanks Wayne…this is perfect.” “What do you need it for?” “She doesn’t eat enough fruit so I figured if it’s in cute little shapes and shit she’ll eat more of it.” “Cute little shapes huh?” “Don’t start…” “here maybe take those old cookie cutters too? If the balls don’t work maybe the heart and star will?” “Oh that’s a great idea. Thanks Wayne I appreciate it.” “Anytime…let me know how it goes.”

“She won’t like that one.” “What? Why not?” “It’s…scratchy.” “It may be god awful ugly with these green dots all over…but it sure as shit ain’t scratchy…” “to us yeah it’s soft but I know her…she won’t like how it feels and she needs a new blanket for the living room the one she uses now is falling apart.” “Okay what about that pink one with the white hearts? It doesn’t look scratchy?” “Let’s see…this could work…yeah she’ll like this one it’s similar to the one she already has and she typically likes to get the exact same things over and over.” “So this will work?…damn that’s soft…might have to get me one of these.” “Yeah it’ll work the only difference is the one she has now has white and purple hearts.” “And you don’t think she’ll notice?” “Oh she’ll notice but she won’t care…are you really getting one?” “Yeah this is the softest thing I’ve ever felt…she has good taste.” “She’ll love that you two have the same blanket.”

“Now just relax for a moment and tell me what happened.” “Some fucking dude at work asked for her number…even called her sweetheart.” “Okay and I can tell that’s made you upset.” “Well yeah she’s mine why do people think they can talk to her like that?” “Listen..I know you like to keep her wrapped up in this bubble of…safety but you’re not always gonna be around and…well she’s a cute girl so you’ve gotta just learn to deal with people making passes at her.” “I just know people will try to take advantage of her…I can’t fucking stand the thought of something happening to her because I wasn’t there and she doesn’t know how to defend herself.” “Then teach her.” “Teach her? Teach her what?” “How to tell someone to fuck off and defend herself…teach her how to feel confident enough to be able to stand her ground when you’re not there to do it for her.” “I don’t want to freak her out and teaching her how to hit someone will for sure…freak her out…” “don’t teach her to fight Eddie teach her how to say things with enough confidence that creeps and weirdos get the hint and leave her alone.” “I..how do I do that?” “I’ll help you okay? Just maybe bring her over sometime this week.” “She’s…just too nice sometimes…” “and that’s okay we just gotta teach her when to not be nice.” “Okay Roadhouse…”

“I got these for her.” “Oh tye dye socks…she’ll love these.” “Yeah? I wasn’t sure but I figured they were colorful and fuzzy for when she’s in the house and on sale so…I hope they fit.” “It’s socks Wayne they typically always fit but yeah…she needed new fuzzy ones she doesn’t like the flowered ones anymore they’ve gotten all dingy.” “I saw her in slippers the other day…I thought you had gotten rid of them because she kept trying to wear them outside the house?” “I tried…” “you tried?” “She looked like I just told her the tooth fairy wasn’t real when I tried to take them out of her closet…so yeah…she still has them.” “You’re such a softy…” “says the man worried about if she’s gonna like these fuzzy socks…” “i just want her to be comfortable while at home that’s all.” “Mhmm…right…” “listen you spoil her so damn much the least I can do is get her some damn socks okay?” “Okay…don’t worry she’ll love them.”

#spoiled conversations #Eddie munson x princess #eddie and wayne munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #conversations with eddie munson #eddie munson request #eddie munson x fem!reader #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson x reader fluff #eddie munson x you fluff #eddie munson concept #protective eddie munson #Eddie Munson #eddie munson series #my little dungeon master baby

[philtstone]

Eowyn, 1

1 - in lonely beds ive finally scraped together a functional first scene for my accidentally-a-psych 3 hunters detective agency au. if you guys like this mess i'll turn it into a real fic. with chapters and a plot and everything!!!!! the prompt is ... interpreted but loneliness and my girl eowyn are well acquainted

It is four o'clock on a Tuesday and Eowyn Eomundsdottir has three significant problems. 

Arrest, rapid-onset dementia, and laundry.

Each of her issues is easily explainable if considered separately. Eowyn is the first to admit that her brother Eomer’s always had a bit of a temper, and if she puts aside the necessary development of maturity and commitment to familial responsibilities that happened after their parents died, it was always a matter of time before some poor idiot pressed his buttons in just the wrong-enough way in front of another just the wrong-enough idiot to get him jailed overnight for knocking in an unwitting nose. 

Plenty of people’s uncles develop rapid-onset dementia, she is freely ready to acknowledge. 

And – if Eowyn may be so self-aware – she has certainly fallen behind on her laundry many times before. 

But no matter how short her brother’s temper, he wouldn’t be arrested for trying to embezzle family funds. Rapid-onset dementia is far less likely when there is next to nil history of it in your family tree, and even less so when the Uncle in question is a scant fifty-three and doing perfectly fine not two months ago. And, most importantly: Eowyn has fallen behind on laundry before, but never because of the above-mentioned two issues, and never such that the only thing she’s got left to wear is a thin white sundress from when she was fourteen that is too short at the knees and not at all suited for the early spring cold spell they are currently experiencing, nor the creepy wandering eyes of Uncle Theoden’s new business manager, who routinely looks like he’s been doused in oil. 

It’s fucking miserable, is what it is. Her knees have goosepimpled, she’s so cold. And to make matters worse, her cousin Theodred, whom she would usually text for help in a crisis, seems to have blocked her phone number.

That, Eowyn simply can’t believe.

It’s because of all these things that she finds herself standing at the dingy brick building by the docks, eyeing the circling seagulls warily, and clutching her backpack in one hand and her bike helmet — which has left her long blonde hair looking like a birds nest — in the other. It’s a small place, with a glass window in place of a front wall that’s got the blinds drawn on the inside. There’s no official sign, but someone has taped a small piece of cardstock to the back of the windowpane, facing out. It reads, in surprisingly elegant black Sharpie penmanship:

Telcontar, Gloinson & Thranduilion Private Investigators for Hire 

Beneath this, there is an additionally taped series of brightly coloured post-it notes, which are scrawled over with the following in various hands:

Got a phone! [phone] (If no one answers the door, call the number! We DO NOT have a website.) That’s because Gimli thinks the government is spying on us. SO DO YOU! All inquiries welcome :-) 

Eowyn takes a moment to read through it all. Then she pauses, listening. There is the distinct sound of voices from within, muffled. So someone must be home, then – better just to open the door, rather than knock, in case no one hears her. She takes a deep, steadying breath, tugs at the too-short hem of her dress, and twists the doorknob.

Inside there is what can only be described as carefully organized chaos.

Within the small office space there is a cluttered desk housing a laptop and overlarge monitor. Boxes cover everything, as though someone has only just moved in, and a lopsided whiteboard rests against the far wall, covered in a far less elegant version than the hand that wrote the outside sign. Everything smells a little bit like camphor, and also cookies, and a very faint touch of gym socks. A man sits on a rolly chair in the corner; he is on his cellphone. Eowyn wouldn’t have even seen him if he wasn’t talking, so well does he somehow blend into the taupe walls and cluttered box decor, but as she does: he is tall (too tall for the chair), dark haired, and wearing an old grey hoodie, running shoes, and an abominably ratty pair of jeans. He’s talking on the phone in a low gentle voice that is nonetheless a touch put-upon, but nowhere near snippy or even frustrated. Eowyn (in a fit of fancy) doesn’t think a voice like that could be capable of snippiness, and then promptly feels very embarrassed by her own foolishness. At his feet, by the bottom of the whiteboard, a pile of dirty blankets rests. From within them sounds a plaintive meowing. Opera music plays from a speaker system Eowyn can’t see; a hammer (maybe?) is banging somewhere in the distant back room, the door to which hangs open on squeaky hinges; and two other voices can be heard arguing loudly from the same general direction.

Also, there is a young man, around Eowyn’s own age, standing very awkwardly with his green jumper and moppish brown hair to the immediate left of the door and looking as if he’s not sure what he’s supposed to be doing with himself. At Eowyn’s bewildered look, he offers her a pained smile and a weird little wave hullo. Eowyn waves weirdly back.

“Yeah – yeah, just a second. We’ve got a client –” The man in the rolly chair looks up at Eowyn and smiles. It is such a very nice, genuinely kind smile that Eowyn cannot help but smile back immediately and then feel her whole face go red; she’d be thoroughly soothed if she wasn’t also feeling so completely out of her depth. Bang bang bang, comes the hammer from the back room, along with a swelling of the arguing voices. “Someone will be with you in a second,” whisper-mouths the man. Then he reaches down, takes off one of his running shoes, and flings it very expertly through the open door. There is a small noise, like a crash, and the other two voices stop. He returns to his phone call.

“... what I was saying. No. No, I don’t want you to be halfway across the world. That’s not the point, the point is your dad stopped practicing ten years ago and now owns a bed and breakfast. He’s not the one who’d be navigating a corrupt healthcare system. Do you know how much lobby money lines the pockets of mega corporations? Remember the whole Nestle baby formula thing? The media definitely doesn’t …” 

“Good afternoon!” declares a second, much louder voice, minutes before its owner materializes behind the cluttered desk. He is more beard than man, wears a very formal and very 1990s plum coloured suit and one single gold earring, and comes up to about Eowyn’s shoulder. He claps his hands together. “Now, which of you was here first? No – don’t tell me, I will guess!”

But his imminent guessing is interrupted by the third voice, floating in: 

“I still can’t find it!”

Desk man deflates by a margin. Without turning his head, he calls, 

“I told you to look in the third box!” 

“I looked there. It’s not there, Gimli. I’ll try going through the books.”

“Why would a thing like that fit in a book?”

“Try the kitchen,” mouths the man on the rolly chair. A muffled woman’s voice comes through his mobile. He has one hand covering his face now, and his head tipped back to face the ceiling. “Well, yes – I do know that. You’re really telling me you don’t want to go to Paris for a year.” While Eowyn watches the meowing blanket pile moves and from within it a truly horrible looking little cat emerges. It shoots one paw out as if intending specifically to scratch its phone-occupied companion; the speed at which he moves his foot to pin the blankets hem and thwart the little paw is bordering on superhuman. Cat hisses pathetically from under its blanket prison. On the speakers, the opera singer has reached a uniquely high pitch in her stanza. “No, obviously I don’t want to do long-distance, I just think — uh huh. Yes. I’d tell anyone to go to Paris. I’d tell Gimli to go, if Gimli’s university was offering to send him to Paris.”

“He’s already tried the kitchen,” says the man at the desk – presumably Gimli. Still, he yells out, “Try the kitchen, would you?”

“I’ve already tried the kitchen!” calls the disembodied voice. “I can’t find it!”

“You can’t find it because of your terrible organizational system.”

“It is not my terrible organizational system, which you know, and besides which I have never had problems with it before.”

“No,” from the rolling chair, “Legolas is maligning my organizational skills. I know you think they’re fine, so you can tell your cousin that on Sunday …”

“Try the kitchen.”

“I’ve tried the kitchen twice.”

Bang bang bang, continues the sound from the back room. Eowyn wonders if there isn’t an ongoing construction project. The young guy on her left, with the moppish hair and jumper, gives her a look as if to say, Filing cabinet, maybe?

“As you can see, gentle lady,” explains Gimli the desk man, very politely to Eowyn, while the second voice declares somewhat redundantly that he is, in fact, going to check the kitchen, “we are a tad busy this afternoon. Someone will be with you momentarily.” He turns, presumably in the kitchen’s direction, and calls out, “if you ask my opinion on the subject again, I’ll wallop you with Aragorn’s dratted guitar!”

Eowyn looks. There indeed is a battered old guitar, perched merrily on a pile of papers behind the front desk, ready to be used for walloping.

“I could come back later,” says Eowyn. She looks over at jumper guy, who’s staring at the still-hissing pile of blankets with some concern. “Can’t really speak for him, though.”

Jumper guy looks aggrieved. “Er – no, I’d rather not come back later. Gandalf said you’d be free to help.”

“And help –” begins Gimli, while there is another crash from the back room (they all wince, though Gimli does it with serenity) “-- we shall! If you give my colleague Legolas a moment to get his head on straight –” (the disembodied voice says something very rude in response to this pointed inflection), “-- then the two of us will be at your disposal.”

“Three of us,” interjects the first, almost forgotten voice. 

Eowyn and her jumper-clad companion turn startled to look: cellphone put away, rolly chair man has stood up to his quite considerable height and is looking at them consideringly. Despite his mildness of expression Eowyn experiences the uncomfortable feeling of being looked at by someone who could in a more fantastical setting have, like, laser vision or something – how is he doing it? And she is sure he isn’t really seeing right through her but she does get the sense he is understanding a lot more than she’d like to let on. Almost defiantly she tugs at her dress and clutches her bike helmet closer to herself. Jumper guy clears his throat. Then from the back room comes – presumably – Legolas, who is fair, thin, and for reasons unexplained wearing sunglasses indoors. He is also covered in what Eowyn hopes are pillow feathers and holding, in one hand, a very large glittering silver sword, and in the other a dingy looking VHS tape. It has cartoon vegetables in cloaks on the front.

“Did anyone know we still had this?” he asks pleasantly, and it is not clear to which find he is referring, “Arwen and I used to stare at it for hours as kids.” He spots Eowyn and her jumper-clad counterpart. “Oh – hello!”

Eowyn gapes. The three of them make a fascinating picture, standing there alongside each other.

“Now then,” says the man called Gimli. “Faramir, we know of already –” he nods at the boy beside Eowyn, who looks a bit bewildered by this, “as Gandalf sent him here! But this young lady we do not. How can we help?”

Perhaps it is the blinding reflection of the hopefully-a-prop sword, but Eowyn is suddenly overtaken by an awful affliction of watery eyes, which has nothing at all to do with her general feelings of overwhelm — until now expertly repressed — she is sure. She feels at once full of despair and yet shaking with eagerness, and everything she’d been desperate to explain to a listening ear gets stuck in her throat in the face of three, admittedly sort of weird (somewhat stern, verging on intense, dipping into outright comical), thoroughly kind faces looking right at her. It suddenly occurs to her how horribly, horribly alone she’s felt for the past six weeks.  

She remains rooted to the spot and tragically mute while Faramir, from beside her, begins all at once,

“I wasn’t sure where to go. I didn’t want it getting back to dad, so Gandalf seemed like the best option — and he said you were very trustworthy, and I do trust Gandalf of course – but it's my brother, you see, he’s disappeared,” vaguely Eowyn is aware of a grim look of surprise rippling through the collective at this reveal, “and it’ll sound crazy but I had this awful dream two weeks ago …”

While Eowyn attempts to wrangle her misbehaving emotions like one would a wobbly-legged yet stubbornly misbehaving colt, an impromptu consultation begins.

“Gone missing?”

“I bet he went hiking or something and lost his phone. It’s happened before.”

“Boromir hates hiking, though. Remember when Aragorn tried to bring him camping with us?”

“No wonder Gandalf sent you here.”

“I have odd dreams too sometimes; they are usually because of indigestion. I’m sure old Boromir’s just fine.”

“No,” insists Faramir, who seems – in Eowyn’s half-attentive estimation – to be doing an admirable job at hiding his surprise at this existing knowledge of his brother. “He’s not answering my texts – it’s like he’s blocked my number, which doesn’t make any sense!”

Eowyn’s head jerks around to stare at him. 

Could it be a coincidence? That is exactly the thought she herself had, not an hour ago, about her own cousin. Is it possible that she isn’t crazy, and her awful yearning for Eomer to be here and not in overnight jail, so someone who is not Eowyn could deal with things, is not childish? She opens her mouth, but her words are stuck again. All she can do is inhale like a small bird puffing up its chest and make a very very faint squeaking noise, which she is mostly sure no one can hear.

“Legolas,” interjects rolly chair man. His sharp grey eyes, which had flitted around briefly and shrewdly throughout the hubbub, are now fixed again on Eowyn, and thoughtful. The commotion dies down. In a mild voice he says, “Maybe you could fetch a clean pair of gym shorts and a blanket to lend our new friend, so she’ll be a bit more comfortable.” 

Eowyn, swaying a bit on the spot, hadn't even realized she was tugging at her dress again. 

“Oh,” she manages.

“Aye, I’d say you’re about the same size,” agrees Gimli, to Legolas, after a beat. “Aragorn has a good eye for these things,” he adds, as if needing their prospective clients in crisis to know this.

“I’ll bring her a comb, too,” says Legolas, not at all meanly, and goes to fetch these things.

“And I’ll put on some tea,” says Aragorn, so named, and for a second time his face softens with that warm, open smile. “I’m Aragorn,” he continues. “Let’s all sit down, and you can both start from the beginning; everything will be alright.”

In the moment after this offer Eowyn locks eyes with Faramir. He is standing next to her. His jumper looks particularly sad now that she is paying attention. He isn’t looking at Aragorn or the sword or the pillow feathers Legolas left behind, but at her. Right at her. There’s a solidarity there. It would be a touching exchange, Eowyn thinks, if not for the fact that the feral cat in its blanket pile has started talking to itself in oddly pitched meows.

A large crash sounds from the back room, accompanied by the sound of a child swearing.

“Yeah, okay,” Eowyn says. 

For the rest of today, at least, she has decided that she refuses to feel alone.

#my writing #taylor swift prompt memes #lord of the rings #eowyn #faramir #eowyn x faramir #aragorn #gimli #legolas #legolas x gimli #aragorn x arwen #for those wondering yes the veggie tales vhs is lord of the beans #and the cat IS gollum

[milleneumfulcrum]

Cities In Dust

written with the consultation of our queen @sanzosin <3 to whom i must apologise to because this took FOREVER to write thanks to work and class

this work is cross-posted on A03 as usual

Pairing | Handsome Jack x Nisha Kadam

Word Count | 3,353

Warnings | slightly NSFW, also jack and nisha are just like That

Nisha remembered the way the train had blown in, dusting umber hair across her eyes. It was no ordinary cargo transport, built instead to hold people, not Eridium. The Hyperion livery indicated this particular person must be special indeed. 

Jack came with all the fanfare and splendor he demanded, followed by what she deemed as an unnecessary number of Loaders. Did he think she'd let something happen to him- in her town of all places? Nisha rolled her eyes, twin spheres of molten gold. 

"Heya, pumpkin," Jack grinned, enunciating each syllable. "Didja get my gift?"

The gift in question had been delivered early, around the time Nisha roused from bed. Jack was a frivolous bastard, and she'd expected another piss-yellow brassiere, or perhaps another ridiculous Hyperion rifle. Her surprise had been an uncomfortable blow when she opened it to find deep purple silk instead, a two-piece set that flattered her tanned skin. Damn.

"You didn't tell me you were coming," Nisha snipped, ignoring Jack's query. His smirk didn't falter; bastard probably knew she was wearing his gift underneath.

"Oh, I was in the area, and, well, yanno..." He waved his hands impatiently, stepping down from the platform languidly. "Thought I'd pick you up for our date tonight."

Make that a presumptuous bastard.

"That's not how you ask, cowboy." Nisha's gaze was sharp. "That doesn't work-"

"Nish," Jack cut her off, and that alone should've made her furious... but there was something indecipherable in his eyes, even through the lifelike mask, that intrigued her. "Come back with me tonight." He paused, looking troubled that he even had to ask. "I, ah, wanna see what it looks like on you."

He'd been strange ever since Angel died. The Jack she knew never would've stepped foot in her dusty town without good reason; now, here he was, albeit surrounded by monstrous-looking robots, demanding her presence. 

The Nisha she knew would've told him to stuff it. 

Instead, she glanced up at him in a gust of wind, raising her right arm to block the sun. The light flashed off her armguard- Hyperion yellow.

Jack seemed to understand he'd succeeded, and Nisha resented the flash of surprise that crossed his eyes as she stepped up onto the platform. Her fingers found his wrist, nails digging into the flesh she'd claimed. He winced; a small victory.

"You'd better make it worth my while," Nisha hissed, her voice low. Her defense was venom. 

She needn't have threatened. As soon as they'd breached his grandiose quarters on Helios, Jack had been wild, pulsing with need beneath her. The marks down her arms- scratches, as he'd gripped at her- were made by a man possessed.

"Nish," Jack panted, letting out a low groan. She'd pinned him to the mattress, her fingers twining cruelly around his throat. "I wish you'd stay here. You could- friggin' hell- be my sexy secretary."

Her hold tightened, and he retaliated by bruising her hips in his grip. Nisha's eyes were shards of yellow gold, her lipstick smeared just at the edge of her mouth. 

"Secretary? Don't insult me."

She'd woken up pleasantly sore in his silken sheets. Sore and alone, wrapped in Jack's dingy yellow sweater. 

Nisha scrubbed at her eyes with a faded sleeve, her other hand inching across the mattress to Jack's side. She found the pillows cold, swearing under her breath. He should not have the capability to leave like that- not without waking her. But he couldn't be far. 

A silver-blue glow outlined the door. Nisha's feet carried her over the marble flooring; without her boots and chains, she was silent beneath the white noise of Helios. Jack didn't notice as she swept into his office, hidden in the shadows. His face was lit with the same pale blue light, and she was almost offended to see his mask had been slotted back into place. Whatever he was staring at so intently required two working eyes, apparently. 

"Well, sorry I bored you," Nisha declared flatly. Jack startled so hard that his wrist banged on the underside of the desk. 

"Nisha," He began, but she cut him off with a piercing look. Something tugged her gaze to his screens- a flash of familiarity, dust kicked up in the night- and she froze.

Death-Row Refinery, the camera feed read. Nisha barely recognized the smoldering ruins. 

"Jack," She began. Her voice was dangerously low. "What happened in Lynchwood?"

If he answered, she wasn't coherent enough to listen. This wasn't the work of just any bandit; this smoking husk was the product of those ludicrous Vault Hunters, no doubt seeking revenge for Roland's death and Lilith's capture. And Jack- somehow he'd known. Somehow, he'd lured her away to the oppressive security of his space station, like she was some fragile little woman. 

Nisha saw red. 

Her open palm cracked across Jack's synthetic mask. The contact smarted, much more so than if it had been his real skin, but she was too far gone to notice. This was betrayal. 

"You-" Nisha struggled for words. "-you skag fucking bastard! I oughta kill you!"

Jack's expression was unreadable, and that made her blood turn to steam. How dare he refuse to even flinch before her? How dare he-

"We are going down there," Nisha spat through gritted teeth. "Right now. And you'd better hope those Vault Hunters are still there, because if they aren't- well, someone is dying tonight."

Jack didn't resist when she hauled him to his feet. A little, "Hunh," escaped his lips, but he was otherwise silent as Nisha dressed in a fury. She was electric, like a storm, and they touched down in Lynchwood with the force of a typhoon. The Vault Hunters were long gone, leaving a trail of broken yellow bots in their wake. 

"Cowards," Nisha muttered. Jack looked strange like this, a rifle slung over his shoulder, barely illuminated in the pale dawn. The rest of the town was mostly untouched, but she could smell the smoke from the refinery. The air was thick with it.

There was a body outside of the station; Nisha recognized it as Winger immediately, with his ridiculously oversized coat. She hardly spared him a glance as she stepped inside, whistling low under her breath. Destruction reared its ugly face again.

"They were looking for me," Nisha remarked, turning to face Jack. Her initial eruption of anger had cooled, leaving behind an icy middle ground between respect for the Vault Hunters' boldness and contempt for her boyfriend's antics. "Maybe I can lure 'em back. Finish the job."

Jack twitched.

Nisha emerged from the station in a blaze of gold. The sun was rising, filtered through hazy smoke. She didn't need to follow the ashy trail to find the source; Death-Row Refinery looked like it had been carved open in one grand explosion, perhaps with the help of a maniac like Torgue. It was no doubt a last-ditch attempt by the Vault Hunters to stem the flow of Eridium to Hyperion- they couldn't have known just how close Jack was to charging the key. How Lilith was stronger than Angel had ever been. 

"If I was here, none of this would've happened," Nisha hissed, rounding on Jack. He hadn't said a word since they'd landed, his mask an untouched mantra of stony silence. "My town is a smoking fucking husk, and your biggest producer of Eridium is outta commission. No, screw your refinery. God, if those ratches took the shit from my fucking room- I left my sniper here, Jack. Armor-piercing Jakobs! Do you know how long it took me to-"

"The gun doesn't fucking matter, Nisha!"

Jack was wild, more so than she had ever seen before. He met her pace for pace until his palms were on her shoulders, shaking her like she was the idiot. 

"Look at this town," He snarled, pointing one long finger at the destruction behind them. "Look at it, Nish! Look what they did. You'd be just another fucking body in the dust- and I told you, when you join Hyperion- no, no, no- when you join me, there's no way out. No fucking quitting."

His grip was bruising; Nisha was mesmerized.

"Do you see how many Loaders I sent down here?" Jack continued, frenzied. Nisha looked at him like he was rabid. "They're all scrap now, and I- and I had- I actually had time to prepare for this, Nisha- not like- like-"

His voice broke, stuttering to a ghastly halt. Nisha went rigid in the silence that stretched between, her expression thunderous. She didn't know how to temper her storm to a drizzle- not even now. 

"I can take care of myself," Nisha sizzled, like lightning. She couldn't quite bring herself to shake Jack's hands off her shoulders, even when his grip turned bruising. "I don't need a hero- if you're gonna... gonna be like this, you can fuck right off back to Helios."

She wrenched him off then, stepping back in the dust. His eyes flashed with something indescribable, but Nisha didn't stick around to decipher it, turning on her heel. Her boots clicked against rock and rubble, then concrete as she approached the main strip. She could hear footsteps behind her- Jack's footsteps- but didn't so much as glance back. 

Nisha's place was in a quiet corner of town, blended in with the half-abandoned ramshackle structures. She'd wanted it over the sheriff's station, when the town was first sanctioned in her name, but Jack had convinced her otherwise. It was too obvious- too easy. Reluctantly, Nisha had agreed to an unassuming building on the outskirts of town, one that ensured privacy- and a long walk to work. 

Inside, Jack had spared no expense. Hyperion technology was built into every corner, complete with sleek flooring and furniture. It was completely untouched, and when she vaulted up the stairs, entering her bedroom, her sniper was exactly where she'd left it. Only then did she turn, finding Jack lingering in the doorway. He should've looked smug- his precautions had worked, after all. His countenance was haunted instead.

Nisha moved to fidget with her hat, unsure of what to say, when she caught a glimpse of her Hyperion-yellow armguard again. Another plate of armor encased her right boot, all the way down to the heel. Even her damn badge was Hyperion; almost gold, with a little white stripe down the bottom. 

"Well," She began uncertainly. This had never been her expertise. "They didn't get my gun."

A choked noise escaped Jack's lips, half laugh and half whine. He jerked forwards and they both went tumbling down into her sheets, her fingers winding through his hair as Jack's hands found her waist. She didn't stop him as he buried his face in the hollow where her throat and shoulders met, shivering in satisfaction as his teeth scraped her skin.

"Nish," Jack shuddered. 

She tugged on his hair in response. "That all you got, cowboy?"

Her hands fell from his crown to cradle his jaw for a moment, then Nisha was slipping the coat from Jack's shoulders. His watch clattered to the floor as she dipped her fingers underneath his annoying yellow sweater; they'd both dressed in a hurry, forgoing layers for time. 

"This doesn't mean you're forgiven, you know," Nisha hissed, the hand in his hair slipping low, her fingers resting on the back of his neck. Jack muttered something unintelligible into her breasts, fighting with the hem of her shirt as she hooked her heels into his shoes and pulled them off. "You don't deserve-"

"Nisha," Jack whined, and the last of her resolve crumbled. She threw a leg over his side, hooking Jack's body to hers, and flipped his back into the mattress. Nisha followed quickly, straddling his hips as her hands slipped under that damned yellow sweater. His skin was burning beneath her calloused fingertips, as she traced every ridge and scar with practiced, blind expertise. Jack moaned, long and low, only coming to a stuttering halt when Nisha thumbed the edge of his mask.

"Off," She ordered. It came off with a soft click, guided to the sanctity of her nightstand by Jack's broad fingers. Nisha didn't waste a moment, pressing rough, bruising kisses from his neck to the corner of his lips. She was softer as she brushed over his scar, tracing the edges of Jack's roughened skin. "They're gonna die, babe. Screaming."

Nisha never claimed to be good with words- this being no exception. But... Jack's hips bucked upwards in response, another strangled noise escaping his throat, and she felt emboldened enough to continue. 

"They're not getting off without learning who the boss around here is," She hissed. Her pretty speech was starting to get to her almost as much as it was striking Jack; her hands ached for her whip, just to strangle each and every one of those bastards who dared oppose Jack. If they hadn't needed Lilith so much, Nisha maintained a long list of things to try- a list she'd been compiling since Elpis. She settled for grabbing a fistful of Jack's hair and tugging, relishing in the long, low groan of pleasure it ripped from him.

"Fuck, Nish," Jack huffed, squirming against her as she forced his head back. "Watch it, will ya?"

Nisha ducked low in one smooth movement, like a creature of the water, and sank her teeth into Jack's exposed throat. It wasn't hard enough to draw blood, but when she pulled back, a perfect little indented oval remained. Jack was quick to tear her shirt off, then, and the rest of their clothes vanished in a tangle of limbs. Her nails dragged along his exposed chest, leaving little red trails parallel to his faded scars.

"I don't care how- god, fuck- how pissed you are," Jack snarled. His fingers gripped her caramel hips with enough force to bruise. "I'm not letting your overconfidence kill you. I told you, there's no w-way out once you're in."

Nisha's eyes flashed molten gold, like she could scorch him with her gaze alone. 

"Can't stop playing the hero, can you?" She sighed, flicking her hair over her shoulder. "Someone ought to humble you."

But in the back of her mind, where rational thought was often crammed away, Nisha knew Jack was right. The Loaders he'd thrown at the Vault Hunters could've leveled a city, and still, they managed to burn him where it hurt most- his daughter. And while the Lawbringer wasn't one to just keel over and die... well, she didn't want to think about that now. Her mouth had found Jack's inner thigh, her breath hot on his skin. His earlier grandeur was fading fast.

"You'd miss me, wouldn't you," Nisha sighed, lips parted. Jack's fingers were in her hair again, tugging rather weakly. "You make such a big show of protecting what's yours or some bullshit, but you're just selfish."

"M'not selfish," Jack whined. "Can't you just thank me for saving your frigging life?"

"Aren't I?"

She thanked him in the only way she knew how, her fingers trailing uninterrupted down the long length of his wiry chest. When her hands met his waist, Nisha hoisted herself back up, ignoring the way Jack's lips twisted into a scowling pout. His noise of protest quickly dissolved into a stuttering moan as she fit her hips to his, feeling strangely merciful. For once, Nisha didn't want to draw this out. 

Jack released a slew of curses when she finally started to move, his fingers finding an iron grip on her waist. There were little words between them, no barbs of playful spite or authority as Nisha splayed her fingers over his chest, his skin searing beneath her touch. She bent low again, her lips trailing the length of his throat as she sucked and bit bruises down his collarbone. It didn't take long for Jack's rhythm to falter, his hips thrusting erratically.

"Nish," He uttered, his voice breaking roughly. "Nish, I'm so fucking close, I... shiiiiiiit, Nisha-"

He might as well have wiped her mind clean, then, in that moment. Lynchwood, the Vault Hunters, her golden star- it all melted away as Jack pleaded for release below her scar-crossed thighs. She'd be a fool to think she could control the world around her, but Jack? He was hers, even if he didn't understand. 

Wordlessly, Nisha egged him on, her nails digging in and scraping parallel to Jack's faded scars. She was bent still, almost flattened against him as she sucked another dark bruise in the hollow where his throat and shoulders met. This was where she wanted to be. This was her domain- her territory.

And... Jack was waiting for her. His hips had gone rigid, his eye burning with the cold blue fire of restraint. He thought this was a punishment.

"Jack," Nisha almost laughed, her breath soft as a whisper of wind through thick green boughs. "Jack, move."

The moan that escaped Jack's lips was inhuman. His hips stuttered back to life like some ancient machine, so weary and broken that it barely remembered how to chug forward. She could barely hold him down as he bucked up once, twice, and then-

Jack's body went limp against her deep silken sheets, his eyes nearly rolling back into his head. Nisha could feel the snapping of the coil, the breaking of the wire, as he finally released. Jack was quiet for a long moment, longer than she'd ever seen, as she wound her slender arms around his torso and eased herself down to his side. His chest rose and fell with sharp, rapid breaths, but he welcomed her into his arms, closing his eyes as his nose met her warm skin.

"Hey," Nisha uttered after a long moment, surprising herself with the softness of her voice. "You falling asleep, cowboy? We have to get goin'."

Jack's good eye fluttered open blearily.

"Hunh?"

With a stifled laugh, Nisha brought her hand to his forehead, combing back his sex-wild hair. His forehead was damp with sweat, and she imagined she was probably in a similar state. 

"I mean, Jack," She began, sucking a whistling breath in through her teeth. "Let's get the hell out of this wreck. I got what I came for-" Nisha motioned to the discarded sniper. "-and the rest can go to hell, for all I care. Those fucking Vault Hunters aren't even worth the trouble, really. It'll be much more fun to see your Warrior beat them to a bloody pulp- maybe we can make them watch as I sweep Sanctuary first. That lawless dump could use me."

She glanced down as she finished, her nose scrunching in contempt, only to meet Jack's reverent gaze. He looked at Nisha like he was seeing her for the first time all over again, his cheeks flushed and his lips parted. 

"You-" His voice broke, hoarse from their earlier exertion. "-you wanna go back to Helios?" 

Nisha merely shrugged.

A myriad of emotions flickered over Jack's scarred face, and for a moment, he looked lost. Nisha nearly backpedaled at the sight- and then his countenance exploded in a surge of charismatic confidence. His lips twisted into a sharp smirk, the fingers that had been limp at her waist suddenly alive and bruising again. Jack's gaze was nearly manic in his passion, and his mouth crashed against hers in a devouring, possessive kiss. Nisha barely had time to battle for dominance before he had pulled away, breathless and grinning. There was something wildly unstable buried in Jack's expression, and Nisha found herself tingling with molten excitement.

"We're going to wipe those bandit bastards off the face of Pandora," He hissed, his voice dangerously low. If it wasn't for the wild grin on his lips, she'd think he was seething. "I told ya, Nish. And we're gonna do it together."

She didn't respond. There was no need to reaffirm her pledge, to sink her loyalty in like the driving of a stake. For once, Jack had unquestionable loyalty. 

Nisha grabbed his mask, turning it in her fingers, and clicked it back into place.

#jack x nisha #handsome jack x nisha kadam #handsome jack #nisha kadam #nisha the lawbringer #borderlands 2 #jacknisha #borderlands

[kennahjune]

Some Platonic Stancy + Mike for The Heart

Nancy Wheeler, who cuts her hair short for the first time in 1984 and keeps the short hair going for the next three years until Ted Wheeler makes some bitchy comment on women with shirt hair.

Nancy, not usually the one to people please, ignores the comment. She and Mike both get them often from Ted, shit about Mikes hair being long and hers being short. So she ignores them.

Until their mom joins in with the comments, however subtle they may be.

So, Nancy starts growing her hair out. Mike, however, goes about his life with his hair. He’s never home long enough to really care about the comments— always at the cabin or with the Party somewhere.

Enter the year 1988, and Nancy has successfully grown her hair well below her shoulders. It’s pretty. She gets compliments on her curls and beautiful brown color all the time.

But she hates it.

She fucking hates it.

Three years of having her hair shirt had gotten her used to having it off of her neck. And now that it’s so long, well…

Nancy Wheeler has never had a problem with sensory issues. That was more Mike’s thing— always having to cut the tags off his clothes and downright refusing to eat certain foods— but her hair on her neck makes her want to vomit.

And sure— she can simply put it up, keep it in a high bun and off her neck.

But just the knowledge of it being there makes her sweat. Makes her want to itch the skin off of her neck.

She feels bad for making fun of Mikes hate for tags.

Now, enter year 1989 pursued by Steve Harrington, fresh out of cosmetology school.

Steve had been doing his own hair since he was little and sat with his mom and grandpa at the vanity in their dressing room (because of course the Harrington’s have a dressing room). He’d sit and watch as his mom curled her hair— or straightened, depending on her mood. He’d sit in his grandpa’s lap as he showed little Steve all the different products and tools, letting Steve chip in and help style his hair.

It was a passion handed down from Steve’s moms side, the love for hair. And he planned on finally doing something with it— even if it wasn’t exactly what his parents wanted. (Though they learned to live with it— he did start his own hair salon, after all.)

Now, where does Steve play into this scene?

Well— it starts on a Tuesday afternoon in late July.

Steve Harrington had been cleaning the house while listening to his dads old records on the dingy record player in the living room. The knocking was barely heard over the volume, even with how frantic it was. The only reason Steve— who had lost most of his hearing in his left ear— heard the knocking was because whoever it was nearly knocked a picture off the wall.

So he opened the door to Mike and Nancy Wheeler on his front porch.

Mike looked almost bored, but he gave Steve a smile and a ‘hello’ before dragging his sister in by the arm.

Nancy looked worse-for-wear; her eyes seemed sunken and the eye-bags were darker than he’d seen them in years. He hoped it wasn’t new nightmares.

“Come on in, I guess,” Steve grumbled while Mike made himself comfortable in the living room. He wasn’t actually mad, just playing into a running bit he’d had going on with the mini Wheeler for nearly two years now.

“Watch it, Harrington.” Mike pointed at him. “You’ll loose a paying customer.” But the kid was smiling wide.

Steve scoffed. “‘Paying customer’ my ass, Wheeler! You barge into my home, make me trim your hair, call me an asshole and leave!” Steve himself was grinning wide.

Mike waved him off but Steve heard the giggle he failed to hide.

Nancy stood awkwardly on the living room carpet in the button up she’d stolen from Robin, white tank top, and cut-off jean shorts. She’d been taking a bit of fashion tips from Eddie recently. She found she liked the denim a lot more than skirts in the summer.

Steve finally gave her his attention.

“Hey Nance! What’s up?”

Nancy felt herself relax with the easy smile Steve gave her. She cleared her throat.

“Um— well, Mike said you trim his hair for him every once in a while and I know you just finished school and everything so—“

“You want a haircut?” he cut off her ramble. He and her both have picked up the rambling habit from Robin. “It’s about time, Wheeler. The long hairs cute and all but… so… not you, oddly enough.” He stood with his hip cocked and a thoughtful hand on his chin supported by the arm wrapped around his middle.

Nancy sighed roughly through her mouth and dragged a hand down her face.

“Oh my god, you don’t even know! I can’t stand having it so long— it’s so itchy and scratchy and annoying and not to mention high maintenance! Like yeah it looks good but seriously what is the point other than pain?”

Steve snickered and Mike threw his shoe at her to get her to stop.

“Come on you two, the dressing rooms upstairs.”

In the dressing room, Mike was sat at the vanity first. Steve had gotten Nancy a glass of water and told her to sit on the couch at the back wall and relax.

She tried her best, sipping the water and enjoying the view of the woods in the backyard from the window next to her (even if those woods held darker memories than they should).

She examined the room closely while Steve scolded Mike for using Ted’s shampoo/conditioner (because of course the bastard uses a two-in-one) while Mike pleaded he was desperate after running out of his own stuff.

The floor was tiled for easy clean up, the only carpet being the one under the couch Nancy sat on. The couch was plush leather, the cool touch a welcomed change from the July heat. The walls were a baby pink so light it almost looks white, covered in well-placed posters and photos and even stickers that were stuck on.

The vanity and the couch weren’t the only furniture in the room; a coffee table in front of the couch, a small two-drawer dresser next to the vanity, and nice, tall dresser back by the door. There were plants on the windowsill, flowers in pots on the dressers.

The windowsill was one of those fancy ones that Nancy liked so much; the ones that were like seats with drawers/cabinets underneath. The seat was decorated in an abundance of pillows and blankets.

It was a cozy room, and Nancy found herself zoning out and finally being able to ignore the invading bun on the back of her head. She tuned out the boys’ bickering and just stared at the window. Not through it. Not in it. At it. Examining each speck of dust on the glass and staring her reflection in the eyes.

Until a hair fell loose from bun and tickled her neck. And she almost threw her water at Mike who had sat next to her in her haste to get it off.

“Hey, hey! Nance!” Steve grabbed the water and Mike placed his hands around her neck, effectively stilling her and calming her.

“Hey, yeah, over here.”

Nancy looked at Steve. She kind of wanted to throw up.

“How about we finally get ride of all that length, yeah?”

She’d never heard a better question in her life.

Nancy told Steve to do whatever the hell he thought needed to be done. Steve told her he’d go to just above the shoulders and she agreed.

Mike took a spot on the windowsill, reaching into the cabinet underneath and grabbing a very worn book. Nancy hadn’t realized how much Mike came over to Steve’s before.

“Mike you’re seriously reading that again?” Nancy heard Steve ask. Watching him in the mirror, she saw him never look away from her hair once as Mike replied with a bitchy,

“It’s a good book! I thought you liked The Outsiders!”

Nancy snorted. Of course it was The Outsiders. Nancy remembered watching it with Mike, Will, Dustin and Lucas in the basement of their house when it first came out in March of ‘83.

“I didn’t know you liked The Outsiders, Steve,” she remarked. Nancy saw a red blush ride to his cheek in the mirror.

“It’s a good movie,” he muttered defensively.

Mike snickered. “Yeah— he watched it for the plot. The plot meaning shirtless Darry and half-naked Soda—“

Nancy thought Steve was going to chop her ear off and with how fast he turned around to yell at Mike.

Nancy herself sat cackling in the chair, watching Steve get defensive over his junior year fictional crushes.

.

When all was said and done, Steve gave Nancy a new shirt from the closet in the dressing room (that she failed to notice earlier). It was a simple yellow dress shirt. Steve said it was one of his moms. She was sent to shower and told to use the shampoo and conditioner on the third shelf in the bathroom.

When she had finished and walked back downstairs to meet the boys, Mike had already changed from his simple t-shirt to a black tank top with a dark blue buttoned flannel. Everyone kept clothes at Steve’s except Nancy, it seemed.

She made her way to Steve and sat her old shirts on the couch. With her hands free she pulled Steve into a bone-crushing hug. Steve was quick to reciprocate, wrapping his arms tightly around her waist.

“Thanks so much,”Nancy whispered into his ear. “This helped me so so much, Steve.”

“Anytime, Nance. You know that.”

And she did.

When Nancy and Mike left the Harrington house with a wave to Steve and a promise of letting him know what everyone thought, Nancy had never felt lighter— both physically and mentally.

.

That night, Nancy slept like she hadn’t in years.

Her hair wasn’t to bad on her neck with the new length. It wasn’t making it itchy or scratching at her cheeks wrong.

She didn’t have to have her mom braid it before bed to keep it away, ultimately ending up with a headache the next day because she could never sleep with her hair up.

No. When Nancy Wheeler went to bed, she woke up feeling refreshed and energized. No rash on her neck from scratching at it in her sleep.

When Steve heard about this later that same day, he pulled her into a hug and promised he’d cut her hair as much as she needed him to.

Nancy felt much better than she had in years.

And if she got Mike that sparkly, purple D-20 he’d been eyeing in the shop? Well— consider it a thank you.

#stranger things #steve harrington #mike wheeler #nancy wheeler #platonic stancy #platonic #mike and steve bonding time #but throw nancy in as well lol #I have this same problem with my hair #so it’s just more self-projection #mike wheeler with long hair #nancy wheeler with short hair #hair stylist steve harrington #steve harrington doesn’t have really bad parents #this time at least #ted wheeler is useless #and I hate him with a passion #wheeler siblings #cause i love them

[enqmind]

Okay, more fic. This is the one I should have done first, but what can you do?

Will likely turn out to be a multipart. (Word to the wise, I'm very easily bribed with reblogs, follows and kind words -wink wink-)

Ghost/Female Reader WC: 831 18+ content

Warnings: Suicide attempt by reader, gaslighting(?), manipulation(?), Local Manc has worst possible reaction to a suicide attempt

Reader notes: Thin enough to fit into a standard bathtub, light enough to be lifted from a standard bathtub by Ghost, mentally ill, might turn out to be pale skinned later (haven't decided yet. If so, feel free to ignore. I'm not here to gatekeep.)

One Man's Treasure

Next

 The hallway was dingy, even with the lights popping on at the slightest movement. According to the landlord, the lights were dimmed at night to prevent their circadian rhythms from being disturbed.

 Sure.

 Nothing to do with the cost of living crisis. Ghost believed them, thousands wouldn’t.

 He trudged along, each door uniform and bland as he headed to his flat.

 He was almost at his own door as a pocket of shadow caught his attention.

 Door after door after door with the same shiny printed veneer seemed to oddly glow in the dim light. One next to his had a dark shadow lining one side.

 He stalked over.

 Ajar.

 Of course. Fuck he was tired.

 He was about to pull it closed when a scent wafted through his mask.

 Lavender, vetiver and the familiar base note of blood.

 Who lived here again?

 The image of a woman rose in his mind. Pretty, polite, always offering a greeting smile if they happened to run into each other. Sometimes she seemed like she wanted to ask him something, but nothing ever came of it.

 That’s all he knew. She kept to herself and never seemed to have guests over.

 A perfectly functional neighbour.

 He pushed the door open.

 The dim light in the hall let him adjust to the darkness of her flat quickly. It was messy and a certain staleness passed under the perfumed blood scent.

 A soft flickering glow caught his eye, emanating from under the bathroom door. A rectangle of white standing out in the dinge.

 He crept through the living room, eyes constantly moving through the gloom for signs of danger. Ears pricked for any noise.

 A sigh from the bathroom.

 Ghost hesitated, but the smell of blood was strong enough to get his hand on the door handle and swing it open. Ready for any threat.

 All he found was his neighbour in the bath. Wearing only bra and knickers and lying in orange tinted water. A stanley knife dropped on the floor in a pool of blood.

 There was a lot of blood.

 Another sigh.

 But not enough to kill. Not even enough to knock her out, really.

 He approached warily, seeing a mostly empty bottle of spirits sitting on the far side of the bath.

 That explained both her unconsciousness and all the blood.

 Carefully, he took her closest wrist and examined it.

 She hadn’t nicked anything important, despite her best efforts. The lines went vertically, tracing the likely paths of the veins down her forearms. She was clearly seeking results.

 No shit, Sherlock. She lives alone, who the hell could she even get attention from?

 Wasn’t that the point of leaving the front door ajar?

 In the middle of the night on a Tuesday?

 It wasn’t worth thinking too much about. He needed to get her awake and to A&E, not ruminate on her train of thought. That was the psych ward’s problem.

 He rose to his feet and went to pull the light cord.

 The square of white on the outside of the door was a piece of paper stuck to it with some patterned tape.

 ‘Do not enter. Corpse within. Call 999.’

 A sigh more like a gasp came from behind him, accompanied by a splash.

 He turned to see her hugging herself, almost snuggling into the lukewarm water as her head started to slip under.

 He grabbed her by the shoulders and dragged her into a sitting position.

 Her eyes fluttered open and she blinked at him, head clearly addled by alcohol and blood loss.

 Then she smiled at him. Lit by the candles that drew him to her in the first place, she looked radiant.

 “You came,” she whispered, eyes glittering with affection.

 She threw her arms around his neck and pressed a kiss to his cheek that felt like nothing at all.

 She drew back with a wry chuckle and shy smile.

 “I thought you’d be taller.” A giggle. “But not by much.”

 He could almost see it reflected in her eyes despite the low light of the scented candles.

 The white skull of his mask making him look like death incarnate.

 How happy she looked, how relieved to be face to face with the Grim Reaper…

 He wrapped his arms around her and she snuggled into his chest.

 “Thank you,” she murmured. “I was so scared I’d fail.”

 He felt something crack inside his mind.

 Hers was a life she didn’t want.

 Ghost moved an arm under her knees and picked her up out of the bath, blood tinged water sluicing off her and onto him and the floor.

 He didn’t know why she didn’t want it.

 She clung onto him, eyes widening.

 “Where are we going?”

 Frankly, he didn’t care.

 “For now, Purgatory,” he answered. “Later? Who knows.”

 He felt her relax into his arms.

 “Okay.”

 All he knew was that if she didn’t want this life, he’d be more than happy to make it his.

#call of duty #call of duty x reader #cod fic #simon ghost riley #ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #tw: suicide attempt #tw: suicide #tw: dark fic

[auroraborealyss]

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐅𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐓𝐇 𝐓𝐎𝐎𝐋 | 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐢𝐢.

⊹ pairing: morpheus x reader

⊹ summary: you encounter a strange string of coincidences in the forms of old friends

⊹ tags: violence, you don't do well coping with being separated from your husband either, more longing but from reader's perspective this time, established relationship

⊹ warnings: violence, cursing, spoilers for 1.09

⊹ word count: 2671

⊹ previous part: part i.

⊹ up next: part iii

⊹ now playing: thoughts by faime

𝚒 𝚍𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚊 𝚋𝚎 𝚊𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚑𝚘𝚠, 𝚒 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞'𝚕𝚕 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚖𝚎 𝚖𝚒��𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚒 𝚠𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚐𝚘 𝚑𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚊𝚕𝚠𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚖𝚎

You wouldn't think a bathroom stop counts as you stopping from running, but the bounty says otherwise.

Your pants are barely up after having taken a piss when the door is kicked open and a hand clutches around your throat. You cry out in pain as your head is slammed against the mirror, carving cracks into the glass. Large fragments break off and fall into the sink next to you, but the piece is just out of reach.

You gasp desperately as you dig your nails into the hunter's hands, but the hunter — a man in his mid forties who you've already narrowly escaped from twice before — learned his lesson from his last attempt and now wears gloves and earmuffs.

You manage to kick his knee, forcing him away from you. But freedom lasts only for a few seconds, and despite your attempt at running away, he grabs your hair and yanks to the floor. He straddles you as he resumes his grip back on your neck, this time with both hands squeezing tight enough that you know it’ll be hard for you to talk for a day or two.

"Bounty...needed...alive..." you choke out.

The hunter scoffs and leans closer to you. "I wanted that bounty the first time I tracked you. Now, this is personal." His grip tightens, and black dots swarm your vision and block him out so all you can hear is his voice in your ear and the stench of cigarettes and bloody. "You hurt my pride, lady Y/N."

Pride. The downfall of all men.

Though the situation doesn't warrant the memory, thoughts of your husband flood you anyways. Perhaps it's because he's always in your thoughts. Or perhaps he's chosen to make this appearance to give you solace from the pain as you black out. For when you open your eyes, you aren't in the dingy gas station bathroom anymore, but a green meadow with trees around and flowers blooming throughout.

Just because you're untouched by Death doesn't mean your memories throughout are vivid or intact. But you remember everything about that day, from the smell in the air — crisp, clean summer air with a fresh breeze that brings around the smell of petals — to the touch of the sun's warmth and your soft, chiffon wedding dress against your skin.

Unlike a dream, you aren't in control. Your body moves according to the memory. You move down the aisle between the three or four rows of seats. At the end of the aisle is a large willow tree, its branches drooping over a white arch where Lucienne stands. She bids you a small smile, which you return with your own, before your eyes shift to him.

Like always, there is a look of adoration in Morpheus' eyes. He looks handsome, having foregone his usual long black coat for a formal suit of that time. He's even managed to tame his messy hair — something Mervyn and Hob must have helped him with. As you get to where he stands, you see his eyes glassy with unshed tears.

"Don't cry, my love," you whisper. You place your palm against his cheek and rub your thumb under his eye. And like always, he leans into your touch, finding comfort in you. He turns his head and press a kiss against your palm — all while not breaking eye contact with you, the coy bastard.

You shake your head and smile.

The memory fast forwards, and suddenly he's saying his vows. He doesn't speak quietly — he has no shame in everyone hearing how much he means to you.

"I vow to always find you, as long as you wait for me. I vow to love you for as long as you let me. And I vow to be your husband until you want me no longer. All I am is yours until you cast me aside. And I beg of you to never."

Thank the gods you had said with your speech first. His speech had rendered you overcome with emotion to do anything else but cup his face and kiss him, both of you sealing your promises of forever with that act.

And both of you had kept your promises to each other. He remained by your side, as you remained by his. Until now.

He, by no fault of his own, disappeared from your side.

And you, also by no fault of your own, disappeared from his side.

A cruel twist of fate. Perhaps the universe restoring balance to the centuries of happiness the two of you lived together. Perhaps that had been enough, and it's time you stop trying to delay the inevitable. Perhaps it's time you stop and succumb to the exhaustion and pain of being with Morpheus.

I vow to always find you, as long as you wait for me.

Wait for me.

Morpheus' vow jerks you back to consciousness. Your eyes snap open, staring directly into the hunter who's looking down at you greedily. His mouth is curled into a hideous snarl, and his pride at seeing you weak and defenceless has drawn his head close enough that your noses were nearly touching.

Behold pride, you think as your hands drop from his wrists in feign unconsciousness, the downfall of all men.

You grab onto the sides of his head and dig your thumbs into his eyes. You try not to think about why your muscles memorize the exact amount of pressure and angle to do it so.

The hunter jerks backwards, screaming, his hands flying to his eyes which has begun to bleed. You cough violently as you take in as much air as you can to soothe the fire in your lungs, all the while scrambling to your knees and trying to get away.

A hand grasps onto your ankle.

You're pulled backwards with a scream.

"Where do you think you're going, lady?" the hunter growls. "I'm not done with you yet—"

"Remove your hands from me."

You feel the man go still. His hand falls from your ankle, and you scramble forwards. You don't need to look back to feel the shift in the air, but you do anyway because looking at them is the least you can do.

The man pulls out his saw from his bag. Without hesitation, he places the blade over his wrist and begin to move back and forth. He screams out in pain and begs for relief, but doesn't stop his motions. The hunter looks over at you, eyes glassy with gold that resembles sand, as his hand falls to the floor.

You're out of the bathroom before he begins his other hand. Before Death arrives for him.

You begin to run and don't look back.

Your throat is throbbing.

You touch your throat gingerly, and you don't need a mirror to know that the handprints of that man are visible against your skin. But even as you cough, the motion rough against your raw throat, you don't stop running.

You catch sight of a hotel, and you feel relief as you turn away from the road and bolt up the hill to the building. It'll be easier to hide in one of the man rooms, but the guarantee of people in the hotel was cause for concern. But as long as you keep your mouth shut, all should be fine.

You slow into a walk as you pass a trio of people in the parking lot. Name tags dangle from their chest, one of who is named, The Music Teacher. In the centuries you've been alive, you've never heard such an in-depth and seriously spoken topic about their favourite methods of cooking barbecue and collecting grills.

As you hurry inside, you pass by a sign that reads: CEREAL CONVENTION.

Is cereal that interesting to warrant a convention? you wonder as you scan the lobby. Nothing looks too out of place, apart from more people with name tags. It wasn't weird that there were adults taking part in the convention, but it was weird that there wasn't a single child in sight. A strange familiarity with those two words only made you more uncomfortable.

"Ma'am?" the receptionist calls. "May I help you?"

You tug up your turtleneck before approaching the reception desk and smiling at the receptionist. She visibly relaxes and smiles back, even wider than before.

"Do I know you?" she asks, peering at you curiously like everyone else who looks at you. But no matter how hard they look, they'll never be able to remember just where they remember you. Dreams had a funny way of being that way.

Even if she doesn't remember, her smile changes from being polite to being genuinely friendly, as if her muscles remember that you were a friend.

You motion for a notepad and pen. The receptionist scurries and puts the tools before you.

1 room, 1 night please, you write down.

She doesn't question it. She eagerly nods and asks for your name, which you also write down.

"You already have a room, ma'am," the receptionist informs you.

You raise a brow. A room? You never reserve your hotel rooms ahead. That guarantees someone waiting to kill you when you get there, as you learned a few decades ago in Manila.

The receptionist seems to understand the confusion on your face. "Perhaps you reserved the room for the convention?" she suggested.

But what interest would you have in a cereal convention—

The invitation.

The memory is jarring. Suddenly, you can picture it clearly. You can even feel the parchment between your fingers as you opened it, and the gasp you let out as you dropped the envelope and an eyeball rolled out, the nerve still attached.

The iris was blue, a shade nearly as light as Morpheus'. You knew it was no coincidence.

You take a step back from the receptionist, reeling that you've walked straight into a trap. You're so caught up in trying to figure out a way to get out without alerting anyone that you hear the receptionist's warning too late and your back hit something large and firm.

You spin around, your hand instinctively going to the hilt of the knife hidden underneath your shirt, before freezing in recognition at the man in a green cloak and cane.

"Lady Y/N?" the man gasps, gawking at you.

"Fiddler's Green?"

You've never seen Fiddler's Green personified as a human before, but the warmth that surrounds him in unmistakeable and makes you relax.

He dips his head in a respectful bow as he puts an appropriate amount of distance before you — a law Morpheus decreed in the Dreaming. He had been more possessive back then, especially since it was right after the power transference ceremony. Though you thought it ridiculous, you saw the slight relief it brought him so you allowed it to remain, pretending you still didn't know about it.

The appropriate response to a bow is to return with a small curtsy, but after a century of running, your first response is to run. You have to go before you harm Fiddler's Green. You'd never be able to forgive yourself for hurting someone so important to both you and Morpheus.

But it's because he's so important to Morpheus, and you've always known him so loyal to the Dreaming, that you think about your words carefully before speaking.

"What are you doing here?" you ask hesitantly, your voice still a bit rough from the fight. "Why have you left the Dreaming when you are so vital to it?"

You wait for the gold to appear in his eyes, but it doesn't appear.

"I am not vital to the Dreaming," Fiddler's Green says. "You and lord Morpheus are, and you were both gone. I left to go search for you, but I stayed for the humans. I do worry for the punishment I will receive. I know lord Morpheus has been calling back his other dreams and nightmares, but I wouldn't exchange it for the knowledge I have learned from the people who visit my glades every night."

You soften at the pureness in Fiddler's Green, but something catches your attention.

"My husband? He's free?"

Fiddler's Green looks surprised. "Why, yes, lady Y/N. He's been back for a few months, I believe. You haven't seen him? I thought that was why you were here. I thought perhaps he sent you after us."

You fight back tears of relief at the news that your husband has managed to break himself free from his cage. Your only regret is not being the one to have helped freed him, and you hope he doesn't resent you for that.

But what if he does? What if he thinks you have abandoned him? What if he thinks you've cast him aside? A hundred years, and he never received a visit from you. Now he's been free for months and you have not received a visit from him.

Why had he not come looking for you?

"There is something else you must know, lady Y/N." Fiddler's Green bends to your height. "The Corinthian is here."

You look at him in panic. How was it possible that you, him, and the Corinthian were all in the same place at the same time? You hadn't meant to come to the convention, yet there you were. Fiddler's Green definitely didn't prepared to se you or the Corinthian, which meant he was unaware too. What could be the reason for three pieces of the Dreaming to be near each other?

"I'm here to help Rose Walker find her little brother, Jed," he continues. "I fear both her and the boy are in danger from him."

"Then you must return to the Dreaming and let my husband know," you say without thinking.

The second the words leave your mouth, gold fills Fiddler's Green's eyes. He straightens and turns on his heel, and despite telling him to stop, he marches out of the hotel without another glance back, leaving you alone with your whispered apology going unheard.

Shit, you think. You try to dismiss your worries by entrusting Fiddler's Green's safety to Morpheus. He would be safer in the Dreaming than here with the Corinthian and no Morpheus.

You grab the piece of paper he had been holding. It's a missing poster for Jed Walker, and contains a picture of him with an older girl — Rose Walker, you presume.

If two mortals were being preyed on by a nightmare, then it was part of your responsibility as lady of the Dreaming to protect them. Morpheus can deal with the Corinthian. You just have to trust he'll come.

Of course he'll come, you think as you pocket the poster. I'm his wife.

In the corner of your eye, you catch sight of a man in a beige suit. There's something charmingly offputting about the man even from a distance — something you've only seen another man possess before.

You head in his direction immediately, only to be stopped by a man with the name tag Fun Land.

"Only guests are allowed in the convention."

"I think—"

"Guests only."

You eye him irritatedly. You glance at the extra name tags on the table, one of which you recognize coldly. Slowly, you look back up at Fun Land, then at the other convention attendees who are also wearing name tags. The conversations you manage to overhear are still talking about collecting. Only now, you're starting to understand what this fucking convention's really about.

"Can you check if I'm on the list?" you ask tightly.

"You're a guest?" he asks dubiously. "Name?"

"Whispers."

His eyes widen. You don't entertain the excitement in his voice as he apologizes and starts to ramble about how he was a fan. You snatch your name tag from his trembling grasp, his palm slightly sweaty, before starting your search for the Walkers in the basement, where you also coincidentally saw the man in the beige suit head down.

ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ɴᴇxᴛ ᴘᴀʀᴛ…

You push Jed behind you.

He grips onto the back of your shirt, trembling in fear as you and him both look at the Corinthian and the man being stabbed to death by two others behind him.

Even with those dark shades on in the dimly lit room, you know the Corinthian is looking at you. You can feel his stare raking you up and down, taking every inch of you greedily. His tongue darts out to lick his lips.

It has been a century since he last saw you, after all. An entire century since he stopped you from entering the basement of Rodrick Burgess and freeing your husband when you were right outside the door, and instead put a bounty on your head.

"Hello, my lady," the Corinthian says, his honey-like drawl drawing shivers from you as always. He dips his head in a bow — more mocking than respectful. He takes a step towards you, and you take three back. "I've missed you."

ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ᴄᴏɴᴛɪɴᴜᴇᴅ…

𝗮𝘂𝘁𝗵𝗼𝗿'𝘀 𝗻𝗼𝘁𝗲: 𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗋𝖾𝗎𝗇𝗂𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝖾𝗍 𝖺 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗆 𝗈𝖿 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗐 𝖻𝗎𝗋𝗇 𝗈𝗋 𝖺𝗆 𝗂 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖺 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗐-𝗉𝖺𝖼𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗋𝗂𝗍𝖾𝗋?

𝖾𝗂𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝖺𝗒, 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗌𝗈 𝗆𝗎𝖼𝗁 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝗂 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝖻𝖾 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗃𝖾𝖼𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗆𝗂𝗇𝖾, 𝗌𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗄 𝗒𝗈𝗎! 𝗇𝖾𝗑𝗍 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍'𝗌 𝗎𝗉𝗅𝗈𝖺𝖽 𝗐𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗆𝖺𝗋𝗄 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗅𝖿𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗉𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝖾𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗌, 𝗌𝗈 𝗂 𝗐𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝖺𝗅𝗌𝗈 𝖻𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺 𝖽𝖾𝗌𝖼𝗋𝗂𝗉𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗆𝗒 𝗇𝖾𝗑𝗍 𝗌𝖾𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗌, 𝗌𝗈 𝗌𝖾𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗇!

╰┈➤ 𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘤𝘬 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘰𝘰𝘭 𝘮𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘵!

╰┈➤ 𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘤𝘬 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘣𝘰𝘰𝘬𝘴 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘮𝘢𝘯 𝘴𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘧!

𝙨𝙝𝙚𝙡𝙛 𝙩𝙖𝙜𝙡𝙞𝙨𝙩 @aurorarevenclaw1927, @hueanhdang

𝙨𝙚𝙧𝙞𝙚𝙨 𝙩𝙖𝙜𝙡𝙞𝙨𝙩 @justviktormlolm, @amirahroronoa, @sunna-fangirls, @mrs-captainsteverogers, @absbdbshhs, @urbanbts, @theamuz, @ac-procrastinator-13, @thegreatestsandwich, @julegrav009-blog, @harrypotter55, @blossomedfloweroflove, @lestaikkeullsokka, @thetrashypanda423, @ponyboys-sunsets, @izzicle, @dilfsandtherapy, @mischiefmanaged71, @grippleback-galaxy, @cynic-spirit, @thecrazytealady, @violet-19999, @junobutbored, @avanisbored, @redskull199987, @bilesxbilinskixlahey, @ladymoon666, @celestialceremonials, @mm2305, @ttae-yong, @thegreatestsandwich, @notabotiswear, @boofy1998, @crimsonsabbath, @megumimind, @itsnanabun, @spygrrl99, @regulusblacksimpsblog, @maverey, @storm4433, @writerinlearning, @lokigirlszendaya, @thesadvampire, @thestarsanctuary, @floreoo, @pinkpunkdynamite, @jesllianaquilesrolon, @aegeanblues, @anjimimimoo, @imaginativefanatic, @book-place, @littlemoistcarrot, @lorosette, @wondermia69, @commanderfreethatdust

𝗂𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝖾 𝖺𝖽𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝖺𝗀𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗌, 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖼𝗄 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗆𝖺𝗇 𝗌𝗁𝖾𝗅𝖿 𝗍𝗈 𝖿𝗂𝗀𝗎𝗋𝖾 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗍𝖺𝗀𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗍 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗄𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎!

#the fourth tool #the sandman imagine #morpheus imagine #morpheus x reader #dream imagine #dream x reader #dream of the endless x reader #sandman fanfiction #dream fanfiction #sandman imagine #the sandman #dream of the endless #morpheus #sandman angst

[jokeringcutio]

A Gift for his Gift - Albert Shaw / The Grabber x Reader Insert [ WARNINGS ]

Minors, Do not read. There are more warnings and tags to this that you'll find below.

Summary:

“I think I’m gonna keep you,” he had said. And he seemed to keep that promise.

Note: This part can be seen as a (dark and explicit) continuation of The Gift, in which the reader explains how she ended up in the Grabber's basement... to him.

Pairing:  Albert Shaw | The Grabber (The Black Phone)/ Fem. Reader

Fandom: The Black Phone (2022)

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Kidnapping, Dark Story, Smut.

Additional Tags: Reader Insert, Age Difference, Older Man/Younger Woman, Height Differences, Extremely Dubious Consent, Kidnapping, Female Identifying reader, Angst, Dark Fantasy, Rape/Non-con Elements, Stockholm Syndrome, Dark

Series: Part 2 of The Window  

Written for @willshipanything-blog (Not even sure you'll like it when it goes dark and twisted like this but, lol, I promise I'll try and write a sweeter continuation as well for you ;) )

Read [ on AO3 here ]  Or read below on Tumblr: 

He was going to keep you. The stranger whose house you had barged into had made his promise and kept to it. Waking up to the basement room had you back into a panic, but when your heart calmed down again, and the pain between your legs brought you down to earth, you remembered.

Oh, you remembered how you got here and how things got this far.

A quick glance at the dirt in the corner of the room to see if he had brought a plate, only to realize he was standing there, quietly staring at you. A white polo shirt with thin red stripes vertically and bigger ones horizontally at the hems was covering his chest. It had only a few creases but looked clean. He was wearing brown pants and old man slippers. So ordinary, it made you wince.

Ever since the time he caught you, he’d never shown his true face again. Always there was that damned mask. Sometimes fully, sometimes just half of it. The emotions on it changed as well.

You knew who was behind it though. You’d seen him. You knew the color of his hair and the depths of his pale eyes. You could draw the wrinkles on his head, the crinkles at his eyes whenever he smiled. You knew how his mouth looked, how his lips felt against your skin.

You could measure the size of his hands with two or yours. You knew all the hairs, everywhere, that he had on his body, knew of the shape of his hips or the firmness of his thighs. The way his hipbones pressed against you as his pelvis was pressed to your core, you remembered.

You’d learned the hard way about the shape of his stomach, the lack of hair on his chest, the firmness of his hand when he wielded his belt.

That horrid belt.

How he loved to tie you down to the bed with it, ever since that very first day when he had trapped you in his house. You remembered how tight the belt had felt when he had first used it on you; how the edges cut into your skin whenever you tried to move. He had his big black dog watch you so you couldn’t get away while he moved the rugs. Unfair, it sounded in your mind. How heavy those rugs had been to you, but how easily he carried them away, two at a time. It was not fair, you thought. Nothing about this was.

You had hated how you could not do anything but watch as the man who had tied you to the dingy bed made his way up the stairs, rugs disappearing with him. Your arms were still restricted to the bed, the dog still snarling and growling and sometimes snapping at your feet. You had watched the rugs being carried away until they had all gone, and with them, your chance to escape via the window.

Oh yes, you knew each and every bit of him. From his laughter to his growling as he pounded deep into you, as deep as he could go. You knew the sound of his rapidly increased breathing as he neared his peak, and the feel of the stickiness of his cum as it dripped from your core.

You knew it all, and it was unfair that he had left you guessing at his name. Nothing other than sir, mister or monster. But he was just a man. He had you rasp daddy to him during those moments of heated passion, when he would pin you down to the bed and have his way despite you crying he was in too deep. He urged it out of you, punished you if you didn’t say it.

He loved that you were smaller than him. Younger too. He alluded to your size, to your age, to everything about you that he deemed so different from himself. He often placed you on a pedestal, compared you to goddesses and the virgin Mary.

You were none of that, not any longer. He had made sure of it.

Looking up at him as he stood several feet away, back resting against the grey paint-chipped wall, you hoped he did not see the distaste for him in your eyes. He hated it whenever he caught sight of it, hated that after weeks in his underground prison, you still chose not to love him back. Not fully.

You had to force the memories away. They were all that had been built during the time that he had kept you here. He was your world. He was all you knew now.

And there he was, staring at you like he had done for many of the nights since you arrived. A mask covering his face as if you didn’t know what you would find beneath it. But you would recognize him anywhere. Among crowds. Among any star in the universe.

Your captor. Your keeper.

You rolled over, wincing at the ghostly feel of him still inside of you. He knew how to bruise. You did not know whether he’d done it on purpose and took delight in it, though.

Then your eyes slid to the dried blood and cum stains on the mattress. Your very first time, down here, with him. How dirty you felt knowing what he had done. To know what he had done to you.

He moved. A step forward from the dirt-streaked wall. His polo shirt so ordinary. Like any other man, except he was not.

“Still thinking that they might find you?” he asked, his head tilted, curiously. His mask fittingly neutral today.

“My friends,” you started, but your voice came out dry, barely audible to his ears. My friends will come to find me, you wanted to say. Just… anything to show you had not given up the fight. You’d be out of here, one way or another. But your throat felt swollen and you had to cough. No words came forth. You felt little. Small and isolated.

“Your friends?” he urged you, and you hated it. How curious he sounded, how caring, when you knew he was not.

When had he ever listened to you? Ever since you got here, things had always been done to his terms. He invaded your privacy whenever he fancied, came down to look at you long and hard, even during the nights. He often refused to engage in conversation with you, stating that he just wanted to be with you or liked the look of you.

It made you wonder what was going on in that mind of his.

The mattress dipped under his weight as he sat down next to you. A scent of musky mildew, eggs and something that was all uniquely testosterone invaded you.

His strong hand was upon you, turning you by the shoulder till you faced him. Your lips trembled and you did not dare to look him in the eyes, knowing what you would find there. Raw lust. Possessiveness. A primal need.

“Oh, little dove,” the words came out like a whisper. As if he cared about you.

His free hand drifted to the hem of the shirt you were wearing. His shirt. Your own clothes had long since been discarded and taken away from you. Now you were dressed in his leftovers. Another mark of his ownership of you.

His shirts were a few sizes too big for you and looked more like a dress. He found it easier that way. They gave him easy access to your body whenever he wanted to cope a feel. Like now, you thought, when you felt his calloused hand deftly slide underneath the shirt. His rough fingertips gently tipped against your skin, touch ever so lightly, tracing a pattern upwards, until you felt his strong fingers curl around your breast. His hold was instantly firm, thumb twitching past your nipple, massaging your breast and kneading it in his hot hand.

A gasp escaped you, unbidden, but you could not hold it back. You felt his touch shoot sparks down your body, all the way to your core, betraying your mind. Slick started to form between your legs, your pussy throbbing with each and every pinch his fingers made.

You hated how your body betrayed you. It had only taken a few weeks, but now, whenever he touched your breasts or kissed your neck, slick would form down below, lubricating your passage for his awaiting cock like an invite. That bulbous monster riddled in veins, that was too thick and too large for your body to handle. Yet he made you take all of him, and your body adjusted to his size. Every. Damn. Time. 

Fit him like a glove, he'd said. You imagined it being a glove a few sizes off.

You knew he craved you hot and slick and ready. Pussy pulsing and throbbing. You thought that despite your feelings for him, he had trained you well. As if your body adjusted naturally; an instinct to survive that had kicked in. The first time your walls had been dry and it had been awful. Awful, what with the size of him and all. And he had given you no respite, thrusting and grunting and coming deep inside – with only his pre-cum and spit to guide the way.

He usually wasted no time before he penetrated you deep, you knew by now. He'd shown his true colors during the many visits he made. He came downstairs to the basement only to watch or touch or come deep inside. There was nothing else. Just that.

Like now, when he lifted the hem of your shirt to reveal your dripping cunt. How he nudged your legs apart – it only took a soft nudge of his elbow and you spread them. Your own hand instantly snaked between your legs to help him, knowing he liked it this way, your fingers spreading your glistening lips.An invite in. A glistening core. Tight walls pulsing with need.

He positioned the head of his cock between your glistening moist lips, then, without delay, pushed the tip of his throbbing shaft inside. You threw your head back in a gasp, fingers clawing at the stain-streaked mattress below. You felt him, all of him. His ridges, his veins, his pulsing hardness as he thrust deep inside and stroked your vaginal walls. Hot skin deep within you.

He started a firm and modest pace. Deep strokes that made your walls quiver and pulse. Dirty, you thought, while your hands clawed at his shoulders to give you some leverage. This man, who showed you no mercy in his thrusts. Who dived even deeper, hitting your core, making your pussy itch while battering your cervix painfully. This man who grunted dirty little nothings in your ear, gasped and puffed and bit his lip for you to hear. So very close upon you, his sweat covered skin rubbing against yours.

And still, that damned mask would not come off.

Wet, sopping sounds filled the room. The heavy scent of sweat and sex coated you like a thick blanket, suffocating, unable to break away from. The scent filled your lungs as he thrust even deeper, his strokes irregular now as he reached the point of no return. How he loved slicking you up and then filling you up with his seed. How he loved to paint your womb with his semen. He retreated with a loud squelch, his cock popping free from your abused core. How many times had he been within you today? Two? Three? You’d lost count, and you could not quite say. Sometimes, the days seemed like nights here.

You looked at him through your lashes, lying on your back while his hand pushed your tummy down, pinning you to the mattress. Your knees fallen to each side, showing your treasure to him. You could see the fascination in his eyes despite the stupid mask he wore.

His grey-blue eyes were upon you, watching, intently, as the white dribble slowly started to trickle out between your legs, only to push it all back inside of your pussy with one thick thumb, his index finger then joining in as he stuffed you full – and yes, there it was. His finger was all in, all the way up to the knuckle while you heard him whisper for you to be his good girl and take it all in.

A gift for his gift. Why not let him give you something in return, when you came to him so willingly?

You bit your lip and turned your head to the side. You did not want to see this, did not want to see the fascination in those eyes and imagine how he was biting his lip behind that mask in pure fascination. You did not want to feel him push all of the juices back inside, but did you have a choice? How could you not feel his fingers teasing your itching core? Ignore how your sore vaginal walls fluttered around his fingers as he pushed back his sperm and your cum?

Did you have a choice not to? Was there a place to spit it out when he had abused your mouth? To hide his cum after he was done? You tried it, so many times, to just sit on that dirty cracked toilet and push it all out. You’d used your fingers, clawed at your own cunt, tensed all of your muscles, just to get the last traces of him out of you. But like him, his semen was thick, it stuck. It would only escape you hours after he had been done. And if he had abused your mouth, the taste of his cum would remain on your lips and down your throat till the next time he came down to have you taste him. You'd gladly have his eggs and soda, if he hadn't started to cover them in his sperm to ensure you'd never get rid of the taste of him. It'd be nutritious for you, he had said.

He was ingrained in your being, in so many ways.

His fingers diving deep inside of your cunt broke you out of your thoughts and your eyes flew open wide. Another gasp. Your body clenched. “So wet,” you heard him chuckle in your ear, his voice breathy and dangerously low, his breath ghosting past your ear. “So willing.”

You pressed your lips into a tight line and waited for him to remove his hand, but he did not. His fingers remained there, nestled deep within you.

“Thank you,” it were those huskily whispered words that made you close your eyes tightly and turn your head away. He thanked you for wanting to do this with him? But you had not-

He caught your chin with his fingers, aware of how you tried to block him out. But he’d have none of that. He turned your head back to his, forcefully with his fingers on your chin. As if to make a point, he moved his head closer to yours, forcing your lips tightly against his mask.

You knew he was regretting his choice of mask now, that he would have wanted this to be his real lips on your skin. But he had chosen for this, to be masked, and he would stick to it. He always would.

Soft humming in your ear. He was delighted by what he had done. Another wet squelching sound and his fingers were gone. You felt like you could breathe again.

The sound of a zipper and the rustling of clothes. You could hear him fasten his belt.

It took a moment, but you managed to catch your breath and bring it back under control. Your chest moving less rapidly, you turned to face him. You felt the mattress dip again and watched as he lay down next to you, head propped upon his hand as he lay sideways, elbow supporting his weight. He hummed an unknown tune near your ear. The mask muffled the sound somewhat.

“They said this place was abandoned,” you slowly said, while you watched how he seemed to tense up. He was resting on his elbow, mask towards you. His wispy grey hair fell around it like it was part of the attire. You wondered if he was unshaven underneath. If there was a grayish stubble like there had been a few days ago.

“My friends,” you said, swallowing while you gathered your courage. You’d never told him this. You’d never explained how you got to be in his home.

“They said this place was abandoned and dared each other to check it out. I was on my way home when I came across so I…” the words died on your lips when you saw tense again, spine straight. There was a glint in his eyes, one you could not place, and it frightened you. You tugged the shirt you were wearing down, as if it could cover the whole of you and create a barrier between you and your predator.

The man stopped humming and you thought he looked to be lost in thought. Had you said too much?

You saw him sit up fully now. He held his mask, as if the object was about to wobble off.

“Abandoned?” you heard him say, voice muffled from the mouthless mask he wore today. His fingers twitched, and a low laugh escaped his throat. He wanted to change masks, you thought as you studied him. This face did not fit his emotions anymore.

“Oh no,” another dry heaved chuckle, “No, dearie.” It was odd to see this creature, this abomination of a man, propped up on the bed next to you, probably smirking behind his mask. His pale eyes were upon you. “This place is lived in.”

You merely looked at him as if to say, yeah, I figured that now, but then the man started laughing again. His right arm fell to his side, then slid around his own belly. Your eyes traveled there, noticing how the white shirt he was wearing had ridden up, revealing parts of his naked stomach. How often you had felt that part of him pressed against your own. Naked. Sweating.

“Good God, I am lucky.”

You watched as his laughter died down and you imagined how, behind the mask, his tongue came to peek from between his lips, tipping one of his canines as if in thought. You could see his eyes, drifting away from your form and sliding across the room.

The words that came out of him next sounded unbidden; like they were a thought fleeting away from him. “The house, the unlived in house? They must have meant the one across the street.”

You stiffened. Wait. Did that mean…?

But as he said it, his voice faltered. Another realization, you thought. But what?

His whole attitude seemed to change all of a sudden and within a flash, he had scooted to the edge of the bed. With a clap of his hands on his thighs, the man rose. You watched his hand fall to his side, his rings glinting in the faint light that came from the window high above you.

His voice was low, dangerous almost. “You hang in here, dearie. I’ve just been remembered there’s something that needs to be done.”

And with that said he left, leaving behind the realization that your friends, if they had been looking for you would have been visiting the house opposite of the one you were trapped in. And wasn’t that a horrible thought?

#Hope you've had a lovely day dear #Ethan Hawke fandom #The grabber x reader #dark fanfiction #albert shaw x reader #prompt fill #smut fanfiction #black phone dark smut #black phone

[quite-right-too]

Grand Finale

I have been OBSESSED with @sneakertin's Bounty Hunter!Tentoo AU and decided to write a very rough, unbeta'd pic about it to work through some angst. I apologize for any grammatical errors. TW FOR SUICIDE

The vehement denial of his existence is what hurt the most. 

The woman he had literally been born out of love for told him he would never be her Doctor. He thought that was easily one of the worst things he had experienced in all his lifetimes.

That was until he heard the gunshot from the upstairs bedroom.

He rushed in to find Rose, his Rose, laying in a pool of her own blood. The pistol he had heard was not far from her limp hand and the sight made him shatter. The scream he let out, the sobs, they would stick with him forever. Dropping to his knees, he pulled her cooling body onto his lap, his fingers gripping her arms so hard that it should have hurt. The Doctor held her in his arms, rocking her back and forth and pleading for her to just wake up. To come back to him.

It couldn’t have been more than a few minutes, though it felt like hours, until the EMTs arrived with the police in tow. 

He didn’t even register him fighting the medical personnel as they tried to pry Rose from his arms. Or when he was held back by the police when they loaded Rose onto the gurney and into the ambulance. Or the ride to the hospital and the official news that she was dead and gone.

The only thing he did register was the fact that she was holding her TARDIS key in her hand when he found her.

The simple white button up he had been wearing was absolutely soaked through with Rose’s blood. The red stained through to his skin. He had subconsciously run his fingers through his hair during the chaos, leaving red streaks in the messy brown locks. It was impossible to think because Rose needed him. He needed to keep her safe.

It took him a week before he had finally processed what happened.

The rest of the time in that universe was spent in the Torchwood lab, spending months researching another way to get back to the Prime Universe. To get back to the other Doctor and get him to fix this whole mess. To get Rose back and right all the wrongs in this bloody awful life he was forced into.

It was eight months to the day when he got the Dimension Cannons activated and functional again.

It was ten months to the day when he managed to open a rift, commandeer a dingy space cruiser that looked more like a car from Earth, and begin his official search to find the other Doctor. 

Weeks turned into months — and subsequently years — as he jumped from planet to planet, looking for any information that could help him. Anybody who had seen his Time Lord counterpart or could contact him. Even just an energy signature that he could use to track the TARDIS.

After about two weeks, the Doctor knew he needed a new look. Something that was still him but was different. It didn’t take long to find something compatible for his needs.

The blue jacket was similar to a bomber jacket you would see a twenty-first century fighter jet pilot wearing. However, it cut off just above his waist and was made of an extremely durable material — functioning as a space suit now that he was without his superior biology. The matching blue pants were accentuated by a lighter blue belt which held his perception filter — just in case he needed it. A foldable space helmet was his final safety precaution as he travelled.

Under the jacket was a white button up accompanied by a red tie. The meaning was not lost to him; an intentional reminder as to why he was doing all of this in the first place. To finish the outfit, he donned his signature red and white converse. He was still the Doctor, afterall.

Even if Rose hadn’t seen it that way.

He had been bouncing from planet to planet for nearly four years when the hallucinations started. First, it was subtle as whispers behind him began to affect him. Sometimes it was him hearing the man he had been searching for, giving him false hope that he could finally get his Rose back. Sometimes it was Rose and the entire thing just seemed to be a bad dream. Those were the easiest to deal with.

The times he saw Rose standing directly in front of him — just out of arm’s reach — were what really did him in.

The Doctor began to go mad. He could regularly be found arguing with himself, losing his temper and screaming into the void as he lost touch with reality once again. His attempts to handle himself became more deluded. The desperation made his morality shift as he decided he would do anything to get her back.

This included violence.

It was exacerbated by the realisation that he would never get Rose back set in. What was originally a journey of love and hope became one of rage and insanity. 

At the end of the day, this was the other Doctor’s fault. He left him behind without so much as a thought, not caring how the part human felt about the entire scenario. The Time Lord took so much from him. His TARDIS, his identity, his connection to Gallifrey.

His Rose.

He began carrying a gun with him, strong arming information out of the locals he could find. He eventually started to use it, his previous stance on weapons discarded carelessly. It didn’t take long after that for him to recognise that the Doctor was not his name anymore.

He simply was nobody. Just a man who wanted — no, needed — revenge.

It was hard to deal with his own mortality throughout his journey. Sometime during his stop in the Jarloxian Galaxy, he lost his right hand. Blown off by a reverse engineered proximity mine. He built himself a robotic prosthetic to replace the hand he had lost. The hand that he was born from. His last physical reminder of his past.

The sword that mangled his face was another crushing reminder of his humanity and insignificance. It left a scar that would never fade. An angry red slash that would follow him for the rest of his days. This wasn’t a second chance.

This was a fault.

A curse, even.

The fatalities caused by him directly reached the hundreds throughout the next couple of years. He stopped trying to keep track of the indirect casualties. Information became more accessible while his reputation continued to grow. He gained nicknames that varied from planet to planet, striking a gut wrenching type of fear in those who heard it — regardless of the rough translation. The Oncoming Storm had nothing on him.

Now, here he was. Nameless and standing in the crowded street of Nivera IV, following the temporal signature that he had tracked from the TARDIS directly to this time and this location. The Doctor was here and he was going to make him pay.

He sees her before she sees him. She looked different now; blonde, less practical fashion taste, and was now a woman.

But here she is. The dark back alley of a space bazaar in the Artorox Galaxy. A new face and a new companion, probably having already forgotten about him and the pain she put him through. It was unbearable.

“You,” he growled, his steps beginning to build speed. “You.”

The Doctor barely heard him at the end of the alleyway. However, Yaz already had her eyes trained at the source of the sound, looking ready to handle the confrontation. A tall, lanky man was approaching them quickly. A metallic glint brought attention to the prosthetic hand that matched the side of his belt that held a holster. His tie flapped against his chest as his footsteps grew heavier.

“She’s gone! Do you fucking hear me?” His screams echoed off the tall buildings as his rage seeped out of him. Shoulders heaving and fists clenched, his eyes showed one specific emotion visible above all else.

Unbridled, delusional rage.

She recognized those eyes immediately. The all too familiar look of pain and loneliness. It was him. The man she had dumped in an alternate universe with her long lost love. The man who was born out of love and war.

‘And the cost is him.’

‘He’s too dangerous to be left on his own.’

‘You were born in battle, full of blood and anger and revenge.’

Oh, if only she knew the half of it.

“How did you get here? Where is Rose?” Her questions fell on deaf ears.

The Doctor didn’t even have time to react before the man grabbed her by the lapels of her coat and slammed her against the wall. His robotic hand was cold against the Doctor’s neck as his hands pressed into her. “IT’S ALL YOUR FAULT!”

“What is my fault?!” Panic began to rise in her mind. The thick, jagged scar going from his left cheekbone, across his mouth, and down the right side of his chin gave his snarl an even more sinister look. 

“She fucking died!” the man screamed. “Rose is gone and it’s all your fault!” His left fist was trembling while his right hand tore the fabric of the Doctor’s cost with the sheer force of his grip in the robotic appendage.

Tears welled in the Doctor’s eyes at the news. “What-” she choked out, “What do you mean Rose died?”

The duplicate threw her onto the dirty pavement of the alley, her companion quickly coming to her aid as the crazed part Time Lord backed up, laughing coldly. “You killed her.” Venom laced his tone as he began to pace in front of the women, his left hand running through his hair. “She fucking shot herself. I was never the Doctor to her. To her, she was just abandoned again!”

“God,” the blonde sobbed. “I’m… I’m so sorry Doc-” She was quickly cut off by the man letting out a guttural scream, full of years of pent up rage and resentment, and rushing to stand over her.

“I AM NOT THE DOCTOR! I HAVE NEVER BEEN THE DOCTOR!”

His breathing was erratic, his eyes manic and pupils constricted. “I have been searching for you for years. I just wanted Rose back, but I knew you would never allow that to happen like the selfish prick you are.” He began to rant, all of his thoughts and memories spilling out like blood from a stab wound. “You cost me everything. My TARDIS. My identity.” He swallowed thickly, staring the Doctor in the eyes. “I don’t even want answers, Doctor. All I’ve wanted since then is revenge.”

Without warning, he removed his gun from his holster, aiming it directly at the Time Lady on the ground in front of him. She held her hands up in surrender as he pressed the barrel directly against her temple. Tears streamed down her cheeks, an ugly sob making its way out of her throat. 

A wild grin played across his face as he pulled the trigger. The last words the Doctor would ever hear — spilling from his lips like an eternal reverie that had haunted him on repeat all these years. “This is for Rose.”

#tentoo #rose tyler #doctor who fanfiction #my fic #bounty hunter au #I'm so fucking high rn and had the urge to write this